Sit in the corner of the lot
Give up,
Time stops not for you
Get lit and make promises
Bear down,
Reality won’t bend to your hustle
Love strangers against the dark
Make me,
Taking can’t be undone
Push poison through your blood
Feel it,
The broken things remain
Make a cut and open it wide
Watch me,
I’ll never die for you
Take my cracked soul
Do it,
This isn’t everlasting
Wednesday, September 24, 2014
Friday, September 19, 2014
She was The End
On that last day she didn’t get out of her button-through or her slacks.
Coming across the threshold of the door her feet stayed in her shoes and the
Worn grey nightshirt in the drawer stayed where it lay. There was a feeling of clarity
That pulled with more force than the need to escape and be far from this place.
Instead it was the temptation to sink down and to suffocate and to writhe underneath the shadows.
To allow it all to fold in on her and let the indignity have way. To give in.
They came quickly, those flickering beasts in the fading light, they didn’t offer warning,
Though she hadn’t hated them for that; they were much too glassy to be held accountable.
The hardest day in September had started with sweet peas on the morning air.
In the final moments, she saw her own hands in front of her, concern and entanglement drifting up from her finger tips.
It disappeared before her eyes as if nothing had ever really been concrete or anchoring or true.
It was the enviable weightlessness of release.
Water in her lungs but no snares caught on her heart. She was free; a fish in the stream.
There was no beat of her heart.
There was no hitch in her breath.
There was no more anything.
She met her creator.
Wednesday, September 17, 2014
This Uselessness
And be it true that no man is an island,
for out here, perched on the ocean sheets
I see no land or refuge
Empty vessel, for
My crew are long dead
Rations gone, in tow with sanity.
This is my envy -
Belly round and cheeks flushed
Her small hands spread out and protect, but I,
So far from her, feel
Too close to the edge, I would be broken with a single word
I’m already somewhere else.
Usefulness evades me, I dissolve into the grey sky
Splintered, adrift.
Skin and hair caked in salt
A future, thrown to the wind
And with a force into my sails there is nothing that can be done to salvage
What will surely be wreckage, soon enough.
Empty vessel
That I once thought occupied with life itself;
With the fire to give and engender, so foolish
Now creaking and cracked open
It will sink to the seabed to become a slumbering aquarium
Dotted with puncture marks.
Barren, even for all this water
Cold, but that is to be expected
I curl against an internal tundra.
Give me a line of sight to safe passage
And maybe I could forget that I am fruitless.
Could I possibly put stop to this death march?
Though the swaying does not cease
Accepted, as if it were the law of the sea
Gulls circle above, knowing things that I try to pretend aren’t truths
Shall something more come for me when I am finally
hollowed out and rotting
Vultures or hawks, or The Devil Himself?
As the course of this voyage changes;
As my fate is is left to the sea
I do not fall upon the rocks, but instead
am pulled under, out in the great depth
Insides filling with the inevitable.
Features swollen and preserved.
My vessel;
empty.
for out here, perched on the ocean sheets
I see no land or refuge
Empty vessel, for
My crew are long dead
Rations gone, in tow with sanity.
This is my envy -
Belly round and cheeks flushed
Her small hands spread out and protect, but I,
So far from her, feel
Too close to the edge, I would be broken with a single word
I’m already somewhere else.
Usefulness evades me, I dissolve into the grey sky
Splintered, adrift.
Skin and hair caked in salt
A future, thrown to the wind
And with a force into my sails there is nothing that can be done to salvage
What will surely be wreckage, soon enough.
Empty vessel
That I once thought occupied with life itself;
With the fire to give and engender, so foolish
Now creaking and cracked open
It will sink to the seabed to become a slumbering aquarium
Dotted with puncture marks.
Barren, even for all this water
Cold, but that is to be expected
I curl against an internal tundra.
Give me a line of sight to safe passage
And maybe I could forget that I am fruitless.
Could I possibly put stop to this death march?
Though the swaying does not cease
Accepted, as if it were the law of the sea
Gulls circle above, knowing things that I try to pretend aren’t truths
Shall something more come for me when I am finally
hollowed out and rotting
Vultures or hawks, or The Devil Himself?
As the course of this voyage changes;
As my fate is is left to the sea
I do not fall upon the rocks, but instead
am pulled under, out in the great depth
Insides filling with the inevitable.
Features swollen and preserved.
My vessel;
empty.
Saturday, September 6, 2014
I'll Pick Your Bones
At the start, I only ever wanted a sliver
of you, of yourself; your flesh.
It was innocent enough and I believed it to be so.
I wanted a little more, then. Hoped it would satisfy.
But I was wrong.
O, far more so than I should ever admit.
My stomach, tight with want, I took a step over the line.
There wasn’t any going back
after that.
I pushed and you failed to fight, so I pushed some more.
Fevered momentum threatened
to ruin it all.
A hunger that I had failed to notice before, this hunger,
he took both hands and placed them tight against my wrists.
I did things I thought impossible.
Then I pushed more. Harder.
Until I could feel that there was very little
left of you.
I could stop the want, no longer.
Nor the force with which I had resigned myself to taking.
Pilfering all of it without apology.
But by that point you were too far gone to notice,
as I pulled back your skin to see inside.
Searching to find what I ached for.
Cutting away at the sinew.
You could have screamed, though I was deaf
with determination.
I saw my need before me, manifested.
And I thought
of nothing else.
Layer after layer of your worldly, organic self
fell down to my feet.
And here we are, now.
I push my fingers into your old wounds.
I rip them open, search for truths; answers.
For God.
Your pain is nothing to me.
I convince myself that it sets you
free.
I grab hold, struggle to retract another portion of reality.
You wince as I tear shreds from that
which is yours.
It’s almost over.
I pick your bones.
And you let me.
of you, of yourself; your flesh.
It was innocent enough and I believed it to be so.
I wanted a little more, then. Hoped it would satisfy.
But I was wrong.
O, far more so than I should ever admit.
My stomach, tight with want, I took a step over the line.
There wasn’t any going back
after that.
I pushed and you failed to fight, so I pushed some more.
Fevered momentum threatened
to ruin it all.
A hunger that I had failed to notice before, this hunger,
he took both hands and placed them tight against my wrists.
I did things I thought impossible.
Then I pushed more. Harder.
Until I could feel that there was very little
left of you.
I could stop the want, no longer.
Nor the force with which I had resigned myself to taking.
Pilfering all of it without apology.
But by that point you were too far gone to notice,
as I pulled back your skin to see inside.
Searching to find what I ached for.
Cutting away at the sinew.
You could have screamed, though I was deaf
with determination.
I saw my need before me, manifested.
And I thought
of nothing else.
Layer after layer of your worldly, organic self
fell down to my feet.
And here we are, now.
I push my fingers into your old wounds.
I rip them open, search for truths; answers.
For God.
Your pain is nothing to me.
I convince myself that it sets you
free.
I grab hold, struggle to retract another portion of reality.
You wince as I tear shreds from that
which is yours.
It’s almost over.
I pick your bones.
And you let me.
Thursday, September 4, 2014
Frank
“Frank” the voice crackles, garbled with static over the loudspeaker.
Everyone on the floor looks up from what they’re doing.
“Frank! I need you in my office.
Now Frank.”
Eyes roll sideways in heads towards Frank. Brows raise, looks are exchanged.
Frank scratches his one-o’clock-in-the-morning chin-shadow and sighs his usual sigh. He’s only two hours into his shift and his feet are already aching from the cold seeping up through his shoe-soles.
Giving a nod to the 2IC floor-supervisor over at the main desk, Frank surrenders his clipboard and gloves to the pallet of boxes and heads back towards the shed office. Dozens of eyeballs follow him. He pulls his standard-issue beanie further down and tramps his trail to the back office door.
He feels the heat of being watched like a thousand tiny matches against his cheeks and neck.
Pushing through the door with his shoulder, his hands making fists inside his jacket pockets, Frank hovers in the hall for a moment.
That quiet place between pick floor and office is sacred. A sanctuary of sorts.
But not quite...
The walls are covered in expensive printed wallpaper. The pictures are that of The Man and His Sons. Wealth, yes, before it was grand, but wealth nonetheless. Black and white, Sepia. Grainy, pixelated photos blown out of proportion and clarity.
Frank shivers. He wishes he’d worn his thick socks, but he washed them last night and the drying machine in the basement was broken. He pictures them now, hanging on the head of his bed, those three-fucking-dollar socks that he stole from Dimmeys.
His hand on the door knob, Frank pauses a moment. Breathes in. Breathes out.
The office is warm, hot, more than comfortable. Cal is sitting in his swivelly-rich-person chair behind the clean desk, hands clasped calmly over his crossed legs. Cal smiles.
As he enters, Frank makes a sudden synthetic smile, mimicry. It’s muscle memory at this point, yet he tastes bile at the back of his throat. He coughs, stops, drags up the smile from where he dropped it.
“Take a seat Frank.” Cal says to him.
“I, I don’t think so. I’m….a bit tired.” The flourescent flickers above them.
“You see, this is the problem Frank. A tired worker makes mistakes. And mistakes are something I really can’t…tolerate.” Cal cocks his head to the side on that last word.
Tolerate. Tol. ER. Rate. One of Cal’s favourite words of late.
There are client gifts all over the office. Flowers, chocolates, tickets to some game of some sport. Probably box seats, whatever the fuck they are.
Frank doesn’t watch sport. Frank goes home and drinks, and sleeps. You don’t need electricity or heating to drink. And once you’re drunk, you don’t need electricity or heating to sleep. A perfect circle, as it were.
“Are you listening to me Frank?”
The heat is making him sweat now, this office is too hot, too stuffy. Cal is perfectly still and looks questioningly, if not condescendingly at him. Cal is wearing a too-tight checkered button-through tucked into a belt and snug fitting jeans. Cal and his teeth are immaculate white lies.
“Frank?”
“Yes,” Frank responds, his eyes pushing up through the thick honey of night-shift.
There’s a little polished brass card holder at the front of Cal’s desk from where a tiny Frank-reflection peers up at him.
“Did you pick and pack the Baltimore order last Friday?”
“Yes.”
“Yes, I see you’ve signed your marks here.” Cal’s holds up a piece of shabby paper unnecessarily pointing out that which Frank already knew.
“Yes.” Frank is thinking about the eggs he had for breakfast. Were they off? They weren’t green but the whites were quite runny and he’s feeling a churning in his belly. When did he even buy them? He can’t remember buying eggs for a while now. Maybe last Tuesday…
“Well, unfortunately there’s been a problem.”
Unfortunate for who?
“Baltimore have called me and they’re missing a number of important items. Items that you’ve signed off on.”
Cal has put his horn-rimmed glasses on and is scanning the papers for effect. “Ah,” he says and points to a green highlighted item as if remembering a crossword answer.
“This here,” and he holds the paper up again for Frank to see.
Frank squints and moves slightly forward, eggs churning. “Yes, I had the fresh items double checked by Martin on Friday morning before the cargo left and I confirmed the quantities with Baltimore. I also came back to this pick just before the transport arrived and recounted everything. See, I’ve marked RC next to that line.”
Cal purses his lips and turns the paper back around. “Hmmmm,” he says.
Frank looks out the office window onto the floor. Everyone’s back to work, but they’re stealing glances at him inside the interrogation room. Mumbling to each other, placing bets and spreading rumours. He can’t blame them, there’s not much else to do except work.
“Yes, well, as I said you’ve signed and so responsibility must lie with you.” Cal has this conversation predetermined and as he crosses his arms and eyes Frank, the air around them snaps sharp like a belt between two hands.
“Would you mind if I just grab some of my other documents regarding this pick?” asks Frank.
“Of course.” Cal smiles. He stinks of rich-boy confidence.
***
Frank leaves the office and walks calmly through the foyer to the back room where the boys all leave their personal shit during the day. The keys to his locker are on the stretch cord around his neck. Socks, Cons, gumboots litter the floor.
It smells of piss and man-stink and hopelessness. At least, what Frank thinks hopelessness would smell like. Probably a combination of desperation and yesterday’s pizza.
Frank grabs what he needs and heads back through the foyer. The receptionist notices him this time and smiles. Her name is something floral but he can’t remember exactly what, so he smiles back and feels some strange kind of peace without meaning to. She says Hi.
She’s wearing a brown silk buttoned blouse and large-lens nerdy glasses. She’s really, very pretty. She doesn’t notice the 12 gauge Benelli M4 in his hand, it’s 18.5’ barrel dragging quietly along the carpet.
Everyone on the floor looks up from what they’re doing.
“Frank! I need you in my office.
Now Frank.”
Eyes roll sideways in heads towards Frank. Brows raise, looks are exchanged.
Frank scratches his one-o’clock-in-the-morning chin-shadow and sighs his usual sigh. He’s only two hours into his shift and his feet are already aching from the cold seeping up through his shoe-soles.
Giving a nod to the 2IC floor-supervisor over at the main desk, Frank surrenders his clipboard and gloves to the pallet of boxes and heads back towards the shed office. Dozens of eyeballs follow him. He pulls his standard-issue beanie further down and tramps his trail to the back office door.
He feels the heat of being watched like a thousand tiny matches against his cheeks and neck.
Pushing through the door with his shoulder, his hands making fists inside his jacket pockets, Frank hovers in the hall for a moment.
That quiet place between pick floor and office is sacred. A sanctuary of sorts.
But not quite...
The walls are covered in expensive printed wallpaper. The pictures are that of The Man and His Sons. Wealth, yes, before it was grand, but wealth nonetheless. Black and white, Sepia. Grainy, pixelated photos blown out of proportion and clarity.
Frank shivers. He wishes he’d worn his thick socks, but he washed them last night and the drying machine in the basement was broken. He pictures them now, hanging on the head of his bed, those three-fucking-dollar socks that he stole from Dimmeys.
His hand on the door knob, Frank pauses a moment. Breathes in. Breathes out.
The office is warm, hot, more than comfortable. Cal is sitting in his swivelly-rich-person chair behind the clean desk, hands clasped calmly over his crossed legs. Cal smiles.
As he enters, Frank makes a sudden synthetic smile, mimicry. It’s muscle memory at this point, yet he tastes bile at the back of his throat. He coughs, stops, drags up the smile from where he dropped it.
“Take a seat Frank.” Cal says to him.
“I, I don’t think so. I’m….a bit tired.” The flourescent flickers above them.
“You see, this is the problem Frank. A tired worker makes mistakes. And mistakes are something I really can’t…tolerate.” Cal cocks his head to the side on that last word.
Tolerate. Tol. ER. Rate. One of Cal’s favourite words of late.
There are client gifts all over the office. Flowers, chocolates, tickets to some game of some sport. Probably box seats, whatever the fuck they are.
Frank doesn’t watch sport. Frank goes home and drinks, and sleeps. You don’t need electricity or heating to drink. And once you’re drunk, you don’t need electricity or heating to sleep. A perfect circle, as it were.
“Are you listening to me Frank?”
The heat is making him sweat now, this office is too hot, too stuffy. Cal is perfectly still and looks questioningly, if not condescendingly at him. Cal is wearing a too-tight checkered button-through tucked into a belt and snug fitting jeans. Cal and his teeth are immaculate white lies.
“Frank?”
“Yes,” Frank responds, his eyes pushing up through the thick honey of night-shift.
There’s a little polished brass card holder at the front of Cal’s desk from where a tiny Frank-reflection peers up at him.
“Did you pick and pack the Baltimore order last Friday?”
“Yes.”
“Yes, I see you’ve signed your marks here.” Cal’s holds up a piece of shabby paper unnecessarily pointing out that which Frank already knew.
“Yes.” Frank is thinking about the eggs he had for breakfast. Were they off? They weren’t green but the whites were quite runny and he’s feeling a churning in his belly. When did he even buy them? He can’t remember buying eggs for a while now. Maybe last Tuesday…
“Well, unfortunately there’s been a problem.”
Unfortunate for who?
“Baltimore have called me and they’re missing a number of important items. Items that you’ve signed off on.”
Cal has put his horn-rimmed glasses on and is scanning the papers for effect. “Ah,” he says and points to a green highlighted item as if remembering a crossword answer.
“This here,” and he holds the paper up again for Frank to see.
Frank squints and moves slightly forward, eggs churning. “Yes, I had the fresh items double checked by Martin on Friday morning before the cargo left and I confirmed the quantities with Baltimore. I also came back to this pick just before the transport arrived and recounted everything. See, I’ve marked RC next to that line.”
Cal purses his lips and turns the paper back around. “Hmmmm,” he says.
Frank looks out the office window onto the floor. Everyone’s back to work, but they’re stealing glances at him inside the interrogation room. Mumbling to each other, placing bets and spreading rumours. He can’t blame them, there’s not much else to do except work.
“Yes, well, as I said you’ve signed and so responsibility must lie with you.” Cal has this conversation predetermined and as he crosses his arms and eyes Frank, the air around them snaps sharp like a belt between two hands.
“Would you mind if I just grab some of my other documents regarding this pick?” asks Frank.
“Of course.” Cal smiles. He stinks of rich-boy confidence.
***
Frank leaves the office and walks calmly through the foyer to the back room where the boys all leave their personal shit during the day. The keys to his locker are on the stretch cord around his neck. Socks, Cons, gumboots litter the floor.
It smells of piss and man-stink and hopelessness. At least, what Frank thinks hopelessness would smell like. Probably a combination of desperation and yesterday’s pizza.
Frank grabs what he needs and heads back through the foyer. The receptionist notices him this time and smiles. Her name is something floral but he can’t remember exactly what, so he smiles back and feels some strange kind of peace without meaning to. She says Hi.
She’s wearing a brown silk buttoned blouse and large-lens nerdy glasses. She’s really, very pretty. She doesn’t notice the 12 gauge Benelli M4 in his hand, it’s 18.5’ barrel dragging quietly along the carpet.
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