According to society
Right now this envelope
Is worth more
Than my car.
Is a three letter word.
Maddison Carter 2013
According to Society
It’s not that these days are unmarked by events of weight,
But rather, its lack of constancy, which leaves time without blueprint,
And as a change of work brings on a new
Standard, my Sundays are not marked by space,
But rather the endless churning of caffeinated cyclists,
Droning hours of the coffee machine running hot,
A time predetermined by not
The play of immaturity and youth, but a goal of months,
Still manageably countable with one’s fingers.
Coffee snobs and tealeaf prudes,
My life seems to exist on beliefs that exclude
Opinion, but become of propriety,
And suitably to this nonsense, my reponse,
As if a ball to a wall, it to reject this malignant assumption and recall a series of “left swings” in my predisposed necessity to juxtapose black to white.
I am easy-going.
A humble-hearted participant whose lack of moral blinkers
Leave me a slave in life’s crude game.
Of my behaviour, I find myself a hypocritical... critic
To my rejections to immaturity and of unconsidered, unchallenged direction.
Again, words continue to flow as if dribble,
Dry and crusty on the pavement
Before being liquefied by my further excrement
Of sounds and silence.
And what of this self-criticizing remark on society?
Do its connotations and tensions and rambling flourishes evoke a smile?
For life is an alarm clock,
And to press snooze is to stand parallel.
Lucid Rest Music Movement
Swims through me
As a tingle from head to tow.
It’s an intimacy I miss,
But a whisper,
Moisture of your lips.
A sensation culminates
As today’s exhausting
Spotlight takes me
To a high that reminds
Me of my love.
I can hear the squawk and scratch
Of Lugano as I come
To realise music’s thrust.
That would make most squeamish.
But life is not always warm
Some may squirm,
Some may yawn,
Music for Two
When daylight fades,
And I wake up,
Coffee on my charts
Pink odd sox
As I sit on the edge of the bath
Washing my baby with gaping smiles,
Baby Boomers, they don’t see,
The love between my trumpet
Stories of a Semantic Network
It’s funny how the mention of your name resonates,
It shifts around the room until it finally settles
When the cold
Tile floors trigger
“shit, your hands are cold”.
I soon snuggle into my doona
As I once did you.
(and dissolve into the cold)
Is not all life viewed through the tinted glasses?
So tired. Sitting here, doing... what?
Talk? Listening. Music plays as I just wish today would end.
Leadership, hah! My job has consisted of walking around in a self-contradicting and enthusiastic request for people to something that I would hate to do myself. I’m a... hypocrite. That’s the word. Not even my brain is working.
Bored. Bored. Bored.
My colour is yellow; Everard. Mum’s bangle and a cap. Woo. Enthusiasm. Helping me out, Mum gathered all the yellow things in our house. Not sure how the yellow pages would work in a costume. Strap them to my feet?
Bed, after homework and incompletion. Sleep is a necessity. In year 12 it’s a luxury.
Sleep. Sleep. Sleep.
Thought Bound Blinkers
These worries you’ve had,
A bear chase running through your head,
Endless echoes and saddening whiles,
Thought bound blinkers and forgotten smiles,
You ask yourself “How could it be?”
You’ve fallen into misery,
Forgot yourself and lost you way,
To walk that road a coming day,
Reasonable thought’s dried up,
You’ve no way to know,
To wait for that tomorrow,
There’s no reason for my,
Self conflicted cries,
And fatal draw
Endless circles in my,
Mind to blur my eyes,
To flip my world
Search the night and search your head,
To only find the reason’s dead,
To drown yourself in sorrow.
Took a Breath.
You may be soiled
You may be dry
But insolence is flying high
What’s never done
Keep it safe
Or trip and run
Sniff the sense
And lose the fight
Love the world
Go fly a kite
Bite me now
Or come to see
What’s stark and going free
Fish of tales
Queen of duck
Soon you’ll fad
Will come to luck
Close your eyes
And count to 10
See what you wish to come again
Find it hard
To keep it straight
Soon you’ll long to
Not to see you go inside
Took a breath
And quietly died
Code of Conduct (In the style of Peter Carey)
She shifts around the room, her feet soft and cold on the concrete floor, as if it were a different space. I lie here. My eyes closed, l listen. I can sense her looking at me, as she always does, then continues to walk. My eyes closed, I listen.
She is sitting on her bed on the top bunk. I am on the bottom bunk. She shifts positions and I excite my fantasy. The future. I will lie next to her and feel my arm slide down her white skin. Her clammy body will link with mine and she will need to change positions. She settles for a while. I will not rush her. Not in this space. Not in this future.
In that future we will be happy. Maybe next Christmas I will ask her to marry me, after she kisses me once I trip over her bed sheet of course. And she will sneak me a smile when she thinks I am not looking. When she thinks I am asleep she will shower and I will join her and slide my naked body against her flaky skin. After she explains, of course. Then it will make sense, then she will love me. I do not wish to worry her. I will tell her our future when she is ready; when the men stop bringing dolls.
The men come at night - or at least that’s what I assume – and every morning she silently jumps out of bed to inspect the dolls. Once she has rummaged through the doll’s belongings she will pluck the eyes off the little girl’s face. Sometimes this is hard to do, in which case she will stab at the eyes with her fingernails until each eye shoots off into the depths of the room. She gets up and heads back to her bunk, mumbling to herself.
What’s that? I ask.
For a second she looks at me, before turning away.
She doesn’t move like a normal person; more like a bird, the way she twitches her head. I have grown to call her Blue Jay. I do not know why. She is not blue. Her true colour would be a sort of off-white. I do not like the sound of ‘Off-White Jay’.
Throughout the day she will return to the doll, carefully cutting a segment of clothing off and quickly hiding it in her apron pocket. When all that is left of the doll is a few scratches where there were once eyes and a pale unclothed body, the men will return with the next doll to place beside the last.
Before the men return I often look at the dolls. They seem to be neither male nor female. At first I assumed they were female, but this is not the case.
When the men do not return for some time, darling Blue Jay shifts around the room.
The men have stopped bringing dolls. She has stopped shifting around the room and I have stopped asking. I have often stuck my head out the door of our space but I do not dare to call out. I do not want the men to return. I do not dare stick my neck out.
They have given us a new occupation; Monopoly it is called. At first she and I would silently exchange a glance or two as we exchange our money; but she has taken to looking at me. She spoke to me yesterday.
How long has it been? She said.
I do not know as I have been without a working watch for some time.
What’s that? She said.
I do not know. She is looking at my bulging pants.
In the future we will make love, but not yet. Although I often find myself now shifting around this space in a sort of trance. I love her. She is my darling. But things cannot happen like this. Next Christmas, maybe then she can sneak me a smile and shower when I’m asleep. Next Christmas, whenever that is.
There she goes again.
Stop it, I say.
She looks at me and then turns to the ground, tending to her doll.
Here, she says. Come.
I know what they are. I do not want to come. She walks over to me, stroking my neck with her tongue. I do not wish things to happen like this. I turn to her and she grasps my face, my mouth between her thumb and fingers.
Come, she says.
Her eyes dark, her look stern, I find my hand on her hip. She returns to cover the outside layer of my neck with her saliva. My left hand joins my right and I find myself peeling a layer off her clothes. She sheds her outer self; a sort of beige overcoat. I have not noticed before, but it has many stains; some, a dark red and others, a flaky yellow.
Come, she says.
My hands move to her waist and peel away her thin material, head to toe, without my permission.
She looks at me angrily, then hands me her remaining monopoly money. She has had to mortgage all her properties. I do not like this bit. I take the money, knowing that I am knee deep. I have stuck my neck out and it is jammed between crowbars.
At this point I remove her final layer of clothing to see that she is neither she or he; having no human features to identify as either man or woman, only scratch marks where, perhaps, these features once were.
I turn to the ground, with the Monopoly board touching my knees I deposit the money. I am Banker now. As I turn to face Blue Jay I hear a breath of air, like someone has exhaled, and find that she has gone. All that remains is the bunk bed, the fortress of dolls scattered around the room - a franchise of processed life - and the darkness of the door. The exit.
The next morning I wake to find my day’s commission. A doll, placed in the centre of the room. Its eyes are difficult to remove so I use my nails. As the day progresses and I return to take snippets of clothing, I notice that this doll is neither male nor female. Only scratches remain, where perhaps these features once were.
You could be my wine,
Taking me to a divine
Life of a good book,
Take me there without my choice,
Jesus, you’re catching my voice,
I wish to spend far too much time
With this person so unlike
The beliefs, or lack of
(You may say)
That I follow
Make me hollow,
Sell my faith,
Or yours I’d hope,
For god’s sake.
Not blind, just stubborn,
Why do you find such strength in something
Will you see the light
Or me at night?
See what I see,
See what I don’t
And what there is not
Would it be so ridiculous to be
Acknowledge our gap and let
Or lest us be?