December Haiku #2

Mapping the scars of
Pain and other boundaries
Raindrops on the tongue 

December Haiku

Petals descending
Summertime storms are waiting
I smoulder alone

Liar liar

Before you
I thought I'd learned enough
After you 
I know how to endure
Callousness
Cruelty
Conniving
Solitude calls to me
While you lie
To my replacement

Moxie Born

She is born
To rule the room
Salt and pepper quiff
Patent leather toes
She always knows
Who's playing
For keeps
And who's bound
To stiff

She is born
To make them guess
Iridescent gaze
Skin tight memory
The girl's got moxie
She always knows
Who's earning
Their stripes
And who's pretending
To fight

Who's just
Here for the night
Wishing they
Were brave enough
Wishing they
Had the stuff
To make her
Shiver
The girl's got moxie

Rise

Pain 
Softens the sounds
Of doubt you sowed
Pain
Blurs the image
Of me you created
Pain
Brings me back
To the truth
Of your lies
And the time
I wasted 
Wrecking my soul
To save yours
Pain
Draws a line
Around my scars
And keeps you out
Pain
Makes me work out
How to rise
Above the shame
You inflated
Keeping me caged
While you run free
Pain
I can take
Any day
Over and above
Heartache

Yin/Yang

There is a beast inside of me. 
Beneath the gentlemanly outer shell, a wolf prowls, restless.
The wolf is a sadist.
I keep the wolf on a leash so as not to frighten those unaware of my deeper instincts, the primal hunter lurking underneath my suit and tie. 
But every now and then, the wolf needs to run. I loosen my grip upon its collar just enough and allow the creature to have its fill. 
It's never let entirely free - as a gentleman I shy away from leaving complete carnage in my wake - just enough to satisfy my sadistic hunger. 
Just enough to leave the masochist wanting more.
The masochist craves the release I can provide them. For some it is the exquisite deliverance they experience through pain. For others it is the safety in being bound, constrained, controlled. Some want to be left bruised and bloody and frightened. Others want to be overpowered, beaten, and broken down to tears. 
To honour the masochist before me is a matter of balance. To keep the beast within the limits that the gentleman has set. To keep the gentleman calm enough to allow the beast to play with passion and intensity. To keep both myself and the masochist safe while exploring the possibilities of our dynamic. 
I am in constant flux, one creature and many all at the same time. The gentleman and the wolf dance with one another. They are cut from the same cloth.
There is a beast inside of me....would you like to see?

Catharsis

Got rhymes in my mind for the first time in months
Gonna make that boy pay for his twisted little stunts
See, he wanna play the blame game but I ain't got time
I spent far too long falling for this lame pantomime

I'm done, boy
Nothing like being hurt by a man you trusted
When you wake up all alone and his scam is busted
Scrambling his words, saying it's all your fault
He cuts your heart open and he fills it with salt

He's busy lying and trying to get my attention
Thinking I'll find the time to give him a mention
But all my energy is busy chasing my own dreams
I'm smarter than him and his two-faced schemes

So long, boy
Nothing like being hurt by a man you trusted
When you wake up all alone and his scam is busted
Scrambling his words, saying it's all your fault
He cuts your heart open and he fills it with salt

I ran around thinking I deserved the torture
He was chasing women younger than his daughter
Lucky I'm too smart to try anything drastic
Looks like my heart's becoming elastic

Now bounce, boy
Nothing like being hurt by a man you trusted
When you wake up all alone and his scam is busted
Scrambling his words, saying it's all your fault
He cuts your heart open and he fills it with salt

He saw me as nothing more than an accessory
Now he's calling me a bitch unnecessarily
And I'm sacrificing time to get my stuff back
Does he really think I'm too scared to attack?

Pay up, boy
Nothing like being hurt by a man you trusted
When you wake up all alone and his scam is busted
Scrambling his words, saying it's all your fault
He cuts your heart open and he fills it with salt

Can't wait to see his face when I roll around
Boys in blue by my side, I'm north bound
And if he starts bluffing I'll call it straight out
He'll be begging his new girl for a bailout

Try me, boy
Nothing like being hurt by a man you trusted
When you wake up all alone and his scam is busted
Scrambling his words, saying it's all your fault
He cuts your heart open and he fills it with salt

I'm gone, boy
Moxie out

Marquez erasure

Everything looked wretched
the godless drunken celebration
or ragged
innocence
the unnumbered
dressed in black
like a helmet
the gloom of the chess games
a prescription

Future

Hidden 
In the buttonhole
Of my desire
A golden orchid
Seeds
Untrodden pathways

Cheap

Humiliation
Is the coward's weapon
Begging for me
To participate
In my own destruction

Nothing

No more
No more sweet guys
No more sweet guys for me

No more
No more hushed cries
No more hushed cries at night

No more
No more to break
No more to break in her 

Almost

Trust
Is almost palindromic
And we're back
Where we started
Apart

Exhale

If lies vibrated
I'd get off on you
If disappointments
Burned like skewers
I'd be toast
But they don't
And you left me dry
So now I'm
Bleeding
For somebody else

Giant

I'm reaching across oceans
But you meet me with silence
And all I can do is breathe 
This love is a giant
Tugging at my heart

Please don't shut me out
I'm just low on patience
And all I can do is wait
For the next cadence
Pulling at my heart

Leaking

Fresh out of saltwater
Done leaking for today
Drowning becomes me
A mess of chocolate curls
Around ancient wounds
Self inflicted

Easy

Easier for me
Because I've never been
Beautiful
Like the others
Easier for you
Because I've never been
Anywhere
Like this before

Sting

Loneliness stings the day
And I can't bear it
I can't listen to the same
Sad old songs
Because they slide
Knives beneath my memories
And I can't bear it 
I can't look at the same
Sensuous oiled nudes
Because they sink
Blades behind my eyes
And I can't bear it 
I can't
And loneliness stings

Corpses

Newspaper corpses 
On the driveway
And I wish it were hotter
I wish I were not a
Mess like always
Stressed like always

Rainbow of roses
In the front yard
And I wish it were colder
I wish I could fold a
Paper plane to you
Champagne toast to you

Spiderweb theses
On the screen door
And I wish it were darker
I wish I could spark a
Flame like before
Same as before

Kinbaku

Kinbaku dreaming
Colour me in reflection
Make a cage of hope

Foxes

Take a closer look
Cracks appear
Around the promises
Lines drawn to keep 
The foxes out
Are collapsing
Or did we try
Too much?

Fantasy

Silver hair is a la mode
Mine is here to stay
No youth fantasy
Uncage me
Eyes of a spy
In a veil of green
You're the loneliest
Drinker I've ever seen

Nullus Anxietas - inspired by Sir Terry Pratchett.

There's a pool of gold upon the floorboards in my new old house, where the afternoon sun comes to rest each day, along with my new old cat, Miles. Next to the cat is the box I haven't unpacked yet. Miles is making love to the corner of the box, purring along to the sussuration of the ocean beyond. He has adjusted remarkably well to losing his previous owner and acquiring a new one within a fortnight. I finish my coffee and place the empty mug upon the windowsill. 

The last box. I use my one remaining false nail to pierce the tape on the top and fold back the creaking cardboard arms. First, the high heels. Bin. I would not inflict the pain of these upon anybody, I have decided. Then the suits. Charity bag. Perfect for the career girl which I vowed never to be again. Then the hair straighteners. Ditto charity bag. Bookshop owners weren't required to have poker straight hair. Lastly, the folder I had been looking for in the first place. Deeds to the property. On the kitchen table. The last box now only needed to be flattened and shoved into the garage under the car with the others. 

Bookshop owners who lived around the corner from their workplace didn't need to face traffic jams every weekday morning. Bliss. I was getting used to this sole heir and beneficiary business. A fortnight ago I was in the midst of a duel with the demon known only as 'Mail Merge', and being leered at by pasty golf enthusiasts in the reception room of my former employers; Davis, Davis, & Davis. Lawyers. Mindnumbingly dull work which paid my rent and fulfilled no other function. 

I got the call on a Thursday afternoon. My Aunt Ita had passed away suddenly and I was her emergency contact. Could I come to identify the corpse? I made my apologies to the boss man and drove the one hour trip to the seaside hospital. My father phoned. We met for dinner over a copy of Ita's will. We toasted to her peaceful rest and drafted increasingly sarcastic letters of resignation, including my favourite;

Dear Daviseses,

I regretfully announce my resignation from your so-called firm. I'll not be back after the 26th so you'll be in need of another filing monkey.

Best,

Constance 'coffee girl' Baxter.

Aunt Ita had owned and run Baxter's Books for thirty years. I had worked there every summer since I was fifteen, but I never thought she'd make me her heir. Maybe she thought I'd just sell it and use the money for something else. But I couldn't think of anything better than books. Books had always been my best friends. Maybe Ita knew that. Books were her best friends, too. Apart from Miles, that is. Miles gently kneads the ball of my upturned foot, reminding me that it is time for dinner. We order Chinese takeaway and watch the sunset from the balcony. Miles is particularly fond of prawns. We get an early night. 

The next morning, I breakfasted on Vegemite toast and bracing Russian Caravan tea, a far cry from my usual hurried latte and half a muffin in the lift. I began my new life with a leisurely shower, and skipped the hairdryer, allowing my black-rapidly-becoming-white curls to explore their new surroundings as I laced up my sneakers and strolled the two hundred or so metres to the bookshop. I turned the key, stepped inside, and deactivated the security system. Inhaled. The precious woods smell of paper and leather and the hothouse flower smell of my recently departed Aunt. Home.

Lights on, float counted, signs out to attract passersby. I dropped a record onto the turntable and flicked the needle into place. Soft jazz and a second cup of tea. I took up residence behind the giant, lumbering, much abused, and ancient butcher block-turned-desk that served as the counter. My Aunt's ample behind had bullied the leather armchair opposite the till. It was smooth and comfortable with wear and accepted me as its new torturer without complaint. Nothing to do but be polite to customers, read, and the odd bit of tidying up. 

Aunt Ita kept a sheaf of instructions for what she had always called the 'necessaries of bookshop tending' in the desk drawer. Supposing that now might be the time to begin accepting responsibility for my newly independently moderately wealthy existence, I unearthed said sheaf and peeled open the file. An envelope slipped onto the counter. It was heavy and coloured forest green. 

My favourite. The colour of Miles' eyes, Ita thought. My name was inked on the front in her small, neat print. Intrigued, I opened the envelope to reveal a letter. One page of creamy, heavy paper, and what looked to be at least a thousand dollars in cash. Bloody hell. I opened the page and read:

Dear Constance,

do be an absolute brick and keep the shop open, won't you? You will, I'm certain. I never really saw you as an office type, anyway. And Miles adores you. You will have found some readies enclosed in case this letter finds you at an unfortunate time of your life. There's more where that came from in the bank, and the shop does turn quite a tidy profit, despite the naysayers declaring print passe. I expect you'll enjoy the house as well. The back door sticks a bit in winter so make sure you leave the spare set of keys under the hydrangeas. 

There is only one item in the house which you cannot keep; the black and white photograph above the laundry sink is promised to your father. He may not remember but he bought it for me when I first got the shop and I'd like him to have it. I didn't see the point in drafting a new will just for a photograph, so I trust you'll pass it on when you next see him. As I write this, I'm sitting in the shop after an appointment with my doctor. She has informed me that I have a brain tumour. I may have months or years, but I thought best be prepared. I have had a thoroughly brilliant life. 

Chin up, my darling, and remember; Nullus Anxietas!

Love,

Aunt Ida.

P.S. Tobacco's under the potted fern. Whiskey in the third drawer down if you're that way inclined.

I let go of the letter and was about to search the shelves for a Latin reference book when a customer walked through the shop door. The bell above the door jingled cheerily as he asked where he could find the Discworld series.

'Back right hand corner' I replied, directing him with a sweep of my hand.

'No worries' he smiled back.

I slapped my palm upon my forehead. No worries, indeed. Cheers, Aunt Ida. 

Shadow Love (Bowie #2)

This shadow love 
Gnaws at thew very bones of me
Even though we're only dancing
Dusk after dusk after
Dawn arrives
Cradled in unaccustomed touches
Brushes with the
Opposite and familiar
Beyond the binary

This shadow love
Transcends the dance floor
I'm only falling
Into her touch
Into her eyes
That
Love me love me love
Me

We're only dancing 
At the edges
Of this moment
This pulling together
This all too swift
All too clean
This shadow love
We're only dancing

Dancing
Carnivorous tendencies away 
We're only dancing
Dancing
This storm damaged 
Shadow love
That gnaws at the very bones of me

Hot Tramp (Bowie #1)

Hot tramp bitch with balls
Glitter in her wake
Took the gender line
Cut it with spandex
And snorted it

Hot tramp babe on a bender
Ruffling beige trousers
Took the tired disco ball
Put it in a suit 
And fucked it

Hot tramp I want you so
Take the breath from my body
Put it in a bass drum
And beat it

Hot tramp rebel in a dress
Take the words from my hands
Put them in a chord
And strum it

Stop

So little faith
Wrecking me
Watching me
Rip this apart

So little time
Hounding me
Holding me
To the wire

Number Thirty

Remember that my
Courage comes from dark places 
My strength is hard won

Number Twenty Nine

We come together

Too late but at last

At last, at last we are

Here

Here in awkward love

Love older than us and used to comfort

We cling to one another

Another, another, just one minute

More

More affection than sex, sex evades us

Eclipsed by adulthood

Responsibilities more urgent than play

Play, play, play with me

Soon

Soon we will come together

Number Twenty Eight

Baby come back
Drop a needle into the track
Baby come home
Get away from all that chrome
Baby come to me
You've been too long at sea
Baby come back
Drop a needle into the track

Number Twenty Seven

She tasted like 
Mandarins 
She tasted like
Mandarins
Dipped in honey
She tasted like
Mandarins
Dipped in honey
Chased by espresso
She tasted like
Mandarins
Dipped in honey
Chased by espresso
Diluted by rain

Number Twenty Six

Creamy flesh-paper 
Hastily tattooed
By green ink
Inconsistent
Found object-pen
From the bottom of a bag
If I bury this now
Will it be unearthed
And marveled at later?

Number Twenty Five

Golden syrup scents
The air on Anzac Day
Baking while crying
For our medal-less
Mothers
Left alone at home
Brothers
Too young to fight
Watching the parade
In hand-me-downs
We will remember them
Too, quietly
While the kettle sings

Number Twenty Four

Scribbles in the margins
Were once upon a time
Illuminated
Gold leaf
Lapis lazuli
Liquid silver
Dancing together
Upon the fringes
Of the pages

Number Twenty Three

Book
Word keeper
Silent bedside companion
Touchstone of treasured times
Comfort

Number Twenty Two

Take meds twice a day
Remember you're damaged goods
Never stay out late

Number Twenty One

Tell me where you're from
Tell me how many tears
It took to get you here
Tell me how much 
You bled on broken
Promises to get here
Tell me where you want to go
Tell me where you're from
Tell me how many scars
You bear now that you're here
Tell me how much 
You sipped of overproof
Passions to get here
Tell me where you want to go
Tell me where you're from

Number Twenty

Red rover red rover
Send the clues on over
Playing bull rush
Sprinting dizzy lush
All over red rover
Send the clues on over

Number Nineteen

Created from desire
Born upon the pyre
This scholar's got stories
Not feeding on glory

She's humble

She's got time to tell
It's a practiced sell
Made from word gold
Pays her ten fold

She's solid

Number Eighteen

Uncomfortableness
Ambitions overtake
Susurrate new
Savage heathered
Hills of being

Number Seventeen

'Round midnight
The world is gentle
Fears chased away
By velvet breezes

Number Sixteen

Letter writing
Was still in vogue
So I sent lines
Back and forth
Girlish worries
Released with abandon
Secrets safe
Behind the stamps
And the stationery
And when correspondence
Stumbled and faltered
I wrote you books instead

Number Fifteen

Middle eight equidistant love
Swing through the double backbeat
Make me buckle at the sound, sweet
Do better than me

Middle eight common time love
Double down shift so damn easy
Make me smile again, peachy
Do better than me

Number Fourteen

Brittle boneless air
Porcelain dome set to crack
Still life reckoning

Number Thirteen

Wing clipped wanderer lost again
Floundering at the feet of middlemen

Time twisting veteran of the night
Hoarding memory scars from the fight
 
Surely you've surrendered to a trance
Hypnotised beyond the realms of chance

Meet me between the now and the here
Meet me where the blood runs clear

Let me put roots down in your heart
Bloom violet when you come apart



 

Number Twelve

Standout stagnant
Secretly sentenced
Silent sighs
Suspiciously sung

Number Eleven

Women aren't allowed
To have grey hair before fifty
Women aren't allowed
To have double chins
Women aren't allowed
To take up too much space

Guess we'll forfeit the human race

Women aren't expected
To be louder than the men
Women aren't allowed
To have once owned a dick
Women aren't allowed
To want more than the picket fence
Women aren't allowed
To have hair on their face

Guess we'll forfeit the human race