Tag: lust

Poem in Cordite Poetry Review

Pinch and a punch and white rabbits to you on this, the first day of November. I’m stoked to share my poem ‘Chemistry’ with you which has was chosen for Cordite Poetry Review’s ‘Toil’ issue. It’s the second poem of mine that Cordite have ever so kindly published and I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I loved writing it.

I have to say that I’m very happy with the way this poem turned out. I wrote it back in winter, and if you think this piece has some deeply romantic undertones in it, then you’d be right.

Happy Birthday, M

For M.E.B


We became another death

(the fulfilment of my internship).

Like a false syncope,

my grief would not let me claim you.



You came to me with bleeding gums and a dent in your jaw,

your broken gait like a barber cutting through

walls of plasticine with blunt scissors.

Bruised pride; your face a field of stubble I so loved jiving on my skin.

But first …



you were an uncertain algorithm of desire –

because you were never going to want me the way I wanted you.

Except, on a summer’s day, under umlauts of clouds, close to the border,

we pushed a kiss right through our chests like a bullet.

I was yours and you were mine and before we came up for air,

the earth had spun off its axis.



Purling into webs of light –

the softness of your cupped hands under my sunburned chin as we

tasted each other for the first time.

As salt danced across our skin, I ploughed my fingers through your hair

as clouds climbed behind us, then sunk with the sun like sabbath.



We cut our teeth on summer.

Sticky and wet like puppets of nature.

A curtain of devotion and great folly –

I grew attached to your shadow.

I’d fall off our bed of sin as you made me come to Bach,

and you would tell me stories of how you skulked up and down Cavill mall,

devout in your pilgrimage to find me on that first night at Schoolies.

You told me you would cry as you watched me sleep;

my childishly freckled cheek hemmed in by swathes of blonde hair.

You would wash your hands with such care in the darkness

(I liked to watch your panoptic palms somersault under tendrils of water)



You would drive along the rivers reach looking for me.

Once, I saw you.

I ran as fast as my body could with bleeding lungs,

but you never saw me.

I was jealous of the wind with its fingers in your hair.



Climbing lovingly into winter bones,

we knitted our bodies into an impenetrable pod where no one could touch us.

We shunned the world with aching hips and salty flesh

stuffing our mouths full, speaking a language only we knew –

believing ‘there is nothing else worth living for other than this’. You.



But I heard church bells pealing from promises that would bleed;

fistulas of memory fractured a fall and I began barking time;

howling spoonfuls of dirt into your mouth

your perfect fucking mouth

always open for mine;

a receptacle of love and all that was good in our world.

You tried.

You were unmoving in arresting us in that space as I jettisoned the indifference,

but we rolled away from each other as old mountains do,

and I began to not love us.



I garrotted you,

throwing you from your skin;

bones akimbo to the wind,

leaving a frayed man like a barometer of truth.

Fall in, fall out.

With the biting sick that bored into my body,

you were gone.



You never got to hear my new voice

or sweep the pads of your fingers over my new scars.

I can’t sing anymore, but my hair is long just as it was that first night you saw me

shuffling across blue linoleum in dimmed hospital corridors.

(I go out walking, after midnight, in the moonlight, just like we used to do.

I’m always walking after midnight, searching for you) 



Seeking out the ground with eyes I put to bed so many years ago,

I would give you my grace (or cleave the moon in two)

but you will not let me.

So I press my fingers into the rivulets of my palms

knowing we will meet when the streets glow in their silence.

Throbbing asphalt still hot from the burning day –

just like our first days of warm hands and cold feet.



Like a splintered shard of shrapnel that will always itch under my skin,

I will always be that woman who loves you.


img_6293

‘think of me when you sleep,

warm heart, cold feet.

In your dreams we will meet, 

together soft and deep.

Wish I could be there with you now,

all my love and desire. 

I think of you in despair

oh, when will I meet you there?

Not long, one more sleep,

think of me – warm heart, cold feet.’

– M.E.B 1995

This.

 

Ronn Moss and the launch of my website!

Last week was an incredibly exciting week. I launched my website with no fanfare which you can see here. I am so grateful to my friend Lynn from Lynn Priestley Design. She is a dear friend and an amazing artist, and without her help, as I perhaps said in an earlier post, my website would have looked like an online morgue. Thank you, Lynn!

On Friday night, a loose wild group of women and I went to see Player Ronn Moss and his fellow band members, like legend Peter Beckett, who are über famous for their hit song Baby Come Back. Listen to it and I dare you to not be moved.

I decided to wear a slashed to the navel bodysuit with my thriller from Camilla skirt. It’s always interesting how people look at you and well … judge. All of the men seemed to smile and say g’day (you don’t say!), but most of the women looked at me like I had my tits out was a lepper. I’m of the opinion, if you haven’t got it or even if you have (I haven’t), you may as well flaunt it. So I did, sans Hollywood tape. And it’s a good thing I wore what I did, because when I put my hand up during Ronn’s repartee/question time, he pointed at me and said ‘the girl the in white top’, and I got to stand up in my teetering heels and ask my question!

So don’t be judgy. I’m not judging you if you’re 75+ and wearing a short strapless dress and are trying to pash Ronn – good for you! But back to my question, because I can just feel it that you’re dying to know what I asked Ronn. Que? My question was along the lines of if there was any other television series he could be in, what would it be. He immediately said Game of Thrones. Then I snuck in a cheeky second question about Breaking Bad and we pretty much both agreed that it’s the best ever series EVER.

And so with that, we dashed to the front of the stage not long after the band began to play, where we were given the stink eye and a few harsh words by some vicious grannies in the front row. We were just lucky they didn’t bring their knitting needles or we would have been STABBED. I was waiting for them to throw their dentures at us …

Here are a couple of photos of myself, my gorgeous friend Rebecca and RONN. Notice how she is ‘peacing out’ on our bellies? If I had nails like that, I’d do that too 🙂 I got to give Ronn a hug and I can say he hugs you tight, is devilishly handsome, very calm, gentle and authentic. Bucket list item – CHECK!

1655906_10152816219458397_8530118240212920749_n

10403348_10152816219058397_4385961423202367582_n

 

dedication #1

Not seeing you, then colliding with you on that step

had my heart banging like the hammers of hell.

My eyes sought out the ground with a heart

I put to bed so many years ago;

silently waiting for the one who might never come.

 

The ravages of being human spike and stiffen

as autumn steals in, tearing summer away from our bodies.

There is nothing ordinary about this,

so I watch you with your meditative graces.

Your hair, knotted tendrils winding down your spine that

frame your face like brass around a locked box;

another place I’ll never know because I cannot find the key.

lust: a follow up meditation

It is as though I have two heartbeats. This is how you make me feel. You give me fucking tachycardia, and then in a breath, my heart softens. I want you to lay with me; I want you to read to me. I want to read to you. Soak up Johnny Cash’s entire catalogue with you in me so I can taste your sin.

I care not for coffee, phone calls, dirty dishes, washing, paperwork. It all seems so unnecessary and futile, so I forget and clutch your waist with my thighs, squeezing the breath out of you. It’s like I want to make you hurt, but for reasons only I know. Then you catch your breath and surrender heavily into my neck.

Stars hail down on us like confetti and I want to take you across the street to the river; get you alone, cup your face in my hands. Simple things. It is all simple.

You make me want to strike piano keys and suck on cherries and peel pears and beat my boots into the ground until my foot bones splinter and bleed.

And all of this terrifies me.

Like water snatching at ropes, you pull me in like a tide, then let me go. Spank my rosy arse in the night-time. Hell, even in the daytime; such sweet agony. You’re someone I don’t want to leave behind.

And all of this terrifies me.

It’s like:

shovelling wet sand up a mountain of ash

exploding fruit

writing that killer line

hitting a money note

swallowing sour milk

a stitch in my belly

a sliced finger

a fresh burn

a lime tree bursting with fruit

sun splintering through clouds

rain on dry land.

So many things.

And all of this terrifies me.

I watch you and your mouth and see it’s a little lopsided. I could unfurl that crooked grin with an eager tongue.

In the afternoon, we wrestle; bodies laconic with fatigue and marks from hard fingers. I pin your arms and you to wrangle my body to the other side of the bed and I’m yours – at your mercy and you know it; my sex wet all because of a lopsided grin.

I can’t tear my eyes, hands, mouth off you.

And all of this terrifies me.

Primitive

Gun empty, shot with intent,

I hoof hit/wheel roll/foot fall

dropping girasol like unfolding lies

then wait with convivial pause.

In the morning, a thump over the cattle grate;

the scene of an arrival; a foal on the run, mourning mothers milk.

 

In the night-time

we’re running moonshine over state lines,

black boot mafia

crossing chain link fences ’til

we’re making diamonds outta prayers.

Mouth raging pink with sainfoin,

dog soldiers lean on mud-brown huts – sharply muscled,

diesel in their veins and peach faced fuzz.

With the fleeting glare of a fox, I cut my teeth on the mountains

of my girlhood, for some pernicious reward that never came,

but through ravens call, hearken this …

ancestral voices dampen the well,

carrying my body boat in their fallacious swell.

Your tears collect in the hollow of my spine

so I stay stilled ’til they are dried.

 

A film of your despair visible only by the rush of midnight

and only one minute at that.

Thrown from your skin,

bones akimbo to the wind.

Death an internship,

slicing away at dreams and blanketed forces of thought.

A stretch of joy and a garrotte of light;

action put to the sword after a night of liberty.

Beauty is perilous, from cradle to casket (you should know this by now)

Unfold your eyes to the timbre of salute.

Peel open your mouth to speak a salacious moot of sin;

unknotting your limbs from unfeeling,

digging your fingers into the loam,

‘cos your daddy said, ‘there’s honey in that soil, milk in them stones.’

 

Seeking out the ground with eyes I put to sleep so many years ago,

I kneel and pat away at moistening roly-poly roots –

the pads of my fingers dewy and yielding

stamped with flecks of broken china

from seventeen nights of rain.

In the morning, we roll through doorjambs.

You walk behind me; I am your windbreaker.

How many accidents until we collide?

For there is a necklace of deep regret that won’t come loose –

la douleur exquise –

there is nothing ordinary about this.

Eating from the hands of the land,

summer steals in, tearing winter away.

The blood-red of birth, the placenta of earth

that cannot be washed away.

Plan F

I’m a full-time healthcare provider. To myself. People assume that you’re cured after transplant, and that you go on your merry way with your phenomenal donor lungs and you live forever and ever with just the odd complication, sail through life, find a partner, have a lovely courtship, get engaged, get married in between a fabulous career and shit and maybe even have a baby and yeehaw, THIS IS YOUR LIFE. YAY!

But stuff happens. Unglamorous stuff like bowel obstructions, cancer that will keep returning, anaemia, addiction, diabetes, painful infusions for osteoporosis, rejection, migraines, lung infections, chronic sinus, life threatening blood clots, and that one time when your adrenal system fails you and you literally drop dead at your friends funeral where your Mum has to resuscitate you. Talk about stealing someone’s thunder, but apparently I ‘died’ very elegantly and without much fuss. Side note: Thanks Mum and the White Ladies who diverted traffic so I could be ferried across a main road to a medical centre.

And so last week, I started uni. You would think two courses would be simple enough, even if I’ve missed out on the first three weeks of lectures and tutorials because my enrolment was all very eleventh hour*.

After I’d slept all day Monday and all night, I woke up exhausted yesterday, unable to get out of bed. I tried to convince myself that I was ok, to the point of saying out loud, ‘I’m fine. Really, I am. It’s just the general anaesthetic that’s making me feel yuck. I AM NOT GETTING A CHEST INFECTION.’ I repeated this until I started getting breathless, which was about third canon in. I felt like I was coming down with the flu, had a productive cough; I was having hot and cold sweats and my resting pulse rate was 100.

My gem of a Dad rushed me off to hospital and dropped me off with my overnight bag – the same overnight bag I gave a stern lecture to on Saturday morning after I went home the following day after my sinus surgery, in that I didn’t want to see it again for the foreseeable future, unless it was for a dirty weekend or for my trip out bush later this month.

I sat on my bed and did something I rarely do. I cried. It’s not that I’m a hard human being. In fact, the most benign things make me cry. Music mostly. It is easily the most affecting art form, but crying makes me feel torpid and vulnerable. I want to push myself away from myself, but I can’t because I’m so present in my body. Crying also gives me a roaring headache and I end up wondering what I was even crying about, because everything that I should have cried over (but didn’t) bleeds into what I’m feeling, and I cry like a kid who’s had his Tonka truck taken away.

But back to yesterday. I underwent my usual tests after which I saw a doctor I’ve known for a couple of years. We’re not ‘close’, and while I don’t know him particularly well, he’s an excellent doctor. He took my blood pressure, looked at my tattoo and said, ‘that looks fresh.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘It’s nearly five years old. It probably looks so good because I don’t go out in the sun and I slather myself in sunscreen. I’ve got really good genes too. Apart from the C.F ones, I mean. You should see my Mum. She looks amazing for her age.’

He raised his eyebrows and nodded. I’d rambled too much, and so cleared my throat, closed my mouth and darted my eyes southward to the benign hospital carpet. I either say too much, or too little. There seems to be no middle ground. For example, I’m currently crushing on someone who doesn’t know it (or maybe he does – who knows, but if you do, speak up, because I can’t!) who I’ve only ever managed a smile or a ‘thank you’, or a really loud ‘hi!’ or ‘great!’, or ‘can you please put my coffee down for me, I have the shakes because of the drugs’ with. Oh yeah – ‘I have the shakes because of the drugs?’ FFS, Carly.

So back to yesterday … My blood pressure was uncharacteristically low. So call me underwhelmed.**

Five years. What have I achieved in five years? Some small stuff. Nothing major. Except for surviving. I haven’t finished my research Masters or my novel, simply because ‘stuff’ gets in the way. Some obstacles are too big to go over, so I have to go around and that takes time. I’ll not forget when a friend said to me that I always seem to ‘take the long way round’. We were 19, and I said calmly that I’ve had some stops along the way. We’re do’t really see each other anymore. Life has deviated for both of us and there’s really not a lot we can talk about. I’m also a big believer in that just because you have a history with someone, you don’t need to maintain the friendship for friendships sake.

So when ‘stuff’ happens (read: when I become unwell. I’ll rarely say I’m sick – ‘sick’ is reserved for when I’m on life support), I make other plans. Because I always have a Plan B, C, D and E. Sometimes, I even have Plan F for FUCK ME, UNIVERSE – ARE YOU SERIOUS? But I always get through it. Whether I’ve had my chest cracked and opened up like a clam for transplant or my vagina ripped to shreds first through topical chemotherapy and then peeled off like the skin of a grape when surgery was my only option, I get through it. Even with a poo bag, I managed. I’m not saying I managed it well. Maybe I did. Maybe I didn’t. But I managed.

The last five years have been about survival and just that. I’ve learned so much – about myself, about the world I find myself in and about other people, in both stop the clock beautiful ways and in less lovely ways. People can be … fucked. There I said it. People can be fucked. I like to think that for every misguided human being, there are three earth angels who are all managing their best. And that’s why I want to help look after people. That’s all I’ve ever really wanted to do – to be a light in the dark for someone when their light is fading.

We’re all just managing. I am just surviving. Every day is a new beginning. We’ve got this, people so let’s slather on sunscreen, pull on our boots and look fabulous while we’re doing it (thanks again, Mum).

* Currently checking to see if I can study just the one course this semester and an intensive in summer semester.

** which won’t last very long. I’m guessing I’ll be hypertensive tonight when I watch Patrick’s funeral on Offspring. And Nina gives birth #ohsweetbabycheesesicannotibelievethisishappeningandirealiseitsonlyatvshowbutFUCKIneedsomeEddieVedderrightnow

Image