Asking for it

Each of us contributed one word to each line. The vague purpose of this task was to create combinations and patterns one would usually not find. And whatever that sparks.

subliminal newton pitt abyssmal
fill constellation sure ship
strong michigan hamstring strung


OR

subliminal fill strong
newton constellation michigan
pitt sure hamstring
abyssmal ship strung

sea poem with out using the words blue/ocean/sea

my eyes are covered in a certain shade of Gatorade,

my brain is experiencing an amazing amount of pressure,

similar to what the giant squids of Io would experience

after holding their breath for a really really really

really really really really long time and swimming

really really really really really really really deep.

virginia woolf would know how i feel.

some times i dream about virginia woolf and i,

we eat pancakes with gin,

we sit with out backs pressed against the

white of the lighthouse.

hoping our lives would align like our

spines and trying to define,

where the horizon is.

and when we realise

everything is gone from us

we will put on our coats

and fill our pockets full of stones.

challenge no. 6

i thought i said i told you so:

that even if you didn't know

i'd still want to go with you,

please, don't say anything.

the prolonged love letter

Dear lover,

it would have been nice if you hadn't left me naked in your bed with directions to find you later. Because it's morning and you shouldn't work - because it isn't worth it and I should know, because life is worth living, not working.

I did like it when you spend your hard earned cash to take me to concerts and you'd get me all liquored up before hand & afterwards too.

I would have rathered that you'd written me a nice letter though,

telling me why you liked me so.

All we ever wanted was everything.

The longest we stayed in bed together was four days we smoked tea & drank cigarettes.

We fucked & felt wildly confused - emotions were numbed and brains sundered in alcohol,

the things we required (or what we wanted) weren't appropriate

and would destroy the 'life' we had created -

though something needs to happen,

this ocean is not wild enough.

"i held her in my strong arms" he said to a friend

"he held me close 'til i felt so much BETTER" she to her journal.

"but it wasn't right but it was almost right" they both blurted to the unwild waves.

nobody dies in this part of the story but between plane crashes and eskimo kisses

- your face, if i begin. bears comparison the concrete block placed at end of the street to stop stolen cars.

that was the day neither of us died - one of us should have.

Every soul sinks or rises to its own level.

But we are here to give, and without even trying. we had invented a new history for this odd place and its opaque chill...

and i want to leave this house in the middle of the night blind and drunk for the heart of another person.

He wakes knowing that she wakes thinking "WHAT DO I DO WITH MY LIFE"

while he stumbled confused weighed down by nausea.

He knows that her body will never engulf like a blanket curled up naked against his body -

he ran his hands through his hair in an attempt to harvest his thoughts.

They'd been in love in 4 past lives but they had never crashed together like now.

Making plans to steal cars kept the passion spurting forth -

BONNIE AND MUTHAFUCKING CLYDE!

The recklessness of their minds was, unfortunately, never acted apoun.

And with the loss of their internet connection, they were crippled bitches now...

but they turned to the stars, the illusion of permanence.

cause gods come and gods go;

mortals flicker and fade;

worlds don't last and stars and galaxies are transient,

fleeting things that twinkle like fireflys and vanish into cold dust.

But I guess, what we feel (or feelish) do you think it would last long enough to fuck up?

please, i want you to laugh and i think if that is your real laugh,

go to sleep, i want to steal it.

don't go. please love me...

i need you to love me so i have someone to dream about.

he wanted a photo

at least now if anyone ever asks you

'so who is that carlin boy? do you have any photo's of him?'

you'll be able to say; 'yes; mirrored, twirled & normal'

the evidence of our vanity

is very apparent - for generations to see.

if only they gave a fuck. if only we did.

hey! my vanity is the best kind.

we know that now, that the

possibility of future generations

on my behalf - is something

we should discourage - uncouraged.

i am now without a hat -

it was probably lost within the atlantic.

so many things have been lost in that ocean,

but i lost my childhood in the pacific

it was night & i was drunk & i was swimming very far out.

The ocean is a romantic notion, it will never and never

should be forgotten -

i was drunk once, i probably said things

& urinated a lot -

this generally is what happens.

i wouldn't have gone in the ocean - it is too vast for me.

i prefer to lie at the base of mountains,

pretend that the constellations are various portraits of me.

when I got to the top of the mountains -

it brought to my senses -

crying out 'I AM ALONE!'

losing & drowning with indifference

the reintroduction into

breathing, sleeping and conversation.

once plumage is stripped it reveals

almost nothing about skin but

everything about it's itch.

i've heard that we breathe thru

our skin which means it's more than likely

i've been taking your oxygen by sleeping beside you.

there was an earthquake in california

I wonder how we got this far gone

earthquakes/passionfruit

earthquakes/passionfruit

earthquakes/passionfruit

earthquakes/passionfruit

earthquakes/passionfruit

no, it is not gravitational pull, or the

off throw of the big bang that has

us spinning it is

earthquakes & passionfruit

Igor

Igor was a lonesome soul. He lived his life through commercial magazines -

His favourite love story was that of Brangelina.

I mean who couldn't love that story?

Such a cataclysmic love.

Not many people know this,

but most modern pop songs are directly based

on the Brangelina narrative -

I like Brangelina, they are the perfect

German ideal family - lot's of children

though some of them are black,

some people think this is 'dirty'

Igor knew that it wasn't universal.

Igor did not like anything remotely

'dirty', he suffered from O.C.D.

He organized his cookbooks, not

in alphabetical order, but by colour.

He organized his dildos by size -

the largest of the 106 he owned being

12 meters, the smallest of the 106

he owned being 11.5 meters.

He did suffer from being a massive

gayist. A lot of people held this against

Igor... People like to tease him about the

order of his dildos and cookbooks.

Sometimes, he thought that this favourite

pair of tight pink alligator trousers

attracted most this ridicule.

But it also could have been because

his hands were always so sweaty

or perhaps that he had condoms covered

in aztec blood hidden in his computer.

Atleast he didn't have any cookbooks on

how to stir-fry dildos

'i'm too cool for this shit' he thought

& moved to melbourne like everyone else.

His ex-lovers all lived in melbourne, he wanted to fight

them all whilst standing on a table...

this made him able to know the difference

between fucking up and drinking coffee

alone which take threes thousand hours over four years -

in 4 years he had eight lovers.

That was plenty of full moons for each of them

an to wear each other's favourite t-shirt -

but they (his lovers) always parked in the

towaway zone of his confidence,

Igor loved losing lovers

because he always had faith that the

next one would love him more.

And being loved is better than being warm when it is freezing.

and if he couldn't be loved and no-one would love him,

he wanted to be the sky - and not the clouds moving fast

moving him.

My cigarette mingled with a million others. It was a protest for cigarettes: here we are, now deal with us. A million people danced with their cigarettes without their angry girlfriends. When I said goodbye they turned away and shrugged. I could have wept like a wife in the midst of a divorce. Suicide is always "back in style". I drew a picture of my face last night. I made seven mistakes. My nose was too straight. My eyes were too symmetrical. My mouth was too beautiful. My hair was too perfect. My forehead was too clear. And my ears. I forgot my ears. It didn't look like me. It was better. A me he could fall in love with. I hung it on my mirror and stared at it. I removed the mirror and threw it onto the roof.
I don't believe in the value of art.I wrote a poem last night. It didn't rhyme. It doesn't mean anything. It was mostly a list of things I don't understand. Why people believe the world will end in rapture or in nuclear fallout when epidemic is the obvious answer. Why scientists and doctors always dress in white. Shit like that. I printed it out and fed it to my turtle. All art should have a use. It was an art of a different kind. It was the art of standing in one place long enough to fantasize about the sky speaking to you. It doesn't happen often. No one has the patience. Mine was a fucking masterpiece. Brilliant.

something nearly all of us wrote together

The east coast of Australia, running up and down is the town, of Newcastle.

Wandering the streets of this town in many a character otherwise known as 'bogans'.

The death of existence happens within this town, individuality criticized with singular

words, there is only 2 degrees of separation between breaths and our only aim is to escape.

DEATH TO PANCAKE!

We forget the past. We start again. But less naive though.

Scrutty walks on by. You wonder is it a choice, a sentence or a crime? The answer doesn't matter but the question does.

CHOICE is debatable - did the universe choose to exist? Do we have individual choice because of this? How can we choose anything when there is the possibility we have chosen nothing.

There are 36 spaces on a roulette wheel. There is a 1 in 36 chance that you will fall in love/lust next summer,

AM I EVIL?

The devil is scared of you, 'hades' is what the devil describes as your soul.

Magic eight ball, all signs pointing to yes?

Being absent from home, has readily made us drunk. Ransacking an old Latvian's home with vanity and alcohol - this is a great secret. It is not falsified.

Spanish. English. French. Dutch. German. Love/Hate. Home/Hell.

Je suis (INSERT WORD FOR INTOXICATED HERE)

[insert 1000 reasons here] look, i guess it all come down to this, you are not evil. You read DOSTOYEVSKY. You get me?

Bligh is a kind of Quetin Tarantino crossed with Lady GaGa.

He needs to find some 'Kermit the Frogs' - to be some kind of Cruella De Vil - to murder,

green slimy things.

hand poem

Einstein misses air.

Blindness is pretend.

Breakfast is propaganda.

I want nothing.

Am nothing.

too much whisky - not enough talking - disjointed writing

but what would you define as “hanging out”

so many actions and words are taken in the wrong context.

everything is the wrong context.

fuck context.

why can’t we just feel in this

nonchalant way and exist in this way...

because aren’t we told that

nothing matters and we shouldn’t care...

i care about you

all of this poetry is subliminal (sublime!)

since cards have been invented we’ve been dealt this hand

what’s your constellation?

i think i’ve seen in before

didn’t you catch the same rollercoaster as me?

maybemaybemaybe

there's certainty in the sky

please let me know why

all cards have certain meanings, just like stars

and just like human beings...

but i can never, ever tell what romantically

drowned lovers want from me

for i am nothing but uprooted and bloodshot

i am very intoxicated

but hopefully you are too

taking advantage is one of my strongest points...

whether connected or misdirected

you mighta heard your lucky number three times

you mighta heard me up close

fuckwards, right?

five all right

backwards, frontwards,

who really gives a fuck

fuck. fuck. fuck. i am very intoxicated.

all i want is either complete destruction of

something beautiful or

nothing at all

everything / nothing

everything / nothing

everything / nothing

everything / nothing

everything / nothing

this momentous momentum is instantly interlocked

what do we do now.

is choice real

are we really that misguided

i feel like a jellyfish in a lavalamo

that has been switched off

and left got twenty years to collect dust

but no one really understands the

imperativeness of situations

this poem is dead

now tell me things

or tell me things tomorrow