Sunday, 28 December 2014


She baby-talked down the phone to me as I trod on the pedal of the dustbin. She was saying some soft words about how much she loved me; I was peeling a carrot into the bin with the cordless phone crooked in-between my head and shoulder. It all felt a bit much. Her perfectly powdered matte skin was desperate to attract me, but all I wanted was to crawl inside the dustbin, close the lid, and die.

She said god had told her we were to be together. That I could try and fight it, but one day we'd end up together. I mumbled about not wanting to fight anyone. I mumbled about not being sure. I mumbled because I didn't want to hurt anybody. I mumbled because I didn't want to turn her down. I mumbled because I didn't know how to say no. And so, and so, and so... and so... and so it goes.

I close my eyes to dull the specks of rage, every time she tells someone how much we are still in love. I close my eyes and drift off, every time she recites the days since we've been married. I mumble in agreement each and every time. Because now, I'm dead. Dead inside. Instead of dead inside a dustbin.

Tuesday, 23 December 2014

The story of my descent

As I tumble, I see all that my mind can see. 
From when I was only three, learning how to pee, 
Up till thirty-three, still learning how to be. 
Each stair my body crashes against is another blow to my soul. I spent my entire life on and off the dole, not knowing my life's role, trying desperately not to fold. Yet now all I feel, is cold.

My foot teeters on the edge of the staircase. My balance wavers and my heel slips off the top step. Did he push me? Or did I fall on my own accord?

Time stops going forward and goes in every direction. Memories don't link linearly. They're a mash of threads all wrapping around a central point. They trigger countless others as you pick at them, like a spider walking across its web.

I saw what I needed to see. And all the things I never wanted to see again. I saw it all. The tears I shed for boys who treated me like dirt. The tears of joy when I first held him in my arms. The tears when my 'friends' didn't pick me for their volley-ball team. The constant steady stream of tears when I had no real fears, just felt emotional for no apparent reason. Tears, so many tears. Until I had no more, and was just laying, gasping on the floor, doubled over and sore, with nothing left inside me any more. 

I saw them laughing at me. Arguing with me. Rolling their eyes. It flooded back a myriad of memories. It was all so happy at the start, meeting all these new people. I rode his coattails again of course to find them. For years we built friendships. But then, familiarity breeds contempt. I'd sucked the sweetness down to the sour centre. Everyone stopped listening to me and stopped taking me seriously. They all turned against me. Even him. 

He was my best friend. My entire world. Everything I did I got his approval for, and his opinion on. Everything he did I followed. He was my confidant. My protector. We knew each other better than we could possibly know anyone else. But something simmered under the surface. 

We were sitting at the kitchen table. He said he was full. I prodded his belly and told him food had nothing to do with it. He was already full, so why stop now? It was so long ago I barely recalled saying it, but now I could see it all again as clearly as watching a movie. I noticed the glimmer of hurt and sadness in his face as he picked up the fork and stared into the food on his half-filled plate. A fraction of a second later and he was old, fat, depressed, and shovelling food inside his mouth, with tears running down his cheeks. 

I noticed friend's faces as I told them the same exact story again and again. As I piled upon them my woes. The first time, when they showed genuine worry. The second time, when they nodded politely. And the third time, where they stared off in the distance thinking about something else. Why did I tell them the same worries over and over? They gave the same advice each time and I never followed it or grew as a person. Just kept worrying. And what simple worries they seem now. No wonder they are sour now, as I chipped each layer down every time I opened and closed my mouth. 

He said he wanted to be an opera singer and I laughed at him. He said he wanted to dance and I questioned his interest in women. He said he wanted to be happy and I threw in his face a list of reasons why he should  already be happy, how ungrateful he was, how selfish. I found him curled up in the cupboard under the kitchen sink once. He didn't want to come out. I told him to stop being stupid and dragged him out by his ankles. Why didn't I ask what was wrong? Or how I could help? My memories were not kind. My memories are worse than I remembered. I saw the fear flash on his face when I opened the cupboard door. He was afraid of me, but I had no idea. 

Eventually I hit the bottom landing and came crumpled to a stop. My mind, exhausted of all its memories began to float above it all. Painlessly it watched the broken body, collapsed upon the floor. It watched as no one came to help. I knew why, I accepted it, I didn't analyse it or worry about it. Perhaps I have atoned now. Perhaps I have given him release. The stars are out. The cicadas are crying a mournful song in the dark blue moonlight. A possum crawls along the front fence, pauses a moment as if it sees me, then continues slower than before. The dew on the grass is glistening. Life goes on. I'll leave them to live it. 

Sunday, 21 December 2014

A Rat Utopia

He drove to work and no one waved at him in his car. He walked through the door and said "hello" and someone grunted in return. He typed away in front of his machine for four hours and then took a small lunchbox from his bag. He ate his lunch and then typed for another four hours before saying to no one in particular "goodbye". He drove home and no one waved at him in his car. He mowed his front lawn and the one person who walked by, meandered off the footpath and onto the road to avoid him. Their eyes met briefly and the passer-by grimaced in instant regret. He put the mower away and went inside to watch the television. The man on the tv said "good evening", he said "good evening" back. He stared at the man on the tv until he came to the conclusion that the man's face was made of plastic. He went to the bathroom mirror to preen himself and then had a quick shower and went to bed. In the morning he woke up, had cereal and drove to work and no one waved at him in his car.


I can't even bring myself to care any more. When the barren ground drags through the back of my mind, and everything in front is a wasteland of sameness. Who gets off on this shit? As if we could stay here forever, trudging through the dust. It doesn't take long to see all you want, and the shit you haven't seen you couldn't care less about.

I remember sitting in your room. There were two single beds along opposite walls, and we sat facing each other. We listened to a new album by one of our current favourite artists and we threw ideas around about what we'd do with our lives, as the words opened up our minds to new possibilities. Back when I was interested. Back when I'd listen to an album without finding a problem with it. Back when I wasn't too busy worrying about inconsequential every day things. Our tiny troubles melted into the walls we leant our backs upon. Everything was in front of us then, but now everything is behind.

We sold our childhood for a meagre price, because we had no idea what we were selling.

Friday, 19 December 2014

She held sandwiches in her fat flaps, and my heart in her bosoms

She was looking bored, with narrowed eyes cast eternally to the phone screen she held just below the table's edge.

"Thanks for coming over tonight, I uh..." he began awkwardly and trailed off when she gave him no response. "I think you're fit!" he blurted all of a sudden in an effort to catch her attention. It seemed to work, as her rate of tapping momentarily slowed, but she didn't bring herself to look up.

"I just wanted the free food. I thought your mum would make something better than this." Without looking up, her shoulders gesticulated toward the food upon the table; her tapping resumed its regular pace. "You promised me she was a good cook."

"I think she tries hard," he stammered, "but she's a bit slower these days, what with the cancer and all."

She brought her phone above the table as if she was about to make eye contact with him. "You don't know anything. My dad had cancer one time and he didn't suddenly get shit at cooking."

"No, no. Of course not. Mum, in future, please cook something better. Next time we'll want..."

"There won't be a next time," she cut him off with a sidewards glance at his mother who sat silent and emotionless at the end of the table.

"Oh. Mum, i-in that case, never mind... never mind about that."

"Help me up," she said, "I want to leave now." She raised her two bulbous arms out as if she was riding an invisible Harley Davidson, or as if a shag on a rock with its wings outstretched. He dutifully ran around the table to help her to her feet, lifting her bulk like one would an invalid, with his elbows hooked under her armpits.

"A-are we still on for Thursday?" he asked.

"Thursday?" she repeated.

"My hair appointment, you know, I get my hair cut by you every week on Thursday."

"I don't book appointments, you have to talk to the receptionist."

"It's already b... you're right I'll ring her, thank-you, th-thanks for coming. See you on Thursday! Maybe. Maybe on Thursday."

Canaliculus to the point of the ridiculous

Cancerous lips that wrap around you like a fish, pull at the tips and twist and twist and twist.

Tuesday, 16 December 2014

No Cunters for Grunters

That fool.

That fool that pressed up against me and thought she was so clever.

She wasn't wearing a bra under her lace-patterned blouse. It seemed like she wanted me to notice, so I did.

I did, but I didn't like it.

She reminded me of all the girls I went to high school with. The ones that liked to press themselves against the boys and undress to their knickers. They'd hold cameras at arms length and pout perfectly like they were impossibly good at life. And they were. Blissfully ignorant, comfortable with their own stupidity, and loving all the lusciousness that life had offered up to them. It always seemed to offer a better menu to them than the one I got. I used to think we were all in the same restaurant and I'd simply been given the wrong menu, but it turns out I wasn't even in the same suburb. I was out in the boondocks with my face in a pig's trough, snorting through scraps and pushing through piles of shit.

Wednesday, 10 December 2014

The Edge of a Well-Trimmed Hedge

She played cups whilst I had a sudden onset of unpredictable diarrhea.

Her fingers twirled and teetered against each glass lip, squeaking and screeching away, whilst in the toilet my bowels were turning themselves inside out.

If I could sit here and think a moment, then perhaps I'd come to the realization that I was doing everything wrong.

If I had a moment to myself without all this screeching and diarrhea, then perhaps I'd have time to kill myself.

Instead I'm sitting here googling Irritable Bowel Syndrome, Living Life Without a Gallbladder, and The Top Ten Reasons Why Brad Dumped Jennifer.

What will I do if I lose all mobility? Will I drown in my own diarrhea?