Category: writing

Note to Myself

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Sunsets are beautiful, so see them more often; You’ll only get to see sunsets for a lifetime, which is never enough time.

Don’t be afraid of the light, for dark and light are one. You are darkness and light, so embrace both with balance.

Be generous and kind even if they think you’re weak. Kindness is your gift, and your light shines brighter for it.

Don’t be materialistic, for you will die without material possessions. Instead, live life with purpose, travel and make human memories.

Be courageous and always be yourself. If someone thinks you’re a coward, that doesn’t mean you are.

The Alps

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They stand hand in hand taking in the beauty of the Alps.

Reflective and oddly calm, she says, “Up here, the world is crisp and clean. You and I can talk without the madness of society getting in the way… Don’t you love the way the snow sits upon the mountains, yet the sun still shines, and it isn’t too cold?“

He pauses for a few moments to breathe in the crisp air, “It’s beautiful for an Autumn day… the light, it’s welcomed here and not despised… I could live in this country…“

She looks at him and smiles, so he adds, “The sun feels different in Australia compared to Switzerland… Perhaps it is weaker?“

She squeezes his hand, and he kisses her forehead. She adds, “Yes… it feels fainter… let’s stay a little longer.“

Rosary Beads

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You know you’re fucking it all down to the ground with your vacant looks and your fish-faced stare.

Then you spoke! I was someone else for a moment engaged in gossiping like a groupie infested with a lust for fame and shiny gold plated bling.

What became of my intellectual underpinnings, a desire for books to enclose around me, and that rebel we-don’t-understand vibe?

Is it I who was mistaken when I judged you too soon? Are filled lips just as tasty as regular lips? Are vacant looks filled with more sorrow than The Picture of Dorian Gray?

I’m bleeding philosophical perspiration from my pores; it flows down into the stormwater drains and out to the sea. I’m perspiring Aristotle, Foucault, Nietzsche and more. I’m infecting the sea with philosophy.

Should I worry that the rich people with yachts will touch the water I infect and find Bitcoin boring?

Will they walk in a different direction or put down their Versace cushions to move about, looking at the sky and the sea as they mutter eccentrically?

Would people think they were being touched by an angel or melt at the thought of the Devil?

Standing and speaking to this rather fashionable Nun, I cannot say a word for a moment as her words creep over me.

She holds the rosary beads up to my height, and I feel that childhood pew. My knees suffered on that wood for sins I hadn’t even committed.

Then she said, “You’re a wicked one the way you think too much; The Devil will get you in the end.“

Miss Nun jolted me out of my musings and back to the dark. Without warning, words escaped my lips as I walked away, “If you see the Pope, you can tell him I want a refund for all those Rosary Beads I had to buy as a kid. They didn’t work…“

Spatula Pad

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Not one to shy away from the strange and the obscene, he thinks of some party tricks for tonight.

Ladies are many and boggle his mind, for he sees himself as an urban Casanova.

Unable to settle for one love, he prefers to love in threes or fours.

The time arrives, the guests are bouncing, and the party is swinging and shaking all about the mansion.

Beauty abounds and lovely young sights as he thinks of nibbling on chocolates or rose water delights.

Tricks do begin, but it’s the usual tosh, yet he’s thinking about what he can do.

With weird ideas swirling and too much bourbon soaking, he goes to the kitchen & thinks, “What do I have and what do I need to get my perversions on track?“

Looking and looking, he opens the cupboards and draws with swirling thoughts plaguing his mind. Searching the kitchen and not drawing attention, he grabs three sturdy blue spatulas.

Like Houdini on crack or DMT, he makes frosting enough for three cakes.
It’s causing some giggles and a few weird looks, but he’s too fucked in the head to agree.

The frosting is ready, and it tastes like a sweet dream, so he lines the bowls up on the bench.

He waits for the prudes and the boring to leave until ten of the lovelies remain.

Once properly pinched and appropriately plucked to shine bright, he smears frosting all over the nymphs. Once frosted, he moves in and starts to carnally satisfy his longing for sweets.

There’s frosting about and in places unseen, yet he beats his best record of four.

With ten lovely ladies all over him now, he’s a man in a heaven of sorts.

Ourselves

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A crisp lightness fills the spaces and brings a glimpse of spring to the winter day. I have nothing but you and my pain, which starts my mind racing.

A flimsy love between two independent souls both long for the rain to wash their sadness away; Two souls haunted by their fear of failure, not being the favoured child, and living with their desire for perfection.

If we didn’t need money in this capitalistic hell, we would be free to be ourselves.

I’m on the train now going to ruin my life again, but I have you through the ages: you and me against the world, ready to live once again.

Grandma’s Jug

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Grandma has this old jug she uses to water her plants made of tin, with white and a bit of blue and red paint here and there. We think someone made it for her when she was younger, yet no one is sure. 

Her grandson cannot understand how this crappy old jug seems to be back in fashion again. He’s never understood this fixation with idle objects. 

He’s mischievous and often looks for insects, animals, and anything that crawls. Once his mum found a spider’s nest in his room. It almost frightened her to death, so now she won’t let him have insects in the house. 

One day he took Grandma’s jug for a walk to the termite mound, which is a dirt fortress for insects. He thinks of the world of the king and the queen, the workers, and the soldiers inside.

Interested in how things work, he pours water into the mound to see what happens. Water starts to leak out of the various holes, yet there isn’t much damage. He examines the termites on the ground. Some have wings, and some do not. He thinks, “Perhaps Grandma’s jug is useful.“

Not wanting to hurt any of the insects, he leaves for home; in a few days, he will check on the termite mound to see the results. 

When he returns, not only have the insects repaired the mound, but it has increased in size. 

He scribbles down a note, “Experiment number 251. Termites like water. “

Toaster Tale

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 You always liked to play games. Sometimes sweet, sometimes spicy.

One day, we stood in the kitchen talking about your kink for tasty toes. You often joked that you would love to set your feet on fire. I thought you were being a bit creative.

One evening, as we sit casually in the lounge room, you bring me the toaster. There’s a weird look on your face. I ask you ever so casually, “What are you doing?“

“I’m determined to understand the fire of feet…“

“What the…? You better not turn it on! No! Wait! Don’t you dare put my toes in there! I shall kill you!”

“I won’t turn it on, I promise.“

“…You’re so weird… My poor feet. They cry in terror at the thought…”

“I would roast my toes for you, baby.“

“No, you won’t.“

Suddenly, his toes are in the toaster.

“Please don’t turn it on!“

A Sausage of Feelings

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I bought a sausage maker. It sat in the cupboard for a decade. Then, one day, I decided to make sausages.

I remember how young you and I were when you bought the machine; we were in our late 20’s? Yes, I think so.

Waists were smaller then, minds were less clouded, hearts less broken, and hope brighter.

I stood before the sausage maker and thought that if I could make the perfect sausage for you, it would contain the following ingredients:

one part happiness
one part hope
one part kindness
one part worth
one part 1000 echo’s from the sea
one part the essence of 100 sunsets and sunrises
one part 1000 snowflake feels
one part essence of 100 people laughing loud

Then I would present it to you, ask you to eat it, and then ask you to look at yourself in the mirror. I would ask you, “What do you see?” I hope you can see the person you are to me, my sweet bear.