Poetry | Stories | Photography
a nymph on the shore,
as the waves move in
she calls to you softly,
yet the words are odd
her expression is plain,
please listen to the sea
you listen for a time,
as you hear sounds
under the waves now,
with her heart so close
her palace of shells,
your watery home
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…“
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.
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 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. “
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!“
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.
From the day you were born, that kettle boiled water. The kettle boiled water for tea leaves, tea bags, herbal infusions, night toddies, water for cooking, and water for baking.
That kettle with the white handle and the sky blue frame was always on the bench in the kitchen. The kettle was used by Mum, and Dad would use the kettle when he was desperate.
Then, one day as you sat alone in the kitchen, the kettle started to move. Unable to establish if you are dreaming, you sit up straight, wondering if gumption is the key here?
Instead of silence, the kettle starts to rattle ever so softly. “Can Mum hear this?” you wonder, “Perhaps not, considering I’m all alone and everyone else seems to have vanished for a moment“.
Not sure if you should caress the kettle lovingly or throw it out the window, you move towards the kettle. Suddenly, the bloody thing stops and out pops a teabag. Not the usual brew, you are sure, but perhaps something more exotic.
The kettle moves, then the teabag ends up in your left hand. “What the actual…“
Then the kettle starts to boil, and you get the impression that the kettle wants you to steep this teabag of magic into a brew. What can you do? Mum loves tea, and who would care if you drank a magical tea brew?
You place your favourite cup onto the bench and proceed with the tea making process. Once strong and to your liking, you sit with the cup in front of you. Hesitation grips you. “What if I turn into a dolphin? How will I swim? There is no water? What if… fuck it!“
Sipping on the magic tea, you start to space out for a moment. There is a bit of disorientation in your mind; then you see other lands. There is another world inside your cup; there is a world quite different from our world. One where trees grow black and green, technology is far more advanced, and there is a clean order to things. “Well, I must be dreaming because this shit cannot be real…” Yet, you cannot shake the images produced from your magical teabag.
After finishing the brew, you take the teabag to your room and sit thinking about what you just saw within your mind. You feel your mind expanding at the thoughts, sounds, and world of magic.
No wonder Mum loves the kettle so much.
He’s a retired surgeon with a taste for woodwork. He lives with his wife in a lovely house with good security and a vegetable patch. There’s a park down past his rear fence, which is pretty and quiet. However, to the right of his house, just a few blocks away, is a caravan park.
No one knows how the caravan park came to be at this location. Some say it was a stroke of genius on the developer’s part, while others say that the developer bribed the Council. There is a reason why the caravan park now sits on that land, but let us not get carried away.
He loves the quiet. It’s a joy for reading, woodwork, painting, and more. Sometimes he likes to give the stereo a blast to remind him of the ’70s. It’s never before 9 am and always before 10 pm. He respects his neighbours. He thinks he’s sweet.
He remembers his first Saturday once the caravan park was up and running. There was never a Saturday like this one before, but there will probably be many in the future. That Saturday changed him forever.
Now Saturday has arrived again. It is the night. There is a wild party, and the caravan park is alive. What is this hell he must endure? Why is there so much noise? He finds relief with earplugs to grab a few hours of sleep.
Then, Sunday descended. Saturday was trying, yet Sunday is so much worse. Sunday consists of many fights from hell. Beer bottles fly about, kitchen utensils and tools go everywhere, shouting and banging lingers, and there’s an awful lot of barbecues.
There is a lull at 3 am, which turns into quiet. The weekend is over for another week. There is so much relief.
You live in a world of bling. Kitsch Swarovski bracelets line your arms, new wave necklaces and earrings from markets and independent sellers line your walls and the Duchess in your bedroom. More beautiful pieces lay locked in your safe, but they are large and gaudy.
Fashionista, you walk down the halls of fashion magazine offices, take to the seats before runways so modern, and mingle with the fashion elite at shallow parties with dim lights, awful music, and terrible cocktails. You are living and loving in the scene of chic cool and unencumbered soulless troglodytes. Never a moment to stop and think about where your life is going or what you will do when those looks fade or your world crumbles.
You invited a new crowd to your home for a party. They’re a dull bunch, but you think they may be of some use to you. You’ve become so used to equating commodities with people that you forgot what it means to be human.
He walks in and makes your heart do a saucepan dance. So loud is your heart, you can barely hear him speak. This is not who you’re usually like, or is it how you usually act. He smiles at you and you go a bit limp and loose; melting all over the floor. As you start to talk, it becomes clear he is a particularly sexy chap with elegant attire and a haughty way. You simply cannot understand yourself. Why is he doing all of these things to me?
The party goes well, you see most of those boring gue
sts to the door, but he lingers.
He says to you with a sarcastic smile, “Bangle girl, you are so weird…what are they anyway?”
You’re about to give him the flick but unintentionally say, “They’re kitsch Swarovski. It’s not to everyone’s taste, but I like them…”
Eyeing more than just your bangles, he says, “I don’t mind them. They suit you…we can’t all be alike…”
You eye each other for a bit, it becomes slightly awkward, and then you both launch into a session of wild pashing, together with a bit of touch and tingle. The floor becomes your bed. You’re both rolling around like 20-year-olds. Turns out those bracelets, or bangles as he calls them, has multiple uses.
C & K 