Too tired for daydreams, yet they come and plague your mind.
You stare out the window at the man with his mower, wondering what it would be like to ride on top as he pushes it along.
Images of you vibrating furiously, him pushing you along, and all the grass covering you.
The tendon snaps;
you cry for anyone to come, yet no one can hear you in dark. Limping loudly along; you wish for the comforts of home, to take back those words you said before. The trap you found; you scream knowing no one can hear, as the light of the moon dims, disappears.
When there was nothing left to say, no words worth speaking, those times were the loudest.
You lived in the noise of it all, trying to find the quiet places and spaces for you, yourself.
When you spoke, the words wouldn’t come out and you found that there’s no relief.
Winter 2019 at the corner of Collins Street and King Street, Melbourne.
You walked in the busy city, stopping to wait for the right light.
A quick snap below of what’s above, reminds you of Winter’s day.
Looking back, you stare at the image of Melbourne town.
There is a silent way about the grey; a stillness in the sky.
Perhaps you will again see Melbourne moving on a winter’s day.
Living in the middle of nowhere can feel like a lonely place to be.
He sits at the table dreaming of the sea, as odd noises are coming from the upstairs bathroom.
Curious, he runs up to see the bathtub has overflowed seawater onto his favourite tiles.
The flower asked a bee, “When will the world end?” The bee looked dumbfounded, then buzzed away.
Perplexed, the flower asked a spider: there was only silence.
Then a cat sniffed at her petals. She asked the cat the same question. It seemed to prevaricate any response, then pissed on her stem.
You wake up in terror as a toilet brush dances around you. For some reason you think the torch beside your bed is a gun and that you can kill it; you cannot kill a plastic brush.
Baffled about your predicament, you decide to pull the covers over your head. You can still hear the bristles, and the handle is knocking against your bed frame.
Unsure what to do, you throw the covers off, jump off the bed, and hide in the corner.
The toilet brush gathers momentum, lunges at your face and you scream profanities as you wonder why the toilet brush is tangerine.
In the distance, you hear, “Anna, Anna, wake up!”
Disoriented and sleepy, you say, “Huh, what the! I was having a- huh?”
You partner looks down at you worried, “You had a bad dream-“
“What is that on the Telly!?”
“Anna, don’t worry. It’s only Donald Trump.”
Through tired sobs you say, “I dreamt he was a toilet brush…”
Many books spill over and out into the landscape of my home. Tumbling and falling, they cry out for attention.
They sit and sit, yet some receive nix; others, a cursory glance or an occasional flutter of my fingers.
Many books sit in a crate, ready to be loved by someone.
“It’s a lovely day.”
“So sunny and cool.”
[8 hours pass on the sofa]
“I love how we have all these amazing escapades from the couch, yet we never go outside.”
“It’s not so good for the waistline, though.”
“Yeah. Do you care?”
“Feed me cheese, and-.”
“Keep going! We need to get to England. My wife wants more gold.”
“Bloody hell! Helga is wild. Can’t you give her something else? Maybe if you slept with her once in a whil-“
“She gets plenty of satisfaction! Keep the scull shit going.”