mesexual

the gentle hum and purr of the machine
the teeth chewing the lower lip
the arching of the back
the opening of the knees
the breathing turned coarse and ragged
the shudder of warmth
the sudden dampness
the curling of toes which wakens delicious cramps
the blanket worked up around the hips
the half concealed whimpers
the nails grasping bunched up sheets
the wicked kick and pull of over stimulation
the staggered sigh of utter abandon
the impish grin
the rush of satisfaction
the sleepy yawn and stretch
the final spasm
and then smiles and then sleep.

tiny poem number three (in which I over use ellipses terribly)

sometimes.....
you make me have no words.

and sometimes I have to cover my mouth
for fear of what might spill out. ..

sleepy stories part 3

once upon a time
there was a place
and it was quiet and small and generally unnoticed by people
although sometimes cats nosed their way into it through the tangled web of ivy that grew through the gate where the palings had fallen down
and sat on the stones in the sunlit
and licked themselves
and dozed
It was the kind of place where you could hear bird song even when you couldn't see any birds
and where the daylight highlighted dust motes, but no one would ever sneeze
and where, at night time, there was faint fairy music and twinkling lights and no mosquitoes*
*no mosquitos is even more romantic than fairy music and twinkling lights. It's more romantic that most things, because it's completely impossible to HAVE romance if there is even the tiniest hint of a mosquito in the vicinity


Shannon says:
Anyway, in the evening, the stones were still warm from the sun
And two girls crept through the gap in the gate (even though they were a bit more squeezed than the cats were)
holding hands and ready to explore the world
and when they saw the twinkling lights
and the sleepy cats
and the ivy
and the small trail of ants that never bit, but helpfully carried off any cake crumbs
and the birds nest where two tiny blue speckled eggs lay waiting
and the tiny iron couch with soft pillows that magically never mouldered
they thought "this is our place"
And so one sat down and the other
lay in her lap and closed her eyes (it had been a long journey across the sea and across the land)
and they listened to crickets chirp
and to the music the sun makes
when it slips down below the horizon
the the wind through the ivy leaves
which was warm, even though it was dark.
And the older one sang small lullabies which she only half remembered
and played with the sleepy ones hair.
and all was well
and soft
and beautiful
and never ending
and they re still there
where there are no mosquitoes and the cats purr and the ivy curls through the rusted gate and everything is perfect.
the end but not end


Shannon says:
are you asleep?
Beth says:
I liked that story
no
entranced

Waiting

I remember rolling over and arching my back a little, staring at the ceiling, and feeling my bones dig through the duvet to the hard floor. I remember wishing that I didn't have to roll over. Ceilings are much nicer to stare at than screens. I thought that maybe if I tried really hard, there would suddenly be a real girl sitting with me by the fire, talking. Maybe if I listened really hard, I would hear her voice, or her breath instead of the steady fizz and crackle of the computer. But at some point, when there was no voice and no breath, it was time to breathe out and roll over.
And she was there, but not there.

Given the promise of wide open spaces, my tiny house is suddenly claustrophobic. If there were robbers or murderers, there would be no running away to hide – it is only a few steps from one end to the other, a few turns of corners from front to back. There are screens on the windows and the roof is too close to the floor. The fire burns too hot. If four time zones is crossed in a fibre optic instant, how chokingly tiny is my shoebox house?

The new house waits for carefully packed boxes and essentials separated from the dross. I have so much crap – a collector, a hoarder. The new house will be clean and simple. There will be spaces – a space for coffee and conversation, a cozy nook for reading, a place for sitting and sharing secrets. There will be overly romantic things, like fairy lights and tea candles. Soft things with cats sitting on them. And I will set it all up with a sad smile and a dream of sharing.

It is a possible idea. Uprooting, migrating, leaving and finding. Hard, but do-able. Spontaneous and beautiful, but not very practical. Instead, I will plot and plan and dream and save. And wait.

bits of dreams

I am walking in falcon and at a house down an embankment is a party, a fashion or movie launch? Joan Rivers is announcing the red carpet. I have a specially made hat. Tamika is there and she is the only one who messages me to say she likes it. I keep walking and I'm walking into D's street with D who is pushing a pram. She goes into labour and has the baby on the street. A neighbour comes to help and all the kids are wailing. I run into the house to get a towel. When I come out the baby is born (I looked away during the labour bit. No way I'm watching that!) It is all covered in gunk and wrapped in E's blanket. E is screaming, so I wrap her up in the towel and cuddle her. D walks inside with the baby, but she bleeds all over the floor. I think she is hemorrhaging, (omg, I spelled that right first try!) but she says it's normal. I want to call an ambulance. She has gotten slimy stuff and blood all over her carpet. I. comes and takes her and the baby to the hospital, even though she insists she doesn't have to go. The neighbour and I stay home with the kids, who are all screaming – C and E are hysterical because their mum is not there. The neighbour begins to clean up the carpet with a rag and a wine glass of water. I throw up and retch a lot because it's so disgusting. I cough up phlegm into the sink and feel bad for throwing up in front of the children. When I wake up I'm still retching.

In a shed. There is a growling dog at the door. I approach it and tell it to be nice. It starts wagging it's tail and bouncing around. I suggest we call it loopy. Everyone else in the shed, K and a few other people are angry that I have made the dog crazy and jumpy.

A courtroom. I am sitting in the middle, trying to hide from the judge. I am a bad lawyer, a prankster. I am sitting with two friends, also in disgrace. The head judge acknowledges we are there with some caustic comments, but I refuse to show my face. The judge feeds a mint to his beagle, who chokes on it slowly and dies. The judge refuses to get it out of it's mouth and everyone is horrified – it was HIS beagle. I don't watch. Later on, I hear a voice over in my head that the judge didn't mean to kill his dog. The dog was meant to swallow the mint or spit it out, but he could hardly stuff his hand down a dogs throat in the middle of court and he is really upset that the dog is dead and thinks it was a stupid thing for him to do. A black man apologises to the judge, sincerely. He is an underling, taking a message or something. The judge is in a garden, where pinky flowers on a vine are rapidly choking everything else.

Someone in the shed is suicidal and Jason from True Blood laughs them off. When we go inside, I see out the window that they have tried to hang themselves from a tree in the front yard, but have become tangled in the rope really high up. I scream at Jason and tell him to go and help him, but Jason is of the opinion that if he's stupid enough to try and hang himself he deserves to die. I force him outside to help, but he starts yelling at the guy (who is Russell Brand now) and telling him he's stupid. I yell out the window at him and he comes to the window and yells back, calls me a whore. Other people are trying to find branches long enough to reach russell so they can climb up. It's a stupid plan. I go outside with a pair of scissors and tell Russell that I'll put them in the tail of the rope and he can pull them up and cut through the rope above him. I warn him that because he is so far up, it will hurt when he lands. I walk off before he says anything, but I've shoved the scissors in between the weaves of the rope. I cover my ears, but I still here him cry out when he hits the ground. I am mad at everyone, I keep walking and refuse to listen. I go back inside – it's the wet area of my Year 7 class. I pause before going into the classroom. I can see Russell lying on the ground and I rest my head against the door and think how glad I am he's alive and seems mainly unharmed. I think I love him a bit. Then a girl comes over and starts kissing him and he kisses her back and announces they should get married. This just pisses me off and I go inside thinking “I didn't save him to marry HER”. Inside I lie on the dirty carpet and just want to weep or sleep. I ask a fat black woman and her assistant to make me hot for the ball, but I can't find the right balance between slutty and sexy. I try on a cream tail coat with black piping and the split in the tails comes right up to show a ruffled skirt underneath. It's nice, but not perfect. Then I wake up.

The cafe is crowded. So many people living lives. Not like the dome, these people are regulars, You can tell by the fact that the menus are discarded without a glance and people smile in recognition at the waiters and at each other. Regular coffee orders are brought out without being asked for. It is a monday, but no one displays the usual monday blues. It is a nice place to be. Four 40 something women in a corner move from coffee to white wine, winking at the waiter and ordering sugary carb loaden deserts they would never purchase by themselves. The wine pours neatly into 4 glasses. The neighbouring mother and daughter table sneak glances at the empty bottle and muse over getting one themselves. Maybe not. It's less acceptable when there are only two to share it.

I wait for my lemon, lime and bitters. The baby chews on the straps of her stroller and whinges – she is tired and there is not much of interest at her eye level. I undoubtedly could write a novel here, in only she didn't insist on playing with my fingers. I am wearing a black dress and above the knee creamy patterned socks and I have a lap top; I look the part.

Just as I decide they have forgotten me, another waiter brings the drink. He is smiley and attentive, but there is something that doesn't quite fit. The cafe is certainly hip enough to have male waiters, out of uniform and with oiled back hair. I prefer more homestyle places, I think. Starched white-shirted waitresses with paper pads who call you honey. Where the specials aren't written mostly in foreign languages. I would suit county America well. Or far flung australian roadhouses.

The mother and daughter who forewent the wine swap their plates half way through their meal in an smoothly orchestrated movement which shows they do it regularly. The baby sings. I type. I wait for something to happen. I eavesdrop on the man across from me, who has 4 earrings in his left lobe, a shaved to pretend he's not balding head and a tight black shirt open enough to let a thick silver chain peek out. He has a goatee, of course. I'm hoping that he'll do something spectacularly noteworthy. Superfluous adjective and all.

A friend! Mel. Who I met at the doctors surgery. She goes once or twice a week to talk to a psych. I am a bit jealous that her problems can be worked at by just a clinic psychologist. Her daughter is here, Eva. She's tiny and cute and was pigtailed, but Mel's mother pulls out the elastics and smooths down her curls.

untitled

There is an idle, wandering flame
Which has become trapped inside my stove.
Twisting, it taps the glass,
Begging to be set free.
But I see its truth
How it devours the log on which it dances;
How greedily it consumes;
How seductively it shimmers.
And I know the flame must die.
Starved from fuel and air
Confined in its iron cage.
Dancing ever more frantic
Until it succumbs to ash and smoke.
And a pale scorch
On the glass is all that marks
Its brief and brilliant life.