Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Heavy Hearts
gagging fish. I hug you close and pull and pull at you, but it is empty, and we are alone. In the reflection of those gleaming eyes I see your face, empty and cool in the brilliance of the fire. When I wake the sheets are tangled around my legs, sweat dripping from me and I’m chilled to the bone. You lie next to me, still as a ghost.
Howdy Mrs Hamilton,
It’s Alex. I meander past your house on my way to school every day. I have golden hair and extra-ordinarily blue eyes. I also possess a Billabong bag which makes everybody at school so envious. Sometimes I see you pruning your roses. Or checking your empty letter box. Or talking to your cats like a crazy person. Your house looks like a face. But not a happy face. But also not a very unhappy face. An ambivalent face. I am writing you this letter because we are all lonely. We all have heavy hearts which we try and pretend are light so that we are not shunned from society. This means two things: 1) that we are all lonely. And 2) that none of us are alone in our loneliness. (This makes my heart not so heavy). You are exceptionally lonely in your ambivalent house with your many cats. I wish now that I would’ve waved. Or said ‘howdy ma’am’ and tipped my cowboy’s hat, which is an extremely cool thing to do. Or told you a fact about roses, of which I possess numerous. That is one of my regrets. For this I will always be sorry. This letter can be like the Sydney Harbour Bridge, which I can see from my window. If you don’t want to be lonely alone anymore you can write to me and we can be lonely together.
Factually yours
Jesse James
We were 19 then. You had an easy smile which I couldn’t comprehend as I stood there, fighting for every word and hearing them ricochet from my throat like pebbles through a drain. You were having fun, surveying me with that wanning gaze, those lighthouse eyes; as I stood there squirming.
You’d said “cool jacket,” I was unsure, and you’d said “where did you get it?” And then I was lost.
Howdy Mr. Hamilton,
I am moved to hear that your wife has gone, but glad that you found my letter potent. In truth I did not expect a response so swiftly. It is pleasurable to hear that she died peacefully, although I do not think it possible for someone to die whilst asleep. Perhaps she awoke just before she carked it? I will ensue by telling you a portion of my character. I have golden hair and extra-ordinarily blue eyes, as I have previously conveyed. My mother proclaims that I am of Aryan decent, which means I am a child of Hitler. I also possess exceptional drumming skills. Everybody is enormously envious of my drum sticks which I carry with me everywhere so I can practise by hitting objects. Sometimes my skills annoy people which only encourages me to hit them harder. This makes me an amused person because they grow vocal about their intolerance toward the hitting. I will tell you about my home. Boxy houses line my street like school kids on the first day of summer. And my letter box smiles always. My house is an enormous house because it contains a pool. I possess a mother and a father. My brother Michael is affable. However it annoys me when I am forced to poleaxe him. I am forced to poleaxe him when he inconveniences me by using the Xbox when I wish to use the Xbox. And I usually wish to use the Xbox when he wishes to also, so there is much poleaxing. My dog is named Clint Eastwood following the famous cowboy. Clint Eastwood is continuously trailing his anus along the carpet. I have many questions to ask of you. Like where were you when your wife died? And what does a dead person look like, because I imagine they would look gross and sickly? And do you know what the weight of a human heart is? And what was your wife’s name? But first I must request a description of yourself so that we are both within the same boat. Also, are you a sad or a relieved person now that your wife has expired?
Affirmatively yours,
Jesse James
P.S
I do not relish the name James. Please dub me Jesse James which is the name of a movie about a suave cowboy.
It was a warm night, that night. Summer had charged at us with arrogance and bravado. Sand barked under my feet and the breeze danced through your hair. Your face was illuminated by the gentle glow of the fire. You payed no attention to the guys wrestling in the dunes or diving through the waves, arses likes headlights in the night. I wore that jacket and you smelt of cherries. Our tongues were like eels dancing to the rhythm of the ocean. My chest was so tight when you guided my hand up to the humidity of you pussy; it felt like I was drowning. I traversed your soft, fleshy genitals with the caution and bewilderment of an explorer. It was a new beginning and we had discovered the new world. Your hand fished and grabbed at my dick, and your hips melted away into mine. I felt like I couldn’t fill the voids of your moans.
But as I came you pulled me close and whispered “hold me” in my ear. And I did.
Dear Mr. Adam Hamilton,
I will don you Mr, even though you implored me not because you are indeed old. It pleases me to be informed that you are a librarian for I am an exceedingly prolific author. I have attached a tale which I have scripted, but I implore you not to publish it without my knowing because it will make me rich one day. Or if you do publish it, make sure to endow me the fortune which it generates. Your appearance is very bequeathing of a librarian. But I find it hard to vision you as being young once, with a ‘scrappy’ visual. Evelyn sounds like an extremely fertile female, ripe for sex. Please, if it does not pain you to activate, describe me more readily her breasts. Now that I know you did indeed take pleasure in your female, I feel terribly evil to have propositioned you would be a relieved person to have unburdened yourself of a wife. Please include a list of your hobbies among your proximate letter. Also a synopsis of your affair with your woman. Oh, and it intrigues me, do you have very many children? Do they also enjoy to muse with the Xbox?
Thankingly yours,
Jesse James.
The dog and the seal
One day, as most dogs were sprawled out in their master’s laundries, licking the moist tiles on account of the extreme heat, Clint Eastwood walked along the beach cooling his paws in the shallows. Clint Eastwood didn’t have tiles to lick because Clint Eastwood didn’t have a master and was exceedingly lonely. He came to the beach to play with other dogs, but today there were no other dogs, on account of the extreme heat. So Clint Eastwood walked along the beach cooling his paws in the shallows. But then he heard a bark. Clint Eastwood searched along the beach but found nothing more than the mountainous dunes and exhausted bushes. But still the barking persisted. Finally, Clint Eastwood apprehended that the barking was coming from the ocean, so he swam out into the waves. He saw a seal gliding through the waves, although he didn’t know that it was a seal and thought it was a dog. Clint Eastwood watched the seal twist and flip and spin and bark happily. And so they played. Clint Eastwood and the seal. They played and played until Clint Eastwood was extremely tired and had to swim to shore. The seal followed him and there they continued to play and bark happily. Clint Eastwood and the seal became exceptional friends, and they would play every day. They’d play in the water, the seal spinning while Clint Eastwood barked away. Then on the shore Clint Eastwood would bound about as the seal swayed and wobbled in the sand. But one day the seal didn’t turn up and Clint Eastwood became inordinately upset. He waited for the seal’s bark all day. And the next day. And the next day. On the fourth day the waves were wild and the wind was angry. But Clint Eastwood was sure he could hear the seal’s bark on the wind. So he swam out into the waves. He swam out into the fierce ocean, calling out to the seal. Clint Eastwood heard her on the wind, but she always seemed to be just ahead of him. But he swam and called, swam and called, until he had no energy left. Waves crashed into him until his face was soaked and he couldn’t taste the difference between his tears and the ocean. He swam and called, swam and called, but with each wave that cascaded into him, Clint Eastwood’s heart grew heavier. Until it dragged him to the bottom of the ocean like an anchor.
We walked among those bow-legged buildings, hand-in-hand. Not a symbol of our love, but of our strength, of our virtue to survive and overcome and change the world around us. We possessed something they didn’t. Something they couldn’t take from us. We’d sit on the wharf and watch the ships slide in on the icy water, the moon lost up there in the empty blue, and know that we were indestructible.
I remember that first love and the violence of it. Changing my world completely. I remember that feeling of optimism and the toxicity of it. The world, so changed, and changing, and changeable. We felt we couldn’t breathe without each other. But we were asphyxiating each other. We’d fight and kiss and fuck sporadically and uncontrollably.
We never did change the world. I think that is part of the reason things turned out the way they did. We never say it, or showed it, but we both blame each other. We loved too hard, and too fast. And now, like that fire, like the wind through your hair our love is thinning.
Dear Mr Adam,
I have ceased dubbing you Mr Adam Hamilton because I am of the belief we are the highest of friends. It arouses happiness that you enjoyed my tale so. One day it shall acquire myself an enormous pile of money and I shall buy numerous Xboxs (perhaps even one for Michael so that I am not forced to poleaxe him continuously) And new carpet which does not possess remanent of Clint Eastwood’s anus throughout it. No. The moral is not that we all require love, but that we are all drowning. I will tell you a secret. One that causes me exceptional shame. I am sick. My heart is heavier than most and the doctor says that it is so enormously heavy that I need to get a new one. A lighter one. I wonder if I shall be able to taste the difference between the ocean and my tears with a new heart. Perhaps there is no difference. It intrigues me that you relish making radios, because I too enjoy meddling with electronics. However I specialise in dismantling them. I do not posses tools so I am forced to dismantle them using a brick. I was regretful to know that your daughter died and it unsettled me to know that she died in such an ugly manner. I adored when you said “I like to imagine that her eyes closed peacefully, like a butterfly as she lays herself down to die.” I find it hard to fathom why they explode themselves in order to murder themselves. There are much easier ways, no? I did not know that Bald-Headed Eagles sexed while plummeting to the earth because I do not know what a Bald-Headed Eagle is. I do not know what consummate means either, but I surmised that it is what happens when you stop fucking. Is this correct? Are you illustrating to me that you killed her? Is this the manner in which she was murdered?
Accurately yours,
Jesse James.
We never stopped loving each other with the violence of our youth, and this is what denied us love. When Emilie was born all our love went into that small child. To show you that I loved you I would kiss Emilie, I’d whisper in her ear that I still loved her as if it were that night on the beach, I’d tell her how I could still remember that first conversation as I stood there sweating in my biker jacket, I’d tell her that I still remember the way she smelt that first night we made love. I funnelled all my love for Eve into that small girl and slowly I forgot how to love you. I would stop kissing you in the morning and instead I would cradle Emilie. I forgot how to kiss you, I forgot how to whisper in your ear, I forgot how to make love to you. We’d lie in bed at night, skin crawling and yearning for that touch. Our love for each other became the barrier which separated us. Sometimes I’d notice you roll from the bed and wake our child so that you could touched. And when she died in that glowing building, we blamed ourselves and we blamed each other. How could we love the people who had murdered our child, murdered our love?
Dear Mr Adam,
I do not understand when you inform me that you loved each other too much. This to me sounds like a very sanguine thing. Not a painful item as you have communicated. I am very grateful and honest that you have informed me of how you feel. Do not apologise. This is very helpful to my understanding. I can not thank you too much for the radio you have delivered to me. I will dismantle it as soon as I am apt to leave the hospital. No I will not acquire my parents zip. It is my money and I deserve it all. Additionally you can never have enough money. I shall not speak in detail about my secret because these letters may be tapped and read by people who would make it not a secret and cause me tremendous shame. However I will tell you that I am waiting for someone to die so as I can live. Yes. I do believe in reincarnation. I believe I shall become a bird, a mollusc, a rock, a fish. I shall become sediment, then rock, and then sediment again. I shall become a plant, or part of a plant. I shall be eaten by an animal and become part of that animal. Parts of me shall become parts of many animals, and I shall be many things at simultaneous times. One day thousands of years from now I shall become part of a human. You and I shall become part of the same human, if you can imagine it?! And when the earth dies we shall all be part of the same star. When I die I shall be reincarnated and then perhaps we will meet again.
Entirely yours,
Jesse James
Dear Mr Hamilton,
I regret to inform you that there were complications during James’ surgery and he has passed away. I am enormously grateful for your correspondence with my son throughout the final months of his young life. He was constantly speaking of you and it caused him much joy to read your many letters. The radio you made him, he insisted on having switched on and turned up throughout the day and night. He talked frequently about his excitement to dismantle it when he left the hospital. Again I thank you for supporting my son over the past few months.
Yours sincerely,
Mr Brown
Thursday, October 14, 2010
The eye of Miss Willow’s caravan
Norah’s Flat was beautiful; running grass slopes wash into the rolling of the rapids. They were small rapids, but to us they were the frontier of human expedition. And they’d peter out into to a natural pool with a ledge over looking it. Before the VeeDub’d clunk to a stop, Matt and I were out and running, jostling for the ledge, and into the water. We’d come up spluttering and laughing and gulping back that sweet water.
At night, exhausted, we’d lye on our backs and look up at the winking stars; watch as they’d flow and meander and swirl, around the wise moon. Shooting stars’d skip across the silky, dark sky. And we’d just lie there, watching the universe twist and spin and fold, like an opal; until Matt and I’d fall asleep, and Dad’d carry us into our tent and set us down on our damp Lilos.
In the morning we’d wake up in that humid, damp tent, to the hum of the river and whistle of the birds. We’d kick the footy, and explore through the forest surrounding our clearing, and jump from the ledge into the clear water. Sometimes, when Dad wasn’t around, we’d sneak off to the other side of the camping ground, and peer in through the eye of Miss Willow’s caravan. Most of the time we wouldn’t see her, and we’d just peer around at her dishevelled caravan. But sometimes we’d see her cooking or painting or reading, in the nude. She’d be sitting there, and then she’d uncross her legs and it’d look like Dad’s armpits, the way the hair sprawled out everywhere. Matt’d get real excited. He’d talk for the rest of the day about her boobs, and what he’d do to them if he were a little older.
Dad caught us once, and gave us a right wholoping. But we went back. Matt said he had a stiffy and wanted see if Miss Willow was nude again. I pretended I knew what a stiffy was and said I had one too. Miss Blank was nude again, but she wasn’t alone. There was a lot more hair and muscles than last time. I couldn’t see who the man was from my vantage point, only his hairy date bouncing up and down. I could see her though, mouth agape and breast lolling. But then Matt stiffened. He grabbed my arm, and pulled me away. “What’s wrong” I asked, “did you forget your stiffy?” “No. Sort of. We better get back before Dad finds us.” But Dad wasn’t around. He must of gone for one of his jogs.
Matt was quieter than usual, and we sat on the ledge and watched the light scatter and flee from the surface of the water, like it was a chandelier. So I jumped in and splashed water up at him. When Dad came back his skin was gluey. He must’ve jogged a long way. That night Matt was quiet, so I asked Dad how his jog was. He said that it was good, the best he’s had in a while. He jogged for hours, he said. That’s my Dad. A real athlete.
The next day we left Norah’s Flat, and Dad gave a quick honk as we passes Miss Blank’s caravan.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Smokey Kisses
Let’s go to the Tavern.
Of course Tom ‘butt-fuck’ Handley had backed him up; all the way up to the fucking hilt. And now here we were, and they were looking at me to go first.
Fuck it.
Those famous last words. There was no security, so I shuffle in feeling as transparent as a sheet, through those wide doors and right into the barrel. The room is awash with watery talk and booze. A man sits at the bar, looking as drab as an English weatherman. The bar lady stacks glasses, looking like a caricature. She has a friendly face, in that I-don’t-give-a-shit kind of a way. I slide on over, all nonchalant and old.
Just a New thanks, I say, pulling the words from my Adam’s apple.
She looks down at me thinking, are you fucking serious. Waiting for the shiny cameras to jump out and the news headlines to brand themselves into her forehead. But she can’t be arsed the hassle, and thrusts the beer at me. I pay her in change to make things fucken worse. The ‘today and the rest of the week will be dull’ guy sits next to me, cradling his beer like it’s the Queens piss. You know how he’s going to sound, just from the look of him: all “fuck” and “mate.”
How are ya.
He looks at me like I just asked him to pull my finger, then turns back to his beer.
Fucken alright, mate.
Fuck me to a cross.
Outside, I watch the boys play rock, scissors, paper, and the security to tell them to piss off. They sulk on over to the fish and chip shop, like dogs. Then the lights inside dim and a woman walks on to the small stage. Her lipsticked lips pull back on a fag and she kisses the smoke into the wash of the room. Her hair is black and frizzy and untamed. Pulling a guitar around her neck, she throws back the rest of her beer. She’s younger than she looks; she would’ve been beautiful once. The weatherman looks at her with the lust of Degas: his eyes groping and grabbing. She plucks a few strings, and begins. And that was it. The point of no return. I should’ve gone played silly buggers with Rob and Tom. Or jumped off a fucken bridge or something. But I don’t. I just sit there; like a stunned mullet, or a boy with his first boner. Glued. Then she begins to sing. Her voice rips through me like shrapnel, like piss in the snow; and my heart could beat right out of my fucking chest. It’s pure and crackly and vulnerable, like an old wireless. She sings with the longing of a widow. Those powerful notes rippling through the room like swells. Heck, it’s so moving I almost feel guilty about the tingling in my dick. I watch her fingers, as they glide along the neck in a Waltz. The sound of it penetrated me like a fever. I feel like I’d had my soul ripped out my anus. Drabby next to me is a little perkier now, and rattles on about something or other. Footy probably. I answer him absently, mesmerized, transfixed; hypnotised by the music, by the guitar, by this women. But then she’s finished and disappears off stage, poof! Like a mirage.
It was two and a half weeks before I saw her again. I went back to the pub, but they didn’t know when she’d play again. I was walking home biting at my cracked lips in a thinning wind. Rob and Tom were up ahead. Things had become a little weird since the pub night, so I took the long way home. And there she was; leaning up against a brick fence, in front of a brick building. Wisps of smoked pooled around her lips before she’d sends them pirouetting on the breeze. The wind dragged her blouse across her breasts. I eyed her nervously as I walk by.
Fuck it.
And there they are again, those famous ‘fuck-me-in-the-arse’ last words.
Hi, I squeak like someone has a tight grip around my little ones.
She blows smoke out the side of her mouth.
I saw you play the other week.
Nothing. I’m sweating now and I hug my arms for warmth. I feel all hot and cold, like microwave food. And just as greasy.
Um, it was at the Tavern. I ah. I really liked it.
Still nothing. She takes another drag.
Okay, I mumble and turn to go.
Kid. You play?
Her voice is as scratchy as a chimney. Not what I had expected.
Um. No. But I want to learn, I say like I’m fucken two years old.
It’s cool, you know? I persist. Writing those songs, and stuff.
You do it ‘cause you have to kid. You have no choice, she says emphatically, you know?
Yeah, I lie.
The silence thickens as I study my shoes.
I can teach you if you like.
Yeah?
Yeah. Come round this time next week. 15 bucks an hour.
With that she takes the final drag and flicks the cigarette in between us. I watch it smoulder away.
Okay. Yeah. Sound good, I say a little unsure.
Alright kid, she says, and turns away. Remember, 15 bucks.
The room is tiny: boxed in by piles of books and CDs and folders. A grand piano sits austere in the corner, covered almost completely in sheet music and other papers. She seems surprised to see me. Bleary eyed, she leans against the door cupping her coffee. Behind her, the kitchen is full of dishes. A solitary beam of light comes through a grimy window, strong and determined.
Um. I’m the kid from last week.
She looks at me, searching, and I finger the straps of my school bag nervously.
You told me to come round.
Oh. Right. Yeah. Come in.
She’s not wearing a bra and her nipples stick out like witches hats. The smell of the room is dizzying: musky and sweet and her. A black cat pushes up against me as I negotiate my way into the small living room.
Right, so you wanna learn to play, huh? she says whilst bent over the desk organising the papers.
Yeah.
Hm. Okay. Well. Can’t teach with a dirty kitchen, can ya? Do us a favour will ya kid? Do a few dishes while I set up here.
And that’s how I spend my first music lesson. I scrubbed and scraped and scoured. I revelled in it. Sure, she hadn’t actually taught me anything, but it was enough for me to just be there; soaking up the music coming from the old stereo and listening to her sing along. Photos plastered the walls. They were black and whites. And all of her, naked. I gazed at one in particular, as I rubbed away at those dishes. She looked so powerful and beautiful. Her breasts full, like berries, with her arms up around her head. Her hips melted away into a man’s. You couldn’t see his face, but he must’ve been James fucken Dean from the way her eyes burnt through the back of his head. Yes, James Dean. You’d have to be. To be straddled and controlled by this woman.
It was that photo which kept me coming back, those first few times. I eventually got to learn some music . The theory first; gotta wank before you can fuck, she’d say. Problem was it was boring as bat shit. The oldies bought me a crappy little guitar, which I twanged away at till the dog next door would start up with its whooping bark.
Music quickly overtook my life. My marks plummeted, and I rarely saw Rob and Tom. Instead, I lost myself to the ecstasy of Pink Floyd, the lust of Led Zeppelin and the swagger of Jimmy Hendrix. I though about her a lot, and I’d spend hours in that steamy shower rubbing away and picturing that black and white woman. I didn’t know wether I loved her because of the music or the music because of her, but every week I’d go round with 15 sweaty dollars and fall victim to their intoxications.
But everything would change, on this musky afternoon. My world, completely. Autumn gives way to spring and I troop up the hill with the determination of a soldier. She was in one of her good moods and greets me with a smile. That smile, it kills me. The room behind her is just as squeaky.
Hey, she shoots at me and turns away before I have time to respond. Today you’re going to learn to play ‘Classical Gas.’ It’s an easy song. But it’s all about timing and bravado. You gotta have balls, and ya gotta know when to use them.
She emphasises the balls part and cups an imaginary pair, in case I’d never seen a set. Every pube on my scrotum stands on end.
You do have balls, don’t you?
Again, that fucking smile. It slays me. I study the music. The notes swing and dance along the tightropes; like ballerinas they dance and swirl and play. My fingers follow them up and down the fret board. The ballerinas pull me in and spin me round, tossing me from one to the other. I watch as they spin and twirl and flip, and soar and glide and flow and fold. But then I trip and fall, and it all disappears like smoke.
Timing, she snaps. It’s all about timing. Having the balls to push on, but having the balls to ease up.
Without hesitation she slips in behind me, breasts pressed up against my back, legs wrapped around me. She takes the guitar and begins the dance. The ballerinas jump of the page and muse and prance and laugh, and chase and fly and giggle. I study her hands: like birds, like lovers they answer each other’s calls. They glide and drift and sail and caress and kiss. The ballerinas swing and dream and flirt. They flit and dart and flutter. But then they stop and stand, dizzied. And bow. The last notes linger in the air.
There were no famous last words this time. Instead I throw my mouth against hers, my tongue probing like the first fleet. She stiffens, but I cajole her with my hands and mouth, and she melts into me like clay. I pillage through her cloths, until her tits are free and full. And there I am, her eyes burning through me. She pulls my shirt free and studies my white, young body. My dick wrestles with my jeans and sticks out the top, red and angry. Her undies are moist and sticky and slick, I traverse along their silver lining. Like Scott, I travel and slip and explore. Like Cook, I penetrate and probe and navigate. Like Burke and Wills, I grub and grab and finger. And she pulls and claws and yearns.
This town can beautiful, when the light hits it right. The lighthouse shepards the cueing ships in through the harbour, and they slide in along the icy water like buildings. Surfers dot the ocean as swells sweep in around the headland. Outside this tiny room, kookaburras snigger like school kids, and the moon is lost up in the empty blue. I’m soaked. Head to toe. Grimy and sweaty in the sweltering heat. The afternoon sun casts across her white arse. With a clammy hand I trace along her rolling hips and shoulders, and into the spill of her hair. I watch her breast rock with her steady breath and listen to her faint snore. I feel sex creeping across my skin. My dick is flaccid and small and spent. It’s late, the oldies would be worrying. Not that I can smear the smile from my face. Pulling my jeans on I think about kissing her on the cheek, but don’t. I pull the door closed behind me.
That week I practiced more than ever, and I let the music wash over me as if it were her hair. She embodied the music and the music embodied her. And I was on my knees before them. On every lick I could taste her skin, on every melody I could feel her breath and on every crescendo I could hear her ecstasy.
At her door, I knock and knock but she doesn’t answer. The door is unlocked, so I sneak open the latch and slide on in. The first thing I notice are her boobs. But they’re different: static and limp. Not pendulous like when we made love, or ripe as in the photo. But still. Her toes are white and untangled, her fingers peaceful, and that’s when it hits me. Like a brick across the face. The rope cuts in around her neck, all red and fleshy. The gentle sway of her body makes me sick. Urine runs down her thighs and drivels onto the floor boards.
She left a note.
It didn’t mention me.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Shimmering Dress
Breaking through that silky surface
Sun and sound, disarmed.
Sweeps of glistening scales
In a metallic curtain.
Escapism:
Washing free
The grit and baggage
Of a wretched world.
Weightless, and righteous
And right.
Baptised:
With grace we move.
With grace I pull myself from the gloss and flow
Of that shimmering dress.
And with grace I re enter the world.
The Forgotten Little Hand
I sit on a bench and wait for Amanda to hop off the bus; her smile bubbling away when she sees me. A woman in white walks past; “Good morning Mrs. Thomson.” Her words are like syrup. My bum is cold on account of the bench. It’s cold too you see.
“Waiting for little Amanda are we?”
She’s waiting for Amanda too? How odd. I recognise her from somewhere, but for the life of me I can’t remember from where. She walks away, clip board snapped under her arm. I guess she’s not waiting for Amanda after all. I sit on the bench and wait for Amanda to hop off the bus. She might be a teacher, on account of the clip board. The white’s odd though. A gust of wind rustles through the Gums. Or was it a whisper? No, it was definitely a gust. The leaves make a rustling sound. I look at my watch. The bus is late. I feel sorry for the second hand. He’s forgotten most of the time. Amanda likes school. The teachers like Amanda. Some of the teachers don’t like school however. I sit and wait for Amanda to hop of the bus.
2006
“You need to start looking after yourself, Mum” chimes Amanda. This coming from the girls who used to say I nagged as much as a politician. Like Father, like son. I think about my father. Austere and solemn. Stiff as a 2x4. He didn’t nag all that much. My mother did though. Amanda’s a pretty girl; long blonde hair and big fish bowl eyes.
“Okay Mum. I’ve put this week’s dinner in the fridge and your medication is on the bed side table.”
“Thanks Amanda.”
“It’s Rachel, Mum. Remember.”
2005
I pass the place where it happened. I pull over and vomit.
2007
Amanda is taking me to a special place. ‘A playground for old people.’ I feel like a kid. The excitement churns my stomach. My bum is warm and wet.
“Aw, Mum!”
Amanda pulls in to a petrol station. She doesn’t slow down enough. She’s mad. I feel the squelching, on account of the bumping and jolting. Amanda takes me into the toilets and gives me some pants. They’re red. I liked the blue ones.
2003
I go to a niece’s birthday party. Kids play in the pool.
2004
Cry.
2002
Cry.
2001
It’s Sunday. The sun’s smiling; you can see it all over her face. She dances in and out of the pool, giggles escaping her like a deflating balloon. My bum is warm; the wooden chair drinks up the sun like a lizard. She’s 12. Happy. Her smile bubbles away as she calls out to me. Birds chatter somewhere in the distance.
Something happens and she’s sucked to the bottom of the pool. Arms flapping, legs kicking, she’s there, at the bottom of the pool. And so am I. I pull and pull, but she’s stuck there like a plug. The weight of the pool forcing down on her crippled body. Rachel runs over, her black hair like a cape behind her.
“Mum!” she screams.
Meanwhile I’m in the pool with the crippled body. My lungs feel too big for my chest. I pull and pull, but she’s stuck there good. And at the bottom of the pool she stayed.
2009
I wait for Amanda to get off the school bus.
2010
I wait for Amanda to get off the school bus.
The Mark
What are you doing?
His head shoots round like a startled rabbit. Then he slaps this stupid fucking smile across his face, as if he's just had his little fella sucked, or something.
Check these out.
I look over at a pile of crusty old magazines.
Nudey mags, he whispers like he's just discovered the Holy fucking Grail.
I snatch one up and it's as stiff as a wobble board and cracks as I pillage through it. Inside it's all skin and hair and breasts. I pick up another and begin riffling through it, wide eyed and intrigued; dick tingling. Then I stop. Blood runs like a freight train straight for my little fella. In front of me a woman sits, leaning forward and pulling at me with those lighthouse eyes. Her brown billowy hair falls just short of her dark nipples; her boobs hang forward like water balloons. Elbows on her knees and legs askew, a bush of pubic hair perches above her pink, fleshy bits.
Shit.
We hear the drone and clanking of the ol' V Dub. I rip the page out, stash the box, and before the old folks are in the door, drunk and giggly, I'm in bed with the sheets whipped up around my chin. After I hear the creak and thud of their door, I flick on the lamp and pull out the sweaty scrunch of glossy paper. Rubbing out the creases, I admire the wondrous woman: those perfect lips, juicy thighs and wanting eyes. I’m lost in her naked treasures. I watch her unfold before me. I can smell her sweet nectar and feel the heat radiating from her rude bits; yearning for me. Those eyes; lasooing and pulling. Pulling, for me. I feel her smooth, liquid skin, leaning forward I take her in my mouth; her all. Probing and pollinating, I feel her claw and pull and want; for me. We melt into each other. My breathing is hers, and hers is mine. Those begging breathes; for me. Pulling and wanting and pulling. I penetrate her fleshy clefts and traverse along her ridges, as she pushes into me, and pulls in a whirlpool of lust and want; for me. Pulling. Wanting. Needing. Me.
But then I hear myself give a pathetic little sigh, like I just saw a hot chick step in dog shit; all high to low. And she is gone: sucked into a blackhole, and I'm left in emptiness, with my eager hand wrapped around my angry, red dick. And shame. The stink of it fills the room.
For months she was never far from my thoughts. I loved everything about her. Her hips. Her small belly button. Her nipples, like small, round seashells. I noticed things nobody else did. I knew her better than anyone else. Like: her eyes weren't the blue of a first glance, but had traces of green and splinters of hazel surrounded the iris. And: she liked the beach, on account of all the sand and water in the background. And then there's the birth mark. It's on her left calf, but is cut off because of the angle of her leg. The visible half looked like some unknown continent, but I go wondering about the other half. Probably in the shape of a rose, or a heart or something. I would fall asleep at night wondering about it, hand jackhammering away, like it was going out of fashion.
Right! Which of you mongrels was it?
Brenton and I were in the yard mucking around with a footy; we let it drop when we felt the tone in his voice.
It's revolting. This shit. He holds up one of the rudey mags as evidence.
I try not to notice those deep eyes and fluid skin. We just stand there, austere and solemn, as he lashes at us with his words; spit flying from his raging mouth. Then he gets all low and disappointed. That's when you know you're really in for a ride. A truck load of guilt pulls up and he spoons feeds us full of the shit.
I don't want to see this shit again. Her wanting eyes, held aloft, look down on me with a glossy smile.
The box of pornos went missing after that; I checked the garbage for weeks. I even snooped through Dad’s sock draw, but only found massage oil and condoms. It wasn’t until after he died that I found them in the highest cupboard, stuffed behind the suitcases. Sneaky prick.
I didn’t feel the touch of a real woman till I moved to a neighbouring town to study. Emilie’s hair hung straight and brown, kissing the small of her back. She had slender legs and small breasts. Her face was handsome, if a little masculine, but at night she would give me those wanting eyes and we would melt into each other.
We got married: a nice house, in a nice cul-de-sac, the urban dream; but split twenty years on. You’re too insular, she’d say. Whatever the fuck that means. Now I look out the window over the shimmer of the meandering river, the sun sliding from the sky in an orange yolk; and I look back over my years like a shepard. I think about Emilie and the good years we had together. And the bad. I think about the kids who still visit occasionally. And sometimes I’ll find myself thinking of the girl from between those glossy sheets, in all her intoxicating, naked beauty. I remember the hold she had over me, and I the feel nostalgia spill through me. But know when I think about her she seems like a mirage. The birthmark which took the form of a rose, now is just a brown blotch. Her beauty, is still poignant and intoxication, but somehow fake, or forced. She was just dream, an ideal that I clung to with one sweat little hand, and beat at with the other.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Square root
The teacher came into the room somewhat hesitantly. She whispers to the class to begin the exercises for the day, plonking texts thick as bibles on the desks.
All over it like yellow peril, Jack thinks to himself.
Her perfume stings the back of their nostrils. Amanda opens the book with a sigh, next to him. Since Luke, she had begun to see herself in Jack. There was no point kicking her while she’s down, he thought. She used to be beautiful, before grief’s ugly hand had taken hold. Girls used to attach themselves to her like lint.
Today we’re working with square roots, comes the whisper over the scratching of chalk. Amanda writes “Square Root” at the top of her page, as Jack makes his numbers do rope tricks. She kept drawing over “Root” until it was thick blue. The class begins to chatter and the teacher patrols the room. Jack’s numbers do aerobics in front of him. And still she tracing over “Root.” And then he feels her touching his dick.
Bugger off! he cries out in surprise.
Her chair falls to the ground as she storms from the room.
Umm. I’ll... he fumbles at the teacher, before pushing through the doors into the empty hall.
At the end she stands with her back to him. As he pulls her around the full force of those empty eyes slaps him square across the face. Before he can say, bloody hell! she’s pulled him into the boys toilets and kicked off her undies. Her face is wet with saliva and tears, as she probes her tongue into his mouth like the first fleet. The cubicle is small, and shrinking. Moments of fleeting lust are graffitied on the flaking paint. She stuffs his hand up under her skirt. He feels her stickiness. And the cubicle is shrinking. His breath is heavy and his shirt clings to his back. Her hand fishes into his pants and grabs at his dick. And the cubicle is shrinking. She pulls him into her. It feels like the world has stopped: that first intrusion. The Earth has stopped spinning on its axis and the universe has stopped twisting and folding. But then he’s back in that shrinking cubicle as she fucks at the grief. And still the cubicle is shrinking. Her hips grind into his, wanting more than he can give. Her nails claw at his back as his pace quickens. The cubicle is almost upon them, but still it shrinks and shrinks and shrinks. He feels all the energy in his body pool around his dick and shoots inside her. She wriggles around on his limp dick for a moment before unsaddling and putting her undies back on. Without so much as a word she shoots shame up at with those empty eyes, and leaves him standing there with a stupid look on his face and his red, flaccid dick. He feels as dirty as the tiny, tiny cubicle.
Armageddon
During the first week they’re ambushed. The principal stood in front of them like a sergeant.
This is what you’ve worked so hard for, he barked. The HSC is upon us!
It was hard not to picture him in Khaki. You’d think it was Armageddon.
Numbers
That nose
At school he sits on the rim of the courtyard. Girls’ laughter floats on the wind and boys wrestle in their dirty uniforms. I watch as the bamboo next to the office block fights and jostle like buildings, for a piece of the sky. Inside the confusion of hollow limbs lies the real world. A world of problems and solutions, consequence and action. A world where questions have answers. The shrillness of the bell summons the kids to class. Jack walks into the room late and the smug parade is in full swing. It’s thick with the stuff. It sticks to him like the humidity. Smirks are slapped across their faces, and easy wit and self-satisfying laughter froth from their mouths. He tries not to look disgusted.
Mrs Hodinott walks into the room with her nose in the air. That nose! The most irritating nose in the universe. At the end of each sentence she sniffs and screws it up, like a mouse on cocaine.
Today we study poetry, she announces while her huge fake tits wrestle like dogs, under her tight blouse.
And the day is off to horrible start.
Some twisted facade
White and two sugars
You’ll like this family.
His eyes darted from the road to the rear view mirror to see my reaction. They’re real nice.
They looked nice enough. She wore a baggy shirt in an attempt to conceal her pendulous breasts, and he stood there, tall and dignified.
There’s lots of neighbourhood kids for you to play with, Mr Jones said, shifting in his ill fitting suit. And the school is just round the corner.
The house is square and red, a wooden number nailed next to the door like a badge. Twenty four. Even.
Well there’s no use standing there like a stunned mullet. Go and get your stuff’n take it inside. A smile snaked across his damp face.
Your room’s up the stairs, first on the right dear, says the woman. I think he’d said her name was June.
The room smelled of stale cardboard and mouse shit. It was bare, but for a desk and a bed, the sheets tucked in tight as a straitjacket. The window looked out onto the empty street. A lone maggie balanced on a telegraph wire which zig-zagged up the street. The breeze felt like a blow dryer on my face. Bushfire weather, I thought.
Wan a cuppa, Mate? The deep voice travelled up through the tired floor boards.
The springs yelped as I dropped my bag on the bed and plodded downstairs.
The kitchen floor was lino and the wallpaper blossomed pink and red.
White or black? the old man barked, his eyes taking in the full weight of me for the first time.
Sorry?
Ya tea
Oh, white thanks. Two sugars.
Friday, May 28, 2010
Family friend
It does him no good, you going there and reminding him. You just do it cause you feel guilty. And maybe she’s right. I tell her I do it because I owe it to his parents, and I wish it were true. She doesn’t like him much. Think she blames him for the way things have gone. I told her I had stopped dreaming of smoke and twisted limbs, too. But the truth is that their faces are still stained on the back of my eyelids, waiting for night. It was only these visits that stopped them for a time.
The jingle of the doorbell ricochetes through the square brick house. Identical houses line the street like school kids on the first day of summer. Only the wooden number next to the door sets it apart. The green manicured hedges look down on the discoloured, crisp lawn, littered with bindis. The street is bare, the silence as relentless as the empty sky. Inside I heard the tearing of skin from leather and the strain of old knees.
Who is it darl? comes a female voice from the back of the house.
A man with skinny bowed legs poking out the bottom of his stubbies walkes up the hallway toward me. He straightens his sweater over his bloated stomach.
Yes? he says through the fly screen. His teeth are yellowed and wrinkles lined his lips like stitching.
Jake there?
Who’s asking?
I’m a family friend.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Laughing at a funeral
It’s ya jelly bean, his father bellowed, slapping his leg.
And he remembers the splashing her arms made as the water drank her down. He didn’t cry at the funeral. But perhaps he should have. It seemed to make things worse, him not. Her mum said, are you okay? I know you two were close.
I’m good.
She asked him to put some flowers on the coffin.
Ok, he had said a little reluctantly.
On his way down, on account of him trying to act all solemn and not looking where he was going, he damn nearly ran into the girl in the box. The surprise of it forced out a laugh. He felt everybody’s eyes branding their guilt into the back of his neck, like piss in the snow.
Did you just see that? they’d be saying. That boy was laughing. Laughing at a bloody funeral.
Friday, May 21, 2010
Frangipani
It was one of those mornings when the sun leaps from the sea and yells, surprise! at the unsuspecting town. Only the children and the surfers see it coming. Kids play cricket on neighbours’ lawns, dodging bone-coloured nuggets, while their parents wipe sex from their eyes and rinse their mouths with tea, remembering an age unclouded by experience and forgotten ambition. The buzz of cicadas force the kids to yell and the dogs bounce around excitedly.
A girl with a frangipani tucked behind her ear smiles at a boy she knows is incapable of feeling for her the way she feels for him. He’s an odd boy. He doesn’t seem to understand the concept of friendship. And he has a habit of studying his pigeon-toed feet. His eyes are splinters of blue and green and something else, and it’s this something else that has a hold of her. While other boys wrestle in their brightly coloured board shorts, he watches the birds in the tree as they gossip and bicker amongst each other. The other boys call him names but he doesn’t seem to care, or notice. And neither does she. He doesn’t say much, just looks on absently as she dances in and out of the pool.
His facial expressions don’t change, but for a slight widening of the eyes, as she screams, is gagged by a hand of water, and pulled to the bottom. He sees the splashing and hears the thrashing, but doesn’t understand. He doesn’t move until long after the bustling of fluoro vests and the limp body is taken from the pool. He just stands. Stands. Stands there, twirling the Frangipani in his fingers.