Singe.

Where do I live? That place where sleep hasn't left. It clings to me like a shadow of you sent along phone lines, across years, jumping through quietness, shouting through roads, tumbling through skies, it falls on the small of my back and pulls me closer.

Shadowy, silent, soft. And so binding, so blinding. So biting. Breathless boundless.

Rustles my hair, calls forgotten names, lives in the past of the future and the future of the past. Cries hot love and singes my eyelashes. There weren't much to start with. I'll do with yours for the meanwhile.

Anyone Else But You.

You're a part time lover and a full time friend
The monkey on your back is the latest trend

So we're seeing in songs again. In the rainy part of 2007. In the cloudily hot part of 2008. In the humid, drowsy part of 2009.

I kiss you on the brain in the shadow of the train
I kiss you all starry eyed, my body's swinging from side to side

We're using art as life. We use lies to tell lies. We want some coke with those fries.

Here is the church and here is the steeple
We sure are cute for two ugly people

We don't know who we talk about anymore. Or if there is to be anyone at all. Or we squish in moulds strangers to turn them tiresome. Sometimes soon, sometime late. Sometimes never at all. Sometimes always. We fool ourselves with familiarity. And fadedness. We put some glue and stick new faces.

The pebbles forgive me, the trees forgive me
So why can't you forgive me?

We do nothing all day. And be proud of it. Across a decade, we look back and wave and jump to the start, running around in circles, falling back and pushing our faces in the rain, justifying existences and complexities and not explaining them at all.

I will find my niche in your car
With my MP3, DVD, rumple-packed guitar

The roads are blacker wet. Only parents have cars and we walk along with crabs sideways against whitewashed walls. We walk along pavements, look down, stare up, avoid faces, listen to dreams.

Up, up, down, down, left, right, left, right, B A start
Just because we use cheats doesn't mean we're not smart

Open verandahs leak video games and ratty cameras take inconsequential videos of leaning eucalyptuses, it gets darker and the cats curl up on ledges.

You are always trying to keep it real
I'm in love with how you feel

We knew there was a real. Because that's just what exists. We talk nonsense, we talk genius. We are unforgettably brilliant, we are painfully inane.

We both have shiny happy fits of rage
You want more fans, I want more stage

We were the same people. We were one. We were nothing. We were I. The other wakes up from tiring cold from the future and walks back to the iron gate, swings it to the center and leans ahead, face cupped in palms, stare at gravel ants.

My name is Adam, I'm your biggest fan

Open windows were green and there was no one. Perfectly timed stairs and bald patches in the garden. We didn't know us. We still don't. We look for mirrors in screens. We dig up and cover up and throw away and reclaim without knowing why. We cherish and dismiss, we don't care. Never did.

Squinched up your face and did a dance

Inconsequential and all-important. We twirl around in pleasure and fall listlessly down to nothingness, we live in songs. We have time machines and empty seats. We sit alone in rooms and think. We sit and think. And we sit. And unthink. Beat ourselves over us. Speak in gibberish and replay.

I don't see what anyone can see
In anyone else but you

Du, du, du
Du, du, du
Du, du, du
But you.

Joey never met a bike that he didn't wanna ride
And I never met a Toby that I didn't like
Scotty liked all of the books that I recommended
Even if he didn't I wouldn't be offended.

Sore dreamspot.

3:28 pm Wake up from a bad dream, try to decide in half seconds if one should lose sleep over it.
Close eyes again, try to decide on one reason why one was taking this nap at all.
Shift to another dream. What was good, what was bad. Do day sleepdreams come true.
Why does someone I hardly know have to figure so prominently in such a dream. What about the important people. But what makes them important. I didn't want them to be, pre-sleep. They weren't during sleep. Post sleep why do I have to question what I wanted and got.
Because dreams aren't real? There was a lot of things I did. With previously unimportant people. Now they are someone else. Fall in love with a near stranger, get up to worse things. What's stranger. What's okay?
What's not? It was hardly bizarre. There was an exhibition. A basement. Textiles? Hats? There were parents. There was barefoot me off a school bus. A wrong school bus with the right person.
But there were shifts. And there was filtered sunlight. There was quiet talking. There were faces borrowed from life. Feelings pumped in from some secret little fountain of cruelty. Uneasy feelings replace chokedupness. I think that is nice.
Possibility of scratching a scab lightly as it creates this alien desire is better than flying headfirst to be hurt again.
I can just not scratch at all like a good girl and smile because I know it's healing.
But what was I feeling? Oh it was just a dream. I didn't mean to. But I did. Maybe I want to. I am not but I might and I like the sound of that.

8:36 pm
There's the mild, rainy winds of a drizzle day's end. When air carries around life and doesn't just exist to be breathed in, but felt and loved. Now there are fragments floating around, of an absurd dream, with unimportant people. But the illusion of importance looms in large, crashing into my side, crushing my sense of balance, of this farce sense of understanding that there is some one person that was supposed to be dreamt about. In quite the opposite way, there is no feeling of mad wrongness after the dream.

The various criteria of phasing out people probably vanished from the dream version of love. Maybe it's the new dream version, maybe the strange part of strangeness is being defined and it is not what it was. Maybe it is for good reason that dreams are forgotten and are supposed to be. Everyone is a stranger until they're not.

Maybe the dreams are better at picking out perfectness, or a near perfect wantingness that must exist but won't, because the controllable dreaming is insistent on having to do with unattainability. Maybe one is supposed to have it easy. Maybe dreams aren't that cracked up to be, or they see through a person with much clarity, unclouded with awake feelings. Maybe awake feelings are as absurd as life itself.

And day-long naps have time enough to reach a universe where things are done and not thought. Where one soft love-center candy of life is not covered by concrete textured layer of insecurity and what-ifs. There is no plastic wrapper of  'why the hell at all' and 'that's just not me' and a dozen cellotape layers of 'I don't knows'.

Or the dream just was. And there was happiness. And now there is thought.

Love.

The body cannot contain it. Slips out. It flows.
In throes. Blows low, it slows.
And gushes out.
Now. On the brow. Corner of the eye.
Toe curling, soul stirring, bony.
Hard, simmering soft, brushes against, purring past.
Like the song that played last.

Unanswering, hidden sneeze fills up invisible room.
Dances in disguise.
Releases. Relocates. Recites.
Unheard. Speaks in black and blue.
Exists. Slowly simpers, learns, lingers..
Mirrors the night. One hair at a time.
It listens quietly. It rhymes.

It settles in the corner. Of my sight.
Middle of the unmade mind.
Leans against a quiet heart, it knows.
The history of a sigh, the life of a lie.
By drums, by bells, by blowing shells.
A poem sits by the door.
Leaves cover a wild garden. An old tree silently grows.

Unhurried feet. Absent feet. Imaginary feet.
A welcome mat seat. An irregular beat.

A-muse-douche.

Much men. Very odd. Such sublime. Wow.
I think Doge would be a good listener. Those eyes.

Complexity derives a certain life from unfiltered feelings. Ego in absentia, superego and id throwing punches at 4 in the night (morning?). There's a part which feels authentic to touch. A soft feather or a sharp knife point. Such delirium, much rollercoaster. While we think deferring gratification/ pleasure in small things exercises the will, 4 o' clock nonfood food is flying around one's head, with broken wings and a Cumberbatchy voice. Saying things which it is not saying.

The next morning at 11:28 it rests on the roof, in the sun, happy with wrecking. Eaten up, it grows on the back of the mind. Sun-soaked and dripping with amusement. It'll settle on the soon to be choked up part of the throat. The part which is happily married to tear ducts for the past almost 22 years. The brain is adamant on infallible reason and dictates severe hard conclusive thoughts to be thingificated.

When the little whispering fairy wafts around, as midnight flies past with amazing rapidity and settles in a nook in the ear, makes itself comfortable, sends along feels of a certain kind. Be amused. Be a muse. See one. See more? See one and feel one. Be it. Be affected, be broken, be yourself.

Muses are imperatively slick with wrongness. A dully sharp wrongness, shifting in the sunlight, pastel shimmery, dark glimmery something right underneath the surface of a placid lake with smooth pebbles, resting with the sun glinting off, reflected in the receding waves, moving about as if writhing in sleep. Flips around in the afternoon sun. Muses are amphibious. They recline against a tree, they don't look at you. You look at the existence of it and write a poem with your nails on a tree bark on the other side of the lake.

Dusty earth whips up tiny storms which cloud up the mind, settle with surprising rapidity, bring the world one little cloud at a time, transferring, transporting, tranforming the mindscape, bringing in the dust of a certain one. Recesses of the mind are not open to brooms or soap or a rough, rough washcloth. Dust settles for eternity, that certain kind, one layer after another, sedimentises.

One often digs up old broken pieces from a hundred years ago but a sudden sandstorm topples over mountains of soft earth, makes it level, makes one see the top layer. It rains and there are roses and they wilt under the strong suspicious, atrocious sun the next day and the mind lays barren until it rains one night at 4 (morning?).

Thinner layers, fewer roses. Much manure, many flowers, lush grass, a gazebo and a lemonade in the dying sun of late evening. Sprinklers are put in place for when there is no rain. It's green and sometimes insects with golden brown wings sprout from the earth and fly off into the distance.

Muses are stranded at different parts of the city, they walk towards an unlit corner and disappear.