people look funny when kissing.

but it's a nice kind of a funny. like when peter garrett dances.

this dance is mine

there is a girl in my heart
she dances the mambo
in baggy pants and headphones
she yells, loudly and often
she is the dog i never had
and the sex i never wanted.
she spent a year in sydney,
broke hearts in barcelona
and wrote novels about india,
(in london)
she is cultured but homeless
she owns hotels but
skipped those
little red houses.
there is a girl in my heart who laughs when i cry and cries when i laugh, who is hurt by my sorry but more by my love. there's a girl in my heart with soft legs and green eyes.
i am day without the light
i am sentences without words
i am lust without love and
i am me without the c
and she loves me.

poster.

today;

i saw a whole house taken down and moved in three big trucks.
where it was there was just a lot. they'd put a fence around the tree on their nature strip.

fucking surreal.

Punk Rock Love Is.. -- by Aaron Cometbus


'Punk rock love is fucking behind the dumpster down the street from the show. Fucking in the shower at the Hotel Carlton. Making out in the recycle bin. Looking at her tattoos while she's asleep. Taking showers together. Playing checkers with cigarette butts. Watching her band play. Dumpstering veggies together and then going back to her place and cooking up a feast. Knowing the same parts of the same songs. Both of you having the same ex-girlfriend. Punk rock love is having to tie her shoes for her cuz she's too drunk. Kissing under the overpass. Her sending you her whole diary to read. Her giving you ten rolls of duct tape for your birthday. Her beating up skinheads. Going to the prom on her motorcycle and checking in the helmets at the coatcheck. Getting astonished stares from all the jocks who thought you were gay, now they feel dumb cuz you're with an older punk rock bombshell and they're with their friend's little sister. Punk rock love is meeting her outside the club and her saying come home with me or I'm gonna kick your fuckin ass. Going home with her and she almost kicks your ass anyway. Sharing hairdye. Riding double on a bike. Being loud and not caring. Sneaky eyes and sleeveless t-shirts. The sun coming up and you realizing that there's other people on the beach. A good sleazy one week stand. Still being friends afterwards, most of the time. Punk rock love is her sneaking out in the middle of the night to meet you in the park. Running your fingers over her spikey hair. Her chewing on a flower and you having to call poison control when her tongue swells up. Bringing her to the laundromat for a date. Sharing a sleeping bag and waking up freezing in the middle of the night and her, bleary eyed, trying to heat it up with a blowdrier. Social Unrest playing "Ever Fallen in Love?" at the gig you're both at the night after she dumps you hard. Starting smoking again after that night. Punk rock love is her drawing on you. Her sleeping on your back. Her being mad at you for being such a jerk. Her thinking it's cool that you stink and your hair stands up by itself. Her having weird roommates who worship eggs. You waiting in the doorway for hours hoping she might pass by. Even in the snow. Her singing along with Descendents records over the air on her late night radio show. Her picture on the front page of the morning paper, getting arrested. Her borrowing your favorite black hat and never giving it back. Punk rock love is finding a girl who drinks as much coffee as you do. Going into the cafe where she works and she looks up and smiles and doesn't notice as she trips over a pile of 50 dishes. They hit the floor one by one and when it's all done everyone in the cafe applauds and you both turn beet red. Punk rock love is both of you doing fanzines. Years later her teaching English to college freshmen, you still doing fanzines. Her wearing glasses through her eyes are fine, using crutches though her legs are fine, and talking with a fake speech impediment. You just thinking it's rad girl style, until later when someone brings up the concept of self-imposed handicaps. Punk rock love is getting your first kiss and almost losing your virginity at the same time, meanwhile you're trying not to wake up the other person sleeping in the same bed. Groping in the bushes by the freeway and later you realize that all the passing cars could see you. Exploring the wasteland together. holding hands out on the fire escape. Lying in the grass in her backyard. Lying on the astroturf in her bedroom. Drinking tequila on her porch, on your birthday. Riding on her motorcylce early in the cold morning and you're holding on tight and steam is rising off of the river and you're thinking how she is maybe even better than the Ramones. Punk rock love is both being broke. Love letters. Finding out she sang "Stay Free" at her high school talent show. Finding out she's a little crazier than you thought when you finally get her in bed. Her boyfriend getting mad. Walking around with her and her nephew and everyone giving you dirty looks cuz they think he's your kid. Walking around with her and being happy and proud. Being sad together. Being sad by yourself. Missing her.'

maloufy for literature.

A sharp, cold wind hit the sides of their faces, raw and exposed like the sides of mountains, or the sand dunes which flowed through the desert, shaped and molded over the passage of time by the constant work of elemental forces. Though the two girls knew that such a force was not one to be reckoned with, that it was bigger, older, more rudimentary than anything they had within their power to control, they had found, within themselves, and within the grey-green slow suburban park, a refuge. It was carefully pocketed on a small island, reachable only by a small jump across the slow flowing creek where fat ducks drifted and stale bread sank. It was a small leap to get there – perhaps only the length of a schoolroom ruler – but yet so few attempted it that the two young girls were able to feel as though this place – this small, insignificant place – could be all their own. They would often, on days like these, wrapped up in coats and scarves with only the outermost parts of them exposed to the elements, escape the anger of misled parents or the burden of unknown sadness or the fate of forced thousands, miles away but inescapable to their young minds, and find sanctuary within this place. They crawled underneath Their Tree, maternal in the way it hugged the edges of where they sat, protecting them from wind, water, fear, and huddled there. A slow drizzle descended, and it was warm there.

i've been having pills for breakfast in this place since

the frost began to spread.

an old favourite.

Black and white. Shades of grey. Wooden carvings .Blue and chlorinated. Blue of the gass heating up my milo. There isn’t a microwave here. Red of the blood oaths I would have taken with friends I could have made. If only there were no AIDS or Rebt’s or alcohol or jobs. Lost jobs. Found drinks. Black nights. I shiver so uncontrollably my teeth chatter and it drowns out the sound of drips in a tin sink, of two men sleeping back to back upstairs, of resistance, of the strain of taking one more heavy breath. In and out. Chest heaves up and down. Lungs are weighty, filled with poison. Poison from a bottle a weedy man sells us on the way here. Posion from bottles we used to keep in the cellar. There is no cellar here so they’re stacked by dad’s bed. It’s irrelevant, it’s fictional. It’s romantic irony. It doesn’t matter now. It’s just up and down, in and out, until you’ve had so much to drink that the brain doesn’t send the "breathe" signal to the lungs anymore. Until then, heavy lungs heave.

winter makes me withdrawn.

i miss this all so much right now;

the love and culture. the heat. the people.

there are days i wish i was still an insomniac.

i went to a lecture once, called 'truth and mathematics'

slow sad thoughts of a whiteboard
covered in abstraction.
this is not human
this is not the world -
but this is beautiful.
maths class is like a
mirror;
we create perfect circles
but it's all within our imperfect world -

like hands of humans
writing the words of gods.