word dissociation


dox me, put my heart on the web
for the hungry spiders to steal
I don’t have a single digm to my name
so I’m not worried about the theft.
I’ll just revel in the fact you’re gon
forgotten, no longer part of my life…

and yet I’ll always want you mour
to indulge that vane side of myself
to give in to the lyse
to try and… but you foil my plans
by being you, by having a sol.
And as llax as my mind gets
trying to cope with these events,
you’ll always bles my mind
like I’m almost normal.



A fragment.


Dreary days rarely entertain inquisitive minds. Kept inside by watchful parents and the intermittent storms, the children cuddled up around the glass doors watching the rain as their father watched the cricket on the tiny portable TV. It was plenty hot to swim, but the beaches were all closed and the caravan park didn’t have a pool.
The rainforest surrounding them dripped, wild green of an untamed place deep inside her heart. Or, any of those old cliches she loved. She had never been much for originality – she surrounded herself with children, a loving husband, did housework even on holidays.
She made them all lunch as the cricket took their break. Down south where there wasn’t rain to sully the heat-wave, the men gathered around to bat around balls with sticks and call themselves great Aussie heroes. Her husband rose from his chair just as lunch was done, the tiny tin-box had reeked of fried fish for an hour but still he claimed innocence and said he would have gone out and bought something.
Tomorrow he’d probably go out fishing again, leaving her alone with three fidgety children in the rain. Today he was a doting father, ignoring the predictable cricket match to entertain the girls – playing Uno and Monopoly until it was time for dinner. Again she cooked, this time sausages for him and chicken for the girls. After dinner she joined them for their games and slowly forgot the rotten day she should have spent on the beach.
Finally the girls went to bed, she was alone with him. He turned on the TV and managed to find some old movie that was already half over before falling asleep part way drunk.
She moved herself from the lounge down to where the children had been sitting – her shoulder pressed up against the glass. It was raining again, gushing from the skies – slightly silver in the dim light of the caravan park’s lamp-posts. They were the caravan up against the fence, raised on bricks and facing the rainforest surrounding the park. The thick trees of green and rust, nearly disappearing into ink as the light against them faded into the feathery leafs of ferns and gums. What caught her attention most through the chain-link fence was an ancient lantern hanging from a low branch, chipped white paint with patches of moss and rust. It seemed to have grown into the tree, that ancient lantern which must have run on whale oil or barbarism of some sort.
The thoughts of that rotten lantern simmered in her mind long after she fell asleep against the glass. In her dreams it burned, bright light illuminating the wild green forest for all to see – an ember in the darkness slowly spreading warmth through the rainy world until everything was bright orange.
The children woke her and the lantern outside was dim – the forest untouched. It was raining again and once she rose to do her motherly duties the children took her place to watch the rain trickle down through the canopy.


Just a small vignette I wrote.

The chandeliers cast light across the grand ball room of the palace. The music of violins and harps fill the air, alongside the smells of roast meat and honey. Foreign guests and local dignitaries greet her; the Queen, the host and life of the party. Everywhere the sounds of conversation, laughter and the raucousness of the party, mingling with the pulsing rhythms of life and debauchery. Her blue eyes gaze across the assembly, the many shades and statures of characters in her ball room. Who would she talk to tonight?

There were so many of interest to her, the strange and mysterious that beckon to her to come and learn more about them. Several stand out even amongst that group.

The nearest is a woman with ashen skin and dark eyes, who glowers at her company but flashes the Queen a coy and inviting smile. She wears scant clothing, a black bikini top binds in her heavy breasts that strain the delicate fabric. Pointed ears turn to listen in on conversations she is not even a part of, while she tolerates her company with hands on her wide hips. A silvery-black sarong hugs her waist, trailing down to her knees, mildly see-through and revealing the gold ink tattoos swirling over her luscious form.

Or perhaps the Queen should speak with the man in the corner holding a glass of claret and watching the room with strange curiosity. An enchanting man from the dark southern jungles by his attire and pale white skin. Pointed shoes and silken pants, a simple black vest over his hard chest. He speaks softly but with power, and simply allows his hands to express himself to his lone companion. Long, slender fingers which seem to sizzle with ethereal energies.

Though the strangest of the guests drew the Queen’s attention. A woman among a group of other women, her mocha body is covered in trinkets and bright cloth, pieces of wood and animal that dangles from a loose belt strung around her hips. All kinds of fetishes and artifacts of her trade – no doubt that of a fetish priestess. Each item on her belt is a story to share, something to draw in the crowd around her as she explains one of her toys.