oxytocin

Your cup was full, the wine was sweet

You wet my lips. I let you in

I’m brittle now with quick defeat

I opened once; I won’t again

They Don't Want Your Corn, They Want Your Kids

Last night while looking at the sky,

I saw a little planet die;

It died and fell without a fuss

I wondered whether it was us,

Or part of us, that I had seen

Disintegrate.  It could have been

- Michael Leunig

the internet - the spiritual home of crazy people

 This site is all about ninjas, REAL NINJAS.  This site is awesome.    My name is Robert and I can't stop thinking about ninjas.  These guys are cool; and by cool, I mean totally sweet.


Facts:


1.    Ninjas are mammals.


2.    Ninjas fight ALL the time.


3.    The purpose of the ninja is to flip out and kill people.


girl is electric

If love is a bolt from the blue

then what is that bolt but a glorified screw?

- One Crowded Hour, Augie March

just a casual, casual easy thing

I built a shrine to you my precious love!!

Well, it was more like a pinata actually

waiting to feel the effects

'In America, percentile is destiny'

- Walter Kirn, Lost in the Meritocracy:  How I traded an education for a ticket to the ruling class

a mere interlude

From Alice in Wonderland

`He might bite,' Alice cautiously replied, not feeling at all anxious to have the experiment tried.

`Very true,' said the Duchess: `flamingoes and mustard both bite. And the moral of that is--"Birds of a feather flock together."'

`Only mustard isn't a bird,' Alice remarked.

`Right, as usual,' said the Duchess: `what a clear way you have of putting things!'

pineapple head

Used to be all I could do was sleep; curl up in the deliciousness of it and into the dreams that had waited there, patiently, for my homecoming from the world. Dreams that spiralled wantonly into the afternoons.  Heady sleep that burrowed into blankets, smelled of baking bread, ignored phone calls. Not the refreshing, battery charger kind, the heavy lidded, heavy limbed underworld kind.  Sleep that, when it finally released me into the midday sun, continued to follow me through my day like a weighty shadow.

 

Everything is changing.

 

Here in this bed, something is racing. Locked in. I am staring at the ceiling. At the unchanging blank slatedness of it; projecting a slideshow of monsters in the dark thoughts upon it, until, at last, I am drawn in to it’s vast whiteness. In it and of it until I have spun into a thousand colliding fragments of myself, and I forget which one is the me I am supposed to hold onto, and I become a voyeur in the corner, observing these versions of myself, projected again and again, and if I never sleep again I can live with this.

even on our birthdays

 "Today's youth don't have dreams, they have illusions. To dream is to want to accomplish something difficult that is a challenge. Instead youngsters believe they have a right to everything and if things don't go the way they want it's someone else's fault."

- Dr Jean - Robert Pitte, President de La Sorbonne, 2006

ditty for dandelion

the sea swept dry; a mother's fear

you tried to tempt me out of here

my spirits lifted till they fell; you doing what you do so well

I had a chair I stood upon

(I closed my eyes and now it's gone)

I never meant, but always tried,

to leave you broken, satisfied

eighteen with a bullet

From Tao Lin's Bed

" As one had to expect very little - almost nothing - from life, one had to be grateful; not always trying to seize the days, like some maniac of living, but to give oneself up to be seized by the days, months and years."

a mighty capacity for rapture

you flew, you flew! yes i saw it darling - two hours you were up there, at least. a farmer in romania spotted you; there were sightings over panama, too.  whole villages gathered to watch you pass over in New Guinea.  Cloud covering prevented the sightings in bhutan.  you did it, you did it, you clever darling. i am so proud. and to think i made your wings of tissue paper.

damn, i wish i was your lover

and at some point you realise that it's now the ghost you love instead of the being.  it's the precision of the incision and the shape of the scar that has become precious.  i don't know what you're supposed to do once you know that.  but the knowing, at least, is a relief.

slutty, sad, anonymous

You introduced yourself but I knew who you were and what you were.  And you knew I knew who you were.  But I just said hello and how do you do? And I poured you a drink though you hadn’t asked for one.  And I didn’t offer I just poured us both a drink and told you my name, though I knew you already knew it because I had heard you ask your friends about me in the kitchen.

 

 Oh is that so? 

 

And you were shy or rude or both, and stared out the window.  But I didn’t care, I just threw back the drinks in quick 1-2-3 succession. Down the hatch.  I don’t want to know the trivia of your work -to -make-a-buck life, your loud mouth day  job, and I don’t care to share the details of mine.  So I grab your hand gunpowder quick, although your choice in shirt bothered me, and such poor sartorial taste on your part could only lead to trouble in our future, if it should come to that.  For now, you are here and material and that is why I have to touch you with my hands.

 

Shall we have a little night music?  You know and I know that something has been established in the space between us and though your talk is boring, baby, boring, I think I like you in the flesh, like the very fact that you exist, like it very much that I am ungraspable to you.  You thud-thud in my chest (and now in my thighs) and I think I like that I hardly know you.

 

To us, a  silent toast.  That I am here and you are here and it has come to this, as it always would. 

 

The wine has become deafening to me and all signs point to the door.  Everything is changing.  Find my recalcitrant feet. 

 

Goodnight, your name, your name, you deliciously arrogant fuck.

           

I’m gone. 

now honeys play me close like butter play toast

Until, much later, is heard, very faint, a low wailing song. It ebbs and flows, growing stronger.  It is accompanied by a low didjeridoo.  The music, the song - a mournful dirge - builds up rhythmically.  A light comes on.  It shows three figures - three old women - sitting in a circle in the centre of the otherwise bare clearing.   One has a piece of bark which she beats softly on the ground, one a pair of clapping sticks with which she keeps time, and the third beats time with her hand against her thigh.  The wailing is melodic yet unchanging; infinitely sad but strangely pleasant.  It rises and fall to an underlying beat as old as time.  Then, gradually, the sound fades.

So too does the light.

And again it is dark and quiet.

It has been dark for some time.

tiny hands

Church and factories at our door

I don't mean it like i did before

your head, your books, your fucking nietzsche

stand back, this could get dirty

my heart is shot for tenderness

you pissed it all there's nothing left

the saints and soldiers all went home

watch out, this could get easy

just when he thought he got lucky, she stole his watch and chain

you can't have it both

the knowing and the not knowing.

you have to choose.

you can't have it both

you want the overunderstated intoxications 

of being newly known

but what of 'mystery'

(you'd call it that, wouldn't you, in polite society)

you can't have it both

the knowing and the not knowing

you have to choose.

you can't have it both

Conquerors and Concubines

Yes, you still have a place in my heart.  But I'm selling the joint (recession, you know) and the new owners want you out in a week.

I have a vacancy in my spleen if you're interested.

Sorry that I chose so poorly. Golly gee, am I the poster girl?

He has a disease where he bites off his own fingers, you know.  He can feel the pain just the same as you or I. Agony. And it's not that he wants to do it, either.  It's beyond his control.  They have to tie his hands behind his back.  There is no cure.

He kind of reminds me of you, actually