uneven lines feel uneven

hello welcome to the time of writing framed by a borderline

fantasy of palm trees & green coconut paving

 

where mangrove theory impresses or imprints i was holding

a static hangover gently amidst sheets

 

i guess time is a wide-eyed doe for everyone     when we’re fucking

the deepest sensations are plain fleeting when i’m losing friends

i’m gaining stability & look there are bays of smeared moonlight

 

or smudged radiation? hmm everything a window

on danger & attraction at the same time     mind you

no-one can avoid dread & climax

 

but like he said i am killing at photovoltaic scrabble with ‘now’

placed as every evening tho cropped for incrimination

you’re the dog we’ve all come to love!

the stinging nestles in & in-jokes

feel sage      a key branding decision

incubation

awkward things once thought

can be uttered can become

beautiful not all the time but some

then sentiment elides for my cover-

shot a cracked lamp a recurring game

of lonely landscapes (not to sustain nor

recur) but help it’s ‘pdf’ spoken aloud

no less than three times in a day &

bam no more personifying the years

like it’s 2009 like it’s also monday

in retrospect where it’s twelve dollars

for a pint twelve dollars to

wait for you & think

 

the scratched wooden pub

can come to be a threat confusing

the past & hammering the present

all images will become exactly

your eyes over glass like a 3D hologram

spied through the stained glass window

i can almost make out the ghost’s

disposition you’ll transition nicely

to a cute role without my involvement

or interest observation is measured

precisely in faded beaker marks

i mean i can write things & edit

then i’ll fall into a picture-like-a-painting

down a geo-cached alley again

entering

it’s an odd thing to delve into. there’s a verse, a chorus, then a middle-8 section (nowhere near the middle), another verse & chorus, a guitar solo then another couple of choruses. it’s also at quite a speed to jam all this in together. is this the way we pleasure ourselves – quickly, partially-effectively, in an altogether non-standard manner? turning the curiosity of attraction into pop?

but for me it was always all about the meaning below the entendre, underneath the sex, the hands reaching but never quite touching. the desperation. i apologise for the mic that couldn’t quite handle what i wanted to do vocally with only one take. but i’ve always been about spitting it out. so to speak or write.

 

my guitar / yours

there’s more sadness than happiness making up a life. if pressed i’d put the ratio at 70/30. but then maybe some of that 70% is simply emptiness, or boredom. it’s hard to tell. you choose what to remember though. i’ve been watching a lot of long-form tv shows that involve detectives and crime. the lyrics in this track were meant to echo that and use the language as an investigative lens, repeating the images of urgently garbled radio squad car directions, and fervent leading questions posed in stark interview room (usually a green palette). but i don’t think any of that comes through. not really.

town b

20160707 murrumbidgeemy favourite sandy beach disappeared a while ago. now a vast expanse of mud. i mentioned it to julie & she said that’s just what rivers do. the river has taken away the beach, & at some point in the future it will replace it, maybe. maybe the same, maybe different.

there’s nothing metaphorical in this it was just some words we said to each other to pass time to fill the emptiness before other things.

twelve months into this & still learning.

across the reserve

Screen Shot 2016-06-08 at 8.19.17 pm

these unknown vantages are

mine alone every thatch is a mark

of experience a weathering of trouble &

doubt if the muted palette is the world

each picket a page number & most

stray strokes evident measures of defiance

i’ll avoid place after place for all the reasons

sidestep obdurate satellite towns, my mind

ramshackle & functioning still as fire     but

let’s figure on leaving that matrix secure

on a wood-fired early afternoon

secure as fiction

 

artwork – ‘across the reserve’ by matilda julian

whisper my name

Remapping 1 - 'Whisper My Name'

 

each stitch was a body wound

you felt & traced years into     like

an antique camcorder you peer

low & hard & inside

 

your fingerprints are all

over yourself in the end shaping

shapeliness beyond recognition

a wine bottle of veiled origins

 

we were known by the colour

of our hair but it’s always fleeting

speech marks effective tattoos

 

you’ll creep from the gloom like

a stationary china doll then

nothing will happen then

actions feel too simple too

open to interpretation then

 

artwork – ‘whisper my name’ by sarah mcewan