Jodie has finally fallen asleep.
Isis looks at lights moving
over the ceiling. Can hear

the breathing, the in and
out of breath. She can feel
the body just behind hers,

the hand placed on her hip,
the knees drawn up, touching
her back. Jodie and her always

need of ***. The age difference
beginning to show, she becoming
more tired more slow. Even

now she feels a guilt rise in her
like bile, the days back when
Jodie entered her bed for that

first time at the private school,
Jodie’s hands out to reach her,
she a pupil, Isis a first time teacher.

Jodie moves in her sleep, her
hand slips from the hip, rests
on the sheet. Isis watches the

patterns of light on the ceiling play.
Years ago all that. None knew,
none found out. The shared bed,

much against her conscience,
but her conscience lost, the love
and lust set in. Isis reflects, the

lights play on, the patterns move.  
Each part of her touched, kissed,
Held, licked and ******. Well and

truly loved, well and truly ******.  
Back then the tense fear and need
on both sides, the excitement

of the deeds done, fear of exposure,
the secret meetings, the passing
over of messages in corridors, quick

kisses in doorways, in those days.
Isis lies on her back, hands on her
breast, eyes watching the patterns

dance on the ceiling’s screen. Just
once more, Jodie had said, wanting
*** and kisses as before. Now all

done and time for rest, all thoughts
pushed away, closes her eyelids
like shutters on another full day.

Bike videos, you love em so
And we'd sit on the couch
Right across the street, you and me
And last year surreal
Your eyes never looked so different
So blue, blueboy
What happened to your voice?
My brown boots
I could never say no to you
Drinking four lokos on the carpet
Kissin in the toolshed
I remember those tall tall sunflowers
They died and took you with them
****, so sunny back then

THE ALLAN FAMILY STORY




YA SEE ME AND MY BROTHER WERE TEASING ONE ANOTHER AND OUR FIRST

FAMILY PET LADY GOES MISSING, AND SCHOOL KIDS SAID IT WAS WEE, BUT

IT COULD’VE BEEN PINEAPPLE JUICE, AND I STARTED UP A BOWLING LEAGUE

CAUSE I WAS GETTING SICK OF MY BROTHER BEING THE ONLY SPORTSMAN

IN THE FAMILY, SO I JOINED THE BOWLING AT THE BELCONNEN BOWL, MET

TWO NICE FRIENDS TRISTAN AND JASON LEE, I ENJOYED PLAYING WITH THEM

UNTILL A MATE GOT ME INTO HIS LEAGUE, WHERE, MY PROBLEM WITH MY BOWLING

STYLE AS A KID, I TURNED MY HAND, BUT I HAD FUN BOWLING, IT WAS GREAT

AND EVERY THURSDAY NIGHT WAS THIS BIG NIGHT, I MET CRAIG AND JODIE

WHO I DEVELOPED A CRUSH ON, BUT CRAIG SAID, SHUT UP FATTY, JODIE’S MINE

AND CRAIG AND JODIE WERE TEAMED UP WITH ME AND LYLE, YA SEE LYLE HAD POWER

AND GOT MORE STRIKES THAN ME, AND JODIE WAS A COOL, PRETTY SWEET GIRL

BUT CRAIG WANTED HER, BUT YA CAN’T BLAME A GUY FOR TRYING, AND THEN

CRAIG HAD A MATE NAMED BILL, WHO INTRODUCED TO ME AND LYLE, AND HIS KIDS

WERE SIMILAR TO BRAD, RANDY, AND MARK ON HOME IMPROVEMENT, AND I REMEMBER

WHEN I GOT A STRIKE, I CHEERED AND WHEN I MISSED I WENT OH DRATTA, AND

BILL’S KIDS, WERE PLAYING AROUND, WHILE BACK AT HOME, MY DAD, MUM AND BROTHER

WERE WATCHING THEIR TV PROGRAMS, AND AFTER I FINISHED, I PLAYED WITH

EVERY KID AT THE BOWLING ALLEY, SAYING I WILL CHASE YOU, AND THE KIDS SAID

RUN RUN AS FAST AS YA CAN, YOU CAN’T CATCH ME I AM THE GINGERBREAD MAN

AND I GRABBED ONE KID AND TOUCHED HIM INAPPRIOTELY ON THE MOUTH, AND

HE RAN TO BILL, AND BILL AND CRAIG TORE STRIPS OFF ME, I WAS SAYING

I AM A KID, JUST LIKE THEM, CRAIG SAID, SHUT UP FATTY, AND GO HOME

AND THEN I DID YMCA BASKETBALL, WITH MY BROTHER, AND HIS FRIEND

MY TEAMS WERE THE BLUE BLAZERS AND THE WANDERERS, AND EACH

TEAM WON A LOT, AND I SCARED A FEW KIDS, BUT I WAS NEVER THROWN OUT

OF THERE, I SHOWN UP THERE DRUNL ONE DAY, THE GAME WAS COOL

BUT ALL THE TOM FOOLERY, THAT WENT ON BEHIND THE SCENES

WAS WEIRD, I REMEMBER FRANK’S MATE ROBERT, HATED HOW I GRABBED HIM BY THE MOUTH

AND I WENT TO LYLE’S FLAT TO SLEEP, AFTERWARDS, TO WATCH TV

BUT I AM NOT THE KIND OF PERSON FOR SLEEPOVERS

I PREFER TO STAY AT MY HOME,

I WENT TO A LOT OF YOUNG DUDES HOMES

YA KNOW, JUST TO MUCK WITH THEM , YA KNOW GET ****** AND FUCKEN ****

MY FAMILY HAD A NEW NEIGHBOUR, THE CRABBY BUS DRIVER AND IN CAME DAVE SCHULTZ AND HIS WIFE

AND THREE KIDS, COREY, BRENDAN AND CANDICE, AND I SWUNG THEM AROUND

IN THE FRONT YARD, AND AS BRENDAN AND CANDICE CAME OVER ALL THE TIME

MUM AND DAD SAID, I DON’T WANT THESE KIDS COMING OVER ALL THE TIME

BUT THEY WERE TYPICAL PARENTS, AND ME AND PATRICK, WENT TO SEE JIMMY BARNES IN CONCERT

AND EACH NEW YEARS EVE, PAT WOULD HOST THIS GREAT NEW YEARS EVE BASH WITH US AND HIS FAMILY

SO I WAS A GREAT PERSON, BUT THERE ARE MORE GREAT STORIES FROM THE ALLAN FAMILY ARCHIVES

.you should really see the two comments left, and the 700+ views to begin with.

mind you, i did write an ode to the gods
(yes, that infantile pleasure,
not associated with cosmopolitan new york
atheists)...
how the roman plagiarißm of the the greek
pantheon happened too soon,
how the semite god ate up ba'al
and beelzebub "too quickly"
   turning them into fallen angels...
      like how he infiltrated the roman empire
due to their close-up plagiarißm so early...
father Zeus, father Odin remained...
as did their phonetic encoding...
as did the glagolitic script turned cyrillic...
sorry... where was the african phonetic
encoding? beside the hieroglyphs?
  what's swahili for:
red earth, gave birth to me?
   nyekundu dunia, alitoa kuzaliwa kwa mimi!
see... that's african speech:
but what are the letters behind it?
last time i checked... there aren't any!
and i came from africa?
maybe the anglo-deutsche did...
i didn't... i source my origins
in india... after all... indo-european
is my higher category, the mongols...
i don't care if the germanic people "think"
they originated in africa, i've come from india...
people who minded phonetic encoding,
had an alphabet,
              i'm still stuck with germanic
people with african stereotypes not being
able to swim...
   heavy bones they say...
    **** that and the whole i.q. "conundrum"...
i still watch t.v.,
       after all, after prometheus
brought down the flame from olympus...
some demigod had to bring down /
steal the rod of zeus / electricity...
and turn the t.v. into the modern fireplace...
the b.b.c. had this 2nd season running,
killing eve...
             sandra oh and jodie comer...
there's this instance in season two,
when jodie comer, villanelle...
  is interrogated by aaron peel...
                and "kind" aaron is asking villanelle
all this philosophical quips...
anselm's ontological argument...
    occam's razor (i wish)...
            he has so many books on his
bookshelf...
   yeah... books you look at like comic
book strips, books you don't actually read...
books you look at...
            and what does villanelle do in the end?
she brushes aaron's nose with one of
these books "he's read"... what is it?
ha ha!   a dictionary of philosophy...
a... dictionary...
basically short-script...
                     cheat...
         you really want a dictionary
definition of philosophy? a philosophy dictionary
definition, a sound-bite?
you know... last time i checked...
i read bertnard russell,
kierkegaard, kant, heidegger...
not for a dictionary definition...
or regurgitating rubrics akin to
a university lecturer...
        i hate regurgitation...
                i read for myself,
  in the end, hoping, my narrative could
find expansive ground for work-arounds...
i don't like playing the happy
harpsicord dancing monkey...
    to give "proofs"...
              i don't like people,
akin to villanelle, when questioned
on a university entrance critique...
               like i might "know my ****",
or not "know my ****"...
                                       pretty boring...
i am starting to resound in the conviction...
there's no point in knowing other people,
there's only one person worth knowing,
yourself...
       mind you, i'm still waiting for the alternative
phonetic encoding system to come
from africa, as an alternative counter
to the egyptian hieroglyphs...
i'm not seeing it...

   tender skin: the moon does see...
     zabuni ngozi: ya mwezi haina tazama...

eh, chinese script is all syllables and no
letters...
        glagolitic - Ⰿ
        rune - ᛗ
        roman - M
        greek - μ
        hebrai - מ
        devanagari - म
        arabic - م
        hieroglyph - owl
        mandarin - 冊
        hiragana - ま(a) み(i) む(u) め(e) も(o)

didn't i mention this already,
interchangeable, between a letter and
a syllable... given the hiragana example...
depending on what vowel
you attach to the base sound (consonant),
the vowel modifies the base (consonant)...
five ******* variations of the consonant / syllable...

           ergo? no atomic reality in these languages...
syllable understanding...
the mendeleev table...
                He: helium...
             Xn: xenon...
                          Na: sodium... etc.,

            depends...
   after all... a base letter (consonant) in hiragana
looks like the following schematic:
i.e. no one really knows what M looks like,
like mmm-humming...
without an added vowel...

                                     ま(a)
                                      |
                   め(e) ----- "x" ----- む(u)      
                                   /    \
                                 /        \
                          み(i)          も(o)
                                                            
.Nietzsche was wrong about dialectics, he suggested that the non practice of dialectics, even the anti presupposes a polite society, he invoked that comparative tenet of a society in saying: a polite society does not engage in dialectics (finding the truth of opinions).

which is akin to the slander against Voltaire,
that not engaging in dialectics
one has a chance to have an opinion about almost
everything, there's no chance these days
to have a polite society as there is no chance
to establish a Utopia... the way dialectics is
avoided like some surreal horror movie
is to have many opinions, to not engage in
dialectics is to be opinionated, hence Nietzsche's
style of utilising aphorisms and as many
maxims as possible, without useful applicability;
it's like that metaphor for a venomous bite,
the carousel of the many many thoughts,
likewise, no truth are established, since many
truths are proposed - hence the paradoxical
venture into nothing, simply walking in circles
on plateau nihil, it's polite, well of course it's
politeness! politeness by having many opinions
readied for a quick change of subject or
the simple act of shame and shutting up.
all this? with regards to a woman writing about
her abortion: we, the great reverse-amphibians,
so she's writing about it... 4 weeks in she's ready
to erase the dot... they tell her to come back 12
weeks later (sadists... why not remove the dot
rather than wait for the geometry to construct itself?),
again... why not remove the dot and the abstract?
she mentions a dot... remove the ******* dot!
the tadpole outside the gooey yoke is fastened
to maturing in the fresh water stream or lake,
i can hardly be a human being inside the ******
if my **** and bladder muscles are not matured,
i'm an abstract in that sense, tadpoles ahoy!
now see how living in a "polite" society i can't
engage in dialectics but have to reverse the process
of discussion and engage in picturesque comparatives
using toads? it's called applying anaesthetics - well,
an anaesthetic, or a placebo - in polite society people
get over-excited, unconditionally so, over-stimulated,
unconditionally so, with having to muster having
many opinions, politics can become a circus de facto,
de facto as in: detached from rural England.
so if we'll never attack the status quo with dialectics,
will be constantly multi-opinionated, changing the
subject all the time, and when challenging, we'll
only feed an anaesthetic, an anaesthetic that will become
a confession booth in a catholic church:
a quasi-solipsism, the listener and the other person
talking, mono-dialectics, so well entrenched these days
that there's even a good reason for practising
psychiatry rather than a catholic confession in church,
psychiatry is, after all, a secular version of the catholic
practice - more intimidating though, since you're
facing each other, rather than sitting at parallel positions,
shrouded in secrecy of the wooden mosaic wall of
the booth... i'm just wondering if this attempt to feel
the naked soul does not intimidate the clothed body
more to later undress itself in ***.

I love my girl, yes she's my queen,
My beautiful little Jodie bean.
She's so cute with her silky black hair
The two of us really make a pair.
I have to say her smile's a winner
She's the kinda girl I wanna take out to dinner.

I love my girl, yes she's my queen,
my beautiful little Jodie bean.
With cocoa eyes that gimme a thrill
when she looks into mine time stands still
A voice as soft as summer rain,
oh Lord my Love's gonna drive me insane

I love my girl, yes she's my queen,
My beautiful little Jodie bean

This was last Saturday night. We were at a rooftop party in downtown New Haven thrown by ‘DocHouse.’ Doc-House is kind of a frat-house, owned by Dr. Melon, where he and seven doctoral students live. My BF Peter lived there once - before he graduated and took a job in Geneva - that’s how I met Dr. Melon. I think Peter asked Melon to ‘keep an eye’ on me - because he texts me an invitation every week and people with multiple doctorates and doctoral students don’t usually hang with lowly undergraduates.

The invitation said ‘rooftop’ but we’re mostly on the third floor - not on the actual roof - because it’s about 39°f and windy out there tonight. The floor space was about seventy by a hundred feet, there were pillars but no walls. The space was lit by a million strings of white Christmas lights.

The party was packed and loud - so loud I was wearing ear plugs. Beach chairs and card tables were the furniture. There were foosball, pool and two ping-pong tables (one of those being used for "Beer Pong"). A karaoke machine patched into two Marshall amps and speakers acted as a DJ.

Of course, there was a bar. Everyone was supposed to bring something. We brought two bags of ice, two magnums of Gordon's gin, two fifths of Cinzano vermouth, a jar of large green olives and a box of toothpicks, because there’s always room for the proper anesthetic. Martinis aren’t a shiny, new hobby with me - they’re a lifelong passion that I only indulge in on weekends and in psychologically safe environments.

There were 7 in our party - Sunny, Lisa, Leong (three of my suitemates), Lisa’s BF David (a Wall Street M&A man), Andy (a carrot-topped chain-smoking divinity-school undergraduate friend of Sunny’s), Charles (our escort, and driver) and me.

We’d been there about 30 minutes when Jordie, a guy I’ve been sort of crushing on for several months, showed up - alone. Lisa turned to me and yelled, “Uuu, lookie lookie,” when she saw him - I barely heard her - but I read her lips. I’d never really talked to Jordie, but when I looked at him, through the warm, martini mist, my tummy felt like Jello-excitement.

As the night wore on, Jordie and I started hanging out. We lost at foosball, 8-ball and ping-pong before we went up on the roof to get some air. The silvery ½-moon crescent was obscured, off and on by clouds, like a shell game where the moon was a jewel on blue velvet. You could almost hear the operator’s smooth, practiced patter, “now you see it, now you don’t, place your bets.”

It was quiet up there, so we actually talked. Somehow, the vast night seemed intimate. As we talked, the conversation was delicate and careful, like the words were made of crystal.

A while later, Jordie and I were back downstairs dancing. The entire floor was coated with that gray-speckled covering - so you could dance anywhere - but a rectangle of police tape in that flooring defined the official ‘dance floor’.

Two hours later, we were watching Sunny sing karaoke while holding a fuchsia martini (just add raspberry liqueur) in one hand. When Sunny goes, she totes commits and belting out an angry, screamo version of ‘Ain’t it fun’ by Paramore, she tried for a Beyonce-like head-spin (don’t try this at home), and slung half of her drink on the crowd - but it didn’t slow her, or them, down. After finishing, to huge applause, she took several bows and coming back to our table, she asked Andy, “How was I?”
Andy held out his hand and lampooned her by waffling it, in a so-so gesture.
As Lisa handed Sunny a replacement cocktail, she told Andy “You don’t get it - it’s supposed to be awful.”
“Then it’s the best version of the song I’ve ever heard.” he replied, holding up his hands like she had a gun.

Jodie and I danced some more and after a while, someone played a slow song. As we moved close together, his subtle, boy musk was torturous and intoxicating. How come guys smell better when they’re all sweaty and I smell like a horse? Eight weeks of lonely boredom and three martinis (4?) were almost enough to churn the sweat of desire into the intoxicating liquor of consent. In my secret heart I wanted him. Badly. I wanted to take him home and smash against him for hours. Alas, I have a (missing) boyfriend and I don’t believe in oopsies.

At that very moment I saw Charles, standing silhouetted in one of the dance floor lights - he had our coats in hand. I swear, that man can read my mind. I glanced at my watch, 2:30am. I stopped close dancing with Jordie and stepped back. “I gotta go,” I told him.
“It was fun,” he said, shrugging and smiling.
“It WAS fun,” I agreed, taking my coat from Charles who’d come over. “(I’ll) See you next week,” I added, as everyone in our little caravan started to move.