step number one: read the book wintergirls.
tuck away every detail like you're cramming for a test.
dog-ear the pages and carry it with you like a travel guide.
decide that with your fingers and toes always icy cold for as long as you can remember,
you were destined to be a wintergirl.
reread it periodically, for inspirational purposes.

step two: download the myfitnesspal app.
use it to track every calorie you put into your body.
memorize that an oreo has seventy calories, an apple has one hundred, a cup of hot chocolate has eighty,
a bagel has two hundred seventy (a number that terrifies you),
and on and on and on.
let numbers float behind your eyes just before you go to bed,
and let them stay there as you throw off the covers to do guilty pushups and situps in your room
for twenty minutes (burning one hundred and twenty calories).
ignore the warnings shouted at you in red text
when you eat less than twelve hundred calories per day.
look at the projections it gives you for five weeks from now
with weights that seem both too small and too large at the same time.
when your net for the day hits the negatives after weeks of trying,
feel the slightest pang of satisfaction.

step three: find your "thinspiration".
make a tumblr just to look at pictures of jutting-out spines and thigh gaps and ribs.
hold your phone up next to your reflection in the mirror
and pick out everywhere your body differs from hers.
when the girls on the fitness blogs start looking too heavy for your goal,
find the eating-disorder blogs.
obsess over their bodies almost as much as you obsess over yours,
but not quite as much.

step four: begin losing weight.
imagine yourself floating away, feather-light.
imagine yourself becoming skin and bones.
imagine this as you drag your heavy body from class to class,
as your muscles waste from malnutrition.
imagine this as you have to clean your hairbrush out
three times while you work tangles from your hair.
imagine this as you snap at anyone and everyone,
as you spend hours locked in your room.

step five: become a poet and write about yourself.
romanticize your own demons, just by calling them demons.
use as many metaphors as you can,
to avoid the harsh language of the truth.
and especially avoid writing about the crippling guilt
that hits you when you eat too much,
you're fat you're worthless you'll never be anything,
and hits you when you don't eat enough,
what's wrong with you how did you let it get to this point
voices in your head never abating.
avoid writing about your lack of motivation and constant exhaustion and always,
always, use words that imply mystery.
describe your mind as foggy, call your body diminishing.
never say it how it is, because you could convince yourself to quit.
never say that it's torture and you're in pain
and you just wish you were eight again, never considering this path.
never say that you need help but you don't want help.

if you have the urge to say these things,
say only that this disorder is not one you would willingly give up,
because you finally have something to control.
because it is the truth,
but it is also the romanticized truth.

Beat out a rhythm
With my finger tips
All of the lyrics
Flowing from my lips.

A private dance party
When I'm all alone
I'm a Rockstar in my mirror
With my hairbrush microphone.

And maybe I'll be Rockstar
Someday, someday
Or just here in my bedroom
I have stage fright anyway.

Pump up the volume
No shirt, no pants
Jamming in my socks
My own private dance.

I do it just for fun
When I'm all alone
Rockstar in my mirror
With my hairbrush microphone.

1
The other day I saw a picture of you.
Shirt buttoned up to your throat,
Pants cutting off the blood circulation in your pelvis,
Shoes shining brighter than the north star,
And a smile being pulled across your cheeks
Like an archer pulling a bow string.
I smiled back at my computer screen.

2
I’ve listened to this album at least 30 times.
I own three versions of it.
UK deluxe, US deluxe, Target Deluxe.
Everything about you is deluxe.
Your eyes, your voice, your breath
As it passes through the microphone and into my ears.

3
I believe in fate
But not so much in destiny.
I don’t scream at my reflection anymore
And I’m described as independent.
For the most part.
I’m a pretty trustworthy person
And I promise I’m not that desperate.

4
The music ripples through my veins
As I whip my curls at the mirror.
The hairbrush pressed against my mouth
And I repeat the lyrics that roll past your lips so smoothly.

5
I can almost feel your arms
Wrap around my waist before I go to sleep.
I had a dream
You and I were together
And you were happy
And I was happy
And everyone was happy.
But I know if my dream became reality
No one would be happy.
Jealousy would taint the spit on other girls’ tongues
And the distance between
New Jersey and Australia is too much.
Even for me.

5
I can almost feel your arms
Wrap around my waist before I got to sleep.

5
I can almost feel you.

5
We have the same eye color.

6
We have the same hair color.

7
I am just an insecure girl.
You are taking over the world.
You are stepping in the soil of every state.
And you won’t look at me
Longer for three seconds in the New York City heat.

8
I never thought I would be one of those girls.
One of those girls
Who latch onto a boy’s identity,
Not knowing his soul
But knowing his spirit.
I’ve seen you three times.
You don’t even realize.
I try too hard and I’m convinced you notice this.

9
You are nine months older than me.
In your eyes I am just a baby.
My cocoon of pictures of you is the womb
I am being baked in.
You won’t follow me back on twitter.

10
You are just my celebrity crush
But you have such an impact on me.
Go back home.
Let me rest.
Go back to bed.
I’ll have that dream again
And I won’t speak of it
And no one has to know of this
Pathetic excuse for love I carry in me like a dead fetus.

10
You are just my celebrity crush.
It was never supposed to go this far.

10
You are just my celebrity crush.

10
You can never love me
The same way I love you.

When oh when will I meet my mistress?
I hope she has a lovely apartment or small home
She will wear her lovely black boots and designer jeans
And perhaps a **** blouse too

In the winter evening
We will have a nice fire

I will lie across her lap in only my *******
It will be so comforting to receive a firm spanking from her
It will be a loving spanking
Just firm enough to show she is in charge
But not too firm to make me cry

She pulls down my pink satin *******
Whap! Whap!
First 10 spanks with her hand
And then the next 10 with her wooden hairbrush
She used the hairbrush because
She thought I could have done a better job
Cleaning our kitchen floor

I have never been so happy to serve my mistress
I have prepared a lovely dinner prepared for her
After we eat
I will give her oral pleasure for as long as she desires
What a beautiful evening indeed

From the age of seven, I decided it was easier
to throw myself against a wall
than to cause any harm to the stuffed animal under my arm.

I attribute feelings to everything that can be touched
or confirmed by science –
on May 23rd, the wind wanted a companion,
by July, it lived with a birdhouse, in a happy yellow –

and so I fear hurting a chair,
suffocating my hairbrush through tangles, angering some
blankets left unused at the end of our bed.

I do not fear hurt, I fear causing it. I smack my head with a
fist when mother says
that sometimes punching pillows can help ease pain
because I need to stay on their good side.

Hello everybody. My name is Neal and I'm your tour guide.
The first creature that we will see is a koala, to your right. Do you know that koala's have fingerprints very similar to those of humans?
So much so that their prints have been mistaken for a human's at crime scenes?
Anyways, this leads us to ask some very important questions: are methods of finding criminals therefore unreliable? Is it truly possible to avoid imprisoning those that are innocent? Is reality merely an allusion?
Or, more importantly, was it my boyfriend John with the good fashion sense that took my hairbrush? Or was it that little ***** Bernard that is hiding in the top left corner?
Anyways, to your left you'll see our world renowned snail tank. Snails can sleep for up to three years at a time....

When I was three
And my mother brushed my hair
She parted it carefully
And braided it equally.
Two fat plaits
Hung as even as my stare.

When I was nine
And the hairbrush was my foe
Wild curls entwined
Personality defined.
Hair tangling
Faster than it could grow.

When I was fifteen
And hair hit the salon floor
I just wanted to be seen
So dyed it pink, blue and green.
Hair chopped short
Little girl no more.

Now I'm twenty-three
No longer in the nest
My parting is messy
And my braids escapee.
A hairy reminder
That mother knows best.

music.
there is no description for it
i could spend endless amounts of time 
thinking of every word that fits it

but the only one that fits,for me is

alive.


music makes me feel alive.


bass pounding, words screaming

i wish i could dance all day and all night

the music urges me, it tells me
to sing as loud as i can
and 
dance as hard as i can
soft guitar, voices whispering

the voices penetrate my mind 
the rhythm and melody raise goosebumps

tears in my eyes.
from pain?
happiness?

i don't even care.


I lose myself.

when music is on, I am gone.

I have left this world and entered
another one.
a better one.

a world full of endless love and beauty 
in this world,
anything is possible 
and I have a voice that angels would be jealous of

in this world, my dance enchants every person for miles

in this world, I dance on top of clouds


without music, there is no world

it is empty,
dark
and
 i am lost

instead of color,
it is merely 
black and white

there are few memories made

no singing with windows down

no dancing with hairbrush in hand

no songs to sing every word to

without music, there is no feeling
 of being alive

no feeling of anger,
sadness,
and complete
 bliss.



music is my soulmate.

my one true love

and we are going to live a long

and happy life together.

Take my saxophone
Take my piano
Take my guitar
Take my mandolin
Take my washboard
Take my harmonica
Take my sunglasses
Take my hairbrush
Take my Bible
Take my clothes
Take my trophies
Take my baton
Take my ballet shoes
Take my cane
Take my sword
Take my monkey
Take my collections
Take my cat
Take my house
Take my memories
Take my plans
My, that was a heavy load.
I feel so light.

There were raised voices. Ingrid heard them. Her father's booming voice over her mother's screech. She stirred in her small bed. Pulled the blankets over her shoulder. Sheltered by the thick ex army coat of her father's on top of the blankets she snuggled down trying to shut out the sounds. It was Saturday, no school. She hated school, hated the tormenting kids, the lessons, the teacher bellowing at her. Only Benedict talked kindly to her, only he made her laugh, took her on adventures round and about, the bomb sites, the cinema, the swimming pool in Bedlam Park. The voices got louder, there was a sound of glass smashing. Silence followed, her mother's screeching began again, her father's booming voices trying to drown her out. Ingrid pulled the blankets tighter around her. She daren't go out along the passage until it was over. Even though she needed to ***, she held it in, thought of other things. Her wire framed glasses lay on the bedside cabinet her mother had bought at a junk shop. The thick lens were smeary, the wire frame slightly bent where her father's hand had clipped them when he slapped her about the head for talking out of turn. There was a small cut on her nose where the glasses had caught. A radio began to play, the voices had stopped. A door slammed. Her father had gone out. She poked her head out of the blankets. Music filtered through into her room from the radio. She got out of bed and stood on the wooden floor boards. Her clothes: dress, cardigan, underwear and socks were laid neatly on a chair where she'd folded them the night before. She opened the door of her bedroom and ventured down the passage to the toilet and shut the door and put the bolt across and sat down. The music played on. Her mother began to sing. She had weak voice, kind of like a child's. Ingrid played with her fingers. Pretended to knit, as her mother had unsuccessfully tried to show her, with imagined knitting needles. As she sat she felt the bruise on her left buttock. Her father's beating of a day or so ago. She knitted faster, fingers racing. She stopped dropped a stitch as her mother called it. She left the toilet and went to wash in the kitchen sink. She wished they had a bathroom like her cousin did. Her parent's bath was in the kitchen with a table that was let down when not in use. She washed in the cold water, her hands and face and neck. Dried on the towel behind the door. Her mother came in carrying a cup and saucer. She set it down on the draining board and looked at Ingrid. Get yourself some breakfast and then get dressed, if your father catches you in that state, he won't half have a go, her mother said. Ingrid went into the living room and got a bowl from the glass fronted cupboard and a spoon from the drawer and poured herself some cereals and added milk from a jug on the table and sat to eat. Her mother brought in a mug of tea for her and put it on the table and went off to the bedroom to make the bed. The music from the radio played on from the living room window she could see the streets below, the grass area beneath with the two bomb shelters left over from the War where she and other sat or climbed or played around. Over the street was the coal wharf where coal lorries and horse drawn wagons loaded up with sacks of coal. She ate her cereals. A train went across the railway bridge over the way;puffs of smoke rose in the air. Below boys played on the grass. One of the boys had offered her 6d to see her underwear, but she had refused. He shrugged his shoulders and said your loss and wandered off. 6d would have bought her sweets, a drink of pop, but she had her pride. She finished her breakfast and sipped her tea. Warm and sweet. She let her tongue swim in the tea. Benedict said he would buy her some chips after the morning film matinée at the cinema. Her mother said she would give her 9d for the cinema, but not to tell her father. As if she would, she mused, watching a horse drawn wagon leave the coal wharf. She drank the tea and took mug, spoon and bowl into the kitchen  and washed them up and left them on the draining board. She went to her bedroom and took off her nightdress. The mirror on the old dressing table showed a thin pale looking nine year old girl with short cut brown hair and squinting brown eyes. She only saw a blur. She put on her glasses and peered at herself. No wonder the boys laughed at her and the girls avoided her. Only Benedict was friendly to her. He said she was pretty. She couldn't see it, the prettiness. She turned. Over her thin shoulder she saw the bruises on her buttocks. Fading. Bluey greeny yellowish. She walked to get her clothes off the chair and began to dress. She wished she had a cleaner dress, she'd worn that one for nearly a week. The cardigan had holes and there were buttons missing. She did up what buttons there were and brushed her hair with the hairbrush her gran had given her. It had stiff bristles and a large wooden handle. She stood in front of the mirror and peered at herself. She put the 9d her mother had given her in her pocket. Ready or not Benedict would be there soon. He knocked his own special knock. Once her father answered and glared at Benedict and asked what he wanted. Benedict said, to see the prettiest girl in the world. Her father glared harder, Benedict simply smiled. How did he do that? How did he do that to her father? There was a tensive wait, her father glaring and Benedict looking passive. Then her father called her to the door and said, this here boy asked for the prettiest girl in the world; he must have got the wrong address. Ingrid went red and looked at Benedict. No, right address and girl, Benedict said,looking by her father's brawny arm at her. How she managed not to wet herself she didn't know. Her father just walked back indoors and left them to talk on the balcony without any more words and she never got a beating afterwards, either. Now she waited for that special knock. That rat-rat and rat-rat. She smiled at her reflection. Prettiest girl. Ugliest more like. Rat-rat and rat-rat. He was there. He'd come. She could hear his voice. She took one last look at herself in the mirror, wet fingered she dabbed at her hair. Time to go, time to get out of there. Her knight in jeans and jumper had come on a white horse to take her away; imaginary of course.

It goes back forty summers to a hot August night.
This cold case I’m working with no end in sight.
The girl, Leslie Zaret, was last seen alive
At the Pioneer tavern, she was standing outside.
Main Street runs North- South on Queensboro Hill.
She was ten blocks from home on that night she was killed.

She accepted a ride- was it someone she knew?

A Janitor found her- cold naked and dead
In a schoolyard in Bayside, the old reports said.
She was ***** with a hairbrush, no ***** was found.
The girl had been strangled, but hadn’t been bound..

If the killer was male- was he impotent too?

The victim was pretty, with long Brunette hair.
She never came home and her parents despaired.
My cops cleared the boyfriend, her ex- boyfriend too.
Still we always believed it was someone she knew.
She attended  John Bowne, a high school nearby.


Was the killer a classmate? She was too young to die.

Her class graduated, now grown old and gray.
Most stayed in town although some moved away.
Some have passed on and are taking their rest
But none died liked Leslie with her neck tightly pressed.
People will talk, surely some must suspect
I think someone knows something
about poor Leslie’s death.
Please come forth from the shadows, help me solve this crime.

Leslie’s waited for justice for a very long time.

you have a bathtub for a bed
    hairbrush as a mic
no roof over your head
    go everywhere on your bike

wall for a friend
     stone for a sole
running water is merely Godsend
      being materialistic was never your goal

i offered you money
                          love
                            ­ companionship
but those offers fell to the floor

"i ain't no charity,"
and you were already out the door.

SOMEWHERE IN MIRROR MIRROR LAND

she belts out a tune
into her pink hairbrush
he plays lead tennis racket

the mirror watches their every move
a bird listens on a tree outside
joins in every now and then

they are recording their songs
over Mum's BEST OF ABBA
it's better Mum doesn't know this

Dad bangs on the ceiling
with the sweeping brush
"Hey...that's quite niffty!"

later they grow up to be
Punk Goths they call themselves
PINK HAIRBRUSH AND A TENNIS RACKET

You are, almost
Tell me your first memory of happiness.

Maybe a swing set above wood chips or
collecting ladybugs in your pockets or
a perfectly cut sandwich you didn't make
or the smell of grass mixed with chlorine
and sunscreen coating your skin under
a sky brighter than any future imaginable.
Pink frosting from cake dyes palms
into a canvas of sugary pigment
A popsicle melting down between
the webbing of eager fingers
Teeth are covered in chocolate and
face a mess and
all smiles,
it is funny how joy always seems
to be synonymous with
sweetness and
giggles and
the memory of being too young to remember anything fully.

19 is poison for a clock
it is reminder to wake up
after pretending to be
something you were not for too long
time is eating away the comfort
from your bones, I wonder
does candy still taste like candy
when it has grown stale?
when the shell has cracked and
all that remains is what's inside,
is it still desirable then?
will people still want to know
what you feel like against their tongue
after you've already touched the ground?

The same texture but time
has made its evidence on you tangible
The juice once spilling from your hands
has become wine
The summer sparklers have become remnants of
cigarettes on your nail buds,
ashes of trying to forget,
you are no longer afraid of fireworks
the hairbrush holds another version of yourself,
a near stranger with similar freckles who
once insisted on only wearing dresses,
now you struggle just to get shoes on,
it was easier when someone did it all for you,
everything is, that way.
I don't know when laughing became
a side effect instead of a soundtrack but
it still rings familiar, sometimes.

19 is more sour than lost
it is possible to know whereabouts with
a bitterness between your lips but
not all of your past is disintegrating
there is a love for saccharine that still remains,
more honey than cloying and
19 may be taunting down a candle to its wick
asking to be noticed but
it is ready to be uncovered
19 is golden
You are, almost.

If morning was
too brief to trim
those pine tree prickles
off of your lower limbs, it's okay.
Step 1: ***** hose.

After a mirror's
glance, you will be tempted to panic.
Step 2: Stay calm. Peel
the dead animal
off the side of your cheek.
Let the hairbrush
paste the fly-aways
into a hot, greased bun.

How easy it is
to experience a wardrobe malfunction.
Remember to keep it simple.
Step 3: Slip on
that black pencil skirt,
the polyester one--not
the leather.

No one needs to know
that you were up late
watching sitcom reruns. Remove
the screaming purple rings.
Step 4: make-up. Base
is your friend.

You are now prepared.
Smear on
your finest ruby red
lips, and tuck in
your leopard-print
bra strap.
Step 5: Strut your
stuff. Retail has never seen
such class.

She likes fashion and interviews. I like getting lost.
Sometimes she grabs my bulge,
as she drinks from an aluminum flask.
She told me to rhyme something with 'flask'.
I said, "Fine. In your life, you've been wearing a mask.
But I can see. And you can see. They can't see.
That you are a detached, blond doll
and your back is against the wall,
as I kiss your neck until you're dead."
She said to rhyme something with 'dead'.
I said, "Fine. You ******* in my head.
And it's quarrelsome
that they don't see that you're numb.
I'd pull on your lip, with my teeth.
Dig my hand between your legs.
Just to make you feel. Just to make you feel.
And I study your hairbrush
to see that there are too much
strands of memories from melodies
that lay dormant in ballrooms
and scented kisses
that drip of the misses
in your life and mine."
She said **** me with your words.
I refused because I'd rather watch her bloom
in my dreams than the seams of
a fiber noose that rings loose
the bell in your neck
that sounds until birds fly
and we die-
You look at me,
"Home."

Her hair is straight and long,
black as ebony, lips are pink
but she isn’t quite Snow White.
Her skin is tanned and her face has spots,
she isn’t that tall and she doesn’t have any curves
At all.
However, much like Snow White, they both share
A common taste in clothes,
shoes,
favourite things,
and a difficult, struggling life.
Like Snow White, she wears this
Tattered and Torn
And ugly and mismatched
outfit that said,
“HEY! I’m the biggest dork in the world!”
because she can’t afford nicer clothes. But they are warm and comfortable,
just perfect.
Just like Snow White, she is kind and sweet
She is full of respect and care for others
And never wished bad luck upon those
Who are more fortunate than her.
Maybe a little difference between them was that
Snow White was a princess; she’s just a peasant
Born to a family of nine.
Snow White knew manners, but she does not.
How could she? She is just a humble, simple woman from the poor villages
Homes under leafy roofs in Southern Myanmar.
She tries to learn, oh yes she does,
And I even taught her not to dig
her nose when I spoke to her,
or raise her voice but rather
be just gentle and soft, like the breeze blowing over
the grass in a sunlit meadow, soft and sweet, soft and sweet.
One night, when I was just casually talking to her
It led to me and my little brother
We went to take a look
At how she lived, in a three storey block
Just across from mine
But what a surprise, I couldn’t believe what I saw!
My legs were curled in, hands over my knees I sit
On the bed with its hard wood, just a thin mat
Simply lying over it.
When you sleep, wouldn’t you knock against it?
How painful and uncomfortable it must be, sleeping on
A board and nothing more.
I wonder if she ever had a decent sleep,
A blanket to curl in when the rain beats down,
A form of warmth and comfort to shield from the striking hand
Of life that torments us every second?
She also had some friends
But small ones, they were, and grey and small
With whiskers on the faces and cheekily as they were,
They hide among the trash her roommate dumped at the door,
Just like on the ceiling, webs fluttering when a breeze rolls in,
Because tiny spiders have made it their home.
Squeaks from those hidden corners,
Mysterious movements we can’t see
I ask her if she’s okay with all these pests, but she just shrugs and says,
“Meh. I don’t mind them.”
I wouldn’t be able to sleep.
The room is small,
So low and narrow,
Barely with space to breathe.
Or move about, or change!
Just stuck in the sullen room,
No space, no space, no space.
It’s just a place where you sleep (uncomfortably, with no sheets)
And suffer through the night when the wind bites you with their icy teeth.
I ask her, “What’s your name?”
She tells me it’s May Thu and I nod.
May Thu doesn’t have much.
All her possessions could easily slide into
The smallest of all the backpacks
And yet you’d have space to squeeze me in, too.
Toothbrushes, soap. A broken mirror and a hairbrush.
Some clothes and that’s all she has.
And yet, she’s happy and I realise
There’s no end to people’s greed. It’s something you have to
Put ******* in to widen it, so that you can dump a whole lot of
Material desires, and maybe two elephants,
Just so you could satisfy its perennial hunger.
It’d be hungry by the next hour.
When May Thu starts telling me stories about her brothers
And sisters
And goes through each of their names,
Her eyes glisten and a tinge of red, just slightly washes over
Her white eyeballs and her nose twitches,
With the smallest sign of reminiscence.
Her parents are pretty old, and they’ve got nine children to support.
But they’ve got older kids who can take care of themselves, but
With a gaping hole in their wallets, who’d mend it and fill it with money?
Only the kids, but it’s hard, May Thu says, and I can feel her throat tense,
she feels that lump you get when you want to cry,
but your throat hurts and it’s simply too dry.
May Thu wishes and yearns of a day
Just once, if she could, just once
Be rich for once and know the feeling-
being free of all duties.
May Thu is sad, a storm cloud has settled onto
Her troubled mind.
An idea swims up to me and whispers as May Thu says,
“I like checkered shirts.”
The idea winks and whispers that,
Maybe it’s time I give a little gift.
I grab my green flannel shirt, so big and so warm
Fashionable and comfy. Just right.
“There you go!” I tell May Thu
She looks at me with grateful eyes,
And seems to sing inside her mind,
May you be well, happy and at ease.
Thank you for making me life a little more complete!
When it’s time to leave,
I can’t bear to go. But the last I saw of May Thu was a happy smile
And I can feel it in my heart, the warm and the sweet.
I’m ever so grateful of whatever I have, and don’t spend my money
On nonsense I don’t need.
I’ve learnt that I didn’t need anything anymore.
I already have them, in front of my eyes, and they were all free!
All these things I’ve learnt, are from someone special.
You taught me that I didn’t need a swimming pool
when I have the River  Right  In  Front  Of  Me.

A hairbrush lies on the middle of a bare dresser
As dust cascades beside a sunlit window pane

A telephone rings out in an empty apartment
As the rain glows underneath a streetlight outside

A balloon is caught and disappears in the wind
Below the field of corn that murmurs as it bends

And that door doesn't close. I don't want it to close.

"Bing Bing" goes my alarm.
It's 6am, time for my day to start. I let out a groan as I stretch my arms up into the air. I've gotten used to my early mornings. Realisitically, I could get up at 7:30 and still be there on time, but I appreciate the morning hours I have to myself, it's usually the only time I have to myself.

I pull myself up and sit at the end of the bed and run my right hand through my hair while I listen to the sound of semi- occasional cars and buses tour by. The buses probably contained early risers like myself, either trying to get to work or tourists making it back home, wherever their home was. We get a lot of tourists around this time, when the maximium heat goes on it's own vacation and replaced with fleecy clouds and the occasional dance of rain. This then leads me to believe that the tourists must come from colder countries if they opted out of the Summer weather we have to offer.

Then again, I can't exactly say I blame them, I've lived here most of my life and even I have the tendancy to go into a complete vampire-like state and pull over the curtains and stay in the shade and safety of my own home until the sun starts to set.

Cars are usually driven, at this hour anyway, by people that have lengthy jobs, the kind of jobs that if you call in sick more than three times a year your head was soon to be on the chopping block, heaven forbid you should ever have to ask to leave as your signficant other is in labour, you'd be shot there and then.

These people had the kind of jobs that involved working for an average pay, under a boss you'd rather kick between the legs with a pair of steel, cone- shapped studded shoes. The kind of job that meant sacrificing any sort of social life, or family, or relationship because you need the money to pay off the loan on that grotesque little apartment you have in an area where being robbed or being within a five mile radius of drugs or drug users themselves is all but very common.

I feel sorry for these people, I really do. Hence why I know I'm lucky with what I have.

Light ****** through the tall windows and the light breeze sends the satin curtain fluttering. I make the short journey from my bedroom to the bathroom with a light thud with each step, stepping on yesterday's clothes as I do. One day swore to myself that I'd end up being my own death sentence if I didn't start picking the clothes up of the floor. That I'd get my toes caught in the neck of a shirt and down I go, crack my head on the floor and who'd be there to call an ambulance? I literally bring the term 'a trainwreck waiting to happen' to an entire new meaning. I'm not sure if I should be proud, scared, or writing my own will, you know, just in case.

Flicking on the light in the bathroom seemed like a good idea at the time, again, the whole 'trainwreck' attribute didn't need to be made even more apparent by me slipping on something and killing myself. Could you imagine if, morbid, I know, I did in fact slip and die right here. The tax collector would come find me once he realised I hadn't paid my bills in three months, only to then call the police who then find me in a sorry state on the floor in my underwear with a cracked head and a big pool of blood radiating from it. Oh how very attractive.

They'd then call my family and friends and somehow come to the conclusion that I was an early bird and that I was getting ready to start my day when I had the imponderable misfortune of killing myself. Investigators would come in and look futher into the situation, see if there were any signs of 'foul play' or was it really just an 'accident' and then they'd (for whatever reason, I don't know, just go along with it) look up and see that the lights were never turned on. Then they'd take this minuscule but yet all so relevant piece of evidence and merge it with the fact that I was an early bird. Their conclusion would be something along the lines of this:

"It started off like any other Monday morning. This woman was going to the bathroom, perhaps to take a shower, when she slipped and fell, hitting her head off the marble floor which hence caused the fatal concussion on her head. Upon futher investigation we learned that the bathroom lights had, in fact, never been turned on so her vision was not prompted and this was the main factor in this death."

"Upon intensive investigative work, ( 'intensive investigative work' my hole, you were only here five minutes and you now think you're Sherlock ****** Holmes) we have concluded that this woman's death was nothing more than an accident of human error and that she was, in fact, a *****."

Imagine having that written in the paper about you? My mother would be so proud.

Anyway, just to clarify, I did turn on the bathroom lights, I'd be a bit upset if the story ended here, wouldn't you? You'd close the book, throw it on something around you within a relatively close proximity (at least that's what I'd hope) and let out an angry sigh along with the words, "well, what a waist of five minutes that was."

After the feeling of acid being slowly dripped into my eyes faded, I was able to see. The white marble floor stared back at me, I wonder if this is what it feels like to stare are a dead person, you know? With a white face staring at you and everything. Anyway, I remeber getting this marble put down and how much I hated it even before I bought it. You see, it wasn't my idea, it's was someone else's flirtation of an idea that soon turned into someone else's definitive decision and here we are today.

I can't say I hate it now, I mean having to see something every day for more than one occassion somewhat forces you to get used to something.

Shame is that the same thing can't be said for some of the people in my life.

I took of the clothes I wore to bed, which was nothing more than a old red shirt with an aging beer logo on it and my underwear.
When I come home I'm usually physically, emotionally and spiritually drained, clothing means little to nothing to me.

Finding the will to drag each limb into the shower took some effort, but I got there eventually. The rush of water from my head all the way to my toes feels heavnily, absolutely brilliant. This, this is probably one the best moments of my mornings when I'm alone. It's more than just a place to clean, shave and get out, oh no, it's much more than that for me. It's the cylindrical scope at which I conjugate my best plans and ideas, where fantasize about the idea of being famous and also where I think I can reach the same vocal cords as Christina Aguilera and still sound good, unfortunately, that last part is really all in my head.

I sing some song I've had stuck in my head for the past four days that I heard while I was at a bar with friends and reach for the shampoo. Only problem is, I can't find it. Well, that's not all true, I know its there, but I just don't know where the geographical location of 'there' is. There's bottles of everything under the sun on this shower rack alongside soaps, a lilac luffa glove and a blue hairbrush that isn't even mine. See, these are the trials you face when you share a living space with someone. Nothing belongs to you anymore, absolutely nothing.

I finally find the right shampoo and conditioner, clean myself with a bodywash that smells like vanilla and leave the shower. Wrapping a towel around myself I go to the sink to brush my teath, there's no point in putting my hair up in a towel, it's to short for that.
Once all the obstacles in the bathroom have been defeated it's time to get dressed.

Standing, and looking aimlessly into my closet for my underwear, I decide what todays attire is going to consist of. I flick back and forth through the rack like a woman in a store thats actually got time to spend looking through the same item of clothing just in fourty different shades of the same colour. I have to admit, my closet doesn't differ all that drastically, it's all just black, white, navy and the occasional pop of burgundy. I don't do colour, it's just not my thing.

Oh, by the way , I'm Prideux.

Je suis très heureux de faire votre connaissance.

even hegel read jakob böhme                   (boo m'eh) -
to keep the democratic spirit - obviously the Kardashians don't
know a hairbrush from a toothbrush - but that hardly matters -
what matters is how Pearl Harbour turned into karaoke applause -
the idea of an american in europe: spaghetti slurping  -
even that considering the "special"
       relationship of anglophiles -
    anatomy of antagonism:
        spaghetti swindlers of talk -
slurping that tangle into an easily sold
global affair would never juice up the idea
to think about my neighbour as someone
i'd care to be;
          and as common with the postmortem
childhood educators, the curriculum of such
people always stated: learn otherwise -
       no wonder their screened the
personal vanities of Versailles in the 21st century
coming from the 18th and 17th century -
learn the truths concerning the genesis
of the 21st century in the 24th century at least...
i'm under the righteous impression:
most of the people i live with have
been savaged by science fiction,
and the slowness of science in itself
that they are tattooed with a care for now,
but never tomorrow... imagine living in a society
that pays its workers in month's wages than
in week's wages... can you imagine it?
the two re- debate: again quick (reflexive),
and the again slow (reflective) -
if i'm glorifying the latter than the former?
oh, that question... you have to reply with:
usury and why the libido of old men
equips young girls to the same libido,
and why young men are worthy of a war memorial
and the mud of trenches...
and why young men can't with enzyme-fervour
bind of the satiated young woman sexually
compete... and why so many say: **** it.
one *** spends its youth barraged by usury -
and all other hamster wheels,
the other *** parties with the cocksure crowd:
and then you expect a withstanding human bond?
ha ha.    forget it... hey lady, how's that old man
treating you? he's the pope, i know.
                         forged from the Martian
        ashen heat cooling: in how she thought
the two would meet and raise a family in the mythology
of Eden... when she got paid her student fees
by sugar daddies, and he got spit to extract feeding
handshakes - that only turned into jacking off
                                                                ­      gambles.    
  she now the happy soul fathomed as the bigoted
              entrenchment in this world: as forever
  and if only trying: then at least expecting war
to solidify the point.
                just the other day in Camden Market:
she's complaining about her libido with older men,
   he's complaining: your problem is that you go
for older men... oh ****, then all the problems of
natural correlative assertions, and children to
masquerade the real problems... and pop culture
and what's being gagged (apart from the gimp,
forever caged and clad in leather, and a mouth
that's really an ****) -           the children suffer
    from would otherwise been a beneficial anti-evolutionary
suggestion: that i was recipient of the outside environment,
rather than the inside environment of some benefiting
sir esquire toff -                 give me my tail and fur back!
   i don't care for gymnastics or vogue! give it back!
******! this ain't an improvement,
                 who heard of primeval predators building
guillotine scaffolds (although, i admit, that's humane) -
or ****** Mary being beheaded with a blunt blade -
or gas chambers... when i think of tigers i think of
humanity greater than man with his apple i7 phone -
i think of vampires... i find it hard to believe
we evolved from what was already perfect...
                   to improve what? we were always outsiders...
    narrators - then again, if i'm the sort of
"creationist" scumbag, then i can just say:
Chinese and Welsh dragons and dinosaurs...
   and to be honest: history is obsolete given the
two timescales of the big bang (what a ****** name
to start things off... heard a bang in a vacuum?) -
              and monkey -
                                             which is no wonder
why history died given the timescales, and why we
are overly saturated with journalism, the 24 hour reels
and nothing really happening in those 24 hour counting
                   mechanisms:
which is no surprise journalism resurrected a pseudo-dialectics,
   i.e. an opinions section - and there they are,
like third world dictators, unchallenged, journalistic
freedom is the last thing to fight for right now,
   not when journalists don't have any journalism to give,
  and invoke the need to be opinionated,
and in thus being the above said: unchallenged.
                 Colonel Falafel? sign me up!

It’s the fallen strap of her blue shift
fallen from her shoulder.
There, just a glimpse of a gold ring on her left hand
as the hand gathers, between forefinger and thumb,
the drop to her waist of lustrous hair,  chestnut brown, still.
So with the left arm and shoulder unclothed, the fold
in her forearm hides her breast's slight swell.

She has long eyebrows, a broad forehead.
See, the hint of a hairbrush in her right hand.
The nose is thin and perhaps a little long
for beauty. Lips set, almost pursed,
she is looking into nowhere:
a dream, some enchantment?
No, she sees the harbour this morning
before the sun rose when, sleepless,
she walked out, not far, but barefoot.
Hardly a slip of wind to stir
the hem of her slight dress,
only the sound of sea’s breathing,

Later in her studio
(before Leonard wakes)
Nancy sits in front of her latest canvas.
Having bunched up her dress
well above her sun-stained knees,
she grasps a palette knife:
to scour here, scrape, scrape into paint there.
Pausing, momentarily
she looks into and beyond the image . . .

Today, later, she will stand in that pose
she knows he loves, where she (before bed),
brushing her long lustrous chestnut hair,
lets the blue strap of that calico shift
fall - and rest – held loosely against
golden flesh of her upper arm.

music. there is no description for it
i could spend endless amounts of time
thinking of every word that fits it
but the only one that fits, for me is
alive.

music makes me feel alive.

bass pounding, words screaming
i wish i could dance all day and all night
the music urges me, it tells me
to sing as loud as i can and
dance as hard as i can
soft guitar, voices whispering
my soul responds with hunger
more. more. more.
the voices penetrate my mind
the rhythm and melody raise goosebumps
tears in my eyes. from pain? happiness?
i don't even care.

lose yourself.
when music is on, i am gone.
i have left this world and entered
another one. a better one.
a world full of endless love and beauty
in this world, anything is possible
in this world, i am sara bareilles
and i have a voice
that angels would be jealous of
in this world, my dance enchants every person for miles
in this world, i dance on top of clouds
and when i sing, music notes float
from my voice in perfect pitch

without music, there is no world
it is empty, dark and
i am lost
instead of color, it is merely
black and white
without music, i am a drug addict
trying to recover
i sweat, i shake and have the urge
without music
there are little memories made
no singing with windows down
no dancing with hairbrush in hand
no songs to sing every word to
without music, there is no feeling
of being alive
no feeling of anger, sadness, and complete
bliss.


music is my soulmate.
my one true love
and we are to live a long
and happy life

If we’re not careful we’ll destroy,
and all too soon, the privateness
of the local: what we come to own
when we walk out of the box of home
into the anywhereness of outside.

Let’s not say too much,
but keep what we find
to ourselves. Maybe share it
with the one whose heart
lies close before sleep.
Draw it, certainly:
her hanging dress, the kicked off shoes,
even that hairbrush you bring to your lips
to taste her, your tongue touching
her hair’s fine curl and tangle lying adrift
amongst the noduled prongs.

Let these things speak
of what is not there. Or, rather,
of what is not there in front of us.

I have one grandmother
And one grandfather.
Cousin Kate has two of each.
When I was young she tried to teach
My to call them Nana B
And Dadda B respectively,
But I guess that was too hard for me
So I just call them
Nana and B.

Nana looks a lot like mom
Except she's got more wrinkles on.
And lipstick that's a perfect pink
And dog treats underneath her sink
And a silver hairbrush,
Creams for foots,
And on occasion she calls me "*****".

My B, he's from Pier-Dip-Pah-Too.
His real name's John
(My brother's too!)
And B works on the radio
And tells me things I didn't know
About boats. And on the holidays
He always serves glasses
Of Seven-Sideways.

In my family we have this tradition
Called "the annual lake freeze competition".
My aunts and uncles, they all guess
Then me, of course, then all the rest
Which day Lake Ontario
Will freeze right over
So we know
Who. Gets. The Trophy.

Nana, she records the dates
And then with B she sits and waits
Day in, day out
They watch the lake
For one fine day
When no wave breaks the ice
...and someone wins The Trophy.

(One year the lake never froze and there was NO WINNER. My dad is obsessed with Global Warming and no he always votes anti-freeze.)

Now today's my day: January 21st
And I'm so excited I could almost burst
Cause I just know that phone
That's ringing
Is the call to inform me
Of my winning.

Gasp It's for me!

Hand me the phone, Mother ,
Give it here.
Why hello, Nana!
(She says "hello, dear")
Oh. I didn't win.
Well that's okay.
B says its a gamble this game we play.
Turns out it froze yesterday
And the trophy goes to
Cousin Kate??!!

Next year I think I'll vote anti-freeze
And I'll throw big rocks right through the ice.
Or maybe my brother, he'd suffice.
It's just not fair! Kate's won it twice!
But I did get to talk to Nana and B
...and that was nice.

say cowboy.
say hot dog.
say ice cream.
say baseball.
see, the step into the sound booth is an awkward height,
about 6 inches off the ground,
and i find myself raised on a pedestal,
sealed in for you to inspect,
watching you and an audiologist
through a glass window,
watching you decide my future
as you face away from me
so i cannot read your lips
and you cannot see me shouting stop.

say airplane,
say sidewalk,
say you might hear static in your right ear
but i know i will only hear a tone,
an electronic beep going on and on and on

say conducive hearing loss say sensoneurial damage say surgery say it might be permanent this time,
like it hasn't been permanent for the last ten years,
say there's a new technique say we can fix this,
say negative impact on social life, say poor classroom performance,
say we just want what's best for you,
say try hearing aids try CIs try cued speech,
say you need to be fixed.

it's been a decade since i first entered that sound booth,
noises not echoing off these walls that take a little more from me with every test.
it's been a decade since my hearing slipped away and
i am done mourning it but i don't think you are.

persistence is a valuable trait but stop trying,
stop putting me under with an x on my right cheek so the surgeons know how to lay me out on the operating table,
stop refusing to turn on the captions because i need the practice,
stop talking to me without tapping me first,
stop screaming at me when i mishear.

i am done mourning my hearing and i don't know if i ever grieved in the first place but you are still stuck in the stage of denial,
hoping against hope for some ******* miracle.
i don't want a miracle, i don't want anything god can give me because i am not lacking, i am whole, i already am the miracle you were looking for and i don't need to be fixed.

but you don’t believe that, do you?

so the audiologist can open the heavy soundproof door but i am still trapped inside this box,
the walls swallowing my words as you decide my future for me because
no one wants to listen to those who cannot hear.

say stop sign,
say hairbrush,
say push the button when you hear the beep
and i hold it down with my thumb,
gripping the clicker like the handle of a gun
until you tell me to let go.
but i hear deserts stretching away from me,
flat sci-fi dreamscapes where there is only one sound and i can hear it too.

say tinnitus,
say psychosomatic because you don't believe that i might hear infinity where you tell me i shouldn't.
say hole in the eardrum say the surgery might have accelerated the deterioration,
say we can try again but
i gave up ten years ago and i think you should too,
and i'm here in this sound booth screaming for you to stop
but you will not look at me,
will not even attempt communication.

no one wants to listen
to those who cannot hear.

currently poland has a catholic conservative organising party of power, which means you'll get great pop hits like: africa by t.o.t.o. in clamour karaoke format... kara oke... new form of hara kiri... get that ******* mike into the wheat fields and bury it! so inventing new japanese phrasing... KARA OKE means plagiarising a song so so hard, that arteries start bulging out of your neck... which makes sense to never spot it on opera singers... because they're bubbly bubbles phat... pass me the hairbrush... i'm about to shing in the singing cubicle of running water.

there's a reason why
rock stars et al.
are famous...
they're basically crowd
control, crowd control
stewards, pacifiers
of the mob who have
a guillotine hidden
under one girl's skirt...
and aristocrats don't like
that... no precious...
so now in encore all together:
CLAP IF YOU'RE HAPPY
CLAP HAPPY CLAP IF YOU'RE HAPPY;
****** my pants i did,
thinking it out... feels good
to not feel jealous about
such professions designated a stage
and a *thank you speech,
but oddly enough such crowd
control professions attract the biggest
dross of jealousy...
while the one hundred and ten year old
sikh guy keeps jogging, at his age so fast,
that his turban falls off...
no one's jealous of him;
he's got twenty great-grandchildren
and i'd rather be jealous of that...
the definite concentration of mortality
extending into a comparative blink of a god.

One day it all just fell apart.
You were the closest thing to my heart.
We went from laughing, and talking,
to ignoring, and fighting.
I don’t know how it went down.
We slowly drifted apart.
You were the best thing that happened to me.
Now all I have is me.
I lost my best friend that day,
In the most horrible way.
Growing up shouldn’t exist,
if it means splitting, the Twins.
I miss the walks.
I miss the talks.
I miss the goofing around.
You were the one person that accepted me for me.
And not for someone else.
I miss cuddling up and watching a movie.
I miss singing in the hairbrush and being all groovy.
I miss going into your room and telling you, I couldn’t sleep.
Cause I’d know you’d stay up, even if it was just for me.
I don’t know who I’d be,
if I didn’t have you.
I don’t know what I’d do,
if I was forced to live with you.
But I’ll try to move on.
I’ll try to be strong.
I’ll try to be the best me
that I could ever be.
But I miss running up and giving you hugs.
Discussing how gross are bugs.
I miss seeing your face at the dinner table.
I miss saying “I’m sorry” for whatever did.
I guess all in all.
I just miss YOU.

How do I look in this dress?
Walt’s wife asked him as she
Did a twirl in the bedroom.
Yeah, fine, Walt slowly replied.

But you’re not even looking at
Me, she said. Walt turned his
Head from the small TV screen
And gazed at her. Yeah, you look

Fine. It’s not too short is it? She
Asked. No, not too short, Walt
Said, his eyes looking at the TV
Screen once more as the ballgame

Hotted up. How about my ***,
Does it look ok? Sure, said Walt.
Sure, what? She asked, my ***
Is too big in this? Is that what

You’re saying? Yeah, Walt replied,
His eyes focusing on the pass of
Ball. How can you be so insensitive.
Why you’re not even looking at me.

DOES MY *** LOOK BIG IN THIS?
She bellowed. Walt turned around
And at stared at his wife sticking out
Her ***. No, no, he said, just right

Honey, the best *** I’ve seen today.
What other *** have you seen today,
Then? She said. Walt sighed, he’d
Missed a good hit. What do you

Want to know now? Walt asked.
Whose *** you seen today? She said.
I haven’t seen any ***, Walt replied.
He studied his wife as she twirled

Again. That’s a bit short isn’t it, Walt
Said, and a bit tight. Makes your ***
Look like two piglets under canvas
Fighting to get out. A hairbrush flew

Across the room missing Walt’s head
As his wife stormed into the bathroom
And slammed the door. That’s ok Honey,
That’s what we ******* husband’s are for.