From the archive: I did sing to you, dreams

I did sing to you, your dreams (long)
As the moon did shine upon us
Come hither, to the grove
Deep inside the big Forrest

I did sing to you, your dreams
I did sing to you, your dreams

You did sleep upon the leaves of autumn
And woke upon springs first rain
The fires of summer did come again!

And thats how we met,
In time again and times that pass
We meet again, and then we part

Four of us will meet again,
Four of us when sleep began

I did sing to you, your dreams
I did sing to you, your dreams

Well meet again and meet to part
Feet will take to the path
March upon the winters ground

And thats how we met,
In time again and times that pass
We meet again, and then we part
and then we part…

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From the Archive: Cuddles

Cuddles are nice, and good for you too
Cuddles thrice, with food in your belly
feels and good as it could
I wish I could cuddle all my life

Cuddles make me feel,
all gooey and good
they change my mood
and hold me to you

Cuddles make me and you so happy
so lets have some cuddles tonight!

Mysterious Caribina

A rock face looks at the sunset beach

As I climb towards your love

Each place to hold my hands, to drop would be certain death

Breath, and hold me tight upon this country facing jade

My cave heart, it’s gentle beating heard from eagles to insects wings

I reach you, up upon this place we always meet and love

Gently as the other moons rise and deep into the night

Our love is beyond the reach of anyone with spite

Scared leaves, shaking

(to the tune of Creep by Radiohead)

I can’t hear you breathing. I can’t hear my thoughts. I am close to panic. It’s all out of sorts. The poison on the water, and flames in the sky. A crane hanging dangerously, one day it will fly.

I can’t hear my heartbeat. I can’t hear your sigh. Square cogs in my engine. The hell of reality, the heaven of the night. A sunset of a civiliation, one day it will die.

It’s all a dream. A horrible nightmare. Tell me I’m going to wake soon. Tell me I’ve already died! It’s just to much to bear. This ignores all the facts. We aren’t the only ones here, but we will take them with us when we go. Go. Go. On.

Milk hogs

”40” posted the hog, his snout elongated and sniffly

Nursing a cold like a new witch nurse’s a baby familiar

He looked at his accounting books from the milk crate factory

Beeswax slipped slowly down the morning milkshake

Shining yellow wattle light upon the poster on the wall

His old friend’s monkey and fox, and him, and the band they used to play in

Monkey had what? Gone to be a chef at that restaurant, in where? the London grotto?

Fox was Vixen now and made silk scarves and could she still forge the fakes?

Back to it, working, in the old accounting books, no cooking these he thought, taking a sip and trying not to sneeze

Clean now. Could the band still play? After all we were called

Crime’6 D0 Pa7

that was it! 60. The hog typed the answer into the log and decided to take a break.

He would give the old band a call, as soon as this cold passed.

Sniffling and wiping the last of the shake off his bristles, it was snowing again and time to go

Gen Tar Fried

Boiling hissing floating sickly

Made collision tongues simple

Them through flick enimies

Class sections airs become

For its all a war

Car park replication sit

unproductive upper filters eat

Thing Moment past farts

Waits potential apes died

Boiling made them class

Hissing collision through sections

Floating tongues flick airs

Sickly simple enemies become

For it’s all for war

Car unprotective thing waits

Park upper moment potential

Replication filters past apes

Sit eat farts died

So far, soft enough, warmth comes

Pricks of starlight frothing from the formidable sky. Grey clouds smothering the moonshine. Down warmth from the old fur knitting. It’s just soft enough to sleep soundly.

Blue sun rises on frosty plains. I wake and begin the day. Warmth coming and kissing the ground. Softly melting, and bringing a hope for spring.

Carrousel (part one)

Finally, beyond our baggage claim and into the brief halls of many whereabouts, there were only shops full of knick-knacks and thoughtless things such that one might find for waiting for people. Jumble’s of gears and wires made up the walls that seemed unending and all but an afterthought in the construction of this place. A place that seems, senselessly to only exist in these between places. These spots, that people wait in for other things to happen. Such as a name, or flight, or number to be called out. Yet that did not happen.

It seemed as I went on people who had been here longer had started to build things out of the bits that seemed to just pop into existence every day. More wire and gears and nails, pens, magazines and for some reason guitar picks. Each a new strange thing that had a purpose that has more permeability than the original. Not a transient, effervescent existence, but a real tangible thing that had more realness built in. These new things ranged in their complexity from simple to the very complex. Some were instruments, like a long pole made of melted wires strung with guitar picks that shook as you stamped it on the ground. Another was a made of gears, wires and bits of plastic and made an odd but not unpleasant series of noises. There was also a number of people who had taken bits of piping that always seemed to repair themselves and made them into all sorts of different blown instruments. Eventually, whole bands got together and one of the more popular ones would play at what everyone called Grand Intake Central. The sort of area where people came from the strange sterile machines that got them here.

Each person came off a vehicle, what they called them, as blank as clean wall. No one knew exactly where they came from or what this place was. Only to get their baggage from the carrousel that seemed to continue bringing new bags every time a vehicle arrived. Like regular clockwork, they came in every morning, and once everyone had got off them they seemed to shut the doors and there wouldn’t be a new one until the next morning. None had a memory of anything but that, and sometimes people seemed to know they were related by blood to another person who was already here. That was all they ever knew other than their name.

Everyone’s bags would have the same content in their size and always in black, red and blue. Five shirts, four pairs of pants, twelve pairs of socks, thirteen pairs of underpants, a wash at with toothbrush, toothpaste, a comb, a brush, a bag of disposable tampons and pads (regardless of their own gender identity or presentation), a small plastic cup and a towel which had a series of numbers on it. Each seemed to be randomly assigned to the person and no two were the same. It was almost as if someone had read what clothes a person could want but not actually really have any actual experience with travelling or being a person.

Each day food also appeared, cooked and processed in the cupboards and freezers that according to those I had asked had existed since they got here. Every person I asked didn’t know how they got here. The food cupboards and freezers would only ever seem to have just enough for the people present. If you tried to hoard or keep your food, it would almost as quickly rot and be useless. Thrown into the bins that seemed to automatically empty every day.

Eventually, people started to think about staying up, to see what happened at night. The seats that were around were not uncomfortable to sleep on but also seemed to stretch back to allow you to lie down and snooze. When the lights went out, only a slight blue glow remained. Those who had decided to stay awake tried hard to keep awake. Slowly though each one of us nodded off to sleep. I tried to run on the spot, hum, click, walk around the areas of the place we were in, but to no avail. Eventually, I fell asleep. I woke on the hard cold floor and everything had replenished just like it always did.

Boredom started to become a problem, and we seemed to need to come up with new ways to entertain each other. Walking, running around the complex only provided slight relief.

We started to theories of why we were here. Some decided that it was just the Will of the Bag Carousel and that we should not question such things. But like a itch, you can’t scratch it dug away at you.

Privacy was one of the things people started to crave. The lavatories seemed to provide some but not really enough to make you feel alone with your thoughts. There was no real outside to get to. The rooms just connected together in a large circle. A woman who called herself Port made a map. Soon it was clear we have only ever enough space for the people we had already and any more who came had a new room added onto the honeycomb of rooms. Grand Central Intake and the Carousel area took up two whole hexes. Then one he was the space you could walk through to reach the next hexagonal set with the two other closest hexes taken up by first eating and sleeping hexes. As you went each hex seemed to have one eating, two sleeping areas one area full of spare bits that we had either gathered or made or new ones appeared in. Then each would also have a smaller connection hex that allowed for you to pass to the next five hexes and its connector. The whole pattern seemed to repeat itself a number of times till it doubled back on itself leading to a vast open circle.

Port calculated that their whereabouts twenty more sets of people to be coming from the ships until no space would be left and the circle of hexagonal areas completely full. After such time if more came we would have either to hope whatever force kept us here would help us by giving us more food and space or find that it wasn’t a priority for them, and that we should starve.

Tailbone soup

Down on the dark soiled plains

Grassy plateau frosted with marshmallow flowers

An occasional Bittary tree, glowing under the deep full moons

The giant planet would rise soon

Blue, dark in places, white clouds streaming across is

It was a sight that never grew old

It would rise every Friday, not setting for a whole week

Are they even Friday’s here?

Scuttled under the Bittery tree, I would wait until sunrise to move again

The flock of red, cow like animals that I pretended to look after would sit nearby. Most of them heavily pregnant

Then at midnight, or whatever it was here… a noise

I woke from the daze like meditation I had entered to see a pack of cat like beasts in the long grass creeping up on the flock

I had to alarm, squeaking in a noise that would wake even the heaviest of the sleeping dead

Run

Run

Run

To escape

Lacertae III: Bessemer Cruciballis

Pain. In the darkest places. Seeping, dripping, seeking, eating all it can.

Ice. Falling. Hail from the sky down to the frost covered ground. White, pure, but killing any hopes for spring.

Longing. I’m hearing you speak. Say words at a coffee table. Knowing that you will return to this moment. Knowing this is the moment I will remember in the weeks…

Ducks. Snow. Tamed memories.

Little things I remember. 

Your presence. Essence. The place in the world your had. 

Eclipse. Moonshine. 

Water. The lake. Roaring waves. Iceland. Dark smiles.

Juxtaposition, and it’s still a hot coffee I’m drinking. Another morning. I’m here. I can still here you. It doesn’t feel fair. But since when was the goddess fair? She made both the grass and the snake hiding in it. Or just perhaps the precursors. The soup that makes our reality. The memorial service.

The ducks. The lake. The Lacertae.

Tile house

Bones stuck out at odd angles, dripping from the fresh rainfall. Each marking dead ancestors of the Tile clan. Everyone that had died, once they had become a clan member. Everyone celebrated here, therefore, had passed this test. Each bone tattooed with the name and life dates of their clan reign.

This did not reassure Jubér. They had yet to pass the test. This meant they belonged to their birth clan still. This meant if they reached puberty they would have their gender chosen for them, would have their tribe role chosen for them. Two things they did not want.

The first thing any clan member got to choose was gender, then role, and a proper Troll name. Jubér would, if they passed the Tile test get a Tile name. They knew what role, name and gender they would choose.

The dark entryway to the Tile tribe test was covered in grey slime. It was from the Troll leather that baked in the sunshine and then washed in the tropical rains. It was old. Warn. It was still strong though. Made from Trolls past who had the glory of becoming a Tile leatherback. Slime dropped from it as Troll skin was full of minerals. Even after death, they kept seeping out for years, even centuries after.

Trolls are natural herbivores, but ate dirt and rock as well. They needed minerals to have strong bones and skin. For in ages past, Trolls and their moonkin, the Orcs shared blows. Orcs natural carnivores saw Trolls as almost prey until the Trolls had fought strong enough back. Ever since they shared their moon, an uneasy peace kept.

Juber walked on as Tile clansman had to be brave, their only protection skin, their only weapon a small knife which they held in their left hand. It was carved from his grandmothers left thigh bone. Her life’s years carved on the handle. Jubér wondered what the Misfit clan test was. Grandma had belonged to that clan. She had done so to gain the ability to choose to be female. To choose to be a Misfit, and a warrior-woman spy.

Jubér was choosing a different clan. For a different reason. Tile clan was the clan for creators. Artisans, Musicians, Storytellers. Trolls took this job just as seriously just as they did any other. Anyone who wanted to be a Tile has to be brave, strong of spirit and true of heart.

A leatherbound manifesto was on the door of the next corridor. The dark and the slime were all that seemed to curse this corridor except for the small sheet of paper.

On it was the first test. It would say something.

It was one word.

make

This was not unexpected. Jubér had to make something that would let them get past the test. They noticed that the ground was no longer soil. Ancheint Troll tooths. So many that they where like tiles. Tile Clan. Jubér looked, staring in the dark for the one that wasn’t from a troll. Their. That one. A goldhound throat pouch. Then nearby a dogfish bone, and then a bit further back a bit of the leather was loose. It was dogfish leather. Probably from the same dogfish.

Jubér got to work.

The path beyond was darker than previous, it was beyond even their sight to be able to see it. It was clear that the task was to make a useful tool. In this case a torch. Binding the leather to the pouch and bone and making them into a torch. The goldhound pouch would light up when it was shaken. The night hunting insectivores loved to attract and eat every sort of insect that they could. Barking and yipping happily as they did. Most trolls had goldhound pets to chase the insects away from crops and protect their abodes.

A few shakes and it started to glow. Within seconds the path beyond was clear. More tiles and leather covered the wall. With each step now literally on their clanmates, it was hard not to feel like they were watching.

Then a door. A big black door. Made of Stonewood. Harder than iron, twice as heavy. This door was made to last anyone trying to just knock it down. Stonewood grew slow though. The tree that made this door must be older than the clan itself.

Barely carved, just a single handle and lock. Jüber tried the handle. As most would predict, the Stonewood door was unopenable. There would be a key, or perhaps they needed to make one.

Looking around, there was no key hidden, but then Jüber noticed the tiles on the floor were different slightly. One just had the letter O on it. Then another with the letter G and finally one with the letter H. Hog. Jübee knew this was a puzzle now.

In a few seconds they realized it was a bad pun. And poked the dogfish bone into the hole. A click sounded from the door and it slid easily to the side.

”Dogfish key, key fish dog, hog fide key. Puzzle pinning. I like it.” Jüber knew that there would be one last thing they had to do.

The dark spaces got tighter. The teeth tiles, sharper. Blood now seeped a bit from their feet. There were leatherback coats from the first hundred years of Tile clan trolls. Then bones. Full skellingtons from those who had dedicated their wholeness to the clan. This each had their name and what they had done to warrant such great glory.

Finally the last test. A somewhat morbid piano made of bone and hardwood. The keys of which had the letters ”Play”. Inscribed upon them. Jüber bet that the strings inside were made from Troll intestines. What to play? Anything? No. The Tile Clan song. The song that every Tile Clan member must know.

With a minute of key playing, the piano opened. There was a bit of paper and a dogfish bone pen with ink already on it. The paper had:

Name:

Chosen gender:

Tile clan path: leatherback, stone mason, bone poet, musician, creator

Jüber filled them in, and left the paper on the piano. Knowing the way back was to go the way they came in. It should be very interesting, being who I am for the rest of my life.

Henna, my experience with it

Hello readers, robots and cyborgs.
Let me start by saying that no, this is not turning into a beauty blog or something, I have far too much cynicism and definitely too much sarcasm for that. I do, however, want to write about my experience with Henna.

IMG_9468

Yes, this stuff. It’s like the devil, and poison ivy got together, and this was what has left in the bed afterwards. A sort of blackish, greenish slab that you cut up into bits if you only have a small amount of hair. If you are like me, though…

IMG_9466

You have a lot of the stuff. So half a bar (I use Lush Cacao Rouge but you do you). I put it in the double boiler and add some boiling hot water (about 1/4 of a cup will do) and then stir at the thing till it looks like satan herself has thrown up in your double boiler and you have to clean it.

I don’t have a photo of that, because I want my readers to remain sane. Or at least sane enough to read the rest of this blog post.

You then take it to a wet area (bathroom for you fancy types) and paint it into your hair like its the ambrosia of the gods and only this will make you pretty again. You will need gloves, and a hair paint brush or similar and some glad wrap, a shower cap that is a bit too big and if you have fair skin some Vaseline to keep it away from your ears and forehead. Really do not put on your best clothes. And have lots of towels ready wherever you are going to sit down for the next few hours. IMG_9469

Take it from me, this is my fourth time at doing this. This rodeo does not get easier. You want to put as much of this what I will politely call liquid on your hair using the paint brush. You want the liquid hot but not scalding, you want to die your hair, not lose it. If you have a lot of hair expect this to take a while. Slowly brushing this stuff into every nook and cranny takes time. Keep the pot in the double boiler near you, but not on the flame because burning the house down in your PJ’s is not very fun.

Once it is all on you will go into what I call the distractingly sexy” stage
IMG_9471
I wrap my liquid doused head in the cling wrap and then put the shower cap ontop. The reason I do this is that you need to keep this liquid on your head for many hours. Some people will wrap it very tight and try and sleep with it on, but I am not one of them. I like my bed to not smell like henna for the next year. It smells. It isn’t a bad smell, but its not really a great smell either. It smells like grass that has been chopped up, fried in a curry sauce and then slowly boiled for many hours. Like I said it’s not a brilliant smell and you can easily get heartily sick of it. Don’t worry once you wash it off the hair itself smells fantastic.

Anyway at this point time to binge watch or read, whatever you can do for the next few hours. You want to leave it at least two hours, more if you can stand it. It can get cold, wet and it can drip if you do not wrap it tight enough. I have learned that it’s a good time to get stuck into a Netflix series you are looking forward too or that book you have been saving for a rainy day.

This is what it tends to look like once you have washed it off. Your henna will take into your hair a bit slower than most commercial dyes so it can take a few days for the full effect to be evident.

The next stage is knots. I’ve done everything I’ve ever known about knots to stop them happening but no matter what I do, if I do the Henna myself I get knots. I have curly combination hair, so need a good shampoo and conditioner for that sort of hair. I also use a long toothed (Afro comb) and wide toothed comb to brush through the knots. A little hair may come out but if huge chucks come out, see your local hair care professional.

Two main things you need to avoid are chlorine and salty water. Especially at the early stages of the dye. You can’t really go swimming with your henna. Sorry. Fresh or desalinated water should in general be fine.

Bleach is also a big “Nono” as is methylated spirit (so avoid nits, don’t go into area where nits are based) most nit care products are also a big Nono. Most of these things just end up causing the henna to come out, but bleach may also end up causing your hair to go a strange color or just fall out.

If you have already dyed or bleached your hair, do a tester with a small patch or get a hairdresser to help you. Some hairdressers are quite happy to use products you bring, but do ask them when you make the appointment. If they don’t know the product they probably don’t want to use it.

result:

On side road, meet me

Leftovers from the night before

Eating them for breakfast

Gallery of the meals we have

Have been posted to instagram

The clues, we leave behind each day

To find each other’s here

This empty city, just us all alone

And I walk in my best coat

To were your first clue is

A sign that used for me, says to meet me on the side road

Of course it isn’t that easy

Another clue their waits for me, and I’m in no hurry

For each clue leads me to your heart

And I’m in love with your mind

Song of a City, Canberra

1. (3/4)

Crushing up, the morning frost

Spinning your roundabout

Up and down, the shouting hills

Wattles blooming all way

As one, the Phoenix of lake

Is summoned by us all

2. It’s an cold empty city in the wintertime

They only come here in the spring

When the autumn leaves fall

They make us to close the door

And come, the Phoenix of lake

Is summoned by us all

(time sig change to 2/2)

3. Blazing summer

High in the sky

Blazing summer

Fry your eyes

Blazing summer

(slow) Canberra summer

(back to 1)

Pink Punk and Trans Fighter now on Redbubble [Shop]

For those who follow my comic, I have now made two new bits of art that are fetured in my comic. Pink Punk and Trans Fighter, both of which are featured here. Again 90% of funds raised going to my surgery fund, the other 10% to Greening Australia and A Gender Adgenda. Why these places? Well they both helped me in some pretty dark times in my life and I feel they both need help to keep on doing what they are doings. Of course once my surgery has happened I may up the amount that will go to them from sales.

Anyway here are the links and images of the two new products:

Trans Fighter Roundell


PinkPunkPoster

Happy purchasing,
Anne

Will Ares forsake me sister?

A bright sunny day in the town. Me my younger sister and my little brother are all dedicated to different gods. I’m dedicated to Aine, my brother to Promedias, and my sister to Ares. I’m busy helping with the baking when my sister comes and shouts out loud about her future. She is upset and is certain she is going to be married to the old blacksmith. So much so she tries to hurt him. He however doesn’t even flinch when she tries to stab him.

He just looks sad. Then she cries and tries to stab herself. The blood on her chest and clothes flows like a river but she doesn’t die. She just clearly looks sad and runs away. The blacksmith just sighs and goes back to work.

I’m curious as to why the knife didn’t work. He shows me the many layers of leather he has on. Rams leather he says. Protection from Ares. He’s going to be angry at her. I say yes. You have to go get her to come home.

Then my little brother comes up to me and says why is Ares angry? Why has he forsaken a believer? I say because Ares is a jealous god. He gets angry if yo don’t follow his words. My little brother starts to cry.

Is sister going to be exiled? I say no. Not if I can help her. Then he asks Will Promedias ever be angry at me? Are they a jealous god? I say no. They are the guider. The light in the dark. I then sing the song of Promedias.

“The light of the day, is carried in the night. Promedias protects the suns wounderous light.

The stars above the world, are all his kin.

The guiding lights, the guiding lights.”

Then he is a lot happier. I hand him to my parents. They ask me about sister and I say I know where she might go but I am the best person to help. They agree after seeing how quickly I can calm my little brother down.

So I grab my necklace of Aines blessing and walk toward the old Inn. I get inside by saying I’m here to extend Aines blessings and then convince the Innkeeper to show me what room my sister is in. I grab all my courage. I know this is going to be bad.

I get to her room. She is no longer covered in blood. In fact she looks healed. I know that only one thing could do this. “You did witchcraft.”

“Yeah! I did. Ares is angry me now because I did witchcraft. To see my future! I saw I get married to that old grumpy blacksmith. I’m doomed to be his little wife until the day he dies! So I tried to kill him! So I never have to bed that old coot! I did witchcraft and protected myself against any metal. In case he retaliated. Of course I didn’t think I would be so melancholy as to stab myself. Ha!”

I look at her. “Ares will never forgive you. He is a very jealous god.”

“I know that! I don’t care!”

I touch my Aine necklace and look at her. “I’m Aines. She isn’t a goddess you can just get a blessing from easily. You have to be like me.” She stared at me. “What!”

“Aine is the goddess of the sun. She hands the light to Promedias her husband and walks with him through the night and he hands it back every morning. She never sees him otherwise.”

“Huh? She’s at least got someone who loves her for her?”

“Yes. But do you why Promedias can never be with her except at night?”

“No. She’s just lucky to have a job!”

“She was raped”

“What!?”

“Yes. During the dark night. The one thing that she thought would be able to protect her. Her dark cloak of stars made her invisible to all but her husband. She was climbing the paps. Looking after the holy cows on the hill. The milk they make Holy. She was just doing her the sun goddesses job.

Then Zare, he had hid their all day. Waiting. He snuck up behind her. Just as she was sitting down. He had a knife to her throught and raped her. She then bit his ear off. He bacame Zare the one eared. The god of the forsaken. She blazed with the light of her anger. Cast him to the dark side of the moon. The dark night now she always walks with his Husband just in case Zare escapes.“

I am sitting on the bed. “You see. Special. Only those who have been raped can be her blessed followers.”

“You? Who?” She says almost not believing.

“A grain farmer from Pashto. He’s with the forsaken now. Dad saw to that.”

“You? You? Oh sister I never knew!” She has tears in her eyes. “You can’t be married now at all?”

“Only to a blessed of Promedias. The only one I know is our little brother. Clearly I’m not marrying him.”

“I’m going to be Forsaken? Ares will cast me to death?”

“Oh I doubt that. He’s jealous but not stupid. Once he calms down, he will be ok. He only forsakes those who eat fire. You haven’t done that. So, you will be fine.”

She hugs me and then says. “What’s it like?”

“Being raped? Like having your very skin be cast aside. Every part of you violated and eaten. Every part wrong. Every day you look in the mirror and never see a person. You just see a shadow.”

“Oh. I’m so sorry.”

After a while. “The blacksmith didn’t even flinch. He knew I would be upset to be married to him. But he just kept doing his work.”

“Yeah. He’s a kind man. Very paitent. He’s just a grump.”

“I was upset to find out I’m marrying him, but he’s going to be a good lover isn’t he?”

“I expect so. Strong, gentle and very paitent. Blacksmiths have to be.”

She hugs me and we both giggle. “Oh. He’s um, the?”

“Yup.”

“Oh. I’m lucky to be marrying him.”

“Right you are sister. By the look of him I doubt it’s even down for less than a few minutes a day.”

We both giggle. “No wonder he’s so grumpy.”

Playful nothingness

Begin my Chicago travels

punk scene and strong coffee

smoke clouds amoung blue hair

Future my demise, roll diagnosis experience

Peak rice blooming under sunset clouds

Can’t touch one sphere without spreading all the others

Neon man has a hat, slumps in the bar

Running lie, low swings, marksman’s eyes

Little did I mention, xylene chains and planting in the rain

From ghosts, black soap, hotel copies of the tribune and the post

Cuddle heart

Every day my heart smiles

Every place we are together

Cuddle heart

Love to hear your voice

No matter your mood

Love the feel of skin

Especially, nude

This is our place together

Joined by love, angels feathers

We’re in our cuddle heart

I hope we never part

Every day my heart smiles

Every place we are together

Cuddle heart

Love to make you breakfast

Eggs shining as the sun

Love to see you smile

Tea and some bagels too

Love inside our house

Especially, you

This is our hearts together

This is our place together

Joined by love, angels feathers

We’re in our cuddle heart

I hope we never part

Every day my heart smiles

Every place we are together

Cuddle heart

Cloudblades

Cutting edges of the sky. Ishmael flies his pigskin blimp high. Drinking brandy, and some handyman takes the hammer wheel. Antichrist, the redeemer, or is he just a dreamer? Limited to dreams of living rooms?

Boost June of the markets, and harsh republic darkness, we can ensure the commissary looms. Flying over forests of eucalyptus, listing to Rick from The Band sing Holy Cow. Eating some cheese and doing nothing else now, except float along.

Wetlands forming where once were roads, greasy warthogs eating roots in an abandoned carpark. Wet silky grass growing out from this marsh, ghosting building aching from times past. Mikes dropping down the street, potatoes growing under his feet, have you heard the news?

Ishmael continues to deepen their search and steal all that girths, floating again by the sea. Still, there are plastic shells, creatures dying yells, the marks from little wars. No one thinks this is fantastic, the night that seems elastic, and a fortress full of ghosts.

Outgoing kiss

Blissfull darkness

Comes with grey sky’s above

We fight among ourselves

Our money not worth the cost

By the time its to late we still have not stopped

Kissing us kindly death says goodnight

Walrus falling to their deaths

Seas empty of fish, full of nets

Angry boys yelling at us to stop shoving it down their necks

They are already choking too their deaths

Kissing us kindly death says goodnight

Neodymium will make lovely glass (song)

Theirs the night again, dark lights shine again

Over their the moon, and inside we swoon

Neodymium,

Will make a lovely glass

The day is just the past

Of your feelings

Neodymium,

Will make a lonely mark

On your heartless heart

Come and see it

Neodymium,

Will make a lovely glass

I said, and grasp at last

At my healing

Theirs the night again, dark lights shine again

Over their the moon, and inside we swoon

 

Road number 2 1/2

Flossing the neck lamps.

Tramp built guillotine sat.

Glamour daemons anguished upon their fishing from the lists of dark moon rituals.

Calculator buns, fresh from the oven, ready to eat upon their half of the second street, horns and a coven whom hath been gathered.

Onion, Top Hats, Potato, Coal and Hatred used to summon the Captain of the great flush

He’s a tough nut to crack, even standing overdrawn by the rain next to a tobacconist. Muttering sweet hatred into the street corner, hoping your pity is worth another box of dime store magic.

Ever the half-life, shirt stained by ignoble truth he watched them, and all who come to pass. Daemons pay him little if any attention. Go about their endless quest to hear the fires of hell just a bit longer.

Shagging off the last of the most important smoke of the day, sagging and calving edgy cardboard boxes covered in blankets that keeps just enough of the downpour out. Aqualung is muttered, as he slenderly steps into the Dreamlands.

Mud, gun and boots

The dark storm clouds poored rain down like an old dog drooling. Moisture was a constant here. The heat as well. And mud. More hot mud than you could ever have imagined, then doubled. It permitted everything, clothes, socks, guns and boots. Keeping things that needed to be clean, clean, was a battle that was just as long and hard as the war itself.

West sat in her tent not sleeping. The tent really didn’t do anything. The moisture was still constant inside and out. Though surprisingly, their was a issue with finding good clean water. Jungles like this were strange, dark, and full of danger. Not just the Japanese, who were fighting ever more desperately.

Their were spiders the size of wrens, scorpions whom were not much smaller, carnivorous or omnivorous mammals whose next meal could be a sleeping soldier, snakes and of course mozzies with malaria, then the dysentery.

The dysentery and malaria had killed even more than the Japanese had, or so she had heard the commander say. The soldiers who got into battle and had been wounded in a fight had almost always got dysentery or malaria or both by the time they got to the field hospital. Those who were really unlucky had wound infection too. Their wasn’t much to be done then, but hope they lived through it. West was lucky. Very lucky. To still be alive.

West knew in a few minutes she would have to go out and be on lookout, so she got her uniform on. First the binder, she had made a quick one out of a flat screen of coconut fibers. Not that she had much in the way of breasts. Only her commander knew she wasn’t “one of the Kokoda boys”. He found out one night in a dark valley about three weeks ago. The bullets were flying. Then she managed to get grazed by one. On her upper thigh.

Wests commander and the field medic fixed the cut quickly and cleanly when the small battle was over. Guns still cocked and ready. Neither had said anything. They fixed her up and moved on. Nothing said at all about what else they hadn’t found cleaning up her wounds.

She was good at what she did. Snipers where rare, good ones even rarer. The number of times she had saved the commander or vice versa was beyond counting. This was a dirty, muddy, horrible place to be upset about something as stupid as gender.

The medical examiner she tried to bribe to get into the service hadn’t even taken her money. He just told her to make sure no one saw her piss, and to take a better male name. She decided West seemed a good option. Solid. Masculine in a subtle but definitely male way, like her parents had wanted a girl and got “him” instead. She still hadn’t really got the hang of he/him pronouns.

Later on when the field medic had got hit by a Japanese sniper in the head, her secret was only known to the commander. She had shot the sniper in return, but that one shot was all it took to kill the medic. When they got to the next major camp they would be replaced by a new one, but for now they made do. Everyone had some field medical training, well enough to help stop someone who wasn’t going to die before they got to the feild hospital.

Occasionally a small group of native Pupyans “fuzzy wussy” would be able to take a stretcher with someone who was wounded. They were life savers.

Anyone who could fight was placed in this war. She knew that. Everyone knew that. The Kakoda trail was a fight for the nation. A fight to make sure Australia survived the horribleness of this world war. Let alone the natives. At the moment though it seemed it was a war that was being lost.

Darwin had been bombed at least three times now. Japanese mini subs as far south as Sydney. Their were rumors the Japanese were starting to plan a full invasion of Australia. The Yanks has just come at just the right moment, as usual late to every big war they don’t start. Most of the Yanks that had come though had been through more wars and seen more combat than any of the ANZACs. Their was even talk of putting a Yank in charge whole of the Australian army. Talk though. Curtain wouldn’t have that. No matter what. At least that’s what everyone was saying when they got a chance.

A breeze made her leg sting. The wound she already checked and knew was clean and thankfully not getting infected. At least for now.

Keeping it clean after a battle or a march was the hardest part. Everything could snag on it. Everything could be a potentially deadly thing. Like this tree, or that mud, this ammunition crate, that spoiled medical kit. Like watching a hawk and then being killed by a Jaguar you never even knew about, the hawk just waiting it’s turn for the scraps.

Looking out into the darkness of the jungle night was about as useful as it was futile. The Japanese could attack at any time on any ridge not occupied by Australia or the small number of native Papyans that had joined the 7th. Every day for the last month the Japanese had got closer to Port Morseby. The few Yanks who had come had all been veterans of battles deeper in the pacific. Most had bad battle wounds or wounds in their minds or body. Or had I already thought that?

Bloody hell it was hot, humid and wet. How could it be just as wet now as it was when it raines?

West doubted that this would be the last night spent watching trees doing whatever it was trees did at night. Looking at the darkness and hoping to Hell it wasn’t staring back. She held a rifle. Just her standard one. Their was no point in holding the sniper in this dark. Its bullets were precious and needed to be kept for the little light that the day brought.

It was a ritual she would go through every time they marched in the light of day. Preying to the death godess that they hit their target. Telling her that she deserved another day of life in the light of the sun. West didn’t know the death godesses name, but every now and again she swore that she saw her on the battlefield. Wearing a dark dress and hood, carrying a old staff with a light on the end. Smiling, notunkindly to those who had been killed. Leading them beyond.

Jungle and darkness. Darkness and jungle. No light. No cigars at night (the light a perfect target) so the others just chewed the few that had. West only had one once and never again. It tasted of tar and wool and reminded her of her father. A horrible man who had managed to bellow every word. Constantly smoking when he wasn’t shearing angry sheep. The wool shed full of flamible oils from the wool, he sensibly waited till the job was done.

West had learned to use a shear at 4 years old, gun at 6 and was the best shot in her town, then the state, then they told her that shooting was no sport for a young woman. And then the war started. People who knew how to use guns were taken in like weat from the crop. Put to the European and African fronts, put in the war for Europe until it was all Nazi, then Greece and Cyprus, every time with the British in command.

Those poor souls who survived told tales of the bravery of those few Australians who won command when the Brits died. Some of the British were told of as good men, others were known as infamous butchers who would send soldiers to the death while drinking gin and brandy.

The Jungle moves. Every bit seemed to be fluid in its own way. Every leaf, every branch, every creature. You had to have the eyes of a jaguar to spot your quarry. Gun cocked for the whole shift. West didn’t see anything unusual until almost dawn. Something about the movement of a tree down the path to this camp was not quite right. It was moving, like a human. Like a human in camouflage. She let out a call. The call of the darkness. It wasn’t a call anyone but those in camp would be listening for. The call of a native bird. It was all that was needed to get every other man up.

In a few seconds she had crouched, cocked and fired. Then all hell broke loose.

Bullets flew. Like mozzies only bigger and just as deadly. Bushes to the left and right erupted in sparadotic fire. Suddenly a grande fell just inches from West. She instantly threw it back. It exploded mid air, slathering frag over the leaves and ground. A few more shots rang out after, then the noise stopped, as suddenly as it began.

“Keep down, search for more.”

The order barked when the jungle was quite enough. Every battle was like this now. The Japanese had a habit of trying to draw them into a area they had just been then ambushing them from behind. It was a tactic that worked but was now well known. The search was slow and hard but by 8ish there was a certainty that it was just a small patrol, not a full-on raid.

Then the commander gave his morning pep talk.

“Ok listen up, the Japs have better equipment and way better men. ” That was said with him looking at the ground, we knew he meant himself too. “I wish it wasn’t so but we need to be better, with less training, less equipment and less bullets. Take whatever we can use and carry. Today we march up the ridge to the next site. I want every eagle eye not carrying equipment to have their rifles ready. Especially you West. We loose the equipment we have, we have to do this whole bloody march again from the start. You think the wet is bad now? Wait till monsoon starts properly in a fortnight or so. That’s going to be real wet.”

Real wet? Like this wasn’t wet enough already, their was another level of wet? How? How was that possible?

No one really seemed inspired by these little speaches. Just tiredness personified into a reminder that we were all fighting together. A grit that matched the mud. The determination to move on and hope you got home in one peice.

Three days up the trail and no so much as a man, woman or child to be seen or herd. We all knew a small village would be near somewhere. It was on the map. A map drawn by the patrols and air support that already had been. The maps from before the war being almost useless.

As soon as I thought this I spotted something. I whistled the alarm and everything went still. We all crouched. The trees, and the ground was soaked. The mud was thick. The Japanese were just on the other side of the clearing. Doing exactly the same. They had a machine gun.

A brief moment distilled the air. Then the 3 inch motors where fired. Like a dragon being sick, they lobbed a set of motor shells into the middle of the Japanese. Boom. Boom. Boom. Then it was my turn.

Every second after the explosions, another shot. In full control of every bullet. Each a extension of my will to live. Each another prayer to to goddess of death. “Let me live, let them die, I will always prey to you.” Like a mantra under my breath. Each thought and action was taken like a slice of time from the cake of the day.

Reload, shot, shot, shot, reload, shot, shot, shot, and so on until, jam. Thunk. The heat and dirt eventually jammed the guns. It was a common issue in jungle warfare, any warfare. I placed the rifle to the side and got out the pistol I carried for close combat. Lying in place until the all clear was whistled. Slowly, carefully getting up.

Then suddenly the ground was up, the sky was down and it almost swallowed me whole.

“They talk of the luck of the Irish. I wish I had your luck West.” It was the commander’s voice. I was on a flatbed in a wooden hut. I guessed in the town we were supposed to be at by now.

“They hit Darwin again yesterday.”

He said matter-of-factly.

I got up and groaned “ooh they almost hit me too.”

“Don’t know which god you keep west, but put a good word in. I’m off to command the raws on the tallow. I doubt we will meet again. You’re in a commando unit now. The 1/2 told me. The new guy is called Borg. He’s your top monkey now.”

I looked at him.

“You don’t need me anymore?”

“This little exercise was all about getting those mortars here, getting a line. We can defend this line now. We have Haroi out. Big reinforcement comes in tomorrow. Yanks and some of our men from Egypt. Seem old Monty took out all the Nazis in Africa. Italy’s on the verge of bowing out.” My commander always seems to be talking about the war elsewhere as if it was a long time ago.

“How long have I been out?”

“Long time. You well enough to move to Borneo in a few days. Kokoda’s almost over.”

“Oh. Am I not being told to go home?”

“Nope. Borg needs a good sniper. I told him you were the best, unless malaria got you. Thank your god you got lucky.”

“Yeah. I will.” Quitly thanking the goddess of death, maybe I’ll get home someday, but for now I continue to be her soldier.

Donkey sky blues (song)

The donky hanging down

Building up all that

Their is no stopping

For Progress, were hard hats

Donkey sky

Donkey sky

Blues

We die slowly

Nothing is growing

Harsh light glowing

City zoo full of fat cats

Donkey sky

Donkey sky

Blues

Look up at growth

For gentrifier sloths

Grope, slurp, rope

We’re guillotined hopes

Donkey sky

Donkey sky

Blues