a short play in which your beauty products gather in a pool of moonlight on the tiles of your bathroom floor to praise their goddess

a short play in which your beauty products gather in a pool of moonlight on the tiles of your bathroom floor to praise their goddess

toothbrush:    to sip bacteria from mouth chalice

                        what a waste of holy water –

                        spitting dredges in the sink

wax strip:       o i shall till her lush meadows

                        entomb each daisy in my body

                        enrapture each follicle

cleanser:         delta of blackheads on her nose

                        is my nile, i wash her festering

                        gemstones with reverence

lash curler:     orbit the many fingered moons

                        i am an astronaut intimately

                        acquainted with her gravity

                       

                         

BLOGGING IS AN ALTAR?

An abandoned altar gathers dust, and so is altered. This blog is a sacred space, also abandoned, but fortunate enough to be digital and therefore, unalt(a/e)rd.

Code doesn't rot. I return to this web address after a year and find it waiting.

If I left food out for spirits, would they bless me and compel me to write more?

"I am a spiritual person. It means a lot to me to be able to say this. But my spirituality doesn’t require me to pray a number of times a day, or accept any particular cosmological order, or even to believe in things that there aren’t proof for. All my spirituality asks of me is that I put myself in situations that feel holy. That take my breath away and make me go I can’t believe something as beautiful as this is happening to me." - Max Ritvo interviewed on The New Republic 


I'm still a believer in something. This blog I guess. Tl;dr, I'm here again.

out of context screenshots of notes I've made on my computer:

5:59am

I wrote this poem and published it in the wom*ns edition of my university's newspaper, Honi Soit around this time last year. It's also where I got the title of this blog from. I found it again recently and thought I would share it here:


5:59am

this morning’s foul, bright breath leaves
a landscape on my bedroom wall;
lipped orange in tungsten glow. spores of sunlight
sew carcinogens, a
microcosmic waltz
across the stretch of my bare skin.

this body
is hardly evocative:
it lies
slackened and soft,
broad as a baleen whale. occupies,
bristles linen like the waves.

the time will come for stranger convulsions;
cereal and suitcases
laid out under my eyes.

until then,
remain
enveloped
in this morning's photon miasma

where
ribs softly undulate
and pores burst open like windows.



by Perri Roach

post-19th birthday pre-19th birthday thoughts

from Robert Grenier's poem Fall Winter Family Home

it is a drunken, fitful sleep which you wake from at 6am. your eyes crack open like prehistoric eggs. you fetch a glass of water from the bathroom & swallow it in round, hard gulps. each mouthful is cold and metallic. yellow street lamps glower at the musk grey sky. it is the day before your birthday. you have a headache. you say this to yourself in second person in your head without realising it. when you do realise, you are embarrassed. The floorboards in the hall squeak as you step over them-- through the window, a sliver of moon.

THOSE VIOLET ORCHIDS

with bulldog mouths.

their slobbering ovules

drench my fingers

in sticky pollen.

Robert Mapplethorpe, 1988

I smell the rain before I see it, and then when I do see it, I think to myself that it is like a mist of spores drifting to the ground in a wet, silvery haze. The woman sitting next to me at the bus shelter is watching a video on her phone. The earbud closest to me has begun to fray, and the wires stick out around her ear like static hairs. She is smiling slightly, so I assume it's a funny video. In the video, two men are yelling at each other. The camera flicks rapidly across the two men, their faces contorted in cartoonish fury, their mouths yammering open and shut silently like ventriloquist dummies. The woman breathes out a quiet laugh. Hah. The rain dances around my shoes, dampening my ankles.

From a buzzfeed quiz

Even though it is Autumn, the days are sticky and sky is the same static blue as a computer screen after a fatal error. Rain is still elusive, frustratingly so, only arriving at night after long, hot days. When it does come, the rain fizzes and crackles in the heat, bouncing off the pavement like rubber.

I'm trying to write but the words come just like the rain. Thin, electric wisps. Lists of words. Fragments of code. Tesseract, crepuscule, spangling, loam.

An incomplete mixtape of things:

1. I'm completely obsessed with Jane Rawson's novella Formaldehyde. The book is small, tightly written and dances along the delightful boundary between beautiful and disgusting. I finished reading it a few days ago but I've been carrying around in my bag in the hope that its wonderful strangeness will rub off on me. I firmly believe it should be on every bestseller's list in the country so that everyone else can be weirded out by it too.
2. This article about pores by Alesia Pullins which I think every pore owner should print out and stick on their bedroom wall.
3. I really really really love Margiela's ridiculously ugly DIY sock sweater, the instructions for which you can find here. I'll let you know how it goes when I inevitably try to make one and fuck it up really badly.
4. Valerie and her Week of Wonders, which you can find in full on youtube.

The rain has stopped and so have the words. For the sake of my creative writing course, I hope they both come again.