Blow

You kiss the air

and push it my way

It doesn’t fly

or float

or flutter

With heads

hung out windows

the blurred trees

and mustard clay

sting eyes

Plucking and sucking

My eyes have cotton mouth

Your mouth has tears

Sat Night

High heels

lay limp

thrown

around the room.

Glitter eyes

and fingers

stumble to the

smooth faces

and aftershave.

Pulse

on the balcony.

Weed

in the bathroom.

Heineken

on the couch.

Lindauer

in the kitchen.

Scarlet tights

are dancing

in the lounge,

on the table

and outside.

The music

stops

for seconds

while iPods

change the mood.

Strobe light smiles

and bubbling giggles

turn into

deck chairs

splashing

in the pool,

wine bottles

smashing

through the window

and

vomit.

Two Hours On Low Battery

The first time

was in the car.

My Vodafone

black box

vibrated off my leg

and hit the floor

buzzing.

My brother

jumped for it as I did,

but my fingers

folded around the cold

surface

first.

1 Unread SMS.

The second time

was in the

two double seven

food court.

Upstairs

with our legs stretched

out on the

trashy black leather.

McDonald’s fries

on the floor,

and chopsticks

on the tables.

1 lulled conversation.

The third time

was a lot like the first.

My phone

was on the

bedside Kauri,

vibrating in circles.

I was pulling the strings

on my glossy

black pieces of nothing.

1 incoming call.

I Love You Some

My bedroom is grey.

The light filters through

blinds,

but the rays

lack sustenance.

Three of my five windows are open,

sitting tightly on the safety latches.

Gin Wigmore

wafts through the slight gaps.

During the chorus’ you join in

to whine along.

Don’t stop doing what you do.

Bacon suffers under your tuneless,

muteless humming.

And the white ute

Dave roars up the driveway in

can’t silence you.

Save me, why don’t you save me?

Sheets flutter in time with

the sweet ukulele

as you flick

the white around the room,

making the bed

for my absent brother.

You make a lady change her heartbeat.

Slammed doors

and John’s

clunking crutches

are blown out the window

with your fake morning kisses.

I’m flying so far away, that’s all I wanna do.

You’re voice is

too sharp

too loud

too high

too soft.

But anything is

better than grey.

History

Kate Thompson is scribbling black ink on the

cream walls of her too big bedroom.

She is too tired at six to proof read anything.

In her bedroom there are cracks

for the rain to slide between.

Kate Thompson sits alone at one,

watching the water stain her walls

as the words run.

It reminds her of milk curdling.

Kate Thompson folds down the corners of pages,

but sighs with frustration when others do the same.

She presses her hands

down hard on the creases

to straighten them out,

flat like the rest.

Kate Thompson has six

book piles sprinkled around her bedroom,

like sugar crystals on

her strawberry cupcakes.

She more often than not forgets to return them,

and is used to

smashing her piggy bank

to pay for library fines.

Kate Thompson lives in a world

where trees are not green

and instead are four letters.

Kate Thompson likes smudging

the black edges of words.

She smiles

when things like these are beautifully imperfect.

A caterpillar hole on a perfect leaf,

the groan of a teenager when their mother’s

tear crawls from her eyes.

Kate Thompson wants to find words for these.

Kate Thompson wants to write new words.

This is her dictionary.

This is her history.

Dear X,

ten years, three months and

seven days ago,

I walked through Ascot

Hospital. Mum held

my hand in hers.

I remember being

cold, in November.

the rooms smelt funny.

as we passed each bed

I peeped around the

corners and under

the scratching blankets.

at the end of the

hall your wax smile

was waiting. hampers,

baskets, flowers and

balloons. they were bright;

blue with pink swirls, or

orange with green stripes.

they twinkled. and you

pushed your 'falsies' out

over your bottom

lip. I tried

to climb onto the

bed, but I tripped and

pulled on the mellow

yellow tube, running

to the coat-hanger

for plastic bags. it

straightened tight like the

string on the paper

cup telephone we made

once. Mum yelped and took

me from the room. Dad

was in the hall with

Susan, Grant, Lisa.

everyone was

quiet.