WRITTEN yesterday at the usyd arts office hastily on their terminal:



into the bloody soapdome
in the heart of the glove puppet
i steeled myself for a goldmine
i windswept myself i syringed me

last night i dreamed we were heading for new zealand my mother and i on a bus, along a narrow narrow main street not unlike parramatta road, but the bus had to stop, and for entertainment we were to be shown a stripshow of mannequins in the window of the lingerie store, but my mother and i were not so interested - with the kids briefly within we looked at the rows, the $660 sexboots, but then my mother and i withdrew to the entry alcoves where the mannequins were to have done their little tease, mechanically, and we played with the voice recording machine, which was made of terracotta, like a great big ocarina, and everytime she recorded her voice, my mother, it came back beautiful, alike, just a little distorted, but everytime i tried to record mine it played back like christy moore singing, and somehow i couldn't sing anyway.

and the other night i dreamed, the night before that, that i was in this all-female mafia mob, in fact except for one corpse it was an all-female dream, and the mob was headed up by my sister's phd supervisor, and apart from me all the posse members were these studious-looking overseas student first years, and we each had to hold a guinea pig - the only reason i got to be one of the head henchmen was because my guinea pigs had grown so sumofat that they filled their cage, the fat squeezing out in sausages between the rungs, but they were at home, not here - one girl had a tiny tiny pig that was unbelievably cute, but when i tried to show my mother, who turned up, the girl and pig had gone and i showed her the wrong one, a large one, muscular, orange lipped.
and then we were crossing the square out on a gob us mnafia gals to make a hit, and it was somesort of eddiemurphyactionmovie we were inside, and the subtitles/closed captions were on, so subtitles were running past across the square and then alongside our feet, so we were looking down top-down on the running words, but because what we were in was the freeform directors cut of the film, the subtitles were out of sync, they were from the wrong scene, so as i crossed the square in virtual silence it was strange that the captions at the bottom said [clip clop clip clop] for a horse, and so on.
and then in the seedy two star (if that) motel we were ready for the stakeout and one girl from our posse and me peeled off but she found the opposing girlpower mafia had slain her dad in the room opposite the one we were to occupy, and his corpse was somehow like a beached whale yuo could walk inside the big maw of the corpse, and she went into her father's dead cavern to mourn, it was within the rules, so i was on my own on the job. and i heard gunfire and death, and as i crouched behind the damp cheap bed i was scared, but when finally kylie minoque, the head of the opposite mob, burst through the door guns blazing, i rose and knew i must be killed, but then i thought 'this is a film this is a film' and i talked her down, i said this is supposed to be entertainment, it cant end this way, you and me alone with me unarmed in thisdingy hotel room, not much action, just you shootinbg me, and she came around because she looked (i was half unbuttoned) and she said "you have six nipples too!" and i looked down and i did and i said "eight, actually" and kylie said "me too... do yours secrete?" and i said "what do you mean secrete" and she said "like, this brownish red stuff?" and i said "no" and she said "well they're doing it now" and i looked down and they were it was like paint, and we bonded over that, our mutual sadness our weakness.

AND today i remembered to add:
oh and then the new zealand map coastline dust storm coming to get us - the
dream not linear, circular, looping back round its own perimeter.

sometimes i really wonder if things would have been different, better even, if i'd stayed away from all the screens and all the e-hooks and all the transactions that i use to take up time to get rid of it but then what would i have done with it all, if i hadn't let it waste then i would have had to use it, and what if i had proved inadequate?

maybe it is better not to know.


i want to make this day i've passed in walking, windowshopping, waste, to mean something one day, and at the same time it's like four years ago, fiv, six, i new already, there would never be any day when anything i did would seem immortal, or even to matter, where i would think that anything mattered, even though i always have to feel like it matters so much.

words crushed out between the blocks of nought
the juice of waste
thin-trickled, quick
across the surface of the cuboid, solid
bovine monoliths
of misspent time.