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the smoking room

The actor on the street told me she’d be working at a bar now that her shows have been cancelled I wonder if that will happen to me? dry shave dry toast Dry mouth I don’t want to be an adult I don’t want to pay for things I think i will become a street performer instead I could swallow swords And fire And trash Lick the wounds of the sick And heal the depressed with balloon animals My cheeks are red And my face is hot the air is sticky dirty And dangerous

To get home, I walk through the department store, cradling my Subway Cold air wafts out of the doors Along with the scent of; eighty dollar candles, And creams that don’t do anything I wish I could live forever like the pretty girl on the poster I think I could be happy

I stomp around the streets with vengeance My subway is getting cold I think of you in the cinema And in the all the places I’m not supposed to The college boy at the tram stop eating waffles with a silver knife and fork I see my reflection in the windows do I look okay? Swanston street, 8am sometimes I wish I never came here Maybe I was always going to turn out like this

[lamb-ie]

YOSHITOMO NARA

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Static

He never left anything behind. He never wrote on my birthday cards. He never came to my school plays. I don’t think he ever gave me a gift. He did go to one of my grandparent days in year 7, though. That was nice of him. But yeah. Nothing. Except for some texts and some static.

I never got the chance to ask him about that. About that time when he called me while I was at school. I was studying and I could feel my phone vibrate in my blazer pocket. Right underneath the tiny flag embroidery that says In Labore Quies or something like that. So I fumbled for my phone with my right hand and it was him. That’s so odd, I thought.  Usually, he never calls me. Unless it’s my birthday. So naturally, I thought something bad happened. An emergency? Or maybe he just wanted to say hi?  But when I pressed my ear to my phone, the line was silent. Dead. Not a word. Not a breath. Static. So I hung up.

That’s what I thought about first, when Mum told me he had the stroke. The phone call. The coincidence. He was trying to tell me something and I didn't hold on long enough. I couldn’t fathom the prospect of never knowing. But I also couldn’t fathom that I’d never actually say goodbye. I thought I’d have time for that. I thought it would be like one of those shit soap operas that air on channel seven during the day when everyone is at work; Everyone gathers around the sick person. They hold their frail, clammy hand while they whisper their last words. Everyone sheds a single tear and lets roll down their cheek. Then the beeps stop beeping. The green, wiggly line stops wiggling. And everything goes quiet.

But it wasn’t like that at all. I never got to tell him I loved him out loud. I never got to hear it back; a moment I was putting off every time I saw him, because I was too afraid of crying in front of everyone. Do you all remember last Christmas? I do. I told Ella and Ruby that we should all talk to Pop because I knew that would be the last time. But they said don’t be ridiculous, stay in the pool with us. So I looked back through the vines and the cobwebs and the flyscreen door and I saw him. Sitting inside, gazing out at the family. Dad, sizzling sausages on the barbie. Mum, and Auntie Cathie laughing over a bottle of Rosé. He just sat there. The telly wasn’t even on. He was alone on the couch with his oxygen tank keeping him company.

I like to think that the static wasn’t an accident. I like to think that he was there on the other end of the line that day, listening in on my life. There are some people in the world who are impossible to sit in silence with. It's long and it feels itchy. But it wasn’t like that with him. Actually, I think I’d do anything to sit in the static with him again. Sometimes when I think about him, I open up the window in my bedroom and press my ear up to the fly screen. I can hear the rustling of gum leaves. The drunken fuckwits of Frankston. A cacophony of burnouts and doof music. It all blends into a seamless white noise. And in this static I can hear him. Like pianos. Brown grand pianos. The static sounds like pool cleaners and yoga balls bouncing down the basement stairs. It sounds like plastic, miniature golf clubs and his proper silver ones (when he’d let us hold them on special occasions). The static sounds like a crystal cup on an oak dining table, a glass of port and a pipe of tobacco. It sounded like his hello. The one where he’d stand on the balcony and wave his hanky. And it sounded like his goodbye. The one where he never called back.

The sounds of the universe are a nice thing to fall asleep to. I think I’ll keep an ear out for him forever. And I like to think that somewhere out there, he’s doing the same.

[lamb-ie]

hot cross buns in March

Do you remember that time when I took the last hot cross bun? As I had one in my mouth, you snatched the other off my plate and threw it in the bin Then, You tore it up into tiny pieces and sprinkled them over the last nights meatloaf, that sat pathetically in the trash

I had hid the buns the night before Underneath the 2-minute noodles But behind the fish sauce and mustard I knew you’d want them in the morning which meant I had to have them too when you took them off my plate, you screamed about how unfair I was being How deceiving it was to hide the buns when they didn’t belong to me you’re so fat and ugly! you said and I cried because you were being mean and because even though I wanted to annoy you, I didn’t mean to make you nasty I never wanted to see you like that

yesterday I went to the supermarket and I bought the buns we liked (even though it was March) I took them home and left them on the bench for a while I didn’t open them and I still haven’t because I don’t even like hot cross buns that much They don’t have as much flavour as I remember They tasted better knowing I’d lose an arm and a leg to get one

getting up early to be the first, was never about the buns I just wanted to be like you I wanted to share something in common with you I wanted to see you a little bit more everyday Even if we were fighting because I knew I would be leaving soon you just didn’t know it yet And All of the times we would sit on the couch with dad and silently laugh until he got angry Or throw remote controls at each others heads All of the times we would kick each other underneath the blankets Or quarrel over which sister the dog loves more The times we would lock each other out in the cold Or throw towels onto the deck for each other in summer because mum doesn’t like wet footprints in the house They would become moments so few and far between that They’d just become memories

And one day Somewhere along the line I’d come back home You’d be taller than me And tell me how much i’ve changed We’d hear the chopping board being placed on the lino bench And as we turn our heads to look at the kitchen counter We’d spot two hot cross buns sitting side by side I’d squeeze your hand and say,

Do you remember that time when I took the last hot cross bun?

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[lamb-ie]

7th of April

​ I take the tram back to college after watching the play about white privilege except they only employed people who were all white and privileged and everyone in the audience was white and privileged I was in the front row And i am white and privileged I am not sure if i liked that play I had to leave class early to see it The class in the tall building with the piano in the basement Where girls in long boots strut along the marble Where are they going, I wonder I wish i had somewhere to go

my class is on level 5 My tutor is hot (nobody else agrees with me) Vani has nice nails That guy who sits on my left, one person away from me, never fucking talks he’s always wearing footy shorts and has his headphones on The girl with the pink hair is always typing but there’s nothing on her screen Liam writes porn smut for people on twitter He charges $60 a piece I don’t know where I sit amongst everything else I guess I am that girl who thinks her teacher is good looking, unfortunately

On the tram I wonder , why do they publish the diaries of dead people? I would be annoyed if someone did that to me but some part of me also would want to world to know who I really was they should publish the diaries of normal people i think I’m not afraid of the working class we live the most extravagant lives of all Being an artist is a privilege and Being suffocated in work is a joy

On the 7th of April I sat on my couch in my dorm room, watching tv dust coats the ground filth drips from my bedroom walls grown out roots purple hair I hate the colour purple surrounded by people eternally alone I look outside at the boys playing basketball Beads of sweat like stardust on their brows The sun illuminates the park across the street It’s where that comedian was killed It doesn’t look as pretty now I write 3 things in my diary as a man jogs through the park A girl on roller skates dances past Algorithm, War in ukraine, Cherry iron b-vitamin Something terrible has happened, But nobody seems to really care

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december

it flew past like most things do you felt like a fever dream Hot and heavy like hurricane air and for the first time in my life it clicked I understood why lovers do what they do I’m a nihilist at heart and my knack for cynicism left more than frontal lobe aches and knots surfacing under my furrowed brows

I did not realise what I was missing out on and the world knew it too my algorithm fed me love by the spoonful; silhouettes of swans, long walks on the beach, mr Darcy’s hands unflexing, and love songs; they were no longer works of abstraction for I could read them like restaurant menus how did I survive this long in the world oblivious to such goodness?

for the first time in a very long time, i felt apart of something; the electricity reached from the tips of my toes to the ends of my eyelashes, and it blew the dust off this very heart of mine into the depths of the universe where it circulated with my trust issues low self esteem and bi weekly panic attacks

do you know that feeling? when you’re driving home in January, you wind the windows down and in the rear mirror you watch the sun set behind the houses? fluffy dice swing from the front 400 Lux is loud enough to fill the chambers of your lungs and as your salty hair dries in the breeze, you think “this is it” this is what it’s like to finally feel alive

well, thats how it felt

that’s what it was like to be with you

before we met, I always wrote poems about love but from the perspective of a dog looking up at the dinner table, wide puppy eyes watching strangers indulge in their vices or a stray cat watching the fire crackle inside, wondering how everyone else got so lucky so of course I wrote about you and your dumb brown hair and how you’d confuse me and how you’d lie but you’ll never read those streams of consciousness or the lines of paranoia that I spent nights milling over meticulously but I know you’ll read this

so while you’re gripping your phone the blue light is being filtered by those honey eyes of yours, while you’re thinking of me, I want you to know that although I wasn’t in love with you, I was in love with how you made me feel; when my head was on your chest and our eyes traced the sun as it set behind horizons of long grass when we stumbled back to the car in the dark our sweaty palms, being squished together by the weight of youth   I was in love with the way I hurt myself how I broke both wrists, fighting for your attention how my veins turned blue, fingers frostbitten from tracing your turned back, your cold shoulders and quiet mornings, drowning in waves of silence and disdain

I thank you for it all it was nice to stand in the shadow of love, reach out into the darkness, and brush the edges of what could have been I thank you for teaching me how to write about love not from the perspective of the dog under the table or the cat across the street, but from the perspective of my own two eyes, my own heart as I stand on my own two feet, shaking hands with the universe dust and all

[lamb-ie]

killing and dying

staring at myself all day Getting sick of my mirror There are pimples in my eyebrows now When will I learn They are sisters not twins One is taller than the other And longer too I plucked the other one until tiny red beads blossomed along the arch All short and stubby

The boys on tinder are moaning in my ear They tell me if I like it Who told them to do that? It’s all the porn they watch I Think I laugh in their faces at how stupid they sound I can’t bear the thought of ever loving one of them I don’t know if I’ll ever fall in love Isn’t it embarrassing wrapping your lips around someone’s dick Id really rather not Maybe I’m gay Or maybe I hate intimacy

I have a crush on a guy at work Clean cut Shiny shoes He’s smart He likes Sylvia Plath He appreciates her the way I do We both understand why she used the oven But he’s 27 And his girlfriend goes to that acting school in Melbourne the one I would die to get in to

If its not the mirror Its my screen Eyeballs dry from the blue light I wish that I could dig them out of my head And rinse them in a glacial stream Im addicted to spending money because I enjoy regret It makes me feel like I accomplished something I ask my friends if they can relate They all say no I should just curl up in my bed and go to sleep it gets tiring Staring at myself all day

[lamb-ie]

The house on the hill.

Do you want to know something weird?

Well,

We have 60 days left in this house

60 days left

In our family home

My favourite room in this house

Is my bedroom

It wrapped it self around me while I fed

My addiction to blue light

Where I stare at myself in my mirrored desk

Neck hanging heavy,

Crying because I think I’m unlovable,

or I’m ace

or maybe I’m just bi

but

no one will hear me over the lounge room screaming match

Over who left the tea bags in the sink

over the dirty dog dripping dry

The mud clings to the carpet

Along with reactionary comments

comments that are meant to be jokes

jokes that’s really just abuse

so we spill our tears on the rug

and rub them in with the soles of our feet

Hoping they’ll disappear

Like no one will notice

And its true,

we are chemically bonded

to the silk on the ground

but Just like oil

The hate will never come out in the wash

so instead

we watch pot plants

get thrown across her windshield the next morning

just before he gets in his ute and leaves for work

The isolation cuts so deep

Wrapping my sheets around my head acts

Like the bandaid keeping my soul intact

its all coming true

I absorb the conflict to create the glue to pull everyone together

because when I leave

This house of cards will fall

To distract myself

I watch the pigeon decompose

On the nature strip, outside

i fall asleep to the picture of girls drowning

Do you hate the sound of her snoring

Or do you just hate her

I let the gale force winds rattle the windows

along with every hair on my body

The Stagnant pond alight at sunset

Has stopped collecting dust at the bottom

herein this house lies the things that kept me safe

Now I wait in the calm, before the storm

so once more before I go,

Here’s to loving

And here’s to leaving.

#divorce #poetry #poem #poemsdaily #poems on tumblr #poemsworld #poemas #poetry on heartbreak #new poets society #poetscommunity #poet #writers and poets

[lamb-ie]

lonely

I’ve never had a lover before

and if I did, I think I could

Feel safe and sound in the skin I’m in

I’ve waited years to feel this good

you’d de-mist my foggy windscreen

and teach me how to see

myself in ways that are not harmful

loving you is loving me

And we’d try new things together

we’d walk and talk and eat

Id hold your hand

so gently in mine

while we softly fall asleep

But I’ve never had a lover before

so in this room I wait alone

everybody seems to be in love

even the strangers on my phone

I can’t escape this emptiness

it’s the companionship I seek

I watch the lovers glow and wonder

if this is how I’ll always be

#sadpoem #poetry #sad

[lamb-ie]

molly

Back resting against the drift wood,

Sun bathing me in all it’s glory,

I think to myself

I am so lucky that

it is you 

who I got to know

time is ticking

rain is pouring

lines are being carved 

In to the skin of my mothers face

In this life,

I am glad to have known you 

Like i did

Loving someone is the biggest tragedy of all

not the growing up part or 

The realising that the world doesn’t revolve around you

i can handle death

but i don’t think i could ever understand love

when you learn to love somebody 

you accept they’re one of one

that they too will become the air they breathe

The water that flows from above

The soil we step on

Only if everyone could meet this being

and feel the way I do

but life doesn’t work like that

We are here one day and gone the next

the pit of my belly hardens

If my dreams turn to dust

And wishing on birthday candles won’t work anymore,

I’ll remind myself 

how I was lucky to have met you

that is enough

and thinking I wasn’t 

thinking I hadn’t accomplished much 

I wasn’t successful

I wasn’t lucky

I wasn’t enough

was (maybe)

the second biggest tragedy of all

#poetry

[lamb-ie]

Three original illustrations by Dani Strips.

[lamb-ie]

the end

first day of drama class

I stole your seat

you came in much later

and sat next to me

we paired up, exchanged lines

you blushed both your cheeks

they sad true love begins

when two losers meet

so I saw you the next week

and you had this script

It was from “17 again”

I knew this was it

the thing that would end

everything that I wished

in boy band crushes

and movie star lips

I saw you in November

After school camp

I went to Vietnam

Where the streets smelt all damp

we were both at the carnival

Had shakes in both hands

watched out for your face when

we went ‘round again

as I flipped upside down in that

blender machine

looked into your eyes

while you looked back at me

tried spitting on the ground

it’s the closest we’ll be  

I’ve been chasing you forever

been building up heat

We heard a flute play outside the front door

we paused for a second

to let it drift down the floor

we said it at the same time

“mask off

that’s for sure”

maybe we jinxed it

our love-stricken lore

but another year passes

and I’m at the club

I’m bored and I’m tired

about to give up

surrounded by bodies

But it’s yours that I want

I glance out the window

you’re wasted out front

you’re asleep on the concrete

bleeding and all

broken glass and gravel

absorbing your fall

you’ve grazed those cheeks

and you’re starting to crawl

they all stand around

mouths agape and appalled

you’ve changed a lot

Since I met you that day

your not that boy that I loved

because he’s ran away

your violent and strong

Don’t care what they say

I know it’s those kids

who’ve led you astray

maybe in another world

we could be friends

or colleagues or team mates

who I could contend

but I do not know

the man you’ve befriend

you are somebody else

so this is the end

#poetry #love poem #new #new poetry #new poets society

[lamb-ie]

dialogue

delusion is

convincing myself that the lines

that wept from your mouth that day

bled from your heart

instead of 

the script in front of you

delusion is 

praying for grand gestures,

acknowledgement even,

or a flash of

those

love heart eyes

the eyes you showed me 

slowly,

then all at once

delusion is

holding onto that moment for 

the next 4 years

because

no one looked at me the same way since

nothing disrupts the monarchs like

the ever fleeting presence of a first love

akin to the wave of adolescence 

that engulfs lonely children 

slowly,

all at once,

then never again.

#new #newpoetry #new poetry #new poets community #new poet #new poets on tumblr #new poets corner #sad poetry #sad poet #love poems #love poem #first love #romance poem #romance #teen love #childhood crush #love story

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OLIVIA: The Cloudy Dreamer (2007)