That time of year again.

No real Christmas post this year. Tomorrow I leave to go see my family in Canberra, and to pick up Savannah and move her to Melbourne. I don't really have time for ranting about commercialism or bitching about how families always fight or hating the fact that I have to go back to Canberra. I think my feelings this year can be summed up in a song by Tim Minchin, though. So I'm gonna be slack and post those lyrics.

I really like Christmas
It's sentimental, I know, but I just really like it
I am hardly religious
I'd rather break bread with Dawkins than Desmond Tutu, to be honest

And yes, I have all of the usual objections
To consumerism, the commercialisation of an ancient religion
To the westernisation of a dead Palestinian
Press-ganged into selling Playstations and beer
But I still really like it

I'm looking forward to Christmas
Though I'm not expecting a visit from Jesus

I'll be seeing my dad
My brother and sisters, my gran and my mum
They'll be drinking white wine in the sun
I'll be seeing my dad
My brother and sisters, my gran and my mum
They'll be drinking white wine in the sun

I don't go in for ancient wisdom
I don't believe just 'cos ideas are tenacious it means they are worthy
I get freaked out by churches
Some of the hymns that they sing have nice chords but the lyrics are spooky

And yes I have all of the usual objections
To the miseducation of children who, in tax-exempt institutions,
Are taught to externalise blame
And to feel ashamed and to judge things as plain right and wrong
But I quite like the songs
I'm not expecting big presents
The old combination of socks, jocks and chocolate is just fine by me

Cos I'll be seeing my dad
My brother and sisters, my gran and my mum
They'll be drinking white wine in the sun
I'll be seeing my dad
My brother and sisters, my gran and my mum
They'll be drinking white wine in the sun

And you, my baby girl
My jetlagged infant daughter
You'll be handed round the room
Like a puppy at a primary school
And you won't understand
But you will learn someday
That wherever you are and whatever you face
These are the people who'll make you feel safe in this world
My sweet blue-eyed girl

And if, my baby girl
When you're twenty-one or thirty-one
And Christmas comes around
And you find yourself nine thousand miles from home
You'll know what ever comes
Your brother and sisters and me and your Mum
Will be waiting for you in the sun
Whenever you come
Your brothers and sisters, your aunts and your uncles
Your grandparents, cousins and me and your mum
We'll be waiting for you in the sun
Drinking white wine in the sun
Darling, when Christmas comes
We'll be waiting for you in the sun
Drinking white wine in the sun
Waiting for you in the sun
Waiting for you...
Waiting...

I really like Christmas
It's sentimental, I know...

Shades

The shade of apathy
Hides in reflection
If you don't meet his eyes
He wins anyway.

The lord of melancholy
Sits atop his horse of heat
He rides through
and sows entitlement.

The serpent of sin
is a scaled serenader.
He'll wrap you in strands
of finest silk.

The wreck of hunger
shambles
just over the horizon
and he raises a great cloud.

The liar of love
feeds you honey and mint.
He'll kiss you on the lips
and steal away into the night.

Want what.

You can't always get what you want,
And sometimes what you want won't.
If what you want won't, then what?
When do you want what you won't?

I am yours, but you have to go.
It takes a long time to deal with that.
I'll wed your presence and dwell with it,
But you leave and divorce what I want.

There's evidence of what I wanted,
Strewn around in the blistering heat.
All it takes is a look to the side -
An effigy to indolence.

I'll shift you to the back of my mind,
In the same way that an addict
Will shift a stick to the side of his mouth.
Substitution holds it all away.

I always get what I want.
But when what I want won't, I will.
When what I want won't -
then what will you want?
When you want, I won't.

Bad machine.

There's a machine that's fuelled by pieces of itself,
Chewed up small and forced into the flames,
To keep its product flowing in good health,
It occupies itself with sordid games.

It does things it surely wasn't made to do,
Like fill itself with toxic, evil fuel.
And though it had promise when it was new,
Now it obeys simpler, baser rules.

The product is contaminated, yes -
By this self consumption, sacrifice.
Mercy, love - it's chewed up like the rest,
No virtue undevoured by this price.

And then at last, when good is cast aside -
In favour of the cheaper cost of sin,
Then the machine has cause to run and hide -
Without the goods, the rust is creeping in.

Brainstream

Jen's doing stream of conciousness writing. I want to be like Jen. Plus, it has been a while since I've done that. I'm not expecting Prufrock, but I suppose we'll see how it ends up.

I really shouldn't listen to music while I do this.
It damns the flow somewhat. Keeps wanting me to become interject words.
Can't deny it. It's a shame though, because this song is about magic doors. They're opening all over the place, into Alice's head, and she's leaping through the air and suddenly there's ooze all over that pretty dress and she's slashing at the snails and they just
won't break.
And there's millions of them. Millions and millions, crawling all over her body, her desire, leaving their little trails of gunk over every surface within and without and you just know that you're not going to be able to scrub it all clean so you get out your flute and you play something and hope that somebody's recording.
I'm tired. I'm also worried I sound mad. I've been playing games about madness, I've been thinking about madness,
do I dare? Do I dare?
but I don't think I'm on the edge of that particular cliff just yet. It'd be nice though
to slide away
into dementia. Well, I'm smart. Maybe in a few decades.
Song finished. Interlude.

New song began. Same band. Named 'Hunter'. All I can think of is those blue and orange creatures made out of tubes, and you shoot them and they bleed all over the corrogated iron floor. The tone isn't like that at all. It's something you'd play in a boudior - spelling? - with a pale faced lady lying prone and listless on a couch nearby and I forget where I was going with this but she's drained of all her blood.
And there's a cacaphony of serenades competing for space on your tongue and you can't decide which one spews forth and tarnishes the air above her head, so you settle for none and you lick your lips and stare out over the unmoving world. Hunter. That sounds about right, doesn't it? It'd be cold. It's never hot in places like that. It's never hot here, come to think of it, not properly. I don't warm up like I should, like proper people do. Pat does. He's usually warm, and I'm straying into territory that could get graphic here so I'll make an effort to force my mind away from skin and sweat and bedroom and turn it back to things that are holy and sanctified like a woman being drained of flesh or a man having nails driven into his flesh. Hunter. That'll do nicely. Can't listen to this anymore. Interlude.

I was right. This wasn't Prufrock. And now the northern lights are shining on me and the tone is shifting yet again and dragging me with it.
And I'm flinging
fireballs
from the back seat of a moving bus
apocalypse
as the world slides into the grave
with a riotous sound
not with a whimper, but with a glorious bang,
an orgy of destruction and vainglory,
and I'm the destroyer
and the important thing is that everybody knows it
but I'll be home in time to raid.

That'll do, I think.

Well/Better and everything in between

Well?
What now?
A little piece?
For a little peace.
You'll hardly miss it, honest.
What's the harm in trading it?
Where's the suffering in giving it up?
You won't regret this choice for long.
Just a tiny, insignificant piece.
Nothing worth fighting over.
Hand it over.
That's good.
Better?

Time Enough.

Everybody's telling you that you can't,
As you're rubbing ointments on the wound.
Nothing ventured, nothing at the start,
You smile and duck your head and hum a tune.
There's no path around this here jungle that's sprung up -
No road to take you where you need to go.
There's a ditch that you'll abridge when you've enough,
And a jungle - that's a metaphor. Don't you know?

Through the gates, through the gates,
With nothing to stop you on your way
Nothing holds you back from keeping dates,
Nothing holds you back from yesterday.
You smile at the drones out on the street,
With vapid eyes and grinning lies and faded heart,
But there is nothing that constrains your depth or feet,
Nothing to suppress your soul of art.

Rejoice!; rejoice,
The world is your oyster - or mollusc of choice,
It's there for the taking, if you find your voice,
There's time enough for love, now,
Time enough for strife.
Time enough for husband and time enough for wife.
Time enough for suffering and time enough for scorn.
Time enough for happiness, time to be forlorn.
Time to lose the beaten track, time to take a toll,
Time to love the jungle, time to fill your bowl.
There's enough inspiration to take it from the soil,
Take it from your blogging friends and take it from your toil,
Take it from the end of something and from life anew.
Take it from most any source, but most of all, from you.

Sing, man. I believe you.

You've been let in,
And you're not sure how.
But you're steeped in sin.

There's a boy in the dark,
And he opens his mouth,
And sings like a man.

Something isn't right.
A feel, a thought, a dream.
Drinks during the day.

Suddenly, a power play.

The voices within,
Burst into song,
I'll sing along.

Something feels wrong.
The lights are off,
I'm not a good man.

Is this your plan?
Throw it aside,
It won't help you here.

There's nothing to fear.
Only your arm,
And force of will.

I can settle your stomach.

Dance with me, and I'll make you feel wrong,
To your very core,
To the depths of your self,
To the end of your health.
To the earth, to the bones,
To me.
I won't be a martyr.
It won't be alright.
But it might just be
enough.

Matter of Time

Always never seems to last.
We just end up here again.
I can help you if I want to.

We're just waiting for our meds,
Burning daylight till we sleep,
You mean nothing to me in the dark.

It's a good time until we close our eyes and fall.
It's a good dream until the dawning of the day.
It's a good life, but you know I can't stay.

It's a sea that we can never cross,
A word floats into the air and is burned away.
It's just a matter of time,
You've been running with the wind,
And now there are bars across the doorways to your soul.

And this might take a lot of our time to get through,
So don't fight against me.
This might take a lot of our patience and strength,
But you have the strength,
And you tear between those bars and you're free in the wind.

The sun is calling your name,
It's the time to be out in the world,
And you sing with your hands
and your eyes fall away.

Down here, waiting in the dark.
A world that's built from blood and shame.
And your breath falls across it.

Turn my face towards the sun.
There's a light in the gloom,
And all I see in it is your face.

Get the FUCK Up.

Blink,
Think,
Roll over and
drape your hand across the space where he used to be,
Let out a groan
as your body informs you
that you need to pee,
Shake your head
and banish the dreams that chase
themselves around your mind.
Force them back down
to your core,
where they can't
drag
you down in kind.
Take your other hand off your crotch,
Frown and think,
And fight against the resurgence
of dreams.
Who was I fucking? Why was he there?
Was I flying or acting or
burning
or writing something terrible
or singing a song
or kissing, always kissing,
there's so much sex in my dreams
and I have no idea why it is happening
oh god, I'm a deviant,
and my breath
is
awful.

Drag yourself upright.
No mean feat.
Stagger into the bathroom and spit into the sink.
Bleary.
Bags under the eyes
but I slept all day
oh
Fresh spots.
Fresh blots.
Fresh, refreshed.
Let's get clean.
Hot water can manage this.
But what about that dream?
Burn it all away,
Down the drain.
Time to awake.