I am not maternal
nor do I wish to be,
there are other ways to be woman
that have less to do with caring for others
and more to do with creation
not to mention that if you equate female
with womb-using then
you're wrong and this poem isn't for you.

Its for the ones whose mothers are offended
by their choice to abstain,
though they witnessed every wrinkle of
terror, every shadow of pain
of mother's face,
it does not have to be the only way.

This is for the ones
who know they would be good mothers,
and don't need you to tell them,
the fact remains that just because you're good at it
doesn't mean you need to commit your life to it
otherwise
Tony Abbott would be a lawyer
and Tiger Woods would be a pornstar,
Paris Hilton would be a model
and the Daily Telegraph would be a firestarter.
I am good at anythign I put my mind to
but i'm not putting my mind to parenthood.

Before you call me selfish,
take a look in the mirror, friend
for what could be more selfish that you own desire
to extend your life through a miniature copy of
your and your wife?
Also, sidenote, how can I be selfish to a thing that doesnt exist yet
and just because you created my future in your head doesn't mean i'm going to live it.
So there.

I am not maternal, which is why i thought i was a lesbian,
still pretty convinced, when it seems to me
that hetero malarky is built on motherless men
who know not how to care for themselves,
do the washing, make the bed,
see the need for medicines and rest,
Need constant validation for their personal direction,
as well as motivation, love, understanding, trust,
and all the while, i'm sposed to do the washing up too?
Fuck you. That isn't love,
that's gender slavery and i'm not up for it
I told you, i'm not maternal,
so don't expect me to mother you mate,
I don't care if you're late to work,
you should have woken up earlier,
I don't care if you've lost your keys,
you should order yourself better
it's not my fault if you've forgotten to eat,
You're 34 years old
and i am not your mother.

grow.

And at the end of the day
what more can be done than what was done
when the bundling nerves and tripping-over-themselves
apologies are heard,
the reality of time passed and irretrievable opportunity
sits like a rotten fruit,
past its time
gathering flies
wallowing in its own juices,
staining the grout in between tiles with its heavy colour,
did you know kiwis bleed red
when past their prime?
Did you know that a lime
not realized in its greatest moments
shrivels into a smaller size,
turns yellow on the outside,
and gets saggy skin?

What kind of stagnation can humans survive in?
The reason we progress is not for capitalism,
and if it was, how do you explain artists,
who live on 50 cents a day just for the joy of
progression,
building skills over a lifetime to teach in a single lesson,
reaching for mastery in ten thousand hours
then producing sounds for bite sized listening,
a piece of purpose, an arrangement of decorated space.

it's not a race to the end with anyone but yourself
you can be no better or worse than anyone but yourself
in order for life to work, one must rely on one's self
change exists in the present moment,
rather than repeated convoluted pasts
so i implore you to stand up,
speak up,
admit your faults and ask for help,
reach for growth to better yourself,
and know that its about fulfillment, nought else.
Purpose, meaning and why-are-we-here
can be easily answered with a gentle evolution.
Do as your cells do, cleanse and renew,
reassess your opinions regularly
reach for solitude to realign your own magnitude
and scrub off the muddy rutted ways,
this is not quicksand, mate, it's bitumen,
Leaves scratches on you,
scars even, melt your feet in summer,
shimmer like illusion but rest assured,
if you push back
you will stand and move forward,
as your body is built to,
your muscles will evolve and grow into new spaces
as they are built to
and your mind won't find it so hard, this new part,
once you have already begun.

your dustmites and ripped frocks
haunt me still
despite the chill of a new winter
and the harsh winters passed
I follow a part of your hope
in my dreamscape
and sweep up the hailstones
that left dents in my car.

It's too late for that old story to end anew
it's too late to expect old bridges
to be maintained after the fire
when roasted toes ran quickly
when embers never let up
built heat slowly til the air
choked you,
left your lungs broken and your vocal chords
sore

i am not a perfect human nor is ours a perfect story
ripped to shreds with ego and pain
controlling love and love for disdain
I always try to scream love when it rains
but mostly it sounds like drowning.

Love is a chemical

Love is a wasteland of guilt
and cages rusted shut
No,
i can't help you out of your rut,
this is not your character,
this affect, attitude and mindset,
this racked rib is laid bare of heartbeats,
stupid little things fuelled by
chemical misunderstandings
I have been so young and so stupid for so long.

Love, is a chemical, nothing more.
It allows this race to pour more of itself
into itself,
perpetuate this chronic life disease and
procreate
I'm sorry I let you believe there was some magic in it,
and have i ever inspired you,
I apologise.

I truly believed in it too
but magic is a capitalist illusion,
just like music is a form of auditory wanking
painting is a mental illness
and poetry is pure narcissism,
it was wrong of me to give you false hope
and elevate such things to deities,
this rope around my neck speaks the truth
and love, well, its a social tool.

I am not love, nor do i know it.
I cannot show it or seek it,
without each step or character questioned,
each motive hastened to ulterior,
each heartbeat creaking with the weight of this
stone pissing blood,
these patched over bones,
growing crooked and skinny
this dull lamp that once was a star in my eyes
this pedestal, smashed to pieces
and the truth is a smug professor,
waggling his finger
saying i told you so.

For you, Stone.

There's only one person 
In the world who could make my 
Heart stutter with a happy tap dance
Knowing you were back from
One adventure or other,
I tethered my eyes to your skies
As promised,
And heard the rusty rack
Of the train's clickedy clack below,
Some souls moving on
And change becomes the daily rhythm
Ecstatic, you were written into my lyrics
When I'd wake and hear your happiness hum,
A low static vibration of peace and
My god we knew we were lucky.
You, bouncing out of your skin,
Pixie, belonging to a concrete forest,
I wish I'd had a chance to frolick with you,
To dooftown, to wonderland, fit for an alice
This lost world of freaks and open hearts would have been your calling,
You, of the zombie bop and stomping ruin,
Of arms slapping earth, a shattered breath and empty yearning,
You, of the lonely dial tone,
The held breath that you never finished,
The syncopated blood beat,
Draining into stumbling feet,
A muted mind stopped listening to music
For nine months
Til I recall the shaking of your bones
To breakbeats of inner beasts,
You gave your sins to the minions of
Movement,
Refused to take this life sitting down
You danced like the ground was your instrument and you, orchestral master,
Plucked my heart strings
Ever so delicately,
Play concertos with my poems
Lifted my nose up to the anti woes
In cumulus or in sunset,
My fret board's since been emptied,
My bass is out of tune,
The melody's off key and my soundcloud needs renewing,
There's a distant drum in the bush,
There's an echo in the hills,
Light flickers into harmony,
As shadow hits the windowsill,
Dugguda dugguda dugguda goes trance of my reeling mind,
Take comfort in the macro,
We all will die we all will die,
Tap out the words I'll see you again
Into the drying pavement
Mend this beatless heart with song,
Let go, move on, let go, move on.

Life Lessons

My body always grew before my mind,
and my spirit lagged behind an equal distance
three-quarters grown up by twenty six
with the final sprint a frantic climb
I feel eighty five, with the mind of a teen
and spirit of a child;
this last year I learned more
than all my time combined,
thanks to Professor Death
and Dr Depression,
anxiety meds and true confessions
there's lessons in life I wasn't expecting
so here's some without the side effects:

1. Death is a relief for the departed, and painful for the left behind. My fear of death now blessed with anticipation of warm welcomes at the other end. I imagine all the gone ones are friends now.

2. Love is like petrol, sets things on fire and gets cars moving; but we humans need our hearts checked, inspections done, tyres changed and driving lessons made to navigate this sea of damaged chassis, take responsibility for some crashes and get insurance for third parties to ensure we remain accountable for others we scratch. Also, too much fuel can be a bad thing, but no one ever tells you that.

3. Ask for help with your mental health - tell the judgement brigade to rain on someone else's parade, this shit isn't for attention.

4. Speak your truth and defend your perspective, put your hand up when you've failed and let your maker take care of the rest, just do your best.

5. Get a pet

6. Learn your sex and what you like most, this could be your best medicine and you don't know it yet. Sexual healing is real, and the doctor is your orgasm.

7. Stop asking permission for your vision for your life, there are those who would hold you down and those who would raise you high, aim for the latter, be ruthless in demanding your needs be met and get real with yourself when the magic ain't there. Get square with your childhood dreams even though it seems the world is pushing you to grow up.

For Aviel

We met in the spaces between 
Falling and reaching,
My first offer to melt your broken back with my fingers, 
Months later I would realise how 
Excruciating the feeling of oil on skin is for you,
But you never said a word
Except thank you. 
That very same weekend, 
the weather collapsed in on itself,
Iced dew on tents, a dangerous step to waking, 
And two frozen buddies seeking to find a warm heart, 
A burning conversation, 
a new hope in an old situation, 
redemption in opening up the bruised petal parts,
I knew from the start this was love, 
So we were covered in scratches and mud, 
Burnt memories and hugs, 
Bright sapphire eyes that lead lost sheep home in the night,
And a promise that this would not be given to the past. 
Fast forward two months, 
To our little home nest
Our little feathered son, a parrot called Icarus,
A backyard of sun, and each studio filled with art, 
An overflowing heart, 
A cynic whose open palms
Have melted my angry neck, 
A partner who stands up and defends my boundary line, back erect with pride, 
My lion man.
And me, allergic to cats, 
learning to embrace my sneezing, 
Soak up the sun, suck in this life
And lungs heaving
Give you my breath.