Monthly Archives: September 2013

Arte fact



it’s 3am and I need to write this out and i’m writing it to you because you’ve sparked it. it is however, all about me, sorry about that. the other day, on Skype, you gave me a special gift. you gave a part of me back to myself. storytelling my story back to me. Thank you, thank you

Thank you

What you remembered for me was that I am blessed to be an Artist (fuck I am crying as I write this) I am an Artist which means everything I do is art. It’s the only way that I can feel alive, by bringing everything I do from this big bottomless void inside. I was so sick today, it took
me until 3:30pm to leave the house in search of breakfast. I didn’t walk to the grocery store, I danced. I danced my shopping. You said my e-mails to you were songs. Then let them be songs (I’ve always wanted to write lyrics) let my shopping lists and notes to my housemate be poems. Let my exam papers be novellas. Let me dance my way across this city. I do, I perform all the time, then let me bring my Art to everything, so that nothing is a waste, so that nothing is numb. I am so fucking tired of being numb and housing this big emptiness inside and feeling like I contain a tsunami and my thin skin is the only thing between this destructive force and the rest of the world.
I haven’t felt at peace for a long time. I just keep having the floor fall out from underneath me, over and over you said i reach beyond my kinesphere – i’m falling, over and over again, while grasping for – what? …AND this silence scares the shit out of me. I was talking to my therapist about the loneliness I feel – my Pink Jellyfish of Loneliness suspended in the dark oceans, slowly falling
through a chasm with no end. Stunningly beautiful, yet stinging. Soft and sharp.

And maybe that’s me?

But I can sting like a bitch, as you know too well And fuck, there’s more to say, but I’m drained and it’s almost 4am, and I need to sleep.

Thanks for listening. For letting me throw this stuff at you
Across the
spaces and places
between us.

And yes, there is a poem here.

This Box Jellyfish
over and out.”

“Every adventure requires a first step. Trite, but true, even here.”

“I am lonely and undesired. I have a body that needs to be touched, spanked, stimulated, stroked, fondled, clawed, bound, etc. and I’m going to shrivel up and die alone and loveless. I’m not so much looking for sex at this moment per se but people with whom I can explore with while feeling safe. Male/female doesn’t matter so much as the connection I have with them. You know the kink scene so well and the locals who are around. Any ideas?”
A typed conversation, an online confession, a laying down of my armor (if only for a moment), to a man I barely knew, but had I not…


The first time it happened was in my bedroom. He sat with me on my bed and talked about being a pro Dom. He told me of his evolution, from discovering the pleasures of self-induced pain to becoming the Master at Hellfire, the longest-running BDSM club in Queensland. He then fell silent, looked into my eyes and said, “so, would you like to try?”

Suddenly, I am standing topless before him and feel myself standing at a brink.


I am



Reach Out and Touch…Me

I am onstage whilst S is showing the audience his florentine flogging skills – on my ass. He whips me rhythmically to the music

(“reach out and touch faith”).

Tonight there is an incredible energy in the club. After ascending the stairs to the stage and stripping down to my panties and stockings, a crowd has materialised on the dance floor. The excitement is rippling from the watchers, in response to the electricity between myself and S. I turn to S but with a smirk on his face, he grabs me firmly by the throat and turns me back to the cross. I grab a firm hold of my self, the I grab a firm hold of the wooden frame

(“Someone who hears your prayers / Someone who cares”).

The audience is swooning in scopophilic ecstasy and I am egging S on, moving my hips to meet the impact of his floggers. I am determined to take whatever pain S decides to wield on my skin, but I am soon on the brink where the sting of pleasure and resulting sensation of expansion reverses. I am at the void, the veil about to descend, and and my right butt cheek is scream-sharp

(“Feeling unknown and you’re all alone / Flesh and bone by the telephone “).

With his uncanny sense of timing, S ceases swinging the floggers and begins running them seductively along my shoulders, my neck, my breasts

(“Things on your chest / You need to confess / I will deliver / You know I’m a forgiver” )

I turn and pounce, wrapping my legs around his waist as he alternately digs his fingernails into my thighs and strokes his hands down my body.

We both pulsate with adrenaline and endorphins. S is slick with sweat whilst am I barely warm enough to be a corpse. I am a born performer, and feed off the exchange between myself and S in front of a crowd. S is doing what he does best, a pro Dom of considerable skill, bringing pain and pleasure, showing off before an admiring audience.

Above all, S and I are having fun. For those few moments, my connection to him is all, pure and indecent, passion and diversion, fantasy and authenticity.

We look at each other, our faces practically touching and laugh. S always has a strong body odor that comes off on my skin with his sweat. I will smell him on me for hours until I will finally, gratefully, soak my aches away the following afternoon in a Korean bathhouse, bearing a Greek name, tucked into a Woolloongabba shopping centre.

My skin is stinging and ripe.

I wonder what new bruises will embellish my body tomorrow.


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ORIGIN early 17th century: from late Latin vulnerabilis, from Latin vulnerare ‘to wound,’ from vulnus ‘wound.’

It’s funny, I have a real issue with that word, “vulnerable”. Half of the time I can’t pronounce it like Freud is perhaps winding himself around my tongue oh, ha ha, very funny. But because I can’t find “vulnerable” in the thesaurus, I usually just try and avoid that whole topic altogether.

I saw Chad last month doing promotions for a club in the Valley and he told me that you had dumped everything and run off to Melbourne. Or Perth. Or Sydney. Or-?

I saw that your band had replaced you with a new drummer, and I thought of you. A friend showed me a picture of you and me sitting together, and I thought of you. The other day, my professor accidently called me Georgie and I thought of you. I feel as though I am haunting the impressions you have left behind, on this city. I nearly wrote to you, but what would be the point? But I thought of you, I thought of you.

I dreamed of you. We were sitting in the back of Ric’s, your arm around my shoulders, my hand raised, fingers splayed, almost touching you, but pulling back at the last moment. Then suddenly we were in your car watching the city lights exactly like that night in March. When you leant over across the leather seats, your lips on my neck and I thought your pussy must taste terribly sweet, though I had no experience in these matters. Looking back though, I like that I can remember that time between us.

I prefer to think of you that way and not of what came after, the way your face can screw itself up in hideous mockery, your ugly words. I hear that the craziest chicks are incredible in the sack, and I would have loved to experience that for myself.

The night I first saw you, playing drums, your face orgasmic and furrowed in concentration, I was not prepared to feel such attraction for another woman. Even less, I did not expect you to reciprocate; yet the next day there you were. And that night in the car, when anything and everything seemed possible I thought, here’s a girl who could contain all of me.

I remember the moment when I realized that your eyes were the exact colour of Michaela’s, my mother’s passive-aggressive Persian. When I was a toddler, that damn thing would follow me, stalking about the house, and slip into my room while I slept to hop into bed to lie on my chest. I would wake in the night unable to breathe, paralyzed in terror and I would get spanked for voiding my bowels into the sheets. Over the intervening years I grew, and Michaela satisfied herself with swiping at my ankles from underneath the furniture. Oh Michaela. She brought me such misery over the years; I took a particular pleasure in planning and exacting revenge, once I had discovered my somewhat darker appetites.

It was your eyes that finally made up my mind. The night you arrived without prior warning, and banged on my door demanding to meet “the bastard” you were convinced I was fucking behind your back, your face disfigured in rage, your nails slicing the air in front of my face. Looking up and seeing your eyes gleaming in the streetlight, I realized it would be so easy.

You seemed surprised at my sudden serenity, and clearly didn’t expect me to ask you in for dinner. You were suddenly quiet and docile and I started to doubt, for just a moment. But between the wine and my pills ground into your tagine there was no struggle, only sleep.

But even in the end, I could not stomach your eyes, though I do hate so much to waste flesh. I was right though; your pussy was incredibly sweet.

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The Fiend of Brisbane.


Snapshot: The Hero

He likes to watch.

Standing at his favorite spot on Hale Street, he looks upon the lights of the CBD.

With one hand, he encircles the arm of the city, feels for its heartbeat, then exerts gentle pressure until its turbulence ceases, taking careful note. He eases off, listening, sensing.



He absorbs this information, shoulders his gray bag and walks on toward Musgrave Road. A Viking in a white singlet, pausing in the moonlit night.

But this man has been noticed. He is not one of the Lost, but rather a man out of time. Not a complacent man. A man of Appetites.


I see you

And I


Feel wolfish tonight


Snapshot: Place in Time


But here, a pause for appropriate acknowledgement to place and context:

December in Brisbane. After two summers of rain and flood, the warmth of the South Pacific meets the oscillating temperatures of the Indian Ocean. Instead of floods, meteorologists warn of bushfires, heat waves and tropical cyclones.

Throughout the month, high-pressure systems arrive from the Tasman Sea in the southeast to construct a humidity in the city that will not budge. The atmosphere builds intolerably until the city becomes colicky and begins to creak. The airlessness pulls from the pavement the smells of this urban labyrinth – sweat, car exhaust, and something akin to the stale urine smell of an old man.

Finally, low-pressure troughs assembles in the Antarctic, crosses the Great Dividing Range and curves to enfold tropical Queensland. In short time, cumulonimbus clouds fester until sudden heavy storms bring release. A climatic orgasm, a release of competing pressure systems after which the city, well burped and satisfied, sluggishly beds down for a nap.

Christmas brings its own intensity; shoppers storm the malls, as desperate for relief from lists of things to be done as for the industrial air conditioning systems, so powerful they blast frigid Squamish winds into the streets, seizing pedestrians attempting to brave the heavy tropical afternoons.

Discard the debate about daylight savings time, rebellious cows, and lusterloss drapes, had Queensland been settled by the Spanish instead of Her Majesty’s wayward rejects, men and women so self-consciously correct, attempting to assert their home nation’s virtues and subdue this fiercely delinquent landscape, – had Queensland been settled by Spaniards, her total social outlook might have been transformed by the introduction of a daily siesta.  Mores that made no sense; Christmas in midsummer, houses fit to cook their inhabitants, bus shelters equipped for snow when temperatures fail to venture below 10C.  It is the way of exiles to cling all the tighter to rituals of home, without ever attending to the principles that motivate these sacraments.

From the day that we landed here, on this fertile strip of fate, we mobilized in fear of disappearing and never understanding our why.


Am I a walk-on, the staff-bearer in another’s story?


When the curtain call comes

Why am I always relegated to the shadows?


Snapshot: The Hero’s Becoming

All cities need wards. There are many applicants, many hopefuls, but few know how to read below the city’s surface dowsing for truth, offering clemency or excising and debriding as needed.

There are wards who are self-appointed, craving title and office. But true wards are chosen by the place itself:





The Viking has been noticed for his empathy, his caring, his infinite patience, and has been instilled as Arbitrator.

He beckons the pleasure seekers to him

The kinky and the queer

The lonely and perverted

The hurting

The hunted

Those begging to get hurt

Holding out against the lonely, they come to him with questions in their eyes, discouragement on their lips.

He meets out remedies for whatever ails them, a gentle word, a loving touch, the gift of his attention, a knack for expanding time. And, when nothing else will do, he will administer the aneasthetic.

Every body has its own density, its own geography, artifacts that a careful archeological study can reveal and interpret, as well as its own astronomy of seasons; the body rises and sets, waxes and wanes, keeps to its own solstices and tides.

A body’s landscape is always changing, shaped by both chance and friction.

The words of these phenomena themselves form a sort of incantation: erosion, ley lines, alluviation, deflation, midden, megaliths

But Stranger

Who sustains the sustainer?

You remain

An enigma

Master of all souls

Lover of none



Snapshot: The hero’s Journey

Public transportation in Brisbane is challenging at the best of times, but there is no trouble getting a taxi – unless you really need one. The Viking arrives with just enough time for a brief stopover at Mos for a kinpira rice burger and cranberry lemonade, then the 385 to Casablanca’s for improv and cocktails.

On his way, the Viking reads the city’s ley lines and scrys for news. Here, a vomit-stain spread in an angel’s wing. There, a vertical water-mark as cthulhu, or the snub-nosed eunuch beside the grate in the lane. And then he sees her.

Wary, yet wholly unaware, the black-haired girl walks alone, hugging herself against imagined dangers. He paces behind her, warding off the real ones. It’s a subtle dance, as a figure peels forward from the wall but, at a nod from the Viking, insolently drops its head and retreats. The thick-fingered, they breathe loudly through their mouths.


Tell me

Can you hear it cracking when you breathe her in?

Your heart

Does it break when you leave her?

And is this exquisite pain so sweet

each time you walk out that door?





Snapshot: The hero Seen. The hero Approached

He likes to watch.


You have rendered me



And Unsatisfied

When he enters the private club, the Viking pulls a mantle of darkness to himself, a symmetry of shadow and twilight-gloaming, remaining unseen to most of the revelers until a moment of his choosing.


Collector of the hapless

Curator of the unfortunate

In the world, but not of the world

Desired, but not truly seen

I dress myself in barbs and tacs

And still you steal the room.

They desire the idea of you.


Watching the stage, the couches, the bodies writhing together against the grating on the balcony above.

Hundreds of emotions fly

About this place

Looking for a heart to hold them

He is ruminating in that room. There had been love for him once. Still remained, but he was learning patience, and that attachment might submit to be stretched across great distances and time zones. And suddenly his yearning evolves into a colour he cannot name, a taste he cannot name, a texture he cannot name.

With that thought, he is drawn back to the present, registering a subtle rise and fall in the pressure of the air about him, like the inside of a chest next to a beating heart. Then a gentle but persistent probing like fingers at his temples but without a hand, a visible author to the sensation. It is unsettling.

Fire without fuel will eventually die

And what is life without fire?

What is love without flame?


Around him, the carousers fill the pulsating room with dreams and fantasies.

Afterward, when it comes time for closing, partiers will return to their own beds or forage in the beds of new lovers while the Viking, solitary and untethered, walks the streets.


You see my shadow thrown ahead of you on the wall

You look back behind you

But I am no longer there


And somewhere in the city, a girl hunches vomiting in her bathroom, wondering why she has chosen this cloistered life.

And somewhere, a man selects a flogger from his wall, to play with his Kitteh.

And somewhere, a boy cries in self-pity, hungry for an appetite he cannot name.

And somewhere

And somewhere

And here


He loves them all

Everyone dies alone

the question is

how do you spend these

Quiet hours before leaving?


Snapshot: An Interlude

A fairytale, this is just a fairytale:

Oh Grandma, what big eyes you have

Oh Grandma, what big teeth you have

Oh Grandma, can those really be your ears?

Oh Grandma, what a big c–k you have.

The wolves are out tonight, licking their incisors and so,

I hiked up my black jeans, pulled on my red hoodie, tied my Doc Marten boots, hit the streets and went hunting.

But this is a love story, and love stories never run straight and true.



It is hardest to feel this alone at night.

I am fractured but I don’t know why

I have a hunger that has never been filled

I eat

Yet am still



Snapshot: The Hunt



You are wolfish tonight

You are the meaning and I am the rhyme

You are the form and I am the sound

I see you

I know what you hunger for

You push me just a little further

You grind my flesh between your teeth until I slide free


But I will wear you like a mask

There is no safe word

No surrender but yours

I surrender to no one

No, one

– If you know


My hands

If I had them

Would shake at the thought of you

Say my name


Say my name just once

And enclose me in your hand again




come to me now!

He closed his eyes, shuddered, and came.

I am not yet




Snapshot: New Years Eve, 2012

The moon, still clings to its ripeness from the days before and lights the sky as if to obscure the family-friendly fireworks, the event that marks close of the evening for the young or the more fatalistic of cynics. For those of a mischievous bent, these same fireworks are like the crack from a starter’s pistol, declaring the beginning of a city-wide fête that can only be celebrated by the most competitive of drinking and carousing.

But stay, here small and quiet if you can bear it and look there, in the moonlight, where form and substance meet, a cloud, a place of denser air. There, on Story Bridge, where Fortitude Valley can kiss Kangaroo point.

The Viking walks the bridge alone, steadily pacing along the bridge towards this vapor.

Squint slightly and tilt your head, where this shade is backlit against the lights, and it takes on the subtle form of a woman.

Our Viking reaches forward with a gentle hand and seems to encircle and extract a smoldering arm from the smoke. With the other hand, he gently but firmly runs a pointed fingernail down the inside of the insubstantial wrist.

The shadow shivers in answer, arching her back in pleasure.

There is a pause, all sounds of the city seem to stop, scent the air, like a child testing the setting for a tantrum.

I feel wolfish tonight

In a rush, this erotic cloud, this devious shade, grows teeth and expands, engulfing the man in a quivering cloud like angry bees. With an almost audible crack, like lightening before a rainstorm, the man and shadow become hollowed reflections. They vanish into slow air.

Take a moment, here, now and notice.

There is one less sound in the city tonight.

And Brisbane is a little less Fiendish…



Snapshot: New Year’s Day, 2013

No more shall be said about the lunacy of the night before. But with the dawn of January 1st, 2013, the city could be described as having come to itself, shaking off its reverie, stretching and looking about as if to wonder at the madness that had taken control the night before.

One thing is for certain. We have all endured another year. In Fortitude Valley, celebrants and survivors awaken in beds not their own and begin to spill into the Brunswick Street Mall where people litter the streets amongst napkins and empties. Police stroll casually by. Young men tug their hair across their faces as young women tug up their sagging tops, carrying their cheap shoes. Both sexes eat McDonalds and express nostalgia for an era they never knew.

For this one day, Strangers will look on each other as friends and say “Happy New Year”.

And it will be.

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Smoking Mother

Smoking Mother

The story goes, (so the story goes),

that it wasn’t until the funeral that she found out the truth.

(She’d wondered why so few of his family were at the wedding,

tried to ignore strange looks exchanged over her head.

Thought herself, dirty, a defect, a disappointment.

It wasn’t until the funeral – his funeral – that she found out.

Lies run skin-deep, but the Truth sleeps there, in the blood.

Little Black Babies All.

She had – hm


he had – hrm


Where one is not black enough,

but Black enough to warrant rejection from both.

– where does one lie?

-when does one lie?

She looked  over the heads of her well-mannered (white) conciliatory friends at the faces of her children

Black. Babies. All.

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September 12, 2013 · 12:02 pm