happy birthday to me

Your shitter than celery

I cant figure out.
if the cake worked.
and am i flying?
it is 39 mins till my birthday
and all i can think of is joseph.
and what colour his hair might be.

Honor

She lies like a friend
in the back of my head
My heart grows big
and bursts from my chest
beating like a beacon
for a wandering gypsy
this trailblazing hero
of stubborn philosophy

Wonder and wisdom
flow from her fingertips
stories are woven
from translucent thread
collected from culture
Her steps become coloured
like blood on a footpath
crossing oceans and landmass alike

Windspan increasing
outstreched to a sunrise
greeting the sparks in the depths of the night
Like the sea eagle soaring
through clear air and currents
cleaning the sky on a breeze made of language

Watching the land
as it passes below
like a series of journeys
laid out on a map
open air flying
flocks of birds mingle
all the while
the contours cling to her back

The bells on her gypsy feet
twinkle so fast
as she takes easy footsteps
through the present
from past.
Photo 1: Dane Voorderhake      Photo 2: Maddy Neely

Tribute to friends

Last night my friends bought me a cake. We ate it and ate in smoke. We were high. This is a tribute to friends. Glorious, giving friends. I wrote a short story at the time.
Here it is:

I feel as though I am talking to homebase
"Commander captain keen, please report to Studio Killing room no 4”
"Yess sir”
he looks like snape.
What the fuck
haha I got so into that.
It seemed like I was talking to Tom Riddles book
in harry potter
this if fucked up
AND I CAN SMEELL FISH?
x freyfreypony

Loss of the red gem

I want to head out into the streets
and dance in the rain
so that when it pours down onto you
it runs down your veins
cover your body with a layer of smooth
this translucent outer
the dance will burn in your head
and I will slam my naked feet
into the bare puddles
repetition and rhythm
haunt my existence
Its easy to smile
as it swells in my back bone
where you cant distinguish tears from rain
native beat to shape the footwork
fresh and beastly.
We are the monsters of suburbia
yelling this passion from our toes
like rivalry ignited

Bat's Ultrasound

I just came across a poem that I really loved, whilst looking for a poem for Voice class. I think I will be using one by Les Murray, but this one is a little strange.

Sleeping-bagged in a duplex wing
with fleas, in rock-cleft or building
radar bats are darkness in miniature,
their whole face one tufty crinkled ear
with weak eyes, fine teeth bared to sing.

Few are vampires. None flit through the mirror.
Where they flutter at evening's a queer
tonal hunting zone above highest C.
Insect prey at the peak of our hearing
drone re to their detailing tee:

ah, eyrie-ire; aero hour, eh?
O'er our ur-area (our era aye
ere your raw row) we air our array
err, yaw, row wry—aura our orrery,
our eerie ü our ray, our arrow.

A rare ear, our aery Yahweh.

She hasn't taken the ring off since he left her, except for the odd game of netball.

Tortured Gums as rain it falls
basement feet and dirty halls
walking on a silent dark
cigarettes that bite and spark
Overwhelming scent engulfs me
Smokers in the street
grimy sticky pavement moving
underneath my feet

The creatures of my childhood
they beckon for me from the wood
Their teeth they gnash
they dance and sing
tell stories of
the everything.
To jump inside
like bushly gods
to breath fresh air
the ponies plod.

This country place
Nirvana free
with vines and life
by bush and tree
Freedom from the concrete jungle
The one that keeps my mind
the one that locks me in a cage
where smoke begins to bind
my soul to things and people too
the way i ought to be
but none of this at all exists
out here in the country.

I'll sit and watch the afternoon
chased away by night
the horses cook some happy smiles
the kookaburra fight.
My feet are cool here,
and light air
infiltrates my lung
the sweetly scented
mandarin
seeps deep into my tounge.

Alter-Egos

We discovered our alter-egos. Sally, Theo, Moss, Roam, Carlisle, Scout. I am Artemis.

Do you know why their faces are so messy?
They flicker in the candlelight.

The flames prey on a face
lapping in it's wake
Light is like a creature
swallowing the dark,
or dancing tiny dances
to make the magic spark.
Watch it fall before me,
like a hawk upon a hare.
It graces mornings moment,
always to be fair.

So excuse me for my scribblings
I do no justice to the light,
as a tired and drunken traveller
Appreciating sight.

They are the Wild Things, with bushly thrones,
a fire dancing for our joys
Roaring deep into the black
skulls and stars, their wild toys.
The only light for distances
is owned by them alone
Surveyors of the wild bush
on wild wild thrones.