How To Kill A Woman

There are many standard methods that I’m sure you know about,

Like stabbing through her sternum and then ripping her heart out.

She’ll see the whole thing coming, as you raise that godly blade,

And know that in this moment, you can watch her life source fade.

Of course, there’s always poison, if you slip it in her tea.

She’ll sip it of an evening, before suspiciously

Wrinkling her nose in that way you know you’ll miss,

Then coughing, gagging, spluttering, as life drains from her kiss.

Or else, you could try bludgeoning, if that’s a risk you’ll take.

The artistry of violence is such a beautiful mistake.

The splintered shards of bones and skull, all painted with your pain,

For she deserves the fear that is encrusted in her veins.

Another road you could go down is pushing her downstairs.

It will seem like an accident, a crime too sweet to dare!

And as she’s lying broken, bruised and bleeding on that floor,

You’ll smile as she breathes her last; it makes you love her more.

But if you really want your woman utterly destroyed,

There is no finer method than this one sadistic ploy,

For you cannot truly kill a woman if her heart’s within repair,

So leave her without warning. Now you’ve proved you just don’t care.

I Pray For Diarrhoea

I Pray For Diarrhoea:

a curious cocktail of bowel movements and no inspiration.

I pray for diarrhoea

Of my constipated mind.

My muse is stuck in traffic

And my fingers can’t unwind.

My story’s frozen solid

From Medusa’s poison gaze.

It needs a little fibre

To escape this mental maze.

The toilet roll is waiting,

It’s a new one from the crate.

But my words are stubborn tenants:

They’re refusing to vacate.

Old Morpheus has ditched me,

And my dreams are hard as rock.

My porcelain page is empty,

I want colour, chaos, shock!

My lips are stitched together,

And the bile just won’t flow,

I need a pair of scissors,

‘Cause I really got to go.

I hate this heady silence.

Is my future now in doubt?

So I pray for diarrhoea,

Let those words just splatter out.

Husband's Law

When Husband hands you a secret key,

But forbids you to reach its destiny,

Are you to obey, your will denied?

Or is Husband’s Law to be defied?

But what of curiosity’s price?

Should you shun this seeming vice?

Or should you embrace the truth unknown,

And claim this knowledge as your own?

If the apple hangs so clean in sight,

Is the test to deny your appetite?

What, pray tell, can come of this?

The test of the loyal lover’s kiss?

It was knowledge pure that tempted Eve

Not what they’d have you believe.

A man is given right to find

What mystifies his probing mind,

Yet women are punished for their prying,

Not celebrated for their flying.

So let the scales of justice weigh

The same despite where penalties lay.

For curiosity is not a sin!

But the desire to learn what dwells within.

Portrait

My mistress stands before me in dismay

I show her not what she had hoped to see.

She combs her hair; it frizzes, flies away,

This is not how her life was meant to be.

She backs away, is looking from a distance,

Her clothes are far too snug, her face too plain.

She twists in different angles in resistance

To the image I deliver once again.

She prays to find the one that looks beyond

That girl with unco-operating hair

For she’s a thousand stories, lifetimes long,

If only he would find the time to spare,

To see what I, a mirror, cannot show,

A girl who makes you laugh when you are low.

Got Milk?

I am a glass of milk.

I am full to the top.

And I just keep on pouring;

I don’t know when to stop.

My love is going off

For it’s been sitting here,

Unrefrigerated,

Undrunk for all these years.

My love’s starting to smell.

It’s past expiry date.

Untouched by human lips;

And now, it’s far too late.

I am a glass of milk.

I am full to the brim.

But I feel so damned empty

Because I don’t have him.

22.86 Centimetre Screws

22.86 Centimetre Screws

(An ode to Nine Inch Nails)

I’m feeling delicate tonight

In this sinfully cold twilight,

The line is stretching through the way

But it begins to blur.

My hostile heart is self-destructing,

As politicians are corrupting

A world where love is not enough,

Because you can’t have her.

God Money severs all my strings

Reptilian imaginings,

My pusher, whore, my need for more,

I’m on my hands and knees.

The perfect drug to ease my heart

I will not let you fall apart

A downward coil of flesh and bone,

Now do something for me.

You handfeed me a terrible lie,

I’m sucking stars down from the sky,

But still, there’s no proximity,

A perfume fills the air.

Come on down, the pigs are marching,

The needles in my veins are arching,

The void is looming Closer now,

Together in this, we’re.

My fingers ring of silver spent

Betrayal of my master, Trent.

I’m fragile, hurt and down in it,

Survivalism squad.

You sing your songs of heresy,

But still there’s no proximity.

Collecting heads with holes in them:

I’m Closer to my God.

A Current Affair

A Current Affair

You flicker like an afterthought

Behind my wayward eyes.

Your heat defeats my throbbing thrill,

But still you tantalise.

Encrusted enigmatic wisps

Across your crawling lashes.

You’ve scoured skin to shredded shards,

In passion-driven rashes.

Your thighs are singing siren songs,

And sleepless I will slumber.

You twist a tainted treble clef

To leave my breath encumbered.

Your beauty is the dying art

Of bloodstained disarray.

I slide into soliloquies,

And live my life sideways.

Your lightning lips arterial

Fellate my faithlessness.

I’m brusquely burning broken threads

To bring you to undress.

I know too well this won’t end well,

For you, or me, or she.

But what she doesn’t know can’t hurt,

So hate me, hurt me, bleed.

At our climax my guilt attacks,

But guilt cannot be kissed

So I will fill my mouth with mud

And play the masochist.

My voyeuristic venom veins

Are vying for the win.

This creature likes the taste of pain.

So let the feast begin.

Stop

Stop

I want to be a writer, but I don’t have time to read.

I want to donate blood, but I don’t have time to bleed.

I want to fall in love, but I’ve got no time for a guy.

He may not love me back, and I just don’t have time to cry.

I want to stop my speeding, but I don’t have time to cruise.

I want to play a game, but I don’t have time to lose.

I should tell Mum I love her, just before I turn to go,

But I’m already running late. Surely she would know?

I want to stop this headache; there’s no time to meditate.

I pop some codeine in my mouth – I really hate to wait.

The pain will stop in minutes, and then I will be alert.

There’s just so much I have to do… I don’t have time to hurt.

I want to rest these eyes, but I don’t have time to sleep.

This essay’s due in six more hours; oh, now I’m in it deep.

I’ve had four cans of Red Bull, but I’ve got so far to go,

I miss back when I used to think that time moved way too slow.

I need to take a break, they say. But that will take too long.

My heartbeats count the moments down till I am dead and gone.

I hate that I can never rest: I hate this world of mine.

One day I’ll stop and fix it all. When I have the time.

Smudge

Smudge

On my ceiling is an unknown smudge

I wonder vaguely how it came to be

I only see it in my darkest hours

And somehow know that it’s apart of me.

Is it a cobweb, or is it a crack?

Will the ceiling cave in where I lie?

It seems snake across the blank expanse…

I find myself not minding if I die.

Shoulders sometimes block it from my view.

The skin has three big freckles in a row.

When I can’t see my smudge, I watch those dots.

They’re just like frogs, all leaping to and fro.

The shoulders leave; my smudge returns to me.

My face is glazed with sweat and stained with pain.

I gaze up at the ceiling and I smile

When I realise it’s the reason I’m still sane.

But then this morning, Mother cleans it off.

I stare in anguish at the pristine white.

She does not know what she has done to me.

I’ve lost that friend who helped me brave the night.

The ceiling’s cold and empty, like my heart.

I miss that smudge so badly I could cry.

Father comes to give my goodnight kiss.

He leans down low; three freckles dot my eyes.

So I haven't been blogging for aaaaaaaaaaaaages....

It's true. I've been AWOL. MIA. Or, you know, basically gone.

Well, it's a new year, and a fresh start. I know that no one reads this anymore, but hey, writing's therapy, right? And if it keeps me outta the nuthouse, I'm willing to give it a go.

So... Important updates of 2009:

1. Lolly got a boyfriend.
2. Lolly has yet to be dumped by said boyfriend. Quite a feat!
3. Lolly became a hooker.
4. By hooker, that is LJ Hooker Real Estate. Not prostitution. Trust me - prostitution pays better.
5. Lolly's YouTube songvids are officially BYE BYE.
6. Sadface.
7. Rhianne moved to Melbourne, and Lolly misses her terribly.
8. Lolly should be banned from using the third person...

Okay. That was an aneurysm and a half.

More importantly, I participated in NaNoWriMo this year! And while I didn't win, I DID finish the 50,000 target. It just took me two months instead of one. So shut the hell up. The word count is currently 57,662, and is rising daily. This story is called Phantasm. If you, my invisible reader, are interested, invisibly comment me and I'll put it up. Hell, I might just put it up for shits and giggles. Because, God knows I love to shit and giggle simultaneously.

Speaking of my writing (and shit), I wrote a BUTTLOAD of poetry this year for uni. So same thing goes: if you wanna check it out, lemme know and I will post. And, once again, in lieu of getting depressed with no one reading my blog, I'll probably put it up despite the silence.

Okay. That'll do. Kayla's helping me plot, and no one should ever keep that girl waiting.

Love,
Lolls.