izzy

thinking about ways to be a good human
sometimes that just means finding the energy
to swing my legs outside of the covers and get out of bed
and try to walk down the street with a smile for the sky
because, hey, the sun is trying too
even though it’s sort of piss-weak today

I can close my eyes and put my hand in my own hand
I can hold my own hand with my eyes closed and pretend
but I still know it’s just me holding my own hand

I’m feeling like I might be becoming antisocial
most of what I want to do right now consists of being alone in my room
or I also want to talk to people on the internet more than before
I guess maybe because they are actually physically distant now

a lot of things in our house are broken
and I think my room is almost definitely the coldest room
but I am relatively happy here anyway

I’m actually starting to despise the perfect photos
of people’s beautiful, organised, unattainable studios
where are all the parties at?
fuck my Gorman clogs, my Neuw jumper
I just want to kick the dirt and feel it splat my face

people walking past screaming the lyrics of some
terrible 80s pop song with peanut butter voices
punctuated by the sound of the other guy with them
going ‘no no no no NO NO NO NO’

until he flys into a full-blown psychotic rage
and runs away screaming and kicking lampposts
and the stars scream back at him ‘FUCK YOU’
and try to send a meteor shower directly at him
but he is moving too fast

I don’t know why I want to apologise a lot right now
I feel weird and fractured, I guess and
I don’t really know how to stick the pieces together
sometimes maybe

*

sarah

O how they soar
Those fierce parabolas
Cresting the coast of your skin
Such beautiful savagery
Indecent, orgiastic
These charnel-house, desperate scars.
And who can say how brightly they burn
Who can count the depth of their piercing
Who is there to follow the footsteps
That scatter like breath in the snow?

*

izzy

my tongue a rusted doornail
catching your coat, pulling the wool
I find echoes of you on the internet
to sing me to sleep in the dark

my perfectly organised dresser in disarray
had to pretend this is a boy’s room for the house inspection
I keep everything important safe under my bed
I sleep alone and my doona is a palace or fortress

people having sex in every room in the house,
even the kitchen, everywhere except my room
I want to hold your hand at the movies and cry
and pretend that this is real life

I spend a lot of time with the big screen
not a replacement for you, but a testament
walking home, my arms hang limp and heavy
lemon pulp on my hands, the kitchen is cold

*

sarah

we are better than this
we are better than this
for the love of god
please let us be better than this

*

izzy

the river is filled with thunder
bursting onto pavements
pulling pedestrians under

found out yesterday that this dinosaur
from poundland, this poorly cast plastic
Brontosaurus can yawp, can sing

people singing like it’s serious
we are making SERIOUS MUSIC
the cops came far too late

give them cheek, give them
give them a quiet roar
and your widest doe-eyed smile

lights with a dimmer switch
were made for dancing under
even the brutal are beautiful things

*

sarah

There’s nothing worse than a jerk at a wedding
But to be fair, this couple is frolicking in the entrance
To the carpark into which I need to deposit my car
And me being me, I am running late
So forgive me for the narrowed eyes that I am directing
At the two identical photographers with 200mm lenses
And monopods (fuck off, you don’t need those in daylight)
Who are shooting her from the wrong direction like idiots
(Full sun when you could have angelic backlight)
Who are yelling ‘Carol! Laugh Carol! Keep laughing!’
And poor Carol is spinning like a wind up ballerina
On the end of her husband’s arm, dizzy and tipsy
And Carol is trying so hard to laugh
Carol is trying so hard to enjoy every single second
Of this, the best day of her life
And Stavros and Stavros (I’ve named them)
Are snapping away, indifferent to my pissed off
Hands-off-the-wheel-and-folded mutiny
And Carol is still spinning, light dancing off her dress
Tripping over her fine lace train. Her husband is grinning
Gormless, oblivious to the beads of sweat on her brow
And the Stavs, bellowing ‘Carol! You gotta keep laughing!
Keep laughing, Carol! Keep. Laughing. Carol.’
And she’s wheezing, hyena-faced, panicked,
Letting out spurts of sound like an old pair of bellows
Spinning and spinning and spinning
And blurting out what might at a pinch be joy.
Keep laughing, Carol.
It’ll never be better than this.

*

izzy

a man
a man with blood on his face
a man with blood on his face and gashes on his cheeks
a man with blood on his face and gashes on his cheeks, carrying a backpack
a man with blood on his face and gashes on his cheeks, carrying a backpack and walking casually

I didn’t think it was blood at first
I didn’t think it was blood at first, I thought it was maybe a birthmark
I didn’t think it was blood at first, I thought it was maybe a birthmark but then I got closer and saw it

pedal faster
look the other way
don’t stop to ask

he looked like he knew where he was going

*

sarah

This is me knowing that punk really is dead
Watching makeup and food dye and beer and sweat
Swilling over the edge of a basement stage
With a man in his underwear glaring at me
I am holding his gaze and I won’t let it go
And the music’s not loud enough
And the story’s all mud and booze
And no amount of screaming and punching
And hitting the floor with crunchola kneecaps
Can stir a fire in this here heart
But I can’t help but think
Of a scrawny speck of a kid
Held together by hate and heroin
Wading through blood and booze
To find a crumpled soft body under the sink
Dribbling its contents onto the tiles
And him standing so quiet
With a chain round his neck
And his guts round his heart
Knowing for once without a shadow of a doubt
Exactly where all the roads end.

*

izzy

learn that I do not *need* anyone or anything
except for food and water and sunshine and to move around

put my palm to your palm when I can
and together our two hands will make a mutant but beautiful fist

wear eyeliner and disco pants and whatever I want
because sometimes it’s good to feel cool, whatever you think that is

never let go of the things with feathers that perch in me
and let go of everything else that doesn’t seem to matter or fly with me

tell you all the things I think, even though I probably shouldn’t
and know that it’s ok to change my mind or be contradictory

walk down the street writing couplets that don’t rhyme in my head
and requiems and eulogies because even that, even dying, is part of this walking here too

talk to you like this is the first time, the last time, the only time,
and trace the outline of your lips with the cursor on my computer screen

feel like maybe it is a bit harsh to judge a story by its first line but not read it anyway
because who has time for ‘Having personally smoked about a gram of crack cocaine…’

become a person who is entirely made of fireworks, forever exploding
and somehow magically restocked from the inside, or wherever

*

sarah

Cracks are forming at the edges of these walls
The plaster mawing and sneering black
If god has his way, the whole world will shatter thus
And he may dust the rubble down and set to rebuilding
But we small creatures, we huddle together
And hide our faces from the horror
That slides in wicked from a place far away
Full of water and sand and fear and glass
And over the distance, we hear crying voices
And see the panic and teeth and flesh and death
Creeping into the space at the back of our eyes
We, the children of the revolution
Who never unlearned enough to riot
Whose voices are plunged into cotton wool throats
And are lost there, as the day plummets out of the sky.
But our fists, which have never once tasted of blood
In the darkness, remember what it is to say no.
So we, the quiet guilty, hold a fire in the night
And with our hands pressed together
Through our smartphone screens
We hold a vigil for a man we never knew
We build a new ritual of light and of text
And we pour out the words again and again:
He had a name. He had a name. He had a name.
And somehow, soft and lost and hopeless
We try to sing him home.

*

izzy

I got a call, this morning,
from my future self.
she was brusque and somehow
cheerful when she asked if I knew
what it meant yet.
I said I didn’t.
I asked her if we are all just
confused and petrified,
‘is this a universal condition?’
she didn’t respond, but
taking my hand through the phone somehow
she whispered,
‘throw your arms up, go on
do it
throw your arms up and spin
like the sun, like a star
like you’re in the club and
you just don’t care’
and I did.

*

sarah

Okay get up right now get up
Let’s see what that rusty old skeleton can do
No there’s not actually an option of staying here
I’m really sorry about that but it’s now or never
And I will not let you choose never so
Get. Up. Now. There’s a slap wind blowing
And you’re gonna have to get used to that
You’re just gonna have to deal with it
Because this is where it all starts
And you can’t ever go back to where you were
It’s all waves and thunder from now on
And you can either sink or swim
So I suggest you practice your breaststroke
We’re out and the rain’s on your face
Can you feel the rain? It’s holy
And you are made clean by this bluster
Yes I know your joints are creaking
That’s to be expected they’re not used to this
You’ve let them get soggy they’re sopping
Where are your pistons where is your rage
Come here come to the edge of the night
Look down at everything there is
All those little lights all those black smears
Nothing the light touches is your kingdom
This isn’t yours I’m sorry you inherit nothing
This isn’t Hollywood I’m not your mentor
I’m just the one who’s telling you what’s happening
And what’s happening is that you are waking
The fuck. Up. Get your head out of the gutter
It’s full of leaves and petrol and mud and you’re choking
Choking on old bicycle chains and cigarette butts
And piss and shit and old parking tickets
Get your face up and look at the fucking sky
And don’t think it’s gonna be all sunshine and moonbeams
That old ceiling up there is boiling and flashing
It’s an opera up there and it’s just as incomprehensible
But it’s real and it’s what’s going on
And you will not stay in your little fucking puddle
You will rise up and fight. You will take your little hands
Your little stick arms and you will put them in front of your face
And you will brace yourself. And those waves
Those fucking waves won’t wash over you any more
You will stand steadfast and you will grit your teeth
And you will suffer and weep but you will prevail
And the sea will break against you and you will change
You will become savage and then, then in time
You will become sweet. That storm will pass
And the sun will come out and you will swim in gold
And people will find you because you will be tall
And they will come and lay at your feet
And fold in your arms and you will hold them
And when the storms come again you will stand together
And on and on until finally the whole world
The whole goddamn world will stand under your shoulders
Like Atlas, like fucking Atlas, you’ll hold up the stars
And the heavens will rage above you
And the deep dark things coiled inside the earth will teem
But all those billions of fists in your stomach
Every hand there is on the whole goddamn planet will clench
And you’ll all hold each other and you will be warm
I’m sorry it has to be you. I’m sorry you have to start it
But it’s happening, kid, it’s happening now
So lift your fucking face. Take a deep breath in
And begin.

*

izzy

I didn’t see sunlight today.
patience is a virtue
I struggle with
I am standing here at the edge,
arms out like wings
my chest a baby bird

*

sarah

This carpet is grass green
And I roll across it
Chasing a square of sunlight
Like a fat squat lizard
As you sit and you frown
At a battered old metronome
As though setting it off
Might unrhythm the world

*

izzy

I’m just trying to keep it real
at the same time as holding this feeling
that I haven’t got words for
I thought of a metaphor about feeling like
there was one of those giant glass bottles they have in seaman’s bars,
glass centimetres thick
and green and hollow and huge,
like I have one of those inside my chest,
the neck of the bottle resting in the base of my throat.
what does it mean to have a giant beautiful glass bottle inside of you?
crushing all the air in your lungs
and kind of heavy but catching all the light
and still with the scent of brine and booze in it
what does that even mean

*

sarah

such fearsome promises i have made to you, my father
who announced that you would tolerate no coffin in death
but wished to be wrapped in a plastic bag, tossed off a cliff
and who one night, whiskyed like a sponge cake,
took my shoulders and made me swear
that if dementia took you, i would hold a pillow over your face
and see you softly into the dark
‘promise you’ll kill me’, you whispered, and i shook.
you, my bear of a father, with arrows a-quiver
my twinkle-eyed captain, my deadly pun-slinger
apologising wetly for the tears tracking your cheeks
holding your breath to stop from sobbing
so full up with love and sorrow that to speak was to burst
i will not conceive of you made small
i will not concede to inevitable time
i will not imagine your loss, lest i cause it
but i will keep my oaths, unto the end

*

izzy

Because we live in the future, here is Izzy’s real life voice
talking directly to you via the internet.

*

sarah

Fifteen kids circling a tawny young policeman
Cutting off the exits, they’ve got him surrounded
He’s kneeling to fold the sock of the smallest one
And they’re all patting his shoulders, like the family dog
A boy in white reaches out to touch his gun
And he darts his hand back like a gasp to his hip
As a six-year-old throws up his chubby right hand
Makes a gun with his fingers, yells ‘DO YOU SHOOT THE ROBBERS?’
The kids laugh like firecrackers, fingerguns cocked
The cop strides to his car and they swarm in his stead
Someone’s mother photographs them standing there
A lanky policeman with a sweet soft father’s smile
And the army of hard-faced children with pistols of flesh
Staring dead-eyed and stony as the phone shutter fires.

*

izzy

my body is a temple, but
my form of worship is sometimes crude
roughing up these holy insides

burning out adrenaline stores
mind chanting body on, through the wall
of no sleep to find ascension

remembering these fingers, these toes
climbing into sleep exhausted, remembering
this temple is a real, fallible human body too.

*

sarah

There is something humbling in knowing that I will never know the answers to all the questions in life
Like: why can’t I brush my teeth without covering my whole chin in a beard of toothpaste foam?
Truly, the lord works in mysterious ways.

*