Author: Noni

I’m a former radio copywriter who is also an avid music lover and reviewer, Twitter-obsessive, and writer of both fiction and poetry. I’m currently spending my days doing my best to kick the arses of psychogenic non-epileptic seizures and depression, and trying to make some good stories out of it.

Lover

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Okay, so I’m sure we all caught on that Monday was Singles Awareness Day/Blood Pump Day/Valentine’s Day/a Hallmark Holiday which is all full of bullshit anyway.

I literally wrote this in the last 10 minutes. I’m tired and have a mildly upset tummy. This is unedited written-down brain-vomit.

But it’s Valentine’s Week (or something), and I kinda like it, so I’m going to post it here, in its rawest of forms. Thoughts would be appreciated. I don’t know what this will become. Maybe lyrics. Maybe nothing.

Maybe just another meaningless blog on the World Wide Web.

But it has been born, it has a name, and now, a place to live.

Enjoy it if you must.

x ND

*****

If I had a lover to call my own
I’d hold him close inside my bed
And call him “my bug”,
Pulling the blankets tight.

If I had a lover that was completely mine,
I’d tell him riddles he’d understand
And he’d say, “I’m not sure why you ask me these things
And not what we’re making for dinner.”

If a lover had me, he’d ask so sweetly,
“Will you be mine? And only mine?”
And I would say,
“I am my own, but I’m willing to share me sometimes.”

And if he were you, we’d lie beneath the stars
Picking out the constellations like a patchwork,
Listening to albums,
Listening to speeches over the radio.
We’d fumble at night time, like careless teenagers,
And you would always show me up.

If I had a lover, we’d share secret plans,
Of Middle East peace and invention schemes.
We’d write bad poetry long past midnight
And sleep in ’til long after noon.

And if he were you, I’d be a bundle of bliss,
Ticking off desires with a biro.
Counting down dreamings,
Throwing off expectations already reached.
We’d tickle each other, just for reactions,
‘Til we were flat on our backs, laughing at the world.

If you were my lover, imagine the trails we would weave and leave through time and space, like the shimmering stars that we are.
If you were my lover, we’d dance in the forest, dressed in a quilt, as rain poured down around us.
If you were my lover, it would all be a lie, but what a lie to live.

Ending January

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I have a very exciting week coming up.

On Wednesday (yes, that would be Australia Day), I head to Sydney. SEVEN HOURS on public transport, so I can see this AMAZING LADY.

Before heading to that exciting event, I’ll head to The Rocks to see THIS DASHING FELLOW.

THEN, on Thursday night, after a day of milling around in the city, I’ll head to the Vanguard in Newtown for THIS BAND OF MAGNIFICENCE. (Which will sadly be one of their last Sydney gigs…)

And THEN, I head back to Bathurst on Friday for my mate Cookie’s 30th drinks et cetera, and spend the weekend in Batho before heading back to Dubbo for the ultimate downer on Sunday.

Busy, busy, busy!

AND I CAN’T FREAKING WAIT.

If you’re in the Sydney area are interested in a catch up, drop me a line on Twitter!

xND

Splendid

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At what point do we stop being young?
Fall out of being splendid in the dark.
When do we start taking no for an answer?
When do we begin to lose our shine,
Our magnificence,
Rubbing off on those we brush past.

The answer is never.
Your glory will always be there.
It is simply on someone else’s coattails.
It is cradled in your loved ones’ hearts.
You will always be splendid,
It’s just sometimes we are so busy admiring, we forget to remind you.

Sprint

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I was walking to uni the other day, and I was running late. I had a lecture at 10am and I was cutting it REALLY fine. I still had a good two, maybe three hundred meters to go. I had one minute to make this lecture, which was supposed to be a remarkably important lecture from a special guest up from Sydney, so being late would have been an opportunity to be made an example of by my lecturer, and having spent the night before awake until 4am working on an assignment, I was not in the mood to have that done to me.

So, here I am, running late, terrified of the consequences should I not make it in time, still a few hundred meters until I reach my destination. I look at my phone to check the time, and see that it’s 9.59. I have less than a minute to make it to class.

And it is at this point, in sheer panic and stress and sleep deprivation, that a thought crosses my mind that was the stupidest thing I’ve thought in a long time.

So I look down at the clock on my phone, 9.59, and I have ONE MINUTE to get to class on time and avoid humiliation. ONE MINUTE.

And then I hear a little voice inside my brain say, “It’s okay, you can make it…”

“If you sprint…”

IF. I. SPRINT.

I’m sorry, brain. What part of my physique do you not understand? Sprinting? NO CAN DO. Surely you can work out why? I’m a fatty, fatty boomba who gets a sense of fulfillment if I can make it to the end of the driveway and back without having an asthma attack.

“If you sprint.” Sometimes my own idiocy bewilders even me.

Sure

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I didn’t feel the need to apologise
It’s not my fault that you and I were here
But what ensued as a result of your attentions
Has occurred, and that’s a fact that won’t disappear.

And my red-headed friend
Has declined to ever let me call you a man
And my light-hearted pixie girl
Is saying I should take it if I can.

But if there’s something in my way,
Should I bend to its will?
Should I let this morning come and trip me?
Should I let my guardian fall?

I was so, so sure.

And this pill, flowing through my system
Is making me say things I’d never say before
It felt mildly artificial,
But at least I know you’d keep her warm.

I was so, so sure.

I have loved you well beyond my means
Leaving you with the bitter taste that runs through conquest’s deepest seams,
Streaking to the surface.
Twenty-one years and I still haven’t learned
The meaning of the word “no”.

I was so, so sure.
But now I don’t even know myself.

The Painter

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I am a painter.
With words on my palette
And a barb in my heart,
I sing for my equals
And do my best
To start a revolution
For the thinkers,
Not the formulas,
For it is these bitter patterns
That always pull me down.

Oh! To be a scholar!
To always have the answer
And never to dwell
On the prettiness of things.
In a world that is harsh,
To never see the sunlight.
Although I know that I would have to sacrifice my spirit
To be one of their number.
This is why I am a painter.

Love

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Fight for the freedom to love,
For hatred has only cheated us thus far.
The wars were wasted,
Like the lives that fell like leaves at their hand.
“Love thy neighbour,”
Came the call from above.
Why do we ignore the words of God?
Is it because he is human too?

 

 

Paper Trails

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I found a piece of paper while I was walking home. It was lying on its side in the grass, still crisp and clean, folded twice. I could see from the ragged edge that it had been torn from a large notebook, not unlike the one tucked away in my oversized handbag.

I looked at this piece of paper in the long, green grass, wondering momentarily what to do. My curiosity won out in the end, so I picked it up and carefully unfolded it to look for a name or some identifying mark so that I might return it to its owner.

It wasn’t the scholarly notes I had been expecting, rather a vague kind of family tree. There were no names, just titles like ‘Mommy’, and a few nationalities: English, Irish, Scottish, Maltese; all scrawled onto the page in black felt tip pen. There also seemed to be a short chronology of events in the individual’s life, including years spent in Hong Kong.

I felt a little strange, like a voyeur observing the remnants of a conversation I wasn’t meant to hear, and would never fully understand. I was touched to think I had been granted this look at someone’s personal make up, a strange mistake that had worked in my favour. I felt special to have been given the honour of finding this intimate insight, lost on a slip of notepad paper, torn out and lost in the grass, folded twice in half.

In awe of the power of such a strange find, I folded it back along its crease lines; once, twice, then in half again, and slipped it into my back pocket for further reading at a later time.

As I continued on my way, I stumbled across another slip of paper, much worse for wear; torn and stained by old mud.

It was a receipt from Big W. The previous owner had bought chocolate and a doorstop. It wasn’t that interesting, so I threw it in the bin, where I felt it belonged, because it just wasn’t nearly as good as my other find, lost in the fresh, green grass.