Sometimes I wonder if I really did drive my car off the road 15 years ago and I’ve been in a coma all this time, with everything I’ve experienced being only a dream.
Like everyone, I’ve had good and bad experiences. And some fantastic ones, times when I’ve felt incredibly lucky. Most of those have revolved around love. At the risk of sounding hopelessly, pathetically soppy, loving someone and being loved is, for me, the greatest feeling in the world. Especially when, most of the time, I’ve thought that I haven’t deserved it.
Sometimes the intensity of that feeling is so overwhelming that I want to kill myself so that it can never fade away.
The following quote is taken from an article by Damien Kingsbury at Crikey today (emphasis added):
“It is true that many Australians do wonder why we have a foreign aid program. Barnaby Joyce was in favour of scrapping it a little while back. One has to assume that foreign policy is not the strong suit of either Mr Joyce or Mr Abbott. Australia has an aid program so it can (try to) achieve desirable outcomes in countries of strategic interest, to give a little bit of economic substance to its diplomatic rhetoric, and to genuinely assist some people who, through no personal fault of their own, end up in pretty rotten circumstances…”
What this tells me is that Abbott and Co. don’t realise that if Australia cuts back its foreign aid then we will have an even harder time ‘stopping the boats’. If we cannot provide assistance to people who struggle to survive or to receive their basic human rights, then Australia becomes a more attractive destination for them to escape to when things get worse. If Abbott and Co. have their way, then they will have no-one to blame but themselves for the increased number of refugees they dread so much.
In the darkness my hands
bend you like a bow,
your body pleading for release
as my mouth and fingers
urge you to come,
your slick thighs clenching
around me when you can
hold back no more and you
crash back down on to the bed,
trembling with the after-shocks.
And I awake with the memory
like your heat from the sheets.
Home is where I lay with you
my shoes under your bed
my smokes on the side table,
where you and I smile
and laugh at each other’s
insanity and talk without words.
Home is where we write and sing
and dance, drunk on wine
before collapsing into each other’s arms,
where we make love
like we have forever
and do it all unconditionally.