DESCRIPTION:
Performing Tattooing the Surface of the Moon, 2nd March, 2011.
Live at Willow Bar, 222 High Street, Northcote.
Sorry about the abrupt cutoff at the end. The camera had run out of memory, politely it did so at the exact moment the poem ended!


Tattooing the Surface of the Moon.

In his fingers there are rooms where his impulses live.
Everytime she passes,
the lights in his digits come on,
one by one.
She loves the way his pockets light up on the couch
when he tries to hide them.

Last week she decided to become a democratically elected president of her own self control.
She made out a how to vote card nominating herself in all the preferences and constructed a voting booth out of old egg cartons.
When he tried to vote, she pointed to her heart and said 'I'm sorry you're not enrolled in this district.'
He declared the election a sham, and told her, her self-control was being ruled by a puppet dictator. He thought of hurling eggs at her crappy home made voting booth, but since they were made from egg cartons, this seemed too weirdly ironic.

In his fingers there are rooms where his impulses live, a ghetto of desire where snow falls in the form of glitter dipped eyelashes.

They drink together like sailors.
They sail empty streets like drinkers.
They buy temporary tattoos from 24 hr supermarkets and wake up drooling with Pokemon characters smudged across their body.
They always wake alone.
She tells him he's a bad vitamin for her, but he doesn't know that whenever she leaves the house, his memorised hugs are always the last thing she puts on.

In his fingers there are rooms where his impulses live.
His impulses are star gazers and anything can be a star.

He spits on his palm and presses a miniature Spiderman upon the curve of her back.
She lets her head fall back into his chest and tells him, 'we could be lovers if we didn't understand each other so fucking well,'
And then she whispers in his ear 'do you think this life belongings to us? Or somebody else? Lately I've been feeling like a character invented by a performance poet.'
He whispers back, 'don't worry about it, it won't last longer much longer than 2 or 3 minutes.
And chances are nobody is paying attention anyway.'

In his fingers there are rooms where his impulses live.
They crowd the windows of his knuckles to watch him apply temporary tattoos
to the surface of the moon.