Maryla Skiba is a post-graduate student and has worked as a feature and travel writer, tutor, teacher, and, among other things, a French crepe cook. Her work has appearied in a number of anthologies and has attracted favorable review by the Australian Book Review.






death sings too close


1

i was walking down a cold breathless street when i saw her saw her again in hand-me-up finery bleeding bleeding for herself and her children and her mis-spent 20-nothing of washing pots in her wealthy suburban kitchen being enraptured by the man who she still claims she loves 20 years after he left her – her fractured world where pop stars star as friends and the betrayed are talked about talked about with vengeance of insecurity in mid life crisis

i could see there was threat threat of some kind of youth of trying to purge the pain of missing it in that wealthy suburban kitchen of breast feeding and dinner parties and it comes back comes back in cyclic motion to manifest itself in celebrity status around small coffee tables in small towns with the occasional beer where the young are preyed upon by booming eyes feeling the effects of gravity feeling the effects of gravity with nimble fingers breathing the breath of death dancing with the delusions of symmetrical life-style where the isolation the devastation the constipation are too obvious too transparent for the burnt the injured the lied too the preyed upon to see for there is no status for friends when only status counts but thatís what happens when the 20-nothings are lost to washing pots in her wealthy suburban kitchen and she is pining for a love that maybe never was so smug it was if it was

and i see that a new leaf is turned when the young boy punctures her punctures her like he once did his mother inside and out and it looks like a new babe suckling her old nipple for survival she becomes young once again like a christian born again again and again with no guilt of the dirty old man for the inverse in the inverse becomes poetic verse how adverse she pines return return to her wealthy suburban kitchen and the erotic breast fed once from the babe that suckles now as an adult and she wraps it in modernity with purge in alcoholic bottles purge 20-nothing lost and regained in modernity and breast feeding and dinner parties lost so she clings clings to the forever boy the young boy that flatters the effects of gravity and returns the loss of breast feeding symbol in her wealthy suburban kitchen

and it took me back back to the game of her catch where young boys were winked at in their own suburban kitchens behind the backs of their young girlfriends and she played the chase in haste before the body completely expired retired and no longer desired the effects of gravity to vernal depravity where men saw the hole of an old mole and young women wept nauseously wept the tears of mothers betrayal in the young suburban kitchen returning returning to the cling of the forever boy enraptured in hand-me-up finery of delusion of dinner parties and symmetrical life-style she bore a babe a babe to suckle her old nipple and flatter the effects of gravity to purge the 20-nothing lost to breast fed days and washing pots


2

i was walking down a cold breathless street when I saw her saw her return to her place of known security following her down the street of meaning lane of crisis alley of pain she sat at the table of hopeful fame to play the game to consternate collusion with the colonnade of mouths and ears flowed the endless beers to purge purge her empty suburban kitchen where she was flattered by the boy who she still claims she loves 20 days after he left her – her fractured world where identities built breathe the breath of death and hopeful lust to satiate vanityís profusion


i could see there was threat threat of some kind in her mouth her mouth of gossipís delusion in her empty suburban kitchen where the betrayed were poisoned to emission she wrote wrote the rules of a play where the confidant vampirically sucked the cartel away for lustful means to an end to the end of lyrical game she boastfully lies proud of the self she left to die in a therapists lap she denies the effects of gravity and the 20-nothings lost and she becomes young once again like a christian born again with a therapist babe suckling an old nipple and beer purges the loss paved way to her empty suburban kitchen where the colonnade of mouths and ears listen as she builds her domain with threat and the delusions of gravity effected grandeur to satiate vanityís pander


and I see that a new leaf is turned when she starts building building again like she once did as mother constructing domains of identity through loss to her empty suburban kitchen where she stars as pop star friend to pop-star friend but the bleeding bleeding persists as it lies on the therapists floor junket wobbling obvious and distasteful leaking melting through the sheath of liberty in her empty suburban kitchen her plumbing leaking putrid rotting hiding behind the curtains of celebrity status around small coffee tables in small towns with the occasional beer and a colonnade of mouths and ears where she bears the gossip of power and fear and she wraps it in modernity to deny the loss of breast fed symbol in the young boy who once flattered gravityís ploy

and it took me back back to the time of her mime where she would compete to lustfully satiate vanityís delusion with the youthful illusion and the kick of the trick when the young boy asked her out to blanket her empty kitchen in the place the young were preyed upon with booming eyes sagging lagging feeling the effects of gravity she made her mark with a stark remark of breast feeding dreams and the jealousy of young mothers and she pounced pounced like a brute to purge the powerless pain and bore a babe a babe on sticky carpet to suckle her old nipple and rid the loss of 20-nothing washing pots


3

i was walking down a cold breathless street when I saw her saw her approach to greet me her hand-me-up finery bleeding bleeding for her self and her children so she told me of life the life in her dirty suburban kitchen where the young were preyed upon and new babes born on old nipples and sticky carpet enraptured by the junket wobbling obvious 20 hours after it left her – her fractured world where she starred as pop star friend to pop star friend when living the young in alcoholic purge of mis-spent 20-nothing loss and mid life-crisis cost trying for another hand in the land where the good got bad and the past was broken

i could see there was threat threat of some kind of in her stance her stance of dominant deport through her dirty suburban kitchen the smile passed defecation of trust once left on wet tables on sticky carpet in the young face of farce it was obviously seen that she wanted a friend to pretend that the end wasnít so close in feeling she bragged with no remorse of the young boys force and sticky bedside tissues singing the song of young boys puncture the puncture of her like he once did his mother not letting once the junket seep through obvious crisis that so deeply possessed every action faction reaction dinner party loss and hoped for symmetrical lifestyle and a smile of illusion of her youthful profusion protrusion delusion and she felt young once again like a christian born again without guilt of the dirty old man

and I see that a new leaf is turned when she confesses confesses to her dirty suburban kitchen where the young flatter the affects of gravity to purge 20-nothing loss and washing pots her children serve their peer as step dad dear around small coffee tables in small towns with the occasional beer and wrap their mothers fatuity in crisis gratuity and the borderless boundaries of post-modernity but she is looking for meaning and until then leaning on perfunctory gleaming in the illusion of glamour in hand-me-up finery and symmetrical lifestyle with a hollow smile and beer purge in back seat cars and youthful bars

and it took me back back to the ream of her dreams where the dirt had left her kitchen for the return of wealth stealth and symmetrical lifestyle but she washes pots in others wealthy kitchens with aspirations of pop-starring as friend to the pop star friend and suffices with intermediary stars as accessories while chopping carrots at forty six in layers of hand-me-up finery of her daughters and friends to mis-spend the 40-nothing mis-spent 20-nothing loss of breast feeding and dinner party pots to purge purge the loss of mien through men most still see as boys and she bleeds junket junket thick with ills of spills that have her see only bad coming to the good like her


4

i was walking down a cold breathless street when I saw her saw her walking to the palace of demise heading for the pretty young boy of twenty five to lie tie try and flatter the effects of gravity in 20-nothing loss and a dying suburban kitchen where she sat enraptured like a guiltless christian born again 20 minutes after prayer left her – her fractured world where sense was made in the glade of adverse inverse perverse discourse and slipping with no remorse

i could see there was threat threat of some kind of age age catching her her waist low nipples pubic hair spread genitalia lagging the effects of gravity sagging hanging at the knees bleeding for herself and her children and her mis-spent 40-nothing of cutting carrots and fucking children or those that were young enough to be in her dying suburban kitchen she filled her old mole hole with alcoholic purge and the chance of being young once again only once again with misdirected beer talk of soggy bedside tissues young mothers breasts and the eroticism of feeding

and I see that a new leaf is turned when I think of the mother the mother fucking the youth out of a brother her son and the vomit the bitter puce vomit that brings me back to checks on symmetrical lifestyle and how I run a mile when she comes, she comes to assert her belied power through the youth of boys and even girls to break the trust and hearts of and feels that fame is coming on on to her dying suburban kitchen where the only real certainty is death death that sings too close in midlife crisis cost when she fucks the boy of the daughter lost to broken trust and fills her shattered world with distractions from the empty in alcoholic purge and writes writes her story for fortune and fame to change her name and star as pop-star friend to pop-star friend

and it took me back to the place of her race for youth unattainable and the chase in haste for nothing but the certainty of death the certainty of death in 40-nothing loss purging 20-nothing loss and washing pots in her dying suburban kitchen and she stays broken in resurrection the resurrection of youth through the men most still she as boys and winks at them in their own suburban kitchens while alcohol purging the scars of incompletion on hopeful remission in her dying suburban kitchen she waits for the evening to pass while others watch the pellucid cast and decide to let her suicide where she fills her old mole hole with alcoholic purge and ruptures the flesh the flesh she tore once as mother and the bleeding bleeding persists and it spasms wobbles obvious to death in her dirty soul on the dirty floor of her dead suburban kitchen