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Hanging out the lover-washing
Got the cotton tees pegged up
Chant solo, round and round in
Dharawal place with the
laundry gold light

Cycle through the prayers and the
Rio, Bonds, All-Day Socks

Each man time shot through with
Washing-line sojourns where I
Tumble the question of compatibility,
Children, sex,
Monogamy, income.

Black and grey bloke undies
Get green and green pegs.
Bras start out as Delicates
But soon get skewed in the General Load.

Boy socks, threadbare.

Peg it out. Feel their ribs.

The break-up pang of remembering their hoodies.

Wondering about their girth and bones from the
Width of their pants.

Mind light on the house labour mode, the gender cycle, the laundry comments in my memory.

The expensive maternity bra reminds me of loss. Drape the lacy bits.

And, the Tool shirts.

Always the Tool shirts.

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Princess

“Suck it up, Princess”.

A slogan of the No Fear masculine bullshit pussy as insult variety. Slam bam swipe of the overly precious feminine or, horror, those fellas who might be.

Push on, we’ve all got to deal, Just Do It.

How many girls are called and coaxed and reassured to be princesses? I was one. A name from my Mum, still feels like real love and affection. Being the girl. A specialness. Awesome.

The world doesn’t like special. Workplaces and industries and star systems don’t like those invested with the special belief. Another thing to be knocked out. Special? Fuck you. Talented? Eat this shit job. Intelligent? See how stupid you are to work for nothing. Creative? You’re the jester for hire for team building. Princess? No time, no time, no time for princesses.

‘Course, yes. Entitlement and privilege also drive me freaking berserk (hmmm mostly in middle class boys …. another story!) 7 billion. Finite, fucked up planet. Why should you have it easy?

The special aura bestowed from a time where it may translate into a job, a career. A Clive James, a Germaine Greer, do a thing, leap to the UK, hey presto.

The middle class special dream has so many special ones. Try to freaking be a Clive now. Ultimate Fighting Creatives, see you on the other side.

And so this princess has sucked it up. Ground down. Felt the physical day and day and day of low income, Centrelink waiting rooms, still, the pain, painkillers, the study, ground down, the working, pumping out the love, another day and day and day of Centrelink, waiting for the invoice to be paid, the expressing interest. Yes, world, funnily enough, I am interested in working. Using my skills and being paid for it. Fancy. Call me princess. Call me President of the entrepreneurial self made to bullshit juggle a life. Call me a privileged Westerner.

Princesses can also say fuck you. They can also say: you know what? Yes, I have some beauty. Yes, I have some talent. Aptitude, skills, burning creative fucking ideas. Yes, I see your fucked working conditions. Fuck you. Obviously I am going to keep juggling and carving and looking to sculpt my freaking living. It is a way. It’s not the only way.

Because I am so. Not. Alone.

All the motherfucking princesses.

Say fuck you.

want to be

If Joel Madden is famous, then I don’t want to be.
If Erykah Badu is an empress presence, then I could be.

If Tony Abbott has power, then I don’t want it.
If Layne Beachley is heroic, then I hope to be.

If academics who are rude, snappy and mean in emails are applauded, then don’t applaud me.
If a good teacher is known in the hearts and smiles, then dear God I’d like to be.

If my brand is never perfect, let it flag.
My output messy, then it will be.

(Being in me, I don’t want the other).