In The New Year, Out Of Tune No More

I've made up my mind:

rather than resolving
to do
or not do

this year
my New Year's resolution
will be of the musical kind

where chords played previously
out of harmony

are returned
to the sweet simplicity

of the starting key

that root chord, a double tonic
medicinal in properties

my start,
my centre,
my very core

dischordant
no
more.

I Wish

I'm cleaning the kitchen
in a clockwise direction

with Joni for company

I sing along
and as always, get the lyric wrong

my memory won't learn her sentiment,
substituting mine instead

none of my rivers freeze
and when I wish for them
I imagine sailing,
sailing
away
in the breeze,

leaving behind the holiday season
and all those people
still cutting down trees.

Return

Unpack the bag,
unfold crumpled memories

machine wash
drip dry


in the morning air
even the thought of you
smells brand new.

If Not Around Our Table, Always In Our Thoughts

I've chosen
Bing Crosby
and Vera Lynn
to fill the suburban silences
of this
sparsely attended Christmas

though snow and sleigh bells
seem
incongruous up against the backdrop
of dried up leaves
and galahs

there's something
about their excessive vibrato
their gentle style
that has led me to forsake
Kylie
and Mariah Carey's anthems,
Wham's ubiquitous
'Last Christmas'.

It's comforting to have
representation
of that generation
lost to us through death
and distance

now that the grey hair
beneath the novelty hats
belongs to their sons
and daughters

if we can remind ourselves of them
in whatever small
abstract
way we can

surely that is a Christmas gift
we can
and should
give ourselves
every year.

On Christmas Day, Looking At The Sea

The sea
is electric blue
and the cicadas keep me company
whilst the sensible
leave the midday sun
and head for cover.

Everything is high def,
every grain of sand heightened
the crisp white ocean foam
and the seagulls standing in my footprints
leading to the water's edge.

There's no one here
but me,
and my enjoyment of the elements
the oven hot breeze
the salty air.

But
I'm enjoying it enough
for all my absent friends

sending them all my
Christmas love
as I gaze
at the endless horizon.

Skintight Memories

The power's back on,

we know,
because we can hear the neighbour's radio
going hoarse over
the back fence.

Lucky,
with three fridges
full of
Christmas fare
that wouldn't be much good
lukewarm
or worse still,
rancid.

Later on, I let myself burn
in the afternoon sun

seemingly careless

but perhaps I want something,
some memory
I can keep close,
skintight
the season's greetings
written across my shoulders in
spaghetti strap lines.

It will hurt me
to hoist my backpack
homewards.

Perhaps that's what I want.

Perth, Paradise

Irishman 1: I can see why you never left

Irishman 2: I'm never going home

The Lovers Golden Hour

This
is the lovers
Golden Hour

the time that proceeds
the initial
attack
of attraction

the time
that will determine
what will become of
this life

this exterior beating life
that exists outside your bodies
separate,
but still your flesh
your blood.

No helicopter flies in,
no camouflaged doctors
apply pressure,
stop profuse bleeding

what will determine
whether this is terminal
is words

bathed in incandescent light

it is the hour before death
and the hour of birth

and it's exquisite splendour
exists
because you cannot yet tell
which it is.

Tidal

You hit the roundabout
at the top of the hill,
and if you can take your eyes
off the road for a second

(while still manouevouring it's curves)

you get your first glimpse of the sea
arriving on the horizion

and the descent towards the shore
couldn't be quick enough.

You tumble from your vehicle
propelled,
tide-like
towards the foaming
ocean

you discard clothes
anything that will come
between
your watery bodies

then
reunited at last
the embrace
though cool on the skin
warms every part of you

as you sink into
a salty cocktail
of intoxicating
blue-grey oblivion.

The Original Nowhere

'...a seamed and folded imitation of a magazine picture that is itself an imitation of a woman who is also an imitation, the original nowhere...'

Margaret Atwood, Surfacing




This is a sketch of me, aged 11, I think, done by a school teacher in art class, and the passage from Atwood's book struck me just as I rediscovered this crumpled, folded A3 pencil sketch. I don't remember how accurate it was at the time, but it is eerie to be able to stare into a likeness of my own face, constructed by a middle aged man as I sat sill and patient, more than sixteen years ago.

Happy Birthday To Me

I open the old photo albums
expecting to see
the grotesque mirages
of myself
that I have become accustomed to
imagining

staring out at me
from every frame

but the girl
blowing out last century's
birthday candles
is today
not burdened
by those habitually fabricated
kilos,
imperfections,
monsters

these are not images
made blurry
by adolescent self hating insecurity

but crisp, clear
outlines of a girl

a pretty, pouting, posing girl

with poor posture
and badly fitting clothes

waiting for someone to tell her
she was thin enough
she was good enough

when she should have been able
to look in the mirror and see it
for herself.













can you count the candles on the cake? I can't. I think I'm 15 or 16 here. photographer unknown.

Home.

The TV in the corner
is older than I am

and the dusty cane chairs in the yard
aren't sat on by anyone
except the neighborhood cats
who fight over this
unoccupied territory.

a siren in the distance
sets off the dingoes
and the doctor moves through the trees
dancing with the hibiscus flowers
that hang lazily over the back fence.

It's hot
inside, and out
and the air is thick with lethargy,
there's nothing to do, anyway
except take in the sounds of my childhood
and breathe in the smells of
home.

My Aussie Christmas

It's that time of year where we seem to be constantly looking for the 'traditional' symbols of Christmas to surround ourselves with- fir trees, tinsel, guiding stars and little naked baby dolls.

If you're the sort who gets Christmas cards you'll no doubt receive some of those eurocentric images of snow covered holly bushes, their little red berries shining out like the nose of that pesky reindeer that supermarket stereo systems insist on reminding me about.

I'm afraid I'm not going to post any sentimental pics of me decorating a (nonexistent) Christmas tree, or kissing under some (sadly absent) mistletoe.

Instead, here's some random picture I took on the terrace today.

Ok, so it's got berries, somewhat resembling holly...and yes, that does look like a big ol' Christmas tree...and that blue sky is pretty quintessentially "Aussie Christmas"...




...so maybe I'm not such a grinch after all.

If You're Looking Down On Something, You're Probably About To Fall Off Your High Horse

Disembarking from the plane
I look around
for the bus
to shuttle us
to the main terminal

but
of course,
we're already there,

this is it

the city presents itself
with no sparkling pretensions,
mosaics
or mirrored walls
to reflect
my face

beneath it's thick layer
of make up

burning under the sun.

Sometimes We've Left Before We Go Anywhere At All

Today
the rain brings an
unprecedented joy

and under the gray Melbourne sky

everything is illuminated

buildings basking
in preemptive nostalgia.

All Cut Up

I'm throwing all the clothes I'll need
into a suitcase

singlets, summer dresses,

and a pair of shorts
that used to be my favourite jeans
before I cut the legs off them.

They're the only item
left
from the old days
refashioned to fit
my new size and style.

I wonder,
if I still had you
tucked away in a drawer somewhere
what a pair of scissors might do
to make you useful
again.

A Cup Of Tea Fixes Everything

Saturday

It's Saturday night
and I'm home
alone
in lacy underwear
and I need a plan

not just for the immediate

(a dress to wear,
shoes,
some vague itinerary)

but for life

the new year looms

and I have no idea
whether to attack it
or embrace it

or nonchalantly avoid eye contact
waiting for 2011
to make
the first move.

Can one be coy
with one's career
one's hopes for love
and fulfillment

and if we throw ourselves at
opportunity
allowing the disguise
of insouciance
to slip off
like a dress
discarded in passion's haste

will we feel
red faced
ashamed
in the morning?

In Which Pussycat Tries To Take A Nap

The hum of the washing machine
isn't helping

and the half closed blinds
shine
dozens of
tight lipped smiles

mocking my attempt
at day time sleep.

The fresh sheets
lie flat
across me

and I try
to relax

while voices on the footpath
pass,
fade,
return
and stomp off to the percussive
tussle of the trees.

A motorbike accelerates into crescendo
and I slowly

let it all go.

IRL

This morning
I'm romancing myself
with smooth jazz music
and home brewed coffee.

I'd leave the house,
but it's summer now
and going out in my pajamas
makes me more conspicuous than it did
in the cooler months.

Anyway,
all I need is here

my window to the world
a 13inch screen

friends
I've never met

yet they probably know me
better
than those
who refuse
to admit
they visit me here

they see my unwashed thoughts
my sleepless
tweets

the half conversations
edited from
In
Real
Life
interactions.

December

We're drinking
sherry out of egg cups
and listening to Taylor Swift
turned up too loud

she's going back to December

we're going back to the time when
life was
simple
like these lyrics
this melody

we sing along
to recapture
youth
and all its unfulfilled promises.

A Lie Is A Weed, A Lie Is A Mirror

Can you get high
on a lie?

I don't know

but this web that I'm spinning's
beginning
to spiral
out of control.

It's not that I'm hallucinating
it's just that these untruths
are making me
paranoid

I'm afraid to answer my phone
I have to say I'm not home
when I've been there for hours

I'm developing a predilection
for the rush
of deception

And you know what's worrying me?
That I'm losing my facility
for honesty

that eventually
I'll open my mouth
and the words that'll come out
won't be blunt, hurtful or rude
but they also won't be true

'sometimes, even the lies we tell define us'

and it seems there's a fine line
between the things we say
and the things we mean to say
and I'm not sure it matters anyway

because once they've been spoken
the words aren't ours,
they're pieces of us that have been
broken off
shards of ourselves
that embed
deep
where they shatter.

The things we say
and do
(even if they are lies)
are like mirrors,

reflecting parts of us
that are true.

There's no conclusive evidence
to prove it's addictive
but I'll tell you this:

it's leaving me breathless
heart beating fast
hoping to be
caught out at last

to face facts

and finally
relax.

Please Take One

There's a family on my street who every year at Christmas time decorate their front gate with tinsel and candy canes and tape up a hand written note that says, 'Please Take One'.

And every year I'm touched by this guesture, but any inclination I might have to offer festive treats of my own is curtailed by the firm belief that sugar is bad for you so here's what I've put up on my front gate instead.



You may find this as sickeningly sweet as those red and white striped candy canes, but like that family down the road, I don't care what anyone else thinks, I'm just going to offer up my christmas gifts for passers by to take, should they choose to do so.

Parity

We're writing letters
to past lovers

hers is sealed and stamped
and sent off hastily,

mine has five chords
and a chorus that
isn't quite right yet

I need to make it rhyme
without manipulating facts
to fit
form and rhythm.

We feel we can
be honest
here
where we can be naked
within the privacy of
these four walls

when lies are the most
common currency
in current public exchange

(because they'll buy you more
than truth, so everyone seems to think)

Is parity
ever likely?

Will the decimal places
that separate
honesty
and calculated deception
ever even out?

Is my truth
worth
more or less
than your lie?

And what value is lost in the
conversion
of one
to
another?

Big Red Balloon

(yes, my post title is a Nick Cave song reference, in case you were wondering)

Bodies

What secrets
do our bodies give up,
while our mouths
keep firmly shut?

And who are we
to dare deny
the urges
they urge us
to satisfy?

Middlesex

'Her body was a constant embarrassment to her. It was always announcing itself in ways she didn't sanction.'

A line from Middlesex by Jeffrey Eugenides, that provoked first a visceral then photographic response. I've often thought how nice it would be to have a body that doesn't blurt out things we'd rather keep to ourselves, but then again, I doubt anyone has one of those.

Today

Today,
my tongue is sandpaper,
thick

scratching
the dry
insides of my mouth

searching
for the right words
to offer my calloused fingertips

so that they may
play with them

mold them to the tune
that has come
so easily

the rain has washed away
coherence

it's down there in the drain,
it must be

otherwise where else
could it have gone?

I'd get down
on my hands and knees to look,
but I don't want to get my jeans dirty.

The Chorus Is Easy, It Goes Like This