Bars and Whiskeys, Gypsies

It's been a year of 
mountains and molehills

of open chords and secret thoughts.

Bars and whiskeys

gypsies.


Full moons and Junes
and meteorites

righteous prayers
that could have been more specific.

I didn't need that man in '68
I'm pretty good
at spelling out my own fate

from pilgrim's calls
to wooden walls

to insinceritys
and the small mercies
that hide
beneath the shoe-string fries.

So
here's to sharp knives
brandy and drys

and Prague's as yet unseen skies.

I dreamof moons
and Junes

and January promises
to provide
more mountains
more mole hills

more open palms
and open chords.

I'll be skipping and tripping
slipping
still, slipping

and still sipping that whiskey
the barman knew
would be smokey and smooth


while writing the next fairytale
that's bound
to come
true.

Mid Summer's Sky

Indigo shadows
and dancing
and 'don't know's

the moon's almost as full
as our festive bellies
fat and heavy
with too much good cheer
it's that time of year

everything ending.

We're in between
we're breaking

we're mending

no one likes to be alone
but sometimes it's too hard to talk
so typing and sniping
and feigned cleverness
seems best.

The sun's taking a day off
and the rain can't decide
whether to leave cloud comfort altitude
or just hide

I've got two bottles of whiskey
to whisk me
away
from the corner that keeps me
like the lover
whose proximity
is their sincerest attempt at
intimacy.


Let me untangle you
from the threads of your sorrows
and I will sew them into silk cranes
and we'll watch them as they fly
effortlessly
across the glowing mid summer's sky.

To Doris, from Phil- 1915

Boxing Day

I've got skyline envy
pumping through my vagabond veins
and my train of thought
is scattered
and fraught
with summers and winters
and inbetween dreams.

It's Boxing Day
and I'm being strangely
well behaved
though a tonne of trifle
beckons
and the ciders chime out as I open the fridge
to force feed myself
salad.

I'm thinking about first times
and last times
and past times
as I cram
Christmas ham
into my mouth

feeling a bit
defeated
a bit trapped in the patterns
stitched up
sewn up
neatly

(it runs in the family)

but promises are made to be broken
and doors are closed
only to be opened

again

unexpectedly.

This time of year
brings that repeated heated symetry
and the thoughts in my veins
turn anxiously
to the people
still cutting down trees

amongst them,
amongst the axe carrying,
chainsaw gripping,
sharp word weilding

is me;

dragging an old
rootless
barely decorative
sad collection of sticks and leaves

to pin shiny things on
and pretend
that it's some kind of deity.

Perhaps promises are unnecessary
and
'first', 'last' and 'past'
just a literary menagerie
of beasts
that
need to be
set free.

Good Together, Tonight

From the back of the cab he tells the driver,

'I love this woman'

while his hand slides down my thigh.

This was five months ago
and we'd just met.

Tonight he whispers,

'We're good together'

And he's right-
from the start we've been
good together
palm to palm
open hearted.

It's just got dark
and I can't resist the opportunity to say your name

'I would have married him'
she says,

while we drink someone elses wine
on a footpath in Northcote

and with no legitimate claim
it surprises me to think I could have said the same. 

But his hands on my knee
and we're hailing a cab

we go back to my place
go back to being
good together

we don't worry about whether our reasons are
wrong
or right
we just know
we owe it to ourselves
to be
good together
tonight.

Both Necessary and Dangerous.

I'm craving epic landscapes

and the truck that nearly hits me
on Brunswick St at midday
comes close enough

giving me a good dose of
danger
without any need for a detour
on my way home.

In this heat the roads
can be dangerous
brains
sweating inside us
any sense that exists
escaping through salty moisture

you're dangerous,
too,

in you
I see pebbles
disappearing off cliff faces
devoured by
swell

while white gulls
circle.

They too desire the shock
of cold water
diving down,
down
through hot hot air
to another element
both necessary
and dangerous.

It's epic,
that's for sure.

Fear of failure
only
keeps me circling

but desire of shocking cold
keeps me looking
for that
cutting
cooling

both necessary and dangerous.

The gulls cry out
mouths wide
wings outstretched

while arms keep close and tight
the secrets
that are both necessary
and dangerous
that neither naked flesh
nor late night breath
can reveal.

Beneath the intermittant street lights
I see only you
in duplicate

summonsed by the full moon
no longer blue

but bright
and white as a seagull
hovering,
waiting
to dive
down,
down,
down. 

This Time Of Year, Always

Climbing roses and bougainvillea
in full bloom
and the scent of jasmine
that gets stuck at the back of your throat

that's spring
in this city

all choked up with sweet smells
and pollen
and other things that make you rub you eyes

in disbelief

always
this time of year
in this city

always

always, as the summer skirts
begin to appear
revealing calves
and thighs
and the odd flash of undergarment

always
revealing things hidden
throughout winter

always
disbelief
and red raw eyes
rubbing away the irritation

though we're probably making it worse

by touching it at all

always
stripping off
stripping back

I remember that one spring
years ago
now
leaning up against the cool poles of the cafe
my favourite summer dress
me
newly exposed
all flowers in bloom
on the street,
on my favourite summer dress

still wide eyed in disbelief
at your proximity
that you'd been there all this time.

Always,
this time of year
that disbelief

I'll rub my eyes
one last time
inhale
the sweet irritating scents
of this time of year
in this city.

Perhaps I'll put on my favourite dress
and wander the streets
we both know so well

wide eyed in disbelief
that we exist
at all.

Trick or Treat

I remember post-it notes on my front door
and a tight black costume
but before then there was nothing
though perhaps some knocking
local kids

the passing of time
unmarked
by pumpkins
or slutty outfits.

I think I'll wear a costume this year
something bold and
perhaps unrecognisable
to most of you

a superhero
or something
active
strong
assertive.

Yeah,
I think I'll go as
myself. 

I'm Not In The Habit Of Making Friends With Ferrets

So, I'm being dragged down Brunswick St by this big eyed beagle X when I'm stopped in my tracks by a familiar face. His name is Allan, and he's a ferret, frozen into an unnatural position and glued to a piece of wood, half snarling at me and staring, glassy eyed through the window of the second hand shop, up near the big intersection with Alexandra parade.

Now let's not get our wires crossed, Allan and I have never met. I'm not in the habit of making friends with ferrets. And yet, I did say familiar, didn't I?

Let me explain. It's not Allan himself who is familiar to me.  It's that glassy eyed stare I used to stare back at in those stolen summers I've mentioned before, perhaps you can remember? Perhaps you can't.  But that's beside the point.  It's that glassy eyed stare, the frozen limbs, once live and quivering now stuffed and mounted. That taxidermists captive, that kept-behind-glass demeanour.

He sat bolt upright, proudly holding an acorn, tail perfectly curled into an S shape, carrying no sense of the violent death that must have befallen him.  That always intrigued me.  I think my mother told me he'd been shot. I couldn't conceive of just how. Tiny bullets? Expert stitching? Black magic?

This little guy never had a name. I never gave him one. I guess we weren't really that close.

And this summer- I mean, a real summer, in the sense of it being an English summer, not an Australian summer lost translation and timezones, transmogrified into a promise of snow and sledding with days as short as your father's temper- this proper English summer, sun shower soaked bunting and sprawling strawberry plants, he was gone. No one seemed to know where.  Just another thing displaced during the chaos of family deaths, relatives rummaging, rash decisions where the past slips past us, disintegrating like old fabric into dust.

 I never gave him a name.

But I spent hours, wondering what sort of life he had led, wondering  if the little red squirrels that you'd see occasionally on the Heath, rarely now,  were descendants. Wondered if they ever peeked in the window from a branch of that old tree (surely you know the one? I suppose you probably don't, but if you paid attention you'd know exactly). I don't suppose they'd give a damn, I doubt squirrels have that much of an interest in genealogy. In family trees? That's a terrible joke, but you know that old tree carries my family's history too. My family, dying out like the red squirrels, that you hardly ever see any more.

I spent hours looking through that glass at the face of extinction, of death. And that's what I see staring back at me from the window of that second hand shop up near Alexandra Parade.  Death. Extinction. The past slipping past us.

I want to take his picture- Allan's picture.  I don't know why.  I mean, other than to run it through instagram, post it on twitter along with my faux-artsy shots of flowers and coffee and pictures where the filter has made me look younger and prettier. I would have done the same for Allan, it's only fair- he'd have come out looking quite dapper- he might have even looked lifelike.

But there's someone cleaning graffiti off the step  and the smell of disinfectant is overwhelming and the dog is tugging at his lead and I leave, looking over my shoulder at Allan, who is staring at me from behind the glass, mid snarl- frozen, captive.

And I think that perhaps that's why he seemed so familiar.

The Letter 'B'

Berlin comes back
to bite me
two days running
as I wake up with words
and pictures
channels of former worlds.

She's coming back
with her own inverted image
reflected in a man
I've never met

and even my face
seems
unfamilliar.

There, there
are moments captured
silk scarves and night time gathering
history remade, repeated
defeated
or so we thought.

The letter 'B' strings
me along
purse my lips to speak these things
like I'm kissing
the possibilities

and I'm missing
those silver earrings

as unreplacable
as the feelings

that are gone
gone
gone. 

Wild

She was domesticated, those days
dinners on time
and television by his side

now she's wild
as cliffs
half descended into the sea
exposing
raw and rocky jagged
insides
sprouting mad and tangled
hardy species
that flower, if you're lucky.

Wide eyed as one
newly born
into a world of waking up at midnight
saying yes and yes and yes
dancing with devils
dutch courage
we're dynamite
combined
already part water
each of us our own type of acidic
at the right temperature
explosions
if you're precise;
you've got to be precise,
it's science.

Whirling dervish of destruction
spilt drinks ,
rips and cuts and splinters
for each other we will walk on fire
on air
we disappear
we are a reflection of our former selves
the mirror's image
that takes the imperfections of the glass
steam and streaks
we can write new names across our faces.

If you slip back through time,
to where it was warm and safe and dry
you can here the cry
of one domesticated,
longing to be wild.

(I wrote this ages ago, which seems important to mention, though it may not mean anything to you).

Tareq

Tareq told me I looked
only 18 or 19

and when I showed him blurry photos of
"my wedding"
he told me my husband was a lucky man.

We talked all the way to Hama,
about movies,
about life
and Tareq told me to be careful
as men in Syria could be dangerous.

I didn't tell him about my trouble with the taxi driver
I wanted him to think I was tough
that I could take care of myself
probably because
that's what I needed to believe.

Tareq took me out to dinner
in his villiage
just outside of Damascus
after I had seen the snow covered mountains of Northern Lebannon
and the barbed wire enclosed Baalbek
taking the Hezbollah bedecked bus from under a bridge
in Beiruit
back to this sunkissed city
of deep fried cauliflower, mozaic courtyards
and kind strangers.

Tareq told me I was beautiful
and that he wished to remember the perfect moment
of our meeting forever

but not in the way you'd think

(unless you know a lot about young Syrian men
whose english has been learnt
from Hollywood romance stories
and YouTube videos)

and when it got late
and his cousin's taxi had left
and I was afraid that
maybe I wasn't so tough after all
the city lights of Damascus
and my hotel room for one seeming so far away

his gentle calm and big brown eyes said more
than his strangely idiomatic language
and I knew he was safe

but with his city now on fire
and blood in the streets
no such safety is assured

and that scarf I let him buy me in the souk
so bright,
so unlike anything I would have chosen for myself
hangs on my coat stand
with other precious memories

of sunkissed cities
and kind strangers

and big brown eyes
in cities now on fire.

I Once Had A Lover

I once had a lover
who had gone head first
through the windscreen
of a rented car in Greece.

When I ran my hands over his forhead
I could feel where the shards of glass
had embedded themselves in his skull,
where the skin had grown over,
how the pieces of windscreen
had become a part of him
the way the weeds will grow over
anything left lying long enough
to be tangled in green tendrils.

Later,
after the cracks had appeared
and another type of shattering
left everything broken
there were pieces left beneath my skin
that sometimes I can still feel
though the skin has long since grown over
and the lumps are imperceptible
to eyes and hands
and lovers' lips.

Shattered and broken,
embedded
the leftovers of loves casualties
beneath the skin
impreceptible
barely there
beneath a new lover's touch
suspended in flesh

we are one,
the past and I
entwined as are the weeds
and anything left lying
too long
in their path.

Once In A Blue Moon

Midnight makes me
a loose
cannon
and the hand
of gin
has painted me happily
pink and joyful

Hemingway's hiding
beneath my bed
and once
in a blue moon
he waits for me in vain

while I'm wrapped up
in another's
arms
waiting for morning
waiting for something
waiting to know the appropriate move
I should know the appropriate move
by now, right?

But
I don't

I only know that I can't give up these vices
without the fear of being boring
wordless
lining up glasses full of
false idols

wanting to be
at the very least
the mistake you could learn from

I'd do that for you

the rain gives a staning ovation

we don't deserve it
 I don't
I'm reprising the role
it's autopilot, really
I know the lines
the blocking is stale
unspontaneous

only fear keeps
my glass full

my mouth shut
fleeing
with sunlight

and all my clothes,
hopefully.

Once in a blue moon
fear and
false idols align

and the best I can hope for
is that I've got
all
my
clothes. 

Empty Beer Bottle Dreams

Towels that attack in the breeze
empty beer bottle dreams
and sweet sunshine promises
peeping through the trees.

I've got a horrible snorty laugh
which escapes
in an all too familliar scene
and those that don't get the joke
laugh anyway

but the joke's on me,
me
and my empty beer bottle dreams

and those things that attack
in the soft summer breeze.

The Living And The Dead

We slept upstairs,
in the attic
in sleeping bags on a hard wood floor

David was always naked
naked cooking quinoa
naked in the sun doing downward dog

naked when he asked me
in the middle of the night
to give him a cuddle

I exhaled extra loudly
to give the illusion
of a deep deep sleep

JC was dying
brain tumors
had forced his eyes
to search
for each other
each pupil straining
to face the other
so that he always looked confused

but I think he was more clear
about a lot of things
than
those of us
looking straight ahead.

He was out of hospital
wild hair
and red hoodie
fishermans pants
so calm

the goji juice was from the himilayas
and it was going to cure him
they said

and we walked,
barefoot
the hundred meters to Venice Beach
which you could see from the front porch
once the haze had lifted


I heard later that he died

I was already in New York
fully clothed
swept up by the rush rush

and I had forgotton the calm

until just now,
now,
when a man with wild hair
and eyes,
each searching for the other

calmly told of how he had seen his family
killed

as a rooster
an ugly rooster squarked
it's cry echoing
over the water filled canoe
suspended in the air


calm rising out of chaos
those searching eyes
the story that must be told
and heard
and retold
and held within

what if i could turn my own eyes
inward
roll them around to face each other
to examine
what story it is behind them
to not loose sight

the chaos, outstretched in front
the calm within

we are cursed to see
and not see

to know
and not know

to remember
and forget

wild hair

I can see them now,

those eyes
that see the living
and the dead

that in the midst of chaos
can still find
calm.

Silver Lotus, Strangers Kindness

I've got a silver lotus
wrapped around my finger
and I'm rippping weeds from between the bricks
trying to keep the wolf from the door
and that old coyote from my bed

i hear him at night time
between the howling of the wind
and the rain trampling the tin roof
the gutters overflowing
with murky water threatening
to rise up and flood the house
with evaporated memories

he stays away
but the white of his teeth
a beacon in the dark night
winking at the full moon from a far
he's a hunter
waiting for a feed

(which he'll get if I stay out too late
loose my way
find myself face to face
palm to palm with strangers
sipping and slipping
tripping
skipping formalities

it's a strange kind of intimacy

a strangers kind of intimacy

strange

and kind)

Stay a while longer
coyote,
I'll sing you a song
self conscious and breathless
i'll confess
I'm really more a cat person
but dogs like you
have some appeal
by the light of the full moon

sipping and slipping
tripping
accross tram lines
to quiet corners
face to face
palm to palm

strangers, intimate
with strange kindnesses
and
unnecessary excesses
you're exposed too
beneath the glow
of an August full moon.

Refections From The Road.

The road trains argue with the air conditioning unit
and the rain cackles as it clatters on the motel's tin roof
I'm huddled beneath with electric heat
cold feet
full of whipped cream clouds, strawberries and sweet sunsets,
rogue sheep and roast lamb.

The bright light beyond the coluds billowing on the horizon beckons,
is heaven just past those rolling rocky hills?
Or are we already angels, floating on a raspy voice and celestial melody,
buoyant

on waves of laughter.

Breathe in the country's air,
as the road completes our third pair
we dance the only steps we know,
going where we go, blowing where we blow

feed the fibres of our earthy selves
before walls and bricks and city streets greet us
and fresh sheets in familliar shades meet us
and all this luminosity fades into distant dreams

the sky is a brightly burning fire, flames of cherry red and rich gold.

We are millionaires tonight. 

Heat Horizon

there is heat
and desert clear clarity
somewhere
where blues and reds and greens grow out of the earth
sprout
from horizons that stretch out
and reach that forever away place
I endlessly chase
i spy
it's no coincidence i can see
that spot
that would be pale blue dot
from where I lie
foreign streets
where in my mind we meet
in the heat
desert clear clarity
that seeping creeping doubt fear tide
that drags me down,
wrung out
I can beat it in the heat
the childhood comfort of
crisp dry crackling skin
solar powered
i charge
at that horizon
which today is grey
and calls a strangers name.

Songbird

Eva's my morning songbird
she knows the score

it's simple

the chorus is just three chords
C, G and D
which is alright by me

still half asleep
unwashed in pjs

unable to leave the cave
today
I think I'll just play
and play
it's a solitary game
three chords
(unwashed in pjs)

These days are strange
too many tunes
but laughter heals and calms
and reassures
the best medicine

I'll take the strongest dose available

and sleep
til morning songbirds greet
with
C, G and D

they know the score;

"I love you like never before".

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nKjjRz0TEUk

Brave, That Way

Saturday sees me
sticking a safety pin through my nose
and screaming myself hoarse
in a strip club
in a black pvc catsuit
I wasn't sure was worth the $15 the op shop was charging
in 2006

but I'm just not brave
in this particular way
haven't got the words to say
whatever it is that fills me

two tenor saxophones said it instead
in a distinct harmony
that drew the salt tears
that I couldn't will
at the right time
rehearsing another's pain
on another day.

Language is so inadequate,
even melody is,
chords comes close
but it's so mercurial,
this meaning we chase
that slips and slides
and seemingly impossibly
freezes when we need it most.

If i could paint
perhaps colours could
fathom this
in layers and textures

I need to build something
big enough to show
this enormity

drain the ocean and make a stage of the sea floor
to play out this story

the one that comes in dreams
and day dreams
that seems right there
at my finger tips

but evaporates before I can catch it
and transpose it
into the right key
and sing it into the wind
to waft it's way
to wherever you are in the world.

I'm mute, today
not brave
that way.

Friday, Me Again

So she calls me up at 9:35
and I'm already ready for bed

(I know, at this hour
on a friday
but still
I'm jetlagged
exhausted
and halfway through a potent hot toddy
with star anise floating peacefully alongside
slices of lemon)

and she's one of those friends
those friends that you'll leave the house with no warning for
at 9:38 when you hang up the phone
no make up
swap slippers for
slip ons
and cycle so you get there quicker. 

Everyone's out tonight.
Even the moon
full and hanging low
eavesdropping.

I'm waylaid
once
twice
on my way home
familiar faces .

Everyone's out tonight
a drunk falls on my bike
and I hit the third pub for the night
reunited with the barman
it's been too long
and i get a whiff of something,
parma? fries?
I think it's home, cutting through the cold reunion
and I relax into being
just me again.

Spinning Tops and Gypsy Hats

The fox is living in the garden
my mother's sure of it
she's seen him
slipping into the cavity
between the pampass grass
and the old stone wall
that separates this place
from the vicarage next door.

I can see it all
from my window
and an aerial view
of roses
pond scum
and grass clippings.

Soon
I'm gonna take of these Wellington boots
and forget about
blue jays
and robin red breasts
and borrowed socks
and blackberry bushes
soon

I've opened every door under this roof
scoured cupboards
scaled staircases
emptied suitcases

and filled them back up with wonder
such wonder
i wonder if I fell asleep
six weeks ago
and haven't woken up yet.

Melbourne's winter
lies in wait
to pinch me
take my gypsy hat
and hang it up
sucking me back into the sheets
I chose myself
forcing upon me things unfinished
familiar
scratched and dented
dates
and responsibilities.

Close my eyes,
delay
reality
wait for the spinning top to topple
inhale cold air
and hold my breath
waiting
waiting
to wear that hat
those socks
and start the spinning top
in motion
again.

Things That Will Soar

I should have been in Prague today
and yesterday
and the day before
but I'm not

instead
i'm hemmed in by bay windows
and constant rain
and the tick tick ticking of
clocks that are slow
or fast
or silently stopped all together.

Time's as confused as I am;
part wanting to gallop a pace
part wanting hang back and wait
with the characteristically contradictory desire
to stop, be still and
observe independently
as the world turns around me.

I've missed my flight
and gained precious days
here where it's buzzing
where we bounce off each other
like rubber
springing apart
gravity bringing us together
only to be propelled again
to opposite sides of the globe
when we'll connect again?
Neither knows,

but as sure as we are rushing through the air
we can thank the other
for propelling us up there
amongst planets and meteorites

(like those that lovers
have begged us to like.

I'm not impressed
it's a lump of rock, unearthly, sure
but inert, grounded
clumsily mounted)

I should have been in Prague
today, yesterday and the day before,

but rather than hold onto something that has fallen,
i want to touch the things
that will soar.

Rum In Brightly Coloured Tumblers

Wrapped in a blanket
On a rooftop in Shoreditch
We're Drinking rum and coca cola
From brightly coloured tumblers as the sun comes up
Hidden by thick grey clouds
That illuminate
the grey slate tiles
That glow and glisten
And threaten to tip us off
Onto the pavement three floors below.

The neighbours skip
Over chimneys to join us
Dickensian

In gold studded leggings
Sav blanc in one hand
Lit Marlboro light in the other

We dance
And sing too loud
And fall about
Delirious
Drowning out tiredness
With rum and coca cola
Sipped from brightly coloured tumblers
That punctuate the grey, grey
Slate tiles
Grey Concrete and thick grey clouds.

Splintered toes
And blisters
Broken glass
Snug in a stripy blanket
Spilled drinks, kebab and chips
And rum in brightly coloured tumblers we relieve the sun of his duties
And light up london ourselves

As the day dawns.

What The Planets Have Planned

There are strawberry plants
Growing like weeds
 In the cracks of the pavement
And the rhododendrons at the bottom of the garden
Are in full bloom
 Partly obscuring the shirtless eastern european men
Who are building a wall In red bricks.

 A house full of people
Who all seem to have the same nose
The same eyes
We watch the rain
No one has told London
It's summer.

 They're camped out
 By the Thames,
The enthusiasts
Raincoated
With supplies of bacon
And Bovril
How very Brittish.
 On the tube
Just after Camden Town
 A man tells me that Jesus loves me

 (he then tells the whole carriage So I feel a bit less special)

 And I can't controll my laughter
It's the best medicine
Why would I want to I've never given a fuck about
Disapproving looks
And this is what's keeping me alive
In the face of my lack of faith
So they can all get fucked.
 I've got pins and needles
Been still to long
 Gotta keep moving
 Keep warm
Keep going

Venus is passing
No desire to hide
And I'm following her lead
 This is once in a lifetime
 And no cloud cover
Fog
 Or disapproving looks
 Is gonna get between me

 And what the planets have planned.

Rum City Lights Night Night

I'm rum drunk
sprawled across the curtains
masquerading as a bed spread

gotta make myself feel at home
gotta feel something
though the rum will put a stop to that
nonsense
whispering sweet nothings
swallowing
sweet nothingness

sweet somethings
something it's best
not to talk about

It's quiet here
I can't quite get used to it
No rattling trams
Breaking glass
Backyard cricket
In my non-existent front yard
Echoing off the columns
Stone stairs
Into the starless night.

I can see the city lights
A stones throw away
If I had good aim
And were as strong
As I felt

A tiny giant
In a ginger bread house
Sweet and falling apart
This quirky fairy tale

With a prince on platform three
And the possibility of a
Happy ending.

The Hunter

Once again London has me in her vice-like grip
chained
tethered
captive
caught in the bright lights
still as a deer
but not doe like at all.

You see I to am ready to strike
cobra like
poised
prepared
she thinks she's got me
bunny rabbit ears and all
all a quiver,
but who is the hunter here?

I'm coiled
tensed
can you feel my heart beating
this isn't fear
and I can't blame the coffee
today
the thrill
the chase
who is the hunter here?

This is the loaded gun
steel glinting in the long shaddows of the
summer evening's sun.

Waiting,
waiting for the final act

hunter or hunted
the gunpowder is packed

ready to shatter
the still calm silence,
penetrate.

The hunter has waited
long enough.

Falling

I'm leaving,
and she's being a real bitch about it.

Now is not the time
for fines
and bent keys
and police banging on the window
of my already beat up Hyundai Getz.

It's the push, pull,
the tide, the volatile wave, taking you higher and higher
then dumping you down
leaving your ears waterlogged
sand collecting at your crotch
that all too familiar
uncomfortable feeling.

I probably have snot
dripping out of my nose
and you're all too polite to say
anything.

But the surf's up
and I don't give a fuck
about the steep descent
I'm after the high
free wheeling
on the edge
where the water froths and foams at the mouth
mad
with the speed of wild horses
loud as thunder
as unpredictable as the tsunami
dumping oceans worth of water
on your freshly washed hair.

It's not the way you planned it
it never is
the rhythms
and rhymes
gallop at great pace
kicking dirt in your face
leaving clouds of dust in their wake.

Exhilarating.

I'm packing, now, just to spite her,
to make it seem final
zip my precious things away from her jealous stare
scrunch and fold and roll
tumble
fall
yep, always falling

and in case you were wondering
I don't need you to catch me,
just step off the edge
and I'll see you mid air
wind in my hair
for as long as current keeps us
falling
together.

In Your Eyes

Someone has swallowed the stars.

I'm looking at you,
fat, bulbous moon
trying guiltily to hide
behind cotton wool clouds
betrayed by illuminating
bright burning light.

There's a puddle of water
in the street
right at my feet
that holds your reflection captive
where I can poke and prod
trying illicit confession
but the ripples
won't talk
silent
murky
his cellmates, fallen leaves
discarded coffee cups

someone really should clean the drains.

He mocks me from on high
shining in through the curtains
I sewed myself
rose coloured
like the hills hoist
the brick work
and whatever else lurks
beyond the french doors.

Soft velvet sky
sequined too sparsely
why do you refuse to shine?

Ah. All in good time.

The seasons,
seemingly with out reason
turn
everything fades, lies,
guiltily hides

and spits whatever sparkle they have swallowed
back out into the sky

and if you take the time
to look up ,
shimmering stars will collect
reflect
twinkeling
in your eyes.

As Yet Unfinished

In the morning,
I tell him that I love him
and the tall taiwanese girl standing at the sink
giggles

I'm not sure why

I'm serious

even before I've been caffeinated
into full consciousness
the thought is crisp and clear

we're a funny pair

perhaps that's why she's laughing

me, yesterday's make up smudged
him half asleep

we drink black coffee
on the edge of the mountain
on the edge of something
exciting
feeling the vibrations

bright images surround us
unfinished,
much like so many things
that have been started
recently

a little detail will do it
a little specificity
simple lines
and it will be finished

it will be finished
and when it is
we begin again.

The taiwanese girl was right
it is funny
we start, we finish
we begin again
each time, each step, each fine line
more deliberate

cutting through bright colour
can you make out the shape of it?

Perhaps not yet, but when you do,
you'll probably laugh

and I'm ok with that.

Believe It.

I feel so high,
up
above
everything.

Kebabs at midnight
a crescent moon looks on
through the window
we're flying.

The leaves of the fig tree
flap in the breeze
and an olive tree sways
dizzy
must be the altitude.

This evening
all three
we've been
bigger than we could have imagined
blown up
a celluloid illusion

but it's all real
or soon will be.

Green tea
musk
that sweet candy scent
I'm covered in it.

We're flying
all three
above the fig tree,
the olive tree
the crescent moon at our side.

It's all real.

You better believe it.

The Old Tree

They've cut down the tree

that used to be out the front of the house.

I know, because I've been on google maps

looking at street view

anticipating arriving

descending down the hill on the cobblestoned footpath

past the matching mirror imaged homes that line the street.

It used to blow in the wind

that tree

on stormy nights

unsteady swaying

alive

and almost ominously human

peeking in the top floor windows

whispering little known secrets.

I can smell and taste

my childhood's stolen summers

made grey by London's blanket of winter cloud

I can feel someone else's skin

suffocatingly wrapping around me

stretching uncomfortably

itching

I've shed it since

but looking square on to this street view

perspective distorted

breath contorted

I feel her still.

No doubt I'll see her reflection

in the top floor window

lacking 10 years of frown lines

naively not seeing,

feeling

too much.

I'll probably even see that old tree,

even though they cut it down.

These things have a way of staying with us.

My Kind Of Magic

It seems a kind of magic

though there's a trick to it, I'm sure

and when I discover it

I'll see right through it

secret no more.

A code to decipher

a language to translate

a strange game I eagerly anticipate

I won't play by the rules

I probably should, but it feels too late

I've forfeited before I've begun

a round that can't be won.

Multiple sixes

you're several steps ahead

I'm stuck with twos and threes

instead.

Obstacles? Of course.

But the climb, the fall

the bruised hips and knees and lips

are the pleasures that aren't denied

by common sense.

And in a puff of smoke

it'll all be gone

illusion

just a trick

of the light

slight of hand

clever distraction.

The crowd gasps.

'Ooohs' and 'Aahhs'.

Step by step

I'll progress

accompanied only by the stars.

Pilgrimage

It's a pilgrimage

of sorts

of religious significance

sure

if you're into that sort of thing

candles and church bells

and proximity to the spire

that points up at that grey eye,

the sky.

I am called

by no voice

but by a longing

passed down by blood

inherited

along with a handful of other things

some more tangible than

tacit.

I have lapsed

sinned

strayed

prodigal,

probably in both senses

correct and mistaken.

What has taken me so long?

This cradle

that holds the living

and the dead

and the past

and the future

and the promises

delivered silently across oceans.

I cannot pray

only sway

to the rhythm of this rocking cradle

in time with synchronised

heart beats

their echo

strong.

It's been too long.

Fallow

Something is in the air

in those remote,

uncared for parts

those remote

untended to parts

that have lain fallow

too long

where seeds

recently sown

are beginning to take root.

They are beginning to take root

and shoot

tendrils out, out

down corridors,

into kitchens and shared bathrooms

behind brick walls

under wooden tables where beer

has been drunk

and spilled.

Something is in the air.

The yeasty smell

of fermented

something.

Is it the smell summer,

going off

as it breaks down

into darker days

evaporating off moisture

distilling

into

moonshine?

Something spilled

something sown

something unknown

tendrils growing

reaching out to the light

out of your control.

Summer is breaking down

on it's knees

begging to be relieved

of long days

and the heat

evaporating off

moisture

distilling

to

moonshine.

You pick up the scent of it.

Fermented.

It will preserve

that which lies in it.

And the seeds that have been sown

have now

grown into something

beyond your control

creep

creep

reaching up towards the light

soaking up

moisture

distilled

beer, spilled

under wooden tables

moonshine.

Fallow

no more.

A Mimic In Our Midst

it seems ridiculous

today, of all days

that this delicate piece

of information

should be

tumbling towards me

down a phone line

both brittle and mercurial.

Remind you of anyone?

There's a mimic

in our midst.

Today, of all days.

I stare at the pinot gris

(Tasmanian)

then off to the side at the

curly haired child

climbing over the knees of

the tradesmen

who are huddled over pints

and parmas

wearing matching camel coloured boots

like they're in some sort

of club.

In the beer garden

I'm protected

by succulents

and the numbing haze of

alcohol

but still it jabs

a little higher than

this mornings attack

a litte harder.

It's a sore point

and the jabbing only makes it worse.

There's a mimic

in our midst

an echo

and with the reverberation

down generations

I can't tell if it's question

that needs an answer,

or a cry

for help.

No, No, Yes

She needed to say no.

That's what she says.

Or rather, it's what I say.

I needed to say no.

This is getting confusing

this life, this art.

At any rate, no is a word

that sticks

at the top of my soft palate

paralysed tongue

oesophagus blocked

can't breathe

too nasal

exhale

inhale.

No. No. No.

I'm tense.

It's my face.

It's tense.

I'll practise again.

No.

And I needed to say no to you.

I've been wondering if I've used up

all my 'yes's

Yes. Yes. Yes.

Rolls off the tongue

overflows

if you're doing it right

the eyes say it first

before any hint of breath

don't waste it

vibrations.

Yes is easy

raise the tongue, from the middle

an eye brow if you like,

cheeky.

What was the question?

Sorry, did you say something?

I thought you did.

My mistake.

No. No. Yes.

Don't waste it.

Check in with the eyes.

Exhale.

Inhale.

Vibrations.

Red Bull and Soggy Noodles

I'm deep in meditation

(yeah, I meditate now, did I mention that?)

when i get a whiff of chinese food

and the sticky sweet scent

of Red Bull

and I'm laughing, not quite out loud

that

soggy noodles

and beverages

banned in other countries

can waft into my happy place

and raise a smile

that comes from somewhere

deep,

deep down

while I'm lying flat

on the carpet,

head to toe to head to toe.

I might be laughing,

but it's a serious matter

Red Bull and soggy noodles.

And laughter.

I'm serious. So don't laugh.

Even though it's ridiculous.

Totally ridiculous.

Red bull and soggy noodles

and the heat,

heart beat

sticky, sweet

sticky, sickly sweet

that smile from the deep.

Yep, I'm thinking of

Red Bull

and soggy noodles.

Ridiculous.

Push, Pull

Have you taken the time to look at the moon lately?

I have.

In fact, it's becoming something of a ritual, this moon gazing. Staring into the dark, night sky, looking for a familiar face.

Ritual.

Something that's been missing from my erratic, scattered life. Neither here nor there. Both here and there.

Everywhere.

Ever changing, always the same; such is the paradox of the moon.

The moon itself a constant, our perception, changing. What we see as opposed to what actually exists. Starting to sound familiar?

Lately I've felt as if every cell in my body is changing. Vibrating, explosive. On the verge. Of something. Do I look any different to you? Maybe, maybe not. Perception, huh?

Push, pull, sometimes waning, sometimes full.

We can look at the same thing every day, and still be surprised to discover something new. Is it all in the angles? Distance? Some kind of chemistry? I wouldn't know, I failed chemistry. And trigonometry. I can barely spell them, what would I know.

And then, after a while of not looking, thinking we remember all the intricacies, intimacies, we are drawn out into the evening, neck craning, searching for constant only to be confronted by change.

Trigonometry? Chemistry?

As elusive as the moon.

Push, pull, push, pull. Sometimes waning, sometimes full.

A Voice From A Far, Far Away Town

London called.

I picked up, and it was nice to hear that old, familiar voice. At first, we didn't know what to say, but things got easier as we went along. As usual, I got out my wallet and handed over my credit card which I know will satisfy her. A mistress easily pleased.

Soon I'll be sleeping wrapped in the caress of her breath.

It won't be like it was before, the last time, or the time before, or the time before that.

Changed, ever changing. Who is more different now? I have aged considerably more, in percentage terms.

The words are caught, I'm holding them in the back of my throat, though I know I should let them go.

So here they are.

For Now.

It's finished

for now

spaced, and ordered

justified.

They're only words

for now

but soon they'll breathe and walk

and speak out loud.

Fiction,

sure

but I like to think there's something more

than my imaginings

printed here

on this pile of papers.

I have taken your voice

and a confession from behind a curtain

a face from here and there

names that belong

to people who don't yet know

that they are now implicated in this

drama.

I, for once,

am nowhere to be found

though perhaps lurking in the margins

whispering

watching

waiting

for now.

This package of other peoples limbs

thoughts

names

words

covertly collected

I, Frankenstein,

this my monster

a Promethean thief

I remain unreprimanded

I've got away with it

for now.

Pooping Penguins, And Other Things On Thursday

I drank the coffee on my way home while eating the brownie at the same time. It was raining, slightly.

I was surprised by the good quality of the coffee, which I only bought from that particular establishment because I was buying a brownie there, and I thought it rude to walk into the cafe next door with the brownie which is superior to the ones they serve there to buy the coffee which is superior to the one served next door.

The barista was older, wearing glasses. Tattooed, of course. This is Fitzroy, after all. He seemed to take me seriously, I think it's the trench coat. People always take me seriously when I wear it. I don't know if it's the trench coat, the fact that it's beige, or if it's because I only wear it when I want to be taken seriously. Whichever one it is I don't care. He knew, the barista, that I was serious about getting a good coffee and a large slice of brownie, and he looked me straight in the eyes, which I liked.

The two guys on the table nearest the till were deep in discussion about something which seemed important. One of them, the younger guy, was taking notes. There was a disk on the table, which I could see was a DVD of the movie "Mr Popper's Penguins", which I thought was odd, an odd choice for these two men to be discussing. If they were, in fact, discussing it. I'm not sure why else it would just be sitting there, on the table. I watched that movie recently. It was really pretty awful, and yet I find myself thinking about those damned CGI birds more often than I'd like. Damned precocious birds. And their propensity for pooping. Pooping penguins in Mr Popper's apartment.

I'm not thinking about the penguins as I walk up George St, brownie, long black, trench coat. I pass my car, parallel parked on the left hand side of the street, and I try not to look at it, but out of the corned of my eye I can see the scratch marks and the dents. I'd rather be thinking about the penguins, but I'm not, anymore, I'm thinking about the scratches, and willing myself to care a bit more. But I don't. I just don't care. If anything I'm relieved that's the extent of today's damage. It could have been worse, in the rain, with this degree of distraction, lines running through my head like a pooping penguin's excrement. Mr Popper isn't going to clean up this mess.

And neither am I.

I'm going to drink this coffee, finish the brownie and probably lick my fingers, who are you to judge me, with the day I've had, and it's not yet 11am.

Scratches, dents, pooping penguins. Push them all to the back of my mind and keep moving, moving, moving through the hours of the day hoping to care, at least a little bit. And to be taken seriously, with or without the trench coat. To be met, eyes to eyes. Yes. I sure am serious. If you think I'm still talking about coffee you've missed the point. But you're still reading, I've no idea why, the wine has really hit me now and I could keep going. But I won't. Don't worry. Don't worry.

I'm not worried. But I do care, I think.

A Change Of Clothes Is As Good As A Holiday

Next week I'm going to Thailand.

Not actual Thailand, the Thailand that involves airfares, accommodation, visas and suitcases.

No, the Thailand that is chai tea and yoga and fisherman's pants. Deep breaths and leisurely dinners. And humidity. I might use the heater for that. Then put the fan on, to get a nice imitation tropical breeze. I won't get much sleep, tossing and turning in the heat, but hey, that's the authentic Thailand experience. I'll be sweaty and awake in the wee small hours planning adventures and hoping that lizards don't crawl over my feet when I'm not looking.

I'll eat pad Thai and meat on a stick and drink coconut juice through a straw stuck in a plastic bag.

Out and about I'll meet all sorts of wonderful, interesting, adventurous types. We'll scheme over tall glasses of fresh juice and lament the price of wine. Then get buckets of some beverage that smells like lighter fluid, which we knock back then we'll pull out the most inappropriate dance moves in the middle of the street, which we'll have forgotten by the morning, and never see the photos, because so-and-so lost their camera in all the excitement and such and such was all fingers and thumbs and couldn't get a clear shot on his iPhone.

Should we bump into each other while I'm on holiday we'll laugh at the coincidence of this chance meeting, against the odds, all this way from our regular, routine lives. We'll laugh, then sit under a palm tree on black sand or yellow sand or white sand that's hot underfoot or cooled from the shade of a cliff face, rough from pieces of broken shell or sand that runs smoothly between your toes as if through an hourglass - you decide, this is all in your head, after all.

A change of clothes is as good as a holiday. A change of pace, a cup of chai tea. A few deep breaths.

Can you smell the street vendors fare? See orange robes out of the corner of your eye? Feel the rush of the unfamiliar, what's around the corner, over this bridge, beyond the walls of that temple?

I'm about to get up now, away from this mesmerising screen. Close the door behind me. Step out into what is known and not known, both imagined and real. Any second now I'm going.

I'm not going to look back.

To The Far, Faraway Towns

There are stairs. A lot of stairs. It seems like the house should have ended long before it does, the narrow, dusty corridors, carpeted and enclosed keep taking you up and up towards the habitually grey sky. A window here and there lets in light, filtered through the clouds, through panes of glass that could use a wash, or be replaced all together.

You've been here so many times. Memories blur. Do you really remember what it looked like? Was the bathroom tiled back then? The couch? Was it there, or perhaps...? The TV is new, definitely. The place almost looks lived in. Almost.

You're back on the stairs now, the final almost vertical leg that takes you into the roof, where there are piles of old carpet, flaked wall paper and other things you try not to trip over on your way to the double doors, smudged with finger prints that might be a decade old. Or older.

You've reached the top now, you can't go any further and you slide open the double doors that stick and jam, forcing you to squeeze through a gap that's almost too narrow to allow you to pass.

But you pass, you're at the top, and there's nothing between you and grey slate tiles that slope down, down, down towards the narrow lengths of grass separated by grey stone walls and fruit trees.

The church spire pierces the sky to your right, children in bright red pullovers scream and chase at it's base.

And over the rooftops you can see it, those few familiar shapes that tell you where you are, the life sized Monopoly board, just an hour away, if you've long legs and you're willing to sweat a little. From here you can trace the toy like skyline with a finger, looping up around The Eye, and down, up and down.

It's been too long, and you want a gin and tonic to remind you, a little bottle of duty free Bombay Saphire as fresh as the air your grandmother always said was cleaner up here, here by the Heath, under the church spire with the fruit trees and bushes out the back providing the filling for crisp crusted pies.

She'll be ringing the bell about now, if she still does that. You wouldn't know, it's been too long. Is there still a bell? The smell of porridge in the morning, the crackling of bacon under the grill? No longer do the petulant miaows of the ginger cat cut through the morning's stillness, you know that much, no more gentle buzz of an electric razor, grey hair collecting on today's copy of The Times.

But you can hear them all these sounds, arranged in a strange nostalgic harmony, first the sound of the big brass bell, accompanied by staccato outbursts of hot fat under flame, a tune in the key of feline chimes in, syncopated with the eerie echo of those now unused appliances.

Oh, London, you're going to have to stop calling.

Or I'm going to have to start leaving the phone off the hook.

The Faint Smell Of Burning

I'm playing with fire

and not in the way

I like to, late in the night at parties;

hot wax dripping

a faint smell of burning

and thin wisp of silver smoke.

This is the other kind of fire

that'll singe the eyelashes

clean off your face

without any trace

of flame.

I know you're using me.

I'm not sure what for,

just yet,

but I'm sure I'll find out.

You've got your uses

too

and I'm trying to think of you

as something more politically correct

than a "palate cleanser"

cool

and neutral

bookended by dishes

deliberately ordered.

Worked well, all that time ago.

And you've always got to go and bring it up,

don't you?

Hot cold clammy and sweating

confusion

late night disappearing act

a thin wisp of silver smoke

late at night

something's still burning

and if I squint I can just make out a

thin wisp of silver smoke

and the faint smell of

burning.

Final

They're screaming his name

in this takeaway joint

on Fitzroy street

the tv cuts in and out

as we finger

fork fulls

of deep fried

dinner

the third screen

for the evening

we've traversed the city

drunk too much champagne

and ordered food from irish backpackers

as these guys have played on

and on

sweaty and lean

I lose the bet I made back in the bar

luckily that drunk guy hasn't followed us out here

to collect his winnings

and we all stand in the rain

sweaty

greasy fingered

debating whether to play on

the game

the rain

it's all coming to an end

match point to win or lose

you'll hear the screaching of my sneakers

as I dive to hit out

one final time.

Lukewarm

The body remembers

the space,

the shapes,

the body remembers

lukewarm cups of tea

that won't burn your mouth

like those old memories will if you

insist on

gulping them down

hotter than

the end of January.

Lukewarm is better

safer

wrap your palms around

and the skin

won't

feel a thing

It's been years

since I was here

but I remember

the shapes

this space

and the comfort of

lukewarm

in flickering candle light.

Shoe String Fries, And Other Small Mercies

So I'm sitting

slouched

in a corner

glaring at the world over the top of my

whiskey,

waiting

(watch out guys,

I have a steak knife)

I start tapping away

and realise

that's

how a lot of things start.

Not with steak knives

but with a drink in my hand

and a

bad

attitude

(my teachers always told me,

they were right,

you know,

I guess

some things never change)

I'll order another

(nowhere to be

nothing to do

that can't wait 'til

tomorrow,

next week,

after everything's

over)

I'll sit here

poking a piece of flesh

whiskey breath

trying not to glare

those frown lines

are deep enough

eyes

flicking between

two screens.

It's always the best way to spend

money you wish you never had to earn

nights you

wish you could remember

whiskey breath

you know you'll probably forget

those things you had to do

they can wait

anyway.

Everything fades.

the day

the faces

and you're thankful

for shoe string fries

and other small mercies

(the fact you can never remember

small mercies)

One drink to remember

two to forget

three

and that's when it starts to get fun

let's see if we can find the next thing

you'll eventually

wish had never begun.

Slouched over a fork full of

shoe string fries

and small mercies

and the whiskey the barman

promised

would be smooth and smokey

it's a small mercy there are only

meters to shuffle

in shoes that don't match

yep,

small mercies

it's wednesday and we're

more than half way there

so cheer up

drink up

shuffle on home and be thankful

that at least there are an abundance

of

small

mercies.

A Little Bar. Lygon St, Brunswick East

I'm drinking a brandy and dry

in the window

of a little bar on Lygon St

where everything seems to be

made out of wood.

I feel sort of

caught

in the middle

neither here nor there

pretending to read a magazine

while the barman eyes me off

suspiciously.

Vague and slow

these 60 hours have made me feel

as many years old

and have clearly affected my drinking habits.

The breeze feels better

than anything that has ever

pressed up against my face before.

Heavenly.

I've forgotten that it's Sunday

slow and vague and sleepy

(now I'm repeating myself)

Fuck,

I've forgotten that I don't believe

in Heaven.

Now that I think of it

a bar in Brunswick East

wouldn't be a bad place

to spend eternity

though something about it

smacks of purgatory

with the number 8 tram shuddering past

in each direction

a destination

that doesn't really appeal.

Neither here nor there

just somewhere in the middle

somewhere highly flammable

with feet that feel like

they're already on fire.

I'm talking to myself

as the ice melts

then the phone vibrates

and we cut to the alternate ending,

where I'm caught between the

shy and handsome greying barman

and an inattentive lover

neither here nor there

a special kind of purgatory

in a bar in Brunswick East.

But

this isn't the directors cut, people.

It's just Russ

and the he's on his way back

to freshly polished floors

with ingredients for Tacos

and right now,

that kinda sounds

like heaven to me.

Clint Eastwood

You and me,

Clint Eastwood

we'll take Friday night

by the horns

and show it who's boss.

You and me,

Clint Eastwood,

We'll keep each other

company

you, deciphering a killer's strangling secrets,

I'll probably take my top off.

That makes us both winners.

You and me,

Clint,

we're on first name basis now,

I'll even let you call me Catherine

and when we spoon later

I'll be the big spoon

(which means I'll probably drool

into your thinning hair,

but you won't notice,

and I'm not gonna tell you about it)

I'm not doing this so I can brag about it later,

the brandy is our only wittness.

Ok, sure, I might have to high five

here and there

(I mean, look at you,

why wouldn't I want to gloat

a little)

But seriously,

it's our little secret,

Clint Eastwood

I won't tell if you won't

just one night

and be gone by breakfast,

(I'll make an exception and make it later,

just for you,

Clint Eastwood

just a few extra hours

some scrambled eggs and

a fresh towel)

The twang twang

of 80s bass

come on, coyote, let's

dance close and slow

high on this

tightrope

I'll be your little lady

Clint

Clint Eastwood

I'll be your little lady

We'll rock,

then you can leave,

Clint Eastwood

I'm high on your tightrope

and I won't

look down.

Tightrope

Tightrope

I'll Sing When I'm Full Again.

I pull up in the Getz and

get Ian to pour me a whiskey

it's where I got a taste for it, after all.

I don't want ice,

just a quick hit of dutch courage.

He gives me too much change,

and later doesn't charge at all.

He doesn't smile much,

Ian,

not at me, anyhow

but his face suggests that he does know how

it's all lined and crinkled

in a friendly

kind of way.

It's the kind of bar

that's cozy

even when there's just

a solitary man cuddling up to a coopers pale

on the counter top

and it's always filled with music.

Tonight, I try my hardest,

even though I'm filled with something else

and the back of my throat

feels like it's been trampled

by the footsteps

of the three thousand people who have

grabbed and pushed

and begrudgingly accepted the falseness of my smile

when that's all that I can give.

My croak is amplified.

My fingers fumble.

I fuck up.

I even impersonate Susan Boyle.

For fucks sake.

I'm out before midnight

leaving ladies

fading into the night's dark crevices.

With whiskey on my breath

and six hours before sunrise

I arrive home

accompanied by the sounds

of the inner suburbs

the rattle of the last trams

the barman across the road stubbing out

his last cigarette.

Six hours til sunrise

six hours to sleep in the cool dark calm

before heat and hellish hectic masses

swarm and rush

grabbing and pushing,

pulling from these clumsy fingers

that which they believe themselves to be

entitled to.

Later I'll put them to better use,

these fingers

that fuck up.

Later there'll be music,

as soon as I'm full again

I'll fill the air

in the cool dark calm

clumsy fingers

prising notes one at a time

from six strings of steel

trying to spell out

the things I'm unable

to

not feel.

Home

The house is full of toothbrushes

and MacBooks

and the smell of coffee in the morning.

In the evenings

bowls are crammed with

condiments and canned goods;

we're always cooking for one

but at least we're eating together.

I'll Spell It Out For You

I can't write things I haven't felt.

Think I lack imagination?

Think again.

The many things I imagine myself to be

are as colourful as the language I use

to berate myself for letting these images run alongside me

more often than not

leading the way down a path

I shouldn't be on.

The space between us is imagined.

Or rather I imagine what fills this space.

Colours, textures

waves and surges

asteroides.

We negotiate.

Slide and dodge,

bargain.

Colours clash.

I'm imagining a torrent of

bright tartan and sleet

that meets

sandpaper gravel

and gushing pink and purple.

I know it isn't real

perhaps that's why I'm spelling it out for you

so I'll have something to hold on to

and you'll have a picture

painted in

unfinished sentences

that doesn't look quite the way it did

in my mind

but will have to do.

That's A Given

I've been given a lot of things

too many things,

some might say

things that have made my life easier

things that have been hard to get rid of

things that won't go away

even when the recycling has been emptied

and it's contents crushed by the jaws

of the shit stinking rubbish truck

that wakes me up

when I'd rather be asleep and dreaming

of things that never were.

There's a box on the bookshelf that I opened

against my better judgement

a four legged beast that just won't leave me

and hand written pages

long since incinerated

that I find myself flicking through

from time to time.

I'm giving a lot, these days.

Not giving of myself, don't be so abstract and quit thinking that this is about me and my stupid feelings.

It isn't.

It wasn't meant to be.

I'll just keep handing out

handfulls

of the disposables

while my neck burns a fashionable shade of maroon

from the glare off the blue plastic mats.

Now,

listen carefully,

I'm giving you a free shot here;

it hurts,

but it still feels good.

Bed in a Box

The bed comes in a box

and we tear it open

together

and pull out the big blue inflatable rectangle

she will sleep on.

A flick of the switch

and a few seconds later it is

filled with air,

painless installation.

Everything is almost as it was.

We will sleep in each others places tonight.

The Romantics That Pass This Way

Making mountains out of mole hills

is one of my many talents

I like to give them a few simple chords

and a chorus

and call them songs

blowing everything out of proportion

til I'm out of breath

then, I inhale

and push the notes out again

til I'm empty

of air

of thoughts

of mole hills.

What I'd really like, though,

is a mountain of my very own

piercing cloud cover,

advancing towards a silver moon.

it's dizzying up there, at that altitude

I'm sure of it

thin air a mind altering drug

I'm light headed at the very thought of it.

I've caught planes

to climb those heights

built up muscles to tackle the steep inclines

cocooned and dreaming

of leaving

the sea level horizon behind.

Tomorrow, by midday

I'm sure I'll be siting somewhere in a cafe

contemplating my fate

as spelt out by a man in 1968

by midnight I'll be slurring something about mountains

wondering how long the romantics

that pass this way

will have to wait.

The Last Time I Saw Richard