Monday, January 30, 2012

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.

Sunday, January 29, 2012

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.

Wednesday, January 25, 2012

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.

Sunday, January 22, 2012

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.

Friday, January 20, 2012

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.


Thursday, January 19, 2012

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.

Wednesday, January 18, 2012

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.

Tuesday, January 17, 2012

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.

Thursday, January 12, 2012

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.