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.