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.

Return

Unpack the bag,
unfold crumpled memories

machine wash
drip dry


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

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

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.

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.

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.

Words IIII (Just Another Wednesday Night)

Eleanor is asking for cake
and the TV's up too loud
and I'm in bed with poetry
a little light headed.

There's a mosquito
buzzing about
and I'm worried about my bare feet
(it's warm enough for that now)
getting bitten in the night.

The words,
spoken outside my window
here,
on the page,
sometimes make sense

sometimes they're just
letters
ordered and reordered
recorded.

Listen.

Maybe you'll
understand
some of them.

My Room, Fitzroy

It's almost like
falling asleep at a lively house party
except the people whose voices
you think you might be dreaming
won't look in on you in the night
(or cover you up when you kick the blankets off)

It's almost like
falling asleep on a park bench
except there's a posturepedic mattress
and blankets for warmth
while your heart is as heard
as wooden slats
and your fear
mimics the chill of the wind

It's almost like
falling asleep on the couch
except the TV is hers
and you can't ask her
to turn it down

It's almost like
falling asleep in your very own home
until you realise
you're
alone.