I spoke to the clouds one day
up there in the rarefied air
They weren't very good listeners
flitting by in their cloudy way
but since clouds are born gossips
I had no lack of conversation
I told them about you
how you put butterflies in my stomach
with a word or a glance
& how your smile is so brilliant
it's the eighth wonder of my world
They said- "Oh yes, we know that smile,
she visits from time to time
& we dance in the currents of her eyes."
They said your eyes were sapphires
the colour of ozone and the ocean
shifting from bright azure
to grey goodbye
startling even to such as them
They told me of rivers & lakes
that sparkled in the motes
of the westering sun
yet nothing could hold a candle
to the magnificence of your smile
Then they told me of dreams
when you were off away with them
from fantastic surmise
to nightmare cries
and sleepwalking until sunrise
The clouds carried me across
the Great Divide in the jet stream
spoke to me of hunger & drought
fire & flood & famine
and showed me wastelands of regret
They said- "You crossed this way before
but you lost your way."
Then they told me to follow my dreams
trust to my instincts
& to never lose heart
The clouds spoke to me that day
& they said to say hi
drop by when your eyes are clear
your smile is near
& your heart is in want of nothing
Monday, August 16, 2010
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Your Language
Lulled traveller to your sweet siren
I float in your blue moon swell
deaf to the insistent world
Conch cupped to my ear
I listen intently to the deep, stirring
rhythms of your heart
Each poetic bone in my body
feels the music of your velvet voice
& longs to learn your language
Drifter on the tides of time
I dive deeper to breathe the stories
of your life’s many mysteries
Drowning in a sea of dreams
I taste the promise of your lips
dumb to the waking wonder
Wayfarer on the early evenflow
my eyes have no purchase
blind in the naked night
I float in your blue moon swell
deaf to the insistent world
Conch cupped to my ear
I listen intently to the deep, stirring
rhythms of your heart
Each poetic bone in my body
feels the music of your velvet voice
& longs to learn your language
Drifter on the tides of time
I dive deeper to breathe the stories
of your life’s many mysteries
Drowning in a sea of dreams
I taste the promise of your lips
dumb to the waking wonder
Wayfarer on the early evenflow
my eyes have no purchase
blind in the naked night
Thursday, January 28, 2010
a likely lad
I nursed my fourth knock-off beer
switched to my left hand
& stopped talking for the first time in fifteen minutes
the businessman beside me who was buying me drinks
arched a thick grey eyebrow & said:
“Yure eh likely lad, Rocco.
Ye fit, young, eager
Un wots more, yuv goat
A gud head on yure shoulders.”
So saying he clapped me on the back
drained his pot & roared for another
it was the Summer of ‘99
bartending BrizVegas
working in a trendy inner-city gin-joint
that is, until the owner got busted
for coke by undercover cops
but I was a jack-of-all-trades
got a job in a hotel/motel
- no-one can tell the difference these days -
of an afternoon I'd wash dishes
chop onions, spuds & carrots
polish glasses & cutlery
answer telephones
brag, boast & exchange lies with the Texan Chef
& the gay Maitré D
by evening I'd wait tables
tend the bar
stock the fridges
clean the kitchen
sweep & mop the floors
answer telephones
& take room-service up to celebrities
one night, among many
I got call from room 56
a reggae band in town & outta booze
"Hey mun, canna ave t' soup o' tha day
for seven uf us,
also, cun you get us
2 litres o' pineapple juice
3 lemons & a pint of cream?"
I asked him if that was all, sir?
"D'ye ave rum?"
Wot, Bundy?
"No, Mun. Bacardi... White Rum?!"
In no time the Chef's bell rang
I loaded the trolley
punched floor 5 room 6
& knocked (knock knock na knock knock knock-knock)
"Eeeyyyyyy, D'Artagnan!"
the rasta lion dread-head
sounded like the love-child
of Bob Marley & Fonzie
the stench of ganja hit me square between the eyes
blue-grey clouds billowed out into the hall
but I was blocked at the door
I felt like a five-star pizza-boy, accepted a toke
- no prizes for guessing what they tipped me with -
then went downstairs an tried on a few ten-year-old tricks
y'know, smashed a few plates
rattled the cutlery too loudly
yawned & bitched & complained
until the boss sent me
& my stoned arse home
switched to my left hand
& stopped talking for the first time in fifteen minutes
the businessman beside me who was buying me drinks
arched a thick grey eyebrow & said:
“Yure eh likely lad, Rocco.
Ye fit, young, eager
Un wots more, yuv goat
A gud head on yure shoulders.”
So saying he clapped me on the back
drained his pot & roared for another
it was the Summer of ‘99
bartending BrizVegas
working in a trendy inner-city gin-joint
that is, until the owner got busted
for coke by undercover cops
but I was a jack-of-all-trades
got a job in a hotel/motel
- no-one can tell the difference these days -
of an afternoon I'd wash dishes
chop onions, spuds & carrots
polish glasses & cutlery
answer telephones
brag, boast & exchange lies with the Texan Chef
& the gay Maitré D
by evening I'd wait tables
tend the bar
stock the fridges
clean the kitchen
sweep & mop the floors
answer telephones
& take room-service up to celebrities
one night, among many
I got call from room 56
a reggae band in town & outta booze
"Hey mun, canna ave t' soup o' tha day
for seven uf us,
also, cun you get us
2 litres o' pineapple juice
3 lemons & a pint of cream?"
I asked him if that was all, sir?
"D'ye ave rum?"
Wot, Bundy?
"No, Mun. Bacardi... White Rum?!"
In no time the Chef's bell rang
I loaded the trolley
punched floor 5 room 6
& knocked (knock knock na knock knock knock-knock)
"Eeeyyyyyy, D'Artagnan!"
the rasta lion dread-head
sounded like the love-child
of Bob Marley & Fonzie
the stench of ganja hit me square between the eyes
blue-grey clouds billowed out into the hall
but I was blocked at the door
I felt like a five-star pizza-boy, accepted a toke
- no prizes for guessing what they tipped me with -
then went downstairs an tried on a few ten-year-old tricks
y'know, smashed a few plates
rattled the cutlery too loudly
yawned & bitched & complained
until the boss sent me
& my stoned arse home
Her Dark Hair
A cushioned fall
oblivious young lovers frenetic with passion
& consuming desires
we fell many storeys
& as we fell the ground rushed up to meet us
but it was always a soft landing
with the ferocity of otters in rut
we tore snouts & grunted with sweaty abandon
when I came up for air your hair was intoxicating
in its black lustre & I was claimed
The hook I found later embedded in my lungs
was as sweet as your sex & I breathed it deep
what came next I could never have imagined
in the very beginning; a chest-pain horizon
when I came up for air
I was dying the death of a dog
but no hairball; only one black strand
I pushed you back into the pillows
a spent force of endorphins & ecstasy
staggering - like a drunk on his last bender -
I caught the sink with desperate hands
in the mirror I saw a floating face
with white splotches & one dark hair
hanging from my mouth
The blood rushed from my penis
as the rubber slipped & I thought:
“SOMEONE’S GONNA HAFTA CLEAN
THAT UP SOONER OR LATER!”
when the wet ‘Thwack’ of sperm
& vaginal juices hit the bathroom floor
As I pulled that lone hair
I knew the end drew nigh
for it was more than I could give
when I came up for air
the sink brimmed full with festering hopes
& mouldering desires
You fell back into cushions
with a mournful sigh
- a black-maned lioness -
but the Goddess only knew
I would never be the same.
oblivious young lovers frenetic with passion
& consuming desires
we fell many storeys
& as we fell the ground rushed up to meet us
but it was always a soft landing
with the ferocity of otters in rut
we tore snouts & grunted with sweaty abandon
when I came up for air your hair was intoxicating
in its black lustre & I was claimed
The hook I found later embedded in my lungs
was as sweet as your sex & I breathed it deep
what came next I could never have imagined
in the very beginning; a chest-pain horizon
when I came up for air
I was dying the death of a dog
but no hairball; only one black strand
I pushed you back into the pillows
a spent force of endorphins & ecstasy
staggering - like a drunk on his last bender -
I caught the sink with desperate hands
in the mirror I saw a floating face
with white splotches & one dark hair
hanging from my mouth
The blood rushed from my penis
as the rubber slipped & I thought:
“SOMEONE’S GONNA HAFTA CLEAN
THAT UP SOONER OR LATER!”
when the wet ‘Thwack’ of sperm
& vaginal juices hit the bathroom floor
As I pulled that lone hair
I knew the end drew nigh
for it was more than I could give
when I came up for air
the sink brimmed full with festering hopes
& mouldering desires
You fell back into cushions
with a mournful sigh
- a black-maned lioness -
but the Goddess only knew
I would never be the same.
phone booth
A death rattle
like shifting gears
is all I heard before the scream
Leap out of the car
Dodge the traffic
Hurdle the hedge
Slam into the phone booth
only to find I’m not wearing
my Superman costume
0-0-0 o-o-o Oh! Ohh… Oooohhhh.__________.
Then the sirens
ignorant traffic
like you hear
when other people’s Dads
have heart-attacks
like you see
when ambulances
start to cruise
like hearses
because he’s dead
& the emergency’s over
like shifting gears
is all I heard before the scream
Leap out of the car
Dodge the traffic
Hurdle the hedge
Slam into the phone booth
only to find I’m not wearing
my Superman costume
0-0-0 o-o-o Oh! Ohh… Oooohhhh.__________.
Then the sirens
ignorant traffic
like you hear
when other people’s Dads
have heart-attacks
like you see
when ambulances
start to cruise
like hearses
because he’s dead
& the emergency’s over
Monday, January 25, 2010
by dawn
a bartender
sits in a moon-lit bus-stop
writing bad poetry
toking a joint
sees carloads of
student-Discount-Revellers
imagines pouring
a drink for each one
knows that
by dawn
he might
a waitress
walks down a lamp-lit path
humming a ditty
smoking a ciggie
sees a prostitute
being solicited
imagines changing
places for just one night
knows that
by dawn
she might
a manager
stands in a dim-lit bathroom
snorting a line
through a roll-up fifty
sees tension drain
from a haggard mirror face
imagines reliving
a mis-spent youth
knows that
by dawn
he might
a hooker
lies in a gas-lit backseat
closing her eyes
sucking an eccy
sees an angel
wearing tarred feathers
imagines losing
her god-damn sanity
knows that
by dawn
she might
sits in a moon-lit bus-stop
writing bad poetry
toking a joint
sees carloads of
student-Discount-Revellers
imagines pouring
a drink for each one
knows that
by dawn
he might
a waitress
walks down a lamp-lit path
humming a ditty
smoking a ciggie
sees a prostitute
being solicited
imagines changing
places for just one night
knows that
by dawn
she might
a manager
stands in a dim-lit bathroom
snorting a line
through a roll-up fifty
sees tension drain
from a haggard mirror face
imagines reliving
a mis-spent youth
knows that
by dawn
he might
a hooker
lies in a gas-lit backseat
closing her eyes
sucking an eccy
sees an angel
wearing tarred feathers
imagines losing
her god-damn sanity
knows that
by dawn
she might
a Turkish saying
The balding ocker in flannelette
stands impatient at the bar
scratching his balls
as though it might stimulate his thoughts
& sez –
“Whaddaya mean there’s no fucken voi boi?”
“I’m sorry, we only serve Tooheys affiliated products.”
“Tooheys? That’s fucken cat’s piss.”
“Nah mate, you’re thinking of Geelong Bitter.”
The Chef rings her bell for service
& I swear she’s gonna break that thing one day
she’s five foot nothing of sub-continental spice
pound for pound the toughest kitchen bitch
in Fitzroy & Collingwood
“Take these meals out, go on, get out!
No come back here, now go, but come straight back!”
The Mediterranean band plays a song in Greek
I know the tune, but don’t have any idea of the words,
so I make them up:
“First I eat my Mezze plate, then I have a Souvlaki,
and I eat some Baklava, Yassou, Yassou!”
The Manager is Scottish, from Glasgow (likes the Rangers)
is fond of pints & frequently uses the term shite
as a noun, an adjective and even as a verb
but never as a superlative,
for which he reserves his favourite continental curse:
“Shizenhauser!”
Turkish customers are arrogance personified
though not as bad as most southern Europeans
but they can’t get their heads around our currency
you see, in Australia we deal mainly in tens & twenties
whereas in Turkey they deal in millions
- you’d need a wheelbarrow to carry a weeks pay -
so when a dozen money-clipped
hookah-perfumed Turkish debonairs
wander into our bar our register is plundered
filling fast with fifties & hundreds
I mean, who pays for a coffee
with note large enough to buy forty of them?
It’s not nearly as bad as the Italian café I worked in
The boss’d say
“Get me latte!”
I’d piss-fart around trying to make the coffee
& he’d say
“What the fuck are you doing? I need a jug of milk.”
An hour later he’d say it again
“Get me latte”
I’d tentatively hold up a small jug
“You useless fucking mongrel.”
He’d say, as he pushed past to make the coffee himself.
My wandering thoughts are broken by a
“Rum & coke mate”
I reach for the bundy
“aw fuck no! I want Bacardi. White rum.
Where’re you from anyway.”
Queensland
“Splains it.”
He says this as though my revelation
has set to rights some violent upheavals
in his piss, pot & pussy obsessed mind
& all the while the boss sits in the corner
shaking his head
smiling a sly Turkish grin
muttering under his breath
"Australians, they make me like this."
he says, holding his hands in front of his crotch
"Busta ma balls."
stands impatient at the bar
scratching his balls
as though it might stimulate his thoughts
& sez –
“Whaddaya mean there’s no fucken voi boi?”
“I’m sorry, we only serve Tooheys affiliated products.”
“Tooheys? That’s fucken cat’s piss.”
“Nah mate, you’re thinking of Geelong Bitter.”
The Chef rings her bell for service
& I swear she’s gonna break that thing one day
she’s five foot nothing of sub-continental spice
pound for pound the toughest kitchen bitch
in Fitzroy & Collingwood
“Take these meals out, go on, get out!
No come back here, now go, but come straight back!”
The Mediterranean band plays a song in Greek
I know the tune, but don’t have any idea of the words,
so I make them up:
“First I eat my Mezze plate, then I have a Souvlaki,
and I eat some Baklava, Yassou, Yassou!”
The Manager is Scottish, from Glasgow (likes the Rangers)
is fond of pints & frequently uses the term shite
as a noun, an adjective and even as a verb
but never as a superlative,
for which he reserves his favourite continental curse:
“Shizenhauser!”
Turkish customers are arrogance personified
though not as bad as most southern Europeans
but they can’t get their heads around our currency
you see, in Australia we deal mainly in tens & twenties
whereas in Turkey they deal in millions
- you’d need a wheelbarrow to carry a weeks pay -
so when a dozen money-clipped
hookah-perfumed Turkish debonairs
wander into our bar our register is plundered
filling fast with fifties & hundreds
I mean, who pays for a coffee
with note large enough to buy forty of them?
It’s not nearly as bad as the Italian café I worked in
The boss’d say
“Get me latte!”
I’d piss-fart around trying to make the coffee
& he’d say
“What the fuck are you doing? I need a jug of milk.”
An hour later he’d say it again
“Get me latte”
I’d tentatively hold up a small jug
“You useless fucking mongrel.”
He’d say, as he pushed past to make the coffee himself.
My wandering thoughts are broken by a
“Rum & coke mate”
I reach for the bundy
“aw fuck no! I want Bacardi. White rum.
Where’re you from anyway.”
Queensland
“Splains it.”
He says this as though my revelation
has set to rights some violent upheavals
in his piss, pot & pussy obsessed mind
& all the while the boss sits in the corner
shaking his head
smiling a sly Turkish grin
muttering under his breath
"Australians, they make me like this."
he says, holding his hands in front of his crotch
"Busta ma balls."
Bring me wine & make it as cold as cancer!
It began with the never-ending
procession of good-bye gatherings
fresh bright faces burned into the retina
as they faded into the ether.
There were graduations & dissipations
broad horizons & distant opportunities
to be grasped in the face
of a crumbling friendship circle.
The sisterly femme-fatale actress
the wanna-be rockstar
the itinerant disillusioned poet
the writer of a paper heart
comrades in arms & others
took part in an all too familiar scenario
of repetition & circumstance.
So too gone were the old flames
once twice & even thrice removed
sluts sluts sluts
& the judas mother-lovin' dandies
acquaintance after acquaintance
some of whom we didn't bother
sending off with a party.
Many were the wakes we held
for those among the bastards
who dragged us down:
the fuckers of betrayal's intent.
The ritual burning of photos
effigies to a drunk god
pissing her name up a wall
& in the ashes of memory
until we'd emptied countless bladders.
& always
- as with parting -
there remained a longing
just to hold that person
one more time
as if that would fill the void.
“Bring me wine!
& make it as cold as cancer!
Gimme scissors, some papers & a bowl
& I'll roll a joint that'll last until sunrise.”
When I would awaken
it would be afternoon
after binge
after sleep
after thought
after dreams
of better days.
Those James Dean
photographic delusions of grandeur
with a tangible sense
of avant-garde road-movie
faded into melodrama…
procession of good-bye gatherings
fresh bright faces burned into the retina
as they faded into the ether.
There were graduations & dissipations
broad horizons & distant opportunities
to be grasped in the face
of a crumbling friendship circle.
The sisterly femme-fatale actress
the wanna-be rockstar
the itinerant disillusioned poet
the writer of a paper heart
comrades in arms & others
took part in an all too familiar scenario
of repetition & circumstance.
So too gone were the old flames
once twice & even thrice removed
sluts sluts sluts
& the judas mother-lovin' dandies
acquaintance after acquaintance
some of whom we didn't bother
sending off with a party.
Many were the wakes we held
for those among the bastards
who dragged us down:
the fuckers of betrayal's intent.
The ritual burning of photos
effigies to a drunk god
pissing her name up a wall
& in the ashes of memory
until we'd emptied countless bladders.
& always
- as with parting -
there remained a longing
just to hold that person
one more time
as if that would fill the void.
“Bring me wine!
& make it as cold as cancer!
Gimme scissors, some papers & a bowl
& I'll roll a joint that'll last until sunrise.”
When I would awaken
it would be afternoon
after binge
after sleep
after thought
after dreams
of better days.
Those James Dean
photographic delusions of grandeur
with a tangible sense
of avant-garde road-movie
faded into melodrama…
the quick fix
early morning alarm-clock radio
it was Wednesday
I knew immediately upon waking
for unlike any other day that day
I actually had a reason to get up: it was pay day
I usually take an hour or so to clear my head
in the morning, but that day I only needed 17 minutes
acutely aware in my bones I'd gone
longer than 24 hours without a fix
nauseous bus fumes mingled with brown-tongue
coffee residues accosted me on the way to the bank
I imagined the fillings I'd have on my kebab for breakfast
that helped the nausea but crabs
in my stomach clawed it inside out
- sometimes having an over-active imagination
can have negative physical side-effects –
I wiped my mouth on a napkin six minutes
after transacting every last dollar from my bank account
I literally fucken inhaled that kebab
giving my fragile digestive system a real workout
but it took care of my all-important daily
dietary intake & it was nearing beer o'clock
thirty minutes after transacting every last dollar
from my bank account I stared into the bottom
of my first schooner of XXXX for the day
& went to pay the bills
for an arse-hangin'-out-the-back-of-his-trousers
dole-bludgin'-loser like me there were five of 'em
RENT
PHONE
POWER
FOOD
DRUGS
& not necessarily in that order
fifty-two minutes after my dole-day ritual
of fortnightly transacting every last dollar
from my bank account
I crumpled my rent receipt, abandoning it
to the gutters of the concrete jungle
my small fortune effectively reduced by half
economists say that you shouldn't
"pay more than a quarter
of your income on rent"
I decided there & then that my
Final Notice electricity & overdue phone bills
could join the rent receipt in the fucken gutter
it was time for a fix
one hour & 25 minutes after my dole-day
ritual of fortnightly transacting every last dollar
from my bank account
I was drunk & slothing in a beer garden
half listening to irrelevant conversations
composing bad poetry in my head: just waiting
it's like that sometimes
drugs just have to happen to you
sure you might ring someone
& they'd greet you like a long-lost friend
but it's all on false pretences
you're only there for the drugs
'cos they've got the drugs
the conversation is clouded by druglust
because that's what it is sex
& the deal is fore-play
so like clockwork two hours after paydirt
I struck up a conversation with a fellow
welfare recipient we drank & drank hard
our mouths running free
I duly accepted his offer of a spliff
in reverence to the ritual:
the quick fix
it was Wednesday
I knew immediately upon waking
for unlike any other day that day
I actually had a reason to get up: it was pay day
I usually take an hour or so to clear my head
in the morning, but that day I only needed 17 minutes
acutely aware in my bones I'd gone
longer than 24 hours without a fix
nauseous bus fumes mingled with brown-tongue
coffee residues accosted me on the way to the bank
I imagined the fillings I'd have on my kebab for breakfast
that helped the nausea but crabs
in my stomach clawed it inside out
- sometimes having an over-active imagination
can have negative physical side-effects –
I wiped my mouth on a napkin six minutes
after transacting every last dollar from my bank account
I literally fucken inhaled that kebab
giving my fragile digestive system a real workout
but it took care of my all-important daily
dietary intake & it was nearing beer o'clock
thirty minutes after transacting every last dollar
from my bank account I stared into the bottom
of my first schooner of XXXX for the day
& went to pay the bills
for an arse-hangin'-out-the-back-of-his-trousers
dole-bludgin'-loser like me there were five of 'em
RENT
PHONE
POWER
FOOD
DRUGS
& not necessarily in that order
fifty-two minutes after my dole-day ritual
of fortnightly transacting every last dollar
from my bank account
I crumpled my rent receipt, abandoning it
to the gutters of the concrete jungle
my small fortune effectively reduced by half
economists say that you shouldn't
"pay more than a quarter
of your income on rent"
I decided there & then that my
Final Notice electricity & overdue phone bills
could join the rent receipt in the fucken gutter
it was time for a fix
one hour & 25 minutes after my dole-day
ritual of fortnightly transacting every last dollar
from my bank account
I was drunk & slothing in a beer garden
half listening to irrelevant conversations
composing bad poetry in my head: just waiting
it's like that sometimes
drugs just have to happen to you
sure you might ring someone
& they'd greet you like a long-lost friend
but it's all on false pretences
you're only there for the drugs
'cos they've got the drugs
the conversation is clouded by druglust
because that's what it is sex
& the deal is fore-play
so like clockwork two hours after paydirt
I struck up a conversation with a fellow
welfare recipient we drank & drank hard
our mouths running free
I duly accepted his offer of a spliff
in reverence to the ritual:
the quick fix
Tea break
A man sits with a walking cane on disused steps
his pale skin is flushed with exertion
some pass & thinking him a beggar
avoid his plaintive expression
his legs have failed him
yet a brief space of rest
is all he needs to gather the strength
to make it back to his work desk
watery eyes and pallid skin
tell but part of his story
he is bowed, but not yet beaten
this illness is killing him
his disease is as much mental as physical
although he is winning the former battle
if not the latter
with a whine of pain
he swings into an upright position
then stumps back toward work
tea break over
* * * * *
A woman sits in her wheelchair
smoking during her morning tea break
half a woman
she is dog-shaped torso
stunted arms thalidomide legs
in child sized chair.
Those who know her
smile & pass greetings
those who don't, try to hide
stares & morbid curiosity
she is different
she is to be pitied
she is not whole
a broken thing.
The whole and perfect pedestrians
pass judgement like movie critics:
they do not like it & will not watch it
some see her strength & marvel
face bravely the prospect
of being in her position
yet none arrive at a satisfactory conclusion.
she is different
this nameless woman
with brilliant hair
& eyes as sharp as grass blades
putting precious life into perspective.
his pale skin is flushed with exertion
some pass & thinking him a beggar
avoid his plaintive expression
his legs have failed him
yet a brief space of rest
is all he needs to gather the strength
to make it back to his work desk
watery eyes and pallid skin
tell but part of his story
he is bowed, but not yet beaten
this illness is killing him
his disease is as much mental as physical
although he is winning the former battle
if not the latter
with a whine of pain
he swings into an upright position
then stumps back toward work
tea break over
* * * * *
A woman sits in her wheelchair
smoking during her morning tea break
half a woman
she is dog-shaped torso
stunted arms thalidomide legs
in child sized chair.
Those who know her
smile & pass greetings
those who don't, try to hide
stares & morbid curiosity
she is different
she is to be pitied
she is not whole
a broken thing.
The whole and perfect pedestrians
pass judgement like movie critics:
they do not like it & will not watch it
some see her strength & marvel
face bravely the prospect
of being in her position
yet none arrive at a satisfactory conclusion.
she is different
this nameless woman
with brilliant hair
& eyes as sharp as grass blades
putting precious life into perspective.
Name your poison
“Ya right mate?”
“Ummmm, bourbon!”
a bourbon drinker
how original
I make his night
& give him a discount
he makes mine with a 20 cent tip
drunken souls frolic & flop
carousing with an abandon
they clamour & argue
spit spew laugh bitch & bawl
night after night
all night
every night
plastic nails & spastic males
pierced noses & tattoed roses
pretty faces & serious cases
penis extensions/breast implants
enhancement touches & breaks
the delicate balance of cruel façade
paralysis prevents & presides
over the immunity clauses in my
Bar-tender’s Social Contract
so I watch impotent
slave to the bar-flies
“Screw this!
I’m goin’ for a cigarette.”
I step into the fire-escape
rather aptly named
after the collection of butts
& quick-release desires
the boom BOOM BOOOOOM
of the music
penetrates even these walls
there is no escape, I muse
as I step back
back into the fire
"OK, who’s next?”
the meat market is in full swing
Cupid takes aim… & misses
the melee swirls teetering lazy
I am their feeder
the Zoo-keeper
perennial nameless slave
faces ebb & flow
identity pokes & guesses
rising falling away
down
down
creatures of nocturnal calling
toothy for booze & sex
“Name your poison!”
“Ummmm, bourbon!”
a bourbon drinker
how original
I make his night
& give him a discount
he makes mine with a 20 cent tip
drunken souls frolic & flop
carousing with an abandon
they clamour & argue
spit spew laugh bitch & bawl
night after night
all night
every night
plastic nails & spastic males
pierced noses & tattoed roses
pretty faces & serious cases
penis extensions/breast implants
enhancement touches & breaks
the delicate balance of cruel façade
paralysis prevents & presides
over the immunity clauses in my
Bar-tender’s Social Contract
so I watch impotent
slave to the bar-flies
“Screw this!
I’m goin’ for a cigarette.”
I step into the fire-escape
rather aptly named
after the collection of butts
& quick-release desires
the boom BOOM BOOOOOM
of the music
penetrates even these walls
there is no escape, I muse
as I step back
back into the fire
"OK, who’s next?”
the meat market is in full swing
Cupid takes aim… & misses
the melee swirls teetering lazy
I am their feeder
the Zoo-keeper
perennial nameless slave
faces ebb & flow
identity pokes & guesses
rising falling away
down
down
creatures of nocturnal calling
toothy for booze & sex
“Name your poison!”
The pack found her first
line-up at centrelink
has me standing a minute
setting off the auto-door
before I break with conformity
& stand to the side
the person in the line before me
continues to activate the sensors
as he shifts from foot to foot
inwardly cursing bureaucracy
I realise that his clothes
are the same clothes
they arrested him in
over outstanding fines
or domestic violence
a staff member
breaks with convention
singling out the convict
on our side of the petitioners' altar
& pins him with a quiz
"When were you released?
What time?
How did you get here?
Have you got a place to stay?
Can you wait until tomorrow to be paid?"
then a peremptory gesture
as they take a booth
with no prior appointment
no parole-officer
or advocate in sight
then in walks lucy
or so they call her
few sangas short of a picnic,
got some screws loose, lucy
she skips the line
slurring demands over the counter
I see her around a lot
not usually like this
all over the place
like she's gone to the dogs
or the pack found her first
today I haven't the strength
to deal with lucy
or the lonely convict
my heart is no longer in it
at centrelink
pocketing my dole-form
I give lucy a rueful smile
& wish the staff
would go a little easier on the con
activating the auto-doors
I'll wait another day
to process my form
& give the line-up a little relief
at centrelink
I drop in my dole-form
once a fortnight
when I mingle
with the underclass
has me standing a minute
setting off the auto-door
before I break with conformity
& stand to the side
the person in the line before me
continues to activate the sensors
as he shifts from foot to foot
inwardly cursing bureaucracy
I realise that his clothes
are the same clothes
they arrested him in
over outstanding fines
or domestic violence
a staff member
breaks with convention
singling out the convict
on our side of the petitioners' altar
& pins him with a quiz
"When were you released?
What time?
How did you get here?
Have you got a place to stay?
Can you wait until tomorrow to be paid?"
then a peremptory gesture
as they take a booth
with no prior appointment
no parole-officer
or advocate in sight
then in walks lucy
or so they call her
few sangas short of a picnic,
got some screws loose, lucy
she skips the line
slurring demands over the counter
I see her around a lot
not usually like this
all over the place
like she's gone to the dogs
or the pack found her first
today I haven't the strength
to deal with lucy
or the lonely convict
my heart is no longer in it
at centrelink
pocketing my dole-form
I give lucy a rueful smile
& wish the staff
would go a little easier on the con
activating the auto-doors
I'll wait another day
to process my form
& give the line-up a little relief
at centrelink
I drop in my dole-form
once a fortnight
when I mingle
with the underclass
Mister No Talent
Tezza was, among other things, a bit of a local character.
He wore second hand clothes: grubby T-shirts,
trackies, thongs and whatever else he could ransack
out of the overnight drop-off bins.
It paid to be upwind of Tezza whenever possible,
for while he could be charming,
even Brut 33 aftershave would have been an improvement.
To say that Tezza was missing a few teeth
is like saying a bald man was missing a few hairs.
But it never stopped him smiling.
On a bad day, Tezza would wander up & down the street
yelling at anyone who would listen.
"I hate West End!"
He would bawl at the local member for council.
"Socrates was a fraud!"
He would shout at the Greek Green Grocer.
"Huey ya bastard, this weather's fucked."
He would holler at the solitary white cloud
in an otherwise clear & prominently sunny Brisbane sky.
Tezza would buy a bunch of flowers on pension day,
usually for some lucky girl
who worked in a shop on the main drag.
He was often rebuffed,
for he had quite a reputation for fortnightly harassment,
although sometimes he made somebody's shitty day a little brighter.
For a few days after payday,
Tezza would offer everybody cigarettes,
then proceeded to mercilessly scab from them thereafter.
He lived in a small Housing Commission flat
across the road from me,
but told everyone that he was homeless.
His mates on the street were two blokes
who had houses and families of their own,
but reckoned they could make a decent living out of being bums.
Come Friday night though,
and Tezza would make a miraculous transformation.
Dressing in his moth-eaten tuxedo,
he would beg 70c from a street café tip jar
to catch a bus into the city,
where he starred in the role of
- Mr No Talent
& The
One-Eyed Trouser Snake
He'd stand outside nightclubs
singing snatches of lyrics at the top of his lungs.
"Yestaday, aw moy trubb-ulls seem so farraway."
He made more money from people paying him
to go away than he did for his mastery of song.
Occasionally he'd crash another busker's gig
and they'd pay him to leave too,
or loosen a few of his remaining teeth.
Every year Tezza would apply for a gig
at the local music festival, and every year,
after being politely turned down,
he'd do his show anyway.
Then one day, after putting his furniture
and whitegoods out for hard rubbish,
he cleaned out his flat
and chucked out half his wardrobe.
We didn't see him around much after that
and then we didn't see him at all.
No-one seemed to miss him much.
Things went on as usual.
Mail still got delivered.
Pension day came and went.
The pub still closed at 10pm because of the race riots.
People sat next to the road and sipped café lattes
and chain-smoked and rattled loose-change in their pockets
to torment the buskers and street urchins.
But I found that I kinda missed Tezza & his local character.
After all, people paid good money to miss
Mr No Talent & the One-Eyed Trouser Snake.
"O, I baleave in Yestaday - HMM HMM HMMM HMM.______. HMMMM._________hhhHHHhhmmmmmmm."
He wore second hand clothes: grubby T-shirts,
trackies, thongs and whatever else he could ransack
out of the overnight drop-off bins.
It paid to be upwind of Tezza whenever possible,
for while he could be charming,
even Brut 33 aftershave would have been an improvement.
To say that Tezza was missing a few teeth
is like saying a bald man was missing a few hairs.
But it never stopped him smiling.
On a bad day, Tezza would wander up & down the street
yelling at anyone who would listen.
"I hate West End!"
He would bawl at the local member for council.
"Socrates was a fraud!"
He would shout at the Greek Green Grocer.
"Huey ya bastard, this weather's fucked."
He would holler at the solitary white cloud
in an otherwise clear & prominently sunny Brisbane sky.
Tezza would buy a bunch of flowers on pension day,
usually for some lucky girl
who worked in a shop on the main drag.
He was often rebuffed,
for he had quite a reputation for fortnightly harassment,
although sometimes he made somebody's shitty day a little brighter.
For a few days after payday,
Tezza would offer everybody cigarettes,
then proceeded to mercilessly scab from them thereafter.
He lived in a small Housing Commission flat
across the road from me,
but told everyone that he was homeless.
His mates on the street were two blokes
who had houses and families of their own,
but reckoned they could make a decent living out of being bums.
Come Friday night though,
and Tezza would make a miraculous transformation.
Dressing in his moth-eaten tuxedo,
he would beg 70c from a street café tip jar
to catch a bus into the city,
where he starred in the role of
- Mr No Talent
& The
One-Eyed Trouser Snake
He'd stand outside nightclubs
singing snatches of lyrics at the top of his lungs.
"Yestaday, aw moy trubb-ulls seem so farraway."
He made more money from people paying him
to go away than he did for his mastery of song.
Occasionally he'd crash another busker's gig
and they'd pay him to leave too,
or loosen a few of his remaining teeth.
Every year Tezza would apply for a gig
at the local music festival, and every year,
after being politely turned down,
he'd do his show anyway.
Then one day, after putting his furniture
and whitegoods out for hard rubbish,
he cleaned out his flat
and chucked out half his wardrobe.
We didn't see him around much after that
and then we didn't see him at all.
No-one seemed to miss him much.
Things went on as usual.
Mail still got delivered.
Pension day came and went.
The pub still closed at 10pm because of the race riots.
People sat next to the road and sipped café lattes
and chain-smoked and rattled loose-change in their pockets
to torment the buskers and street urchins.
But I found that I kinda missed Tezza & his local character.
After all, people paid good money to miss
Mr No Talent & the One-Eyed Trouser Snake.
"O, I baleave in Yestaday - HMM HMM HMMM HMM.______. HMMMM._________hhhHHHhhmmmmmmm."
her decision
the days dragged in that endless summer
when we'd drink tinnies every afternoon
waiting for women to wander by
so we could wolf-whistle
& call out lewd suggestions
"3655 Main Beach Parade
come back to-nite
& you will get laid!"
we were in the desert of lonesome desolation
& sometimes I would forget the feel
the scent the luscious tastes
of a rapine lustful body writhing
beneath my own masculine form
driving desire home
we came back from the Sunday session
down at Fishies in the beer garden
sunburnt & sunstruck
with a cold slab
a bag of dope
& the surfies nextdoor
had a bunch of eccies
leftover from Saturday night
I don't even recall her name
but I do remember
her picture in the newspaper
her bright blue skirt
sweat through her spun gold hair
& the moment of indecision
the boys had one thing
on their little date-rape minds
& so did I
but my innocent offer
caught her in the porch-light
head-lights of indecision
a matilda roo on my driveway
with nowhere to flee
looking for somewhere to hide
it was hard to see
in that drawn out moment
the ex-private-school girl
behind the smeared mascara
dilated pupils & the stale scent
of spent love
I imagined her cool flesh
naked & supple compliant
beneath my searching hands
but then she chose
made her fateful decision
went nextdoor with the surfies
leaving me to go to bed
my imagination screaming
with overloaded carnal heat
sleep eluded me
without narcotic depressants
hard coma with the moisture of pillow drool
& fifteen minutes of masturbation
two days later
I saw her picture
in the newspaper on page 13
with the recycled headline
"19 year old overdose victim"
when we'd drink tinnies every afternoon
waiting for women to wander by
so we could wolf-whistle
& call out lewd suggestions
"3655 Main Beach Parade
come back to-nite
& you will get laid!"
we were in the desert of lonesome desolation
& sometimes I would forget the feel
the scent the luscious tastes
of a rapine lustful body writhing
beneath my own masculine form
driving desire home
we came back from the Sunday session
down at Fishies in the beer garden
sunburnt & sunstruck
with a cold slab
a bag of dope
& the surfies nextdoor
had a bunch of eccies
leftover from Saturday night
I don't even recall her name
but I do remember
her picture in the newspaper
her bright blue skirt
sweat through her spun gold hair
& the moment of indecision
the boys had one thing
on their little date-rape minds
& so did I
but my innocent offer
caught her in the porch-light
head-lights of indecision
a matilda roo on my driveway
with nowhere to flee
looking for somewhere to hide
it was hard to see
in that drawn out moment
the ex-private-school girl
behind the smeared mascara
dilated pupils & the stale scent
of spent love
I imagined her cool flesh
naked & supple compliant
beneath my searching hands
but then she chose
made her fateful decision
went nextdoor with the surfies
leaving me to go to bed
my imagination screaming
with overloaded carnal heat
sleep eluded me
without narcotic depressants
hard coma with the moisture of pillow drool
& fifteen minutes of masturbation
two days later
I saw her picture
in the newspaper on page 13
with the recycled headline
"19 year old overdose victim"
The Post-Modernist Penis
The post-modernist penis
A most confusing genius.
art is dead
dead is art
is art dead?
is dead art?
artist dead
the post-modernist penis
the post-modernist jesus
a state of art
a state of religion
a state of confusion
the post-modernist penis
jesuses & penises
dead artists & bad religion
jesuses & penises
penises for jesuses
jesus had a penis too
it was a lot like mine
& it was a lot like you
dumb fuck!
A most confusing genius.
art is dead
dead is art
is art dead?
is dead art?
artist dead
the post-modernist penis
the post-modernist jesus
a state of art
a state of religion
a state of confusion
the post-modernist penis
jesuses & penises
dead artists & bad religion
jesuses & penises
penises for jesuses
jesus had a penis too
it was a lot like mine
& it was a lot like you
dumb fuck!
Autonomous Hands
Some customers just won't be ignored
“Johnnie Walker on the rocks,
Black, just like me.”
the melodic accent intrudes with sensual rhythm
knifing staccato into my delirium
I pull myself together
out of a reverie of derisive self-pity.
Diverting my attention to the new customer
I discover that this smooth-talker
is none other than Death
- the Soul-stalker -
right there at the bar.
"So, Death," I say as confidence deserts me
"It's come down to this."
Death arches a meaningful eyebrow
"How 'bout dat drink, Mon?"
the eyes within the deeply hooded cowl begin to glow
whether this is due to my bumbling incompetence
or the encroaching moment of my demise
- I'm not sure -
to my immense relief I find that said beverage
has already been prepared by my autonomous hands.
"This one's on the house!"
I smile
- try to smile -
"Nothing in life is free, Mon."
"Look, spare me the trite clichés
& I'll spare you the false platitudes, Death!"
chancy - I know - taking it to Him this way
the lashing wroth, however is absent in evidence.
Death emits a low chuckle, like James Earl Jones
"Ti hee hee, hooo!"
- Nah nah nah! More like -
"Ahh ha ha haah. Listen, young Baaaasss….."
I sense Hemingway rolling in his grave
"I've got a job to do, just like you."
a coffee-coloured hand tosses coins
- mostly gold -
sending them scattering across the bartop
it's the best tip I've had all night
death winks: the soulless fires of decrepitude
inside his skull briefly dim.
He takes the drink, turns and strides away
melting into the melee of zoo-animals
James Earl Jones laughter follows his bescythed figure
leaving a lurid trail of vapours;
African musk
top-shelf scotch
& a faint whiff of brimstone.
“Johnnie Walker on the rocks,
Black, just like me.”
the melodic accent intrudes with sensual rhythm
knifing staccato into my delirium
I pull myself together
out of a reverie of derisive self-pity.
Diverting my attention to the new customer
I discover that this smooth-talker
is none other than Death
- the Soul-stalker -
right there at the bar.
"So, Death," I say as confidence deserts me
"It's come down to this."
Death arches a meaningful eyebrow
"How 'bout dat drink, Mon?"
the eyes within the deeply hooded cowl begin to glow
whether this is due to my bumbling incompetence
or the encroaching moment of my demise
- I'm not sure -
to my immense relief I find that said beverage
has already been prepared by my autonomous hands.
"This one's on the house!"
I smile
- try to smile -
"Nothing in life is free, Mon."
"Look, spare me the trite clichés
& I'll spare you the false platitudes, Death!"
chancy - I know - taking it to Him this way
the lashing wroth, however is absent in evidence.
Death emits a low chuckle, like James Earl Jones
"Ti hee hee, hooo!"
- Nah nah nah! More like -
"Ahh ha ha haah. Listen, young Baaaasss….."
I sense Hemingway rolling in his grave
"I've got a job to do, just like you."
a coffee-coloured hand tosses coins
- mostly gold -
sending them scattering across the bartop
it's the best tip I've had all night
death winks: the soulless fires of decrepitude
inside his skull briefly dim.
He takes the drink, turns and strides away
melting into the melee of zoo-animals
James Earl Jones laughter follows his bescythed figure
leaving a lurid trail of vapours;
African musk
top-shelf scotch
& a faint whiff of brimstone.
Collingwood
Monday morning fails to rise & shine
small business shopfronts crouch dismally
signs in darkened windows
threaten to remain closed all day
perhaps never to open again
the air reeks of impermanence
while the urban sprawl carries on regardless
in Johnston St Collingwood.
People watching is a parochial pastime
old fat bastards scratch their dicks
dreadlocks spill from crocheted caps
arseholes fall out of raggedy trousers
matrons clutch shopping bags of fresh produce
seedy eyes fall out of heads on street corners
& there isn't a pub open yet
in downtown Collingwood.
Rubbish litters & chokes the gutters
flies through the air at four hundred feet
in a high wind above the city
spills from overstuffed bins
food wrapping & newspapers
torn up bus & gambling tickets
a falafel half-eaten waits for the tram
no one goes hungry today
in good old Collingwood.
Collingwood street names are chosen at random
by hordes of feral birds
who steal scrabble pieces from balconies
in the housing commission towers
& thrive in uncountable numbers
they earn money by recycling syringes
& making questions for
"Who Wanks 2B a Zillionaire?"
There are street fulls of mental pygmies
looting factory outlets for all they're worth
gorging on last season's fashion
like bulimic clotheshorses
running last in the unlosable race of humanity
with disposable incomes or Daddy's credit card
cash registers charge up like accelerators
in Smith St Collingwood.
The echoes of late night street fights
gather & disperse in the light of day
car windows smashed in undiscovered
shopfront vandalism cleanup
the Truth newspaper strewn with naked girls
read by wagging schoolboys & discarded
to the wind page by sordid page
detritus of blood & spew & broken glass
piles up in unnamed Collingwood alleys.
Black eyes of forty thousand housewives
hidden behind makeup & dark sunglasses
scurry down aisles in Safeway
gazes averted from the newspaper headline
MAGPIES LOSE AGAIN
Collingwood has me by the balls
I am Collingwood's worst poet
Collingwood isn't through with me yet
I am Collingwood's prophet of wishful thinking
Collingwood is my mail-order bride
I am Collingwood's gigolo fantasy
Collingwood makes me smile wryly
I am allergic to Collingwood
Collingwood is a free-for-all
I am in Collingwood limbo
Collingwood roads are diverted from Rome
I am going to be a Collingwood bus-driver
Collingwood has thirty-two flavours
& they all taste like roasted magpie!
small business shopfronts crouch dismally
signs in darkened windows
threaten to remain closed all day
perhaps never to open again
the air reeks of impermanence
while the urban sprawl carries on regardless
in Johnston St Collingwood.
People watching is a parochial pastime
old fat bastards scratch their dicks
dreadlocks spill from crocheted caps
arseholes fall out of raggedy trousers
matrons clutch shopping bags of fresh produce
seedy eyes fall out of heads on street corners
& there isn't a pub open yet
in downtown Collingwood.
Rubbish litters & chokes the gutters
flies through the air at four hundred feet
in a high wind above the city
spills from overstuffed bins
food wrapping & newspapers
torn up bus & gambling tickets
a falafel half-eaten waits for the tram
no one goes hungry today
in good old Collingwood.
Collingwood street names are chosen at random
by hordes of feral birds
who steal scrabble pieces from balconies
in the housing commission towers
& thrive in uncountable numbers
they earn money by recycling syringes
& making questions for
"Who Wanks 2B a Zillionaire?"
There are street fulls of mental pygmies
looting factory outlets for all they're worth
gorging on last season's fashion
like bulimic clotheshorses
running last in the unlosable race of humanity
with disposable incomes or Daddy's credit card
cash registers charge up like accelerators
in Smith St Collingwood.
The echoes of late night street fights
gather & disperse in the light of day
car windows smashed in undiscovered
shopfront vandalism cleanup
the Truth newspaper strewn with naked girls
read by wagging schoolboys & discarded
to the wind page by sordid page
detritus of blood & spew & broken glass
piles up in unnamed Collingwood alleys.
Black eyes of forty thousand housewives
hidden behind makeup & dark sunglasses
scurry down aisles in Safeway
gazes averted from the newspaper headline
MAGPIES LOSE AGAIN
Collingwood has me by the balls
I am Collingwood's worst poet
Collingwood isn't through with me yet
I am Collingwood's prophet of wishful thinking
Collingwood is my mail-order bride
I am Collingwood's gigolo fantasy
Collingwood makes me smile wryly
I am allergic to Collingwood
Collingwood is a free-for-all
I am in Collingwood limbo
Collingwood roads are diverted from Rome
I am going to be a Collingwood bus-driver
Collingwood has thirty-two flavours
& they all taste like roasted magpie!
Old mate Miles
Old mate Miles loved Sunday arvos
rain hail or shine
at Fisherman's Wharf
beer on the boardwalk
where the locals hung out
to bask in jugs of sunshine
Old mate Miles loved 80's cock rock
Barnsie & Farnsie even in the 90's
belting out over the broadwater
as the shirtless surfies
threw tinnies & curses
at the boats brimful with revellers
Old mate Miles loved mosh-pits
but not when the bouncers brawled
with our sun-bleached mates
leaving the glassies to clean up
the blood & spew
where a stagediver crashed
in a fleeting brush with fame
Old mate Miles loved XXXX bitter
the eight-deep crowded line-ups
with harassed bartenders
going like the clappers
where Cupid took aim
& Miles was game
for the suggestive vertical smile
of a moonlight frolic in the sand
Old mate Miles loved beer & girls
he liked wolf-whistling
drinking with his mates
every Sunday arvo
at Fishies
& when we said
"Corr there goes old mate Miles
with that sheila the lucky bastard!"
we didn't really think it through
'Cos the truth is folks
what happened to old mate Miles
robs me of all rhyme & cliché
you see old mate Miles
didn't get lucky
he got knifed in the back
& his girly
didn't get what she was asking for
she didn't get what she was asking for
but that was years ago
now Miles has more mates than ever
Fisherman's Wharf has been redeveloped
& his family
run a traffic light charity
for the protection
of Gold Coast beaches
now he's got a boardwalk
that stretches……
…….& stretches
'cos old mate Miles
had a lot of mates after that
rain hail or shine
at Fisherman's Wharf
beer on the boardwalk
where the locals hung out
to bask in jugs of sunshine
Old mate Miles loved 80's cock rock
Barnsie & Farnsie even in the 90's
belting out over the broadwater
as the shirtless surfies
threw tinnies & curses
at the boats brimful with revellers
Old mate Miles loved mosh-pits
but not when the bouncers brawled
with our sun-bleached mates
leaving the glassies to clean up
the blood & spew
where a stagediver crashed
in a fleeting brush with fame
Old mate Miles loved XXXX bitter
the eight-deep crowded line-ups
with harassed bartenders
going like the clappers
where Cupid took aim
& Miles was game
for the suggestive vertical smile
of a moonlight frolic in the sand
Old mate Miles loved beer & girls
he liked wolf-whistling
drinking with his mates
every Sunday arvo
at Fishies
& when we said
"Corr there goes old mate Miles
with that sheila the lucky bastard!"
we didn't really think it through
'Cos the truth is folks
what happened to old mate Miles
robs me of all rhyme & cliché
you see old mate Miles
didn't get lucky
he got knifed in the back
& his girly
didn't get what she was asking for
she didn't get what she was asking for
but that was years ago
now Miles has more mates than ever
Fisherman's Wharf has been redeveloped
& his family
run a traffic light charity
for the protection
of Gold Coast beaches
now he's got a boardwalk
that stretches……
…….& stretches
'cos old mate Miles
had a lot of mates after that
St Jude's Communion
The snap-shot flash of over-head tram-wires
catches a dark silhouette in the swinging door
of any-pub Melbourne.
A bartender perches on a backless stool
cuffs turned, lightly starched, slightly stained
his palms laid flat on the cool bar top
as he examines the cartography of scars.
"So, what'll it be?"
"Bacardi, with fresh lime & please,
spare me the glib advertising anecdotes."
Bar-tender meets bar-tender,
as is bound to occur sooner or later,
with round the clock alcohol servants
plying a once-honourable trade
in a society of haves & have-nots.
The service is swift, brimful rock-glass
replete & sparkling:
ice, post-mix, garnish & 27mls of white rum
made to look like a generous over-pour.
A 10% tip later, with the unspoken exchange of respect
the tired barman settles in for the lonely hour.
In the inner city bar, the wall-flowers
take our hero's attention by storm
a summer's fashions: scarlet letters
paint the tongue with witticisms unyielding
Décor is going retro in the trendy inner-city urban gin-joint.
Industrial floors with designer scuff marks are in:
foul-smelling, beer-rotten oiled woodwork is definitely out.
The beer-wars linger like neon-coloured ink-stains
on contemporary culture
a hang-over of sport, politics & parochialism.
A new breed of advertising splashes sexy slogans,
images of stark clarity promoting youth
& ever-lasting beauty in a scene of seediness.
The cocktail lounge reigns supreme
in a splurge of colourful mayhem,
a gentle sobriquet of culture grasping at sophistication,
yet coming up with an ashtray full
of designer cigarette butts.
Artwork adorns the walls
reflecting pop-culture in a post-modern irrelevance,
catching the passing eye & fleeting thoughts are unspoken,
unwritten, as though graffiti has become passé.
The off-duty juice-jockey
treads the fine-line of crowded solitude,
whether lost in the ambiguities of modern life,
or floating at the bottom of his last drink.
He will endure the night, inuring himself against
the drunken banter, engaging a cowboy attitude,
as though the saloon is gonna bust up
in a hail of bottles, stools & arrogance.
It's a subtle kind of romance, bitter-sweet,
yet without the ineptitude of unrequited love.
just a small hope for an upturn of fortunes,
none-too-futile offerings to the patron-saint
of scoundrels, vigilantes, star-struck fools
& bar-tenders everywhere.
catches a dark silhouette in the swinging door
of any-pub Melbourne.
A bartender perches on a backless stool
cuffs turned, lightly starched, slightly stained
his palms laid flat on the cool bar top
as he examines the cartography of scars.
"So, what'll it be?"
"Bacardi, with fresh lime & please,
spare me the glib advertising anecdotes."
Bar-tender meets bar-tender,
as is bound to occur sooner or later,
with round the clock alcohol servants
plying a once-honourable trade
in a society of haves & have-nots.
The service is swift, brimful rock-glass
replete & sparkling:
ice, post-mix, garnish & 27mls of white rum
made to look like a generous over-pour.
A 10% tip later, with the unspoken exchange of respect
the tired barman settles in for the lonely hour.
In the inner city bar, the wall-flowers
take our hero's attention by storm
a summer's fashions: scarlet letters
paint the tongue with witticisms unyielding
Décor is going retro in the trendy inner-city urban gin-joint.
Industrial floors with designer scuff marks are in:
foul-smelling, beer-rotten oiled woodwork is definitely out.
The beer-wars linger like neon-coloured ink-stains
on contemporary culture
a hang-over of sport, politics & parochialism.
A new breed of advertising splashes sexy slogans,
images of stark clarity promoting youth
& ever-lasting beauty in a scene of seediness.
The cocktail lounge reigns supreme
in a splurge of colourful mayhem,
a gentle sobriquet of culture grasping at sophistication,
yet coming up with an ashtray full
of designer cigarette butts.
Artwork adorns the walls
reflecting pop-culture in a post-modern irrelevance,
catching the passing eye & fleeting thoughts are unspoken,
unwritten, as though graffiti has become passé.
The off-duty juice-jockey
treads the fine-line of crowded solitude,
whether lost in the ambiguities of modern life,
or floating at the bottom of his last drink.
He will endure the night, inuring himself against
the drunken banter, engaging a cowboy attitude,
as though the saloon is gonna bust up
in a hail of bottles, stools & arrogance.
It's a subtle kind of romance, bitter-sweet,
yet without the ineptitude of unrequited love.
just a small hope for an upturn of fortunes,
none-too-futile offerings to the patron-saint
of scoundrels, vigilantes, star-struck fools
& bar-tenders everywhere.
Cold Ghost
I can feel your cold heart
pulsing with tourist town greed
beating me down into dark submission
surfers paradise: you rock me hard
cock rock blaring in stereo sin
submerge my soul into your six-star
self-consciousness
time passes in polaroid snapshots
emulsions in my retina
become washed out in your tidal erosion
diary entries mean nothing here
just a dusty collection of faded reminiscences
phallic towers overhead
soar like babylon's brothel
sufferers paralysed
your thoroughfares go only one way
cattle in a labyrinth
bolting from the Minotaur
a mad cow jangles her udders
dancing down the main-drag
unmindful of the malevolence
wolves slink down alleys
smoking discarded butts
pilfering garbage bags
marking their territory
shopping for sheep's clothing
the rambling cattle drive
thunders along one-way streets
aaaahowl._____________.
wolves are hunting
mmmmaaaaaahhhhh
angry bull blares
sheep line footpaths
goaded by the little
green & red men
I search for a princess
in your sink-hole of iniquity
but she has diamonds in her eyes
& sand in her g-string
oh cold ghost are you my mother?
does that make me
your long-lost orphan
or a whore-son bastard?
pulsing with tourist town greed
beating me down into dark submission
surfers paradise: you rock me hard
cock rock blaring in stereo sin
submerge my soul into your six-star
self-consciousness
time passes in polaroid snapshots
emulsions in my retina
become washed out in your tidal erosion
diary entries mean nothing here
just a dusty collection of faded reminiscences
phallic towers overhead
soar like babylon's brothel
sufferers paralysed
your thoroughfares go only one way
cattle in a labyrinth
bolting from the Minotaur
a mad cow jangles her udders
dancing down the main-drag
unmindful of the malevolence
wolves slink down alleys
smoking discarded butts
pilfering garbage bags
marking their territory
shopping for sheep's clothing
the rambling cattle drive
thunders along one-way streets
aaaahowl._____________.
wolves are hunting
mmmmaaaaaahhhhh
angry bull blares
sheep line footpaths
goaded by the little
green & red men
I search for a princess
in your sink-hole of iniquity
but she has diamonds in her eyes
& sand in her g-string
oh cold ghost are you my mother?
does that make me
your long-lost orphan
or a whore-son bastard?
What Pop Caught
The average annual rainfall for the month of May
back home in Tourist Town
came down in twenty minutes
one afternoon at three
in a sub-tropical thunderstorm
from beneath the shelter of the tilt-a-door
me & Pop watched the deluge
deciding to conduct a science experiment
He reckoned that if you walked in the rain
you'd get less wet than if you ran like buggery
I thought he was full of it
so I bolted out to the letterbox
& came back soaked to the skin
Pop took his time
singing a tune & swinging his arms
but he hurried back inside
when Grandma busted us
howling out of the kitchen screaming
"You'll catch your death!"
She attacked me with a rough towel
rubbing scalp & skin raw
as she vigorously dried from top to toe
Pop's language became very colourful
when she took the towel up to him
Pop caught his death sooner
than we could have imagined
crabs of cancer gutted him like a fish
the next time I saw him
tubes & stitches & bandages
were all that held him together
& a bleeping contraption
chimed the faltering rhythm of his heart
like a second-hand answering machine
It wasn't raining at all the day death caught Pop
my uncle, the doctor in the family
said that
"When your oesophagus comes adrift
of your windpipe & starts pouring acid
all over your vital organs
you're a dead duck."
My ten-year-old mind eased
for I knew that Grandma's doom-saying
couldn't possibly be the true diagnosis
because hardly any of those raindrops
ever got any where near my Pop
back home in Tourist Town
came down in twenty minutes
one afternoon at three
in a sub-tropical thunderstorm
from beneath the shelter of the tilt-a-door
me & Pop watched the deluge
deciding to conduct a science experiment
He reckoned that if you walked in the rain
you'd get less wet than if you ran like buggery
I thought he was full of it
so I bolted out to the letterbox
& came back soaked to the skin
Pop took his time
singing a tune & swinging his arms
but he hurried back inside
when Grandma busted us
howling out of the kitchen screaming
"You'll catch your death!"
She attacked me with a rough towel
rubbing scalp & skin raw
as she vigorously dried from top to toe
Pop's language became very colourful
when she took the towel up to him
Pop caught his death sooner
than we could have imagined
crabs of cancer gutted him like a fish
the next time I saw him
tubes & stitches & bandages
were all that held him together
& a bleeping contraption
chimed the faltering rhythm of his heart
like a second-hand answering machine
It wasn't raining at all the day death caught Pop
my uncle, the doctor in the family
said that
"When your oesophagus comes adrift
of your windpipe & starts pouring acid
all over your vital organs
you're a dead duck."
My ten-year-old mind eased
for I knew that Grandma's doom-saying
couldn't possibly be the true diagnosis
because hardly any of those raindrops
ever got any where near my Pop
A Tear for Regret
You made us share bunk beds
bubble-baths back-seat car-rides
& every second weekend.
At the footy, you made us share the esky
for a foothold to see over the heads on the hill
bought us salt‘n’vinegar samboys
- when my favourite flavour was BBQ -
& a single can of home-brand soft drink
that Mick always backwashed in.
He was the son of your body
I was the son of your woman
& you couldn’t even share her.
Oh, it wasn’t like Oedipus
when I slew you each night in my dreams,
but the vengeance of Zeus against his false father
Cronos, who ate babies
as they birthed from the Mother’s womb.
You said they were dead
stillborn brothers & sisters
but when I kicked you in the guts
out they spewed perfect & pink
covered in your gall.
I killed you a thousand times
after the backhanders you dealt
& the poisoned scorn of your tirades
I vowed a thousand more bloody deaths
for the tears of my mother.
You taught me to share
but you shared nothing
not a hug nor kind word.
When I listened to your beer-soaked
good-nights as you tucked in your son
I pretended to sleep when you bade me terse dismissal.
Table manners were a sham for you shunned the table
said we disgusted you
I wished for an edge to my butterknife
& pissed on your toothbrush before bedtime.
Your harsh words in raised voice
echoed through my childhood
& if I fought back feeble words & blows
raised only your scorn & more pulled backhanders.
Did you but love me as well as you despised
we’d have grown old together
telling stories of tribulation
training wheels & tying shoelaces.
My first day at school
you barely slowed the car
depositing me alone without backward glance
the tears of classmates seemed too pitiful to shed.
You taught me some useful things
like lifting the toilet seat & putting it back down
& always turning out the light
& reading your mind
& sharing everything with your son.
You taught me to hate & it was one thing
- in your eyes - I did well.
Some day, old cunt
I’ll teach you to share too
when I visit your grave & take a long, warm piss
for you to share with the worms
spit bile on your headstone
& the only tear will be for regret
that 2000 wishes didn’t kill you sooner.
bubble-baths back-seat car-rides
& every second weekend.
At the footy, you made us share the esky
for a foothold to see over the heads on the hill
bought us salt‘n’vinegar samboys
- when my favourite flavour was BBQ -
& a single can of home-brand soft drink
that Mick always backwashed in.
He was the son of your body
I was the son of your woman
& you couldn’t even share her.
Oh, it wasn’t like Oedipus
when I slew you each night in my dreams,
but the vengeance of Zeus against his false father
Cronos, who ate babies
as they birthed from the Mother’s womb.
You said they were dead
stillborn brothers & sisters
but when I kicked you in the guts
out they spewed perfect & pink
covered in your gall.
I killed you a thousand times
after the backhanders you dealt
& the poisoned scorn of your tirades
I vowed a thousand more bloody deaths
for the tears of my mother.
You taught me to share
but you shared nothing
not a hug nor kind word.
When I listened to your beer-soaked
good-nights as you tucked in your son
I pretended to sleep when you bade me terse dismissal.
Table manners were a sham for you shunned the table
said we disgusted you
I wished for an edge to my butterknife
& pissed on your toothbrush before bedtime.
Your harsh words in raised voice
echoed through my childhood
& if I fought back feeble words & blows
raised only your scorn & more pulled backhanders.
Did you but love me as well as you despised
we’d have grown old together
telling stories of tribulation
training wheels & tying shoelaces.
My first day at school
you barely slowed the car
depositing me alone without backward glance
the tears of classmates seemed too pitiful to shed.
You taught me some useful things
like lifting the toilet seat & putting it back down
& always turning out the light
& reading your mind
& sharing everything with your son.
You taught me to hate & it was one thing
- in your eyes - I did well.
Some day, old cunt
I’ll teach you to share too
when I visit your grave & take a long, warm piss
for you to share with the worms
spit bile on your headstone
& the only tear will be for regret
that 2000 wishes didn’t kill you sooner.
Mother’s Justice
1.
Well, it’s done now
the eggs have been cracked
whisked vigorously
& dumped in the pan
there’s nothing for it
2.
She used to come at us
brandishing a wooden spoon
maniacal grin stuck to her chops
screaming invective like a lorikeet
as we ran for our lives
bubbles of hot toffee laughter
stuck in our lungs
Round the house we’d go
yelling taunts over our shoulders
nah, nah, ni, nah nah
you can’t catch me.
“Come ere, ya little shits
I’m gonna flog yaz
Beat ya to a pulp
Smack tha livin daylights out of ya
Smash ya to smithereens!”
Then she’d catch us
great gulps of giggles
bursting from tortured lungs
& wooden spoon splinters
would fly into broken shards
across our smart arses
then she’d tickle us until we wet our pants
then tickle some more
until we’d all forgotten
what we were fighting about
in the first place.
3.
“We’re leavin!”
We are?
“Yep.”
Where we goin?
“Grandma & Pop’s.”
We taking the cat?
“Bastard’ll probly euthanize it.”
What’s that?
“Put her to sleep.”
We’re takin the cat!
“Yeah,
we’re takin the cat!”
Well, it’s done now
the eggs have been cracked
whisked vigorously
& dumped in the pan
there’s nothing for it
2.
She used to come at us
brandishing a wooden spoon
maniacal grin stuck to her chops
screaming invective like a lorikeet
as we ran for our lives
bubbles of hot toffee laughter
stuck in our lungs
Round the house we’d go
yelling taunts over our shoulders
nah, nah, ni, nah nah
you can’t catch me.
“Come ere, ya little shits
I’m gonna flog yaz
Beat ya to a pulp
Smack tha livin daylights out of ya
Smash ya to smithereens!”
Then she’d catch us
great gulps of giggles
bursting from tortured lungs
& wooden spoon splinters
would fly into broken shards
across our smart arses
then she’d tickle us until we wet our pants
then tickle some more
until we’d all forgotten
what we were fighting about
in the first place.
3.
“We’re leavin!”
We are?
“Yep.”
Where we goin?
“Grandma & Pop’s.”
We taking the cat?
“Bastard’ll probly euthanize it.”
What’s that?
“Put her to sleep.”
We’re takin the cat!
“Yeah,
we’re takin the cat!”
Your Smile
The compass rose
of your smile
bells my sails
as we pass
in the soft night,
its afterglow
an angelus
in the darkness
The hemispheres
of your eyes
- lost continents
shifting beneath
boundless oceans -
forecast weather patterns
with unfailing accuracy
The caldera of your cheeks
subsides
into seismic aftershocks
- the tides turn ...-
my ship
guided safely home
by the lighthouse
of your smile
of your smile
bells my sails
as we pass
in the soft night,
its afterglow
an angelus
in the darkness
The hemispheres
of your eyes
- lost continents
shifting beneath
boundless oceans -
forecast weather patterns
with unfailing accuracy
The caldera of your cheeks
subsides
into seismic aftershocks
- the tides turn ...-
my ship
guided safely home
by the lighthouse
of your smile
Old Flame
1.
her life was
a heroic tragedy
its sordid pages
unfolding
in our boudoir
midnight confessional
my penis
a clumsy finger
thumbing the leaves
of a suicidal memoir
2.
I used to know a girl
who had sadness in her eyes
even when she smiled
I thought I could chase it away
with my earnest seduction
but you know what thought did
I spent years thinking of that girl
knowing that I had erred
when the sliding door closed
I went back in time in my mind
found the precise moment
that I made the sadness stay
3.
You gave me a daisy
one small delicate flower
& I kept it safe in my box of nothings
I didn't preserve it very well
but maybe you should have
given me a better flower
4.
A friend said:
"she's just like puttin on an old pair of jeans
& goin for a ride on yer bike
hopin yesterday's undies
aren't hangin out the leg!"
her life was
a heroic tragedy
its sordid pages
unfolding
in our boudoir
midnight confessional
my penis
a clumsy finger
thumbing the leaves
of a suicidal memoir
2.
I used to know a girl
who had sadness in her eyes
even when she smiled
I thought I could chase it away
with my earnest seduction
but you know what thought did
I spent years thinking of that girl
knowing that I had erred
when the sliding door closed
I went back in time in my mind
found the precise moment
that I made the sadness stay
3.
You gave me a daisy
one small delicate flower
& I kept it safe in my box of nothings
I didn't preserve it very well
but maybe you should have
given me a better flower
4.
A friend said:
"she's just like puttin on an old pair of jeans
& goin for a ride on yer bike
hopin yesterday's undies
aren't hangin out the leg!"
Dusk
Daytime traders rattle keys like jailors
pull down shutters & bring in street signs
turn out shop lights & exit into the brothel twilight
joining the throng of suits & blouses
scurrying to flee the scene of criminal intent
home to their televisions & significant others
out into the sprawl of inner city suburbanity
for a 12 to 16 hour stretch
in a prison of their own devising.
A million drones sleepwalk
through the bustle & din
of Friday sunset in the city
ties blessedly loosened at necks
taut with eight hours of strain
jackets & scarves fixed in place
to ward off the evening chill.
The pale orb in the west
retreats into the dust of the dying day
- most have not felt its warmth
on their skin all week -
& the fickle gibbous moon
casts a silver glow over event horizon.
Streetlights shimmer into nocturnal wakefulness
spread their circle of fluorescent
onto the painted lines of curbs that throb
with denizens of the daily commercial grind.
The drumbeat tattoo of stiletto heels
rubber soles, black leather
metal caps & muffled scuffs
fire counterpoint to the huff of heavy breathing
sneezing & coughing
phones add staccato rhythms
to the musical parade
the march threatens to become a riot
yet never quite breaks into mayhem
as the weary citizens trod
the goat paths & cow trails of urban wilderness
in time with the tolling of bells.
Swept up in the tide of commuters
street beggars are bowled out for golden ducks
their daily takings jingling in pockets
lined with the discarded detritus
of bin-leaning smokos.
Muttered excuses are left half-said
& less than half-meant
as the herd passes
misfortunates of modern society
left behind again like hitch-hikers
on the road to a better life.
Buskers play on regardless
just for the chance to play
a snatch of song lyrics
to a population larger than most small towns
in less than an hour
the scattered coins in their instrument cases
glint like fool's gold
destined to be exchanged for fast food
or alcohol & cigarettes.
High rise offices empty like bowels
into dimlit thoroughfares
drain into subway train stations
trams crisscross town
& buses launch into freeway suburbia
as the city disgorges its daily cargo.
pull down shutters & bring in street signs
turn out shop lights & exit into the brothel twilight
joining the throng of suits & blouses
scurrying to flee the scene of criminal intent
home to their televisions & significant others
out into the sprawl of inner city suburbanity
for a 12 to 16 hour stretch
in a prison of their own devising.
A million drones sleepwalk
through the bustle & din
of Friday sunset in the city
ties blessedly loosened at necks
taut with eight hours of strain
jackets & scarves fixed in place
to ward off the evening chill.
The pale orb in the west
retreats into the dust of the dying day
- most have not felt its warmth
on their skin all week -
& the fickle gibbous moon
casts a silver glow over event horizon.
Streetlights shimmer into nocturnal wakefulness
spread their circle of fluorescent
onto the painted lines of curbs that throb
with denizens of the daily commercial grind.
The drumbeat tattoo of stiletto heels
rubber soles, black leather
metal caps & muffled scuffs
fire counterpoint to the huff of heavy breathing
sneezing & coughing
phones add staccato rhythms
to the musical parade
the march threatens to become a riot
yet never quite breaks into mayhem
as the weary citizens trod
the goat paths & cow trails of urban wilderness
in time with the tolling of bells.
Swept up in the tide of commuters
street beggars are bowled out for golden ducks
their daily takings jingling in pockets
lined with the discarded detritus
of bin-leaning smokos.
Muttered excuses are left half-said
& less than half-meant
as the herd passes
misfortunates of modern society
left behind again like hitch-hikers
on the road to a better life.
Buskers play on regardless
just for the chance to play
a snatch of song lyrics
to a population larger than most small towns
in less than an hour
the scattered coins in their instrument cases
glint like fool's gold
destined to be exchanged for fast food
or alcohol & cigarettes.
High rise offices empty like bowels
into dimlit thoroughfares
drain into subway train stations
trams crisscross town
& buses launch into freeway suburbia
as the city disgorges its daily cargo.
Bearbrass Dawn
The late night river is a languid serpent
her murky skin reflecting the cityscape
kaleidoscope of refractions
gentle tides ebb & flow into the bay
silt stirring the murk of disturbed memories
dredges hover abandoned.
Flotsam & jetsam collects
in the skimming nets
fast food wrappers & tourist maps
baseball caps & a message in a bottle
as morningtide cleanses & makes new.
Searats float sharp-eyed on high for scraps
as their aviary skyrat cousins flock
on the wing in homing circles
spreading the filth
of the twenty-first century capitalist metropolis.
Restaurants vomit tonnes of wastage
kitchen hands stagger past homeless people
to post their nightsoil & daily landfill
green garbage bags split at the seams
with the off cuts of fresh produce
plate-leavings of disposable income diners.
Rubbish overflows out of bins
gathers in gutters & gardens
as cigarette butts eddy & swirl
in the lee of doorways
dumpsters in dark alleys groan & strain
metal wheels on blue cobblestone
the miasma of their contents
wafting on the light night breezes.
After the shouts in the night
cries of the fallen
& the delirious laughter
of young bright souls
dawn approaches in practiced stealth.
Recycle-bins resounding
in back alleys all night
finally go quiet
as the last of the garbage is hauled.
broken bottles & violent vomit
are disappeared by machines of public sanitation
public transport groans back to life
to cart away what stragglers
the taxis wouldn't take.
The last of the clubs shut down
& the bouncers in all-hours hotels
take in another hit
of caffeine/nicotine/amphetamine
to keep sandy eyes wide.
Paddy-wagons ghost down deserted streets
to put the last drunks up
for a few hours of lock-up sober-up.
With no native birds to sing the dawn
the sun is left to its own devices
day breaks over the awakening city
reflected by a million windows
brilliant in its horizontal immensity.
her murky skin reflecting the cityscape
kaleidoscope of refractions
gentle tides ebb & flow into the bay
silt stirring the murk of disturbed memories
dredges hover abandoned.
Flotsam & jetsam collects
in the skimming nets
fast food wrappers & tourist maps
baseball caps & a message in a bottle
as morningtide cleanses & makes new.
Searats float sharp-eyed on high for scraps
as their aviary skyrat cousins flock
on the wing in homing circles
spreading the filth
of the twenty-first century capitalist metropolis.
Restaurants vomit tonnes of wastage
kitchen hands stagger past homeless people
to post their nightsoil & daily landfill
green garbage bags split at the seams
with the off cuts of fresh produce
plate-leavings of disposable income diners.
Rubbish overflows out of bins
gathers in gutters & gardens
as cigarette butts eddy & swirl
in the lee of doorways
dumpsters in dark alleys groan & strain
metal wheels on blue cobblestone
the miasma of their contents
wafting on the light night breezes.
After the shouts in the night
cries of the fallen
& the delirious laughter
of young bright souls
dawn approaches in practiced stealth.
Recycle-bins resounding
in back alleys all night
finally go quiet
as the last of the garbage is hauled.
broken bottles & violent vomit
are disappeared by machines of public sanitation
public transport groans back to life
to cart away what stragglers
the taxis wouldn't take.
The last of the clubs shut down
& the bouncers in all-hours hotels
take in another hit
of caffeine/nicotine/amphetamine
to keep sandy eyes wide.
Paddy-wagons ghost down deserted streets
to put the last drunks up
for a few hours of lock-up sober-up.
With no native birds to sing the dawn
the sun is left to its own devices
day breaks over the awakening city
reflected by a million windows
brilliant in its horizontal immensity.
She’s a junkie
She sits outside the church & her face
tells the story
there is a sadness in her expression
& a moan in her voice that is so piteous
people walk straight past & try to ignore her.
She asks for some money
- if it can be spared -
for it is all she needs
all she needs
is a bath & someone to tell her
that she could be beautiful
if she got off the junk & looked after herself.
She ponderously rises
though there isn't much to her
& puts out her hands in the
age-old supplication of beggars
immemorial & she begs
she begs
because there isn't anything else she can do
there is a purse between her legs
but she dies a little every time
she has to use it for cash.
No one will hire her
there isn't much she looks capable of in this state
but she knows misery
& relies on the kindnesses
that can be found in those
who stop to notice her plight.
She thanks in echolalia
promises to look after herself
“I’ll look after myself.”
takes their money
lowers her eyes at their admonishment
squirrels away their alms
& if they walk away feeling empathy
for their Samaritan deeds
then the world is a better place
better for everyone but her.
The money is gone quickly
& the candle of her life
burns at both ends
with every coin that goes to her dealer
there are some that know this
some that only suspect
yet all are tarred by her brush
for their ignorance
of the slap in the face from urban reality
that is her life.
tells the story
there is a sadness in her expression
& a moan in her voice that is so piteous
people walk straight past & try to ignore her.
She asks for some money
- if it can be spared -
for it is all she needs
all she needs
is a bath & someone to tell her
that she could be beautiful
if she got off the junk & looked after herself.
She ponderously rises
though there isn't much to her
& puts out her hands in the
age-old supplication of beggars
immemorial & she begs
she begs
because there isn't anything else she can do
there is a purse between her legs
but she dies a little every time
she has to use it for cash.
No one will hire her
there isn't much she looks capable of in this state
but she knows misery
& relies on the kindnesses
that can be found in those
who stop to notice her plight.
She thanks in echolalia
promises to look after herself
“I’ll look after myself.”
takes their money
lowers her eyes at their admonishment
squirrels away their alms
& if they walk away feeling empathy
for their Samaritan deeds
then the world is a better place
better for everyone but her.
The money is gone quickly
& the candle of her life
burns at both ends
with every coin that goes to her dealer
there are some that know this
some that only suspect
yet all are tarred by her brush
for their ignorance
of the slap in the face from urban reality
that is her life.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
The Price of Eggs
Whaaamp....... wwaahh._____________________.
cars in the streets
half a world away
fly flags & scarves
scream warcries & play techno music
doof doof doof doof doof doof doof doof
riots for victory
death march for defeat
at the brunswick st fish & chippery
the short-order-cook
smiles a sly turkish grin
downplays their chances
I say:- "I don't care who wins!
Australia's not even in it
& the whole country's gone mad
over a game!"
the streets are awash with revellers
because a scandinavian team
just knocked out a south american heavyweight
behind me the door swings open
admitting a busker with a pocketful of silver
he doesn't give a fuck about the world cup
just came in to escape the madness
threatening to consume ethnic melbourne
I go back to reading yesterday's paper
behind me the door swings open again
& I say:-
"david beckham's a pussy!"
"SHUT YOUR FUCKEN MOUTH!"
I swivel toward the challenge
insanity contorts the blue & white
war-painted face of the argentine fanatic
his cronies glare menacingly
"If you say one more word,
I'll tear your english fucken head off,
you white cunt."
the fish burger goes dry in my mouth
I can't swallow let alone fight
what have I said?
how did I get into this situation?
"That's it step outside,
you white aussie bag of shit.
I'm gonna kill you!"
his australian accent puts hypocrisy to the words
the busker growls from the corner
the cook brandishes a broom
the three argentines stand shouting in the street
across the planet
russians are rioting & killing each other
french poets are slashing their wrists
italians & croatians are brawling in parks
witch-doctors in cameroon are in hiding
in corea the government is pleased
millions of american dollars go to each player
hyundais all round
4 billion televisions broadcast live
failing to mention that the world cup
is suspended when the world goes to war
newspaper editors rub their hands in greed
awaiting the first assassination
in lygon st youths cry for blood
while older men smile
& remember days of glory for the azzurri
in sydney road car horns get jammed
echoes pervade the brunswick night
as every dogs barks
for another turkish victory
in brunswick st old fitzroy
I wipe my mouth on a white flag napkin
& decide to keep quiet about the brissie lions
the length of dole-queues
& the price of eggs in argentina
cars in the streets
half a world away
fly flags & scarves
scream warcries & play techno music
doof doof doof doof doof doof doof doof
riots for victory
death march for defeat
at the brunswick st fish & chippery
the short-order-cook
smiles a sly turkish grin
downplays their chances
I say:- "I don't care who wins!
Australia's not even in it
& the whole country's gone mad
over a game!"
the streets are awash with revellers
because a scandinavian team
just knocked out a south american heavyweight
behind me the door swings open
admitting a busker with a pocketful of silver
he doesn't give a fuck about the world cup
just came in to escape the madness
threatening to consume ethnic melbourne
I go back to reading yesterday's paper
behind me the door swings open again
& I say:-
"david beckham's a pussy!"
"SHUT YOUR FUCKEN MOUTH!"
I swivel toward the challenge
insanity contorts the blue & white
war-painted face of the argentine fanatic
his cronies glare menacingly
"If you say one more word,
I'll tear your english fucken head off,
you white cunt."
the fish burger goes dry in my mouth
I can't swallow let alone fight
what have I said?
how did I get into this situation?
"That's it step outside,
you white aussie bag of shit.
I'm gonna kill you!"
his australian accent puts hypocrisy to the words
the busker growls from the corner
the cook brandishes a broom
the three argentines stand shouting in the street
across the planet
russians are rioting & killing each other
french poets are slashing their wrists
italians & croatians are brawling in parks
witch-doctors in cameroon are in hiding
in corea the government is pleased
millions of american dollars go to each player
hyundais all round
4 billion televisions broadcast live
failing to mention that the world cup
is suspended when the world goes to war
newspaper editors rub their hands in greed
awaiting the first assassination
in lygon st youths cry for blood
while older men smile
& remember days of glory for the azzurri
in sydney road car horns get jammed
echoes pervade the brunswick night
as every dogs barks
for another turkish victory
in brunswick st old fitzroy
I wipe my mouth on a white flag napkin
& decide to keep quiet about the brissie lions
the length of dole-queues
& the price of eggs in argentina
Saturday, January 23, 2010
Thomas the Tank Engine Ruined My Life
It all began quite innocently. A harmless little show, broadcast at the same time as Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, that came on right after Playschool. I never had to watch it, but somehow its message began to infiltrate through other forms of media, until the day came when I just had to see what all the fuss was about. I was looking after my little cousin, so I put on the real baby-sitter - the telly - and whacked on a video of T.T.T.E. After about ten minutes, I wondered if this was some kind of hoax because not only was I bored out of my brain, my four-year-old cousin had fallen asleep!
My fears began at around the same time as the global shift. Thousands of women, suffering from severe hormonal imbalance symptomatic of childbirth, began to name their sons after a train. My own mother gave birth in the middle of this craze, thankfully to a baby girl; or else, she might have ended up with two sons named Thomas when the drugs wore off. I began my devious plan of revenge from those earliest days, inculcating my infant sister into my private mission to smash the evil empire of the dreaded Tank-engine.
I had endured the school-yard taunts:
"Hey Tankie!"
"Toot toot!"
safe in the knowledge that my secret weapon was growing in power by the day. It wasn't long before little sis began Kindy armed with her innocence and sinister education. She was at once horrified by the mass-media-pop-culture-little-boy-drones repeating word for word the demonic catch-phrases designed by a paedophile Reverend and Ringo “I used to be famous” Starr to convert an entire generation into mindless working class slaves.
Then came the fateful day my sister uttered the phrase:
"Thomas the Tank Engine sucks!"
It was my proudest moment, but when the complaints of outraged parents mounted, we had to find her a new day-care centre.
Mum was volcanic with fury, but knew that I had planned this victory for years, so she set about debugging my miniature la femme nikita with retail therapy. A procession of Barbies, Little Mermaids and Princess Jasmines followed and Mum began to incubate the ultimate revenge.
My baby brother was born less than a year later and we joked that Dad was the Fat Controller and bought lots of Bananas in Pyjamas merchandise. But, the extended family couldn't help themselves, and before the year was out my little bro had the complete set of tank engines. By this time, I'd moved out of home and was powerless to do anything but watch in horror.
When his first word was 'Thomas', I was more than a little chuffed, but when James, Henry, Edward and Percy followed, Mum took him to see a psychologist. The quack said that it was common among little boys, although she had never seen such an extreme case, and it was her opinion that my brother could only associate people with T.V. shows. Therefore, he saw Mum as the Station-master, me as you know who, our aunty Caroline was a little red bus and as for Dad, well if you put him into pin-stripe trousers, tails and a top-hat, you'd confuse him for the Fat controller too.
As he grew, the little pecker manifested a prodigious strength, no doubt due to the fact that he carried a tank engine in each hand 24-7. He also became a petty-thief, tearing open packets in toy-stores, and dumping the loot down his nappy. One Christmas, when he was five, I bought him a little Michael-Angelo action figure. Mum teed him up on the telephone to say thank-you.
"Thom, why do you like Ninja Turtles?"
"Because their gnarly dude, totally bodacious
Cowabunga man!"
There was a brief silence on the other end before he spoke next.
"Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles are gay!"
Out of the mouths of babes! I wondered if I was too out-dated to be a big brother or if the evil regime had turned him to the dark side once and for all. In a desperate bid to rectify the situation, Mum put him in the local soccer team. He'd run around with Edward in one hand and Clarabelle in the other, pretending to be a train. Then the coach suggested that he play goalie, so Mum prized the engines out of his hands and replaced them with gloves. He was an overnight sensation, the best goal-keeper New Brighton 2nd division under sixes had ever seen. Mum got made team manager and the psychologist declared the whole exercise a success.
The side-effects on me were profound. I started going to Irish pubs, picking fights with English Football supporters :
"Ah hate Arse-an-all! Mah Moomz a better manager than yrs ez!"
So how, you might ask, did this ruin my life? Well aside from the fact that my siblings are still in the midst of impressionable adolescence, they now lead normal lives untainted by that damnable tank engine.
But, I have a few issues left unresolved. You see, forty-five out of every hundred new baby boys born in Australia are named Thomas. So, when I go out in public, I have to steel myself against reacting when my name is called out. But I still can't go down the lolly aisle at Woolies.
"Thomas, put those chocolate biscuits back on the shelf!"
The first time this happened my bowels loosened and it was near thing to get to the Public Toilets. Nowadays, I just grit my teeth, suppress the urge to slap the parent to their senses and book an appointment with my shrink.
My fears began at around the same time as the global shift. Thousands of women, suffering from severe hormonal imbalance symptomatic of childbirth, began to name their sons after a train. My own mother gave birth in the middle of this craze, thankfully to a baby girl; or else, she might have ended up with two sons named Thomas when the drugs wore off. I began my devious plan of revenge from those earliest days, inculcating my infant sister into my private mission to smash the evil empire of the dreaded Tank-engine.
I had endured the school-yard taunts:
"Hey Tankie!"
"Toot toot!"
safe in the knowledge that my secret weapon was growing in power by the day. It wasn't long before little sis began Kindy armed with her innocence and sinister education. She was at once horrified by the mass-media-pop-culture-little-boy-drones repeating word for word the demonic catch-phrases designed by a paedophile Reverend and Ringo “I used to be famous” Starr to convert an entire generation into mindless working class slaves.
Then came the fateful day my sister uttered the phrase:
"Thomas the Tank Engine sucks!"
It was my proudest moment, but when the complaints of outraged parents mounted, we had to find her a new day-care centre.
Mum was volcanic with fury, but knew that I had planned this victory for years, so she set about debugging my miniature la femme nikita with retail therapy. A procession of Barbies, Little Mermaids and Princess Jasmines followed and Mum began to incubate the ultimate revenge.
My baby brother was born less than a year later and we joked that Dad was the Fat Controller and bought lots of Bananas in Pyjamas merchandise. But, the extended family couldn't help themselves, and before the year was out my little bro had the complete set of tank engines. By this time, I'd moved out of home and was powerless to do anything but watch in horror.
When his first word was 'Thomas', I was more than a little chuffed, but when James, Henry, Edward and Percy followed, Mum took him to see a psychologist. The quack said that it was common among little boys, although she had never seen such an extreme case, and it was her opinion that my brother could only associate people with T.V. shows. Therefore, he saw Mum as the Station-master, me as you know who, our aunty Caroline was a little red bus and as for Dad, well if you put him into pin-stripe trousers, tails and a top-hat, you'd confuse him for the Fat controller too.
As he grew, the little pecker manifested a prodigious strength, no doubt due to the fact that he carried a tank engine in each hand 24-7. He also became a petty-thief, tearing open packets in toy-stores, and dumping the loot down his nappy. One Christmas, when he was five, I bought him a little Michael-Angelo action figure. Mum teed him up on the telephone to say thank-you.
"Thom, why do you like Ninja Turtles?"
"Because their gnarly dude, totally bodacious
Cowabunga man!"
There was a brief silence on the other end before he spoke next.
"Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles are gay!"
Out of the mouths of babes! I wondered if I was too out-dated to be a big brother or if the evil regime had turned him to the dark side once and for all. In a desperate bid to rectify the situation, Mum put him in the local soccer team. He'd run around with Edward in one hand and Clarabelle in the other, pretending to be a train. Then the coach suggested that he play goalie, so Mum prized the engines out of his hands and replaced them with gloves. He was an overnight sensation, the best goal-keeper New Brighton 2nd division under sixes had ever seen. Mum got made team manager and the psychologist declared the whole exercise a success.
The side-effects on me were profound. I started going to Irish pubs, picking fights with English Football supporters :
"Ah hate Arse-an-all! Mah Moomz a better manager than yrs ez!"
So how, you might ask, did this ruin my life? Well aside from the fact that my siblings are still in the midst of impressionable adolescence, they now lead normal lives untainted by that damnable tank engine.
But, I have a few issues left unresolved. You see, forty-five out of every hundred new baby boys born in Australia are named Thomas. So, when I go out in public, I have to steel myself against reacting when my name is called out. But I still can't go down the lolly aisle at Woolies.
"Thomas, put those chocolate biscuits back on the shelf!"
The first time this happened my bowels loosened and it was near thing to get to the Public Toilets. Nowadays, I just grit my teeth, suppress the urge to slap the parent to their senses and book an appointment with my shrink.
blood in the water
Maroon is the colour of a Queenslander's blood
a corruption of loyalty for the royalty
of an empire half a century & half a world away
My Queensland heart pulses maroon instead
it never really wanted to leave, never truly left
but my troubadour feet & Tourette’s Syndrome tongue
dictated exile from the sunshine state
Maroon is the colour of Queensland Labor gone conservative
"God, King & Country"
Pedophile priests, Monarchist toadies
& Capitalist farmers
crying drought, fire & flood
My Queensland blood tainted & tinged
by Police-state doctrine
red & blue lights flashing
outside a brothel in Fortitude Valley
crooked cops exchanging silence for headjobs
the darkened drops on the end of black boots
& nightsticks slick with protesters blood
are maroon too
My Queensland blood is as red as the cherries
on my uncle's hand-me-down cricket bat
after he bashed the leather against a brick wall repeatedly
when he got laid off at the abattoir
the butcher blood on his knives was maroon too
My bartender's blood spilled so often
in the name of tourist town greed
"Hope yer all havin a Bundy good time!"
tinnies are maroon when State-of-Origin comes around
"Ya's can have any beer ya want
as long as it's spelt with 4 red X's!"
& ruptured vessels gather & disperse
across the stainless steel in dark pools of maroon
The colour of Queensland sporting triumph
A.B. & Thommo, 63 year Sheffield Shield drought-breakers
The mighty Brisbane Lions’ hatrick of flags
Billy Moore screaming QUEENSLANDER
QUEENSLANDER
QUEENSLANDER
King Wally sacked
little Alfie & the Murdoch funded broncos
worm-infested outback vermin
dogfood of the lowest quality
Maroon is the colour of a date-rapist's dick
"Johnnie-football-wanker"
menses on the prophylactic thrown out of court on
"Consensual technicalities"
packs of juvenile dolphins & blood in the water
Fraser Island dingoes are culled
to protect tourists from becoming dogfood
their carcasses pile up stinking of gunshot
& the dark stains of colonialism
senseless murder of natives
the blood on their dusky skin
was red, so red
dark red
maroon, the colour of my heart
a corruption of loyalty for the royalty
of an empire half a century & half a world away
My Queensland heart pulses maroon instead
it never really wanted to leave, never truly left
but my troubadour feet & Tourette’s Syndrome tongue
dictated exile from the sunshine state
Maroon is the colour of Queensland Labor gone conservative
"God, King & Country"
Pedophile priests, Monarchist toadies
& Capitalist farmers
crying drought, fire & flood
My Queensland blood tainted & tinged
by Police-state doctrine
red & blue lights flashing
outside a brothel in Fortitude Valley
crooked cops exchanging silence for headjobs
the darkened drops on the end of black boots
& nightsticks slick with protesters blood
are maroon too
My Queensland blood is as red as the cherries
on my uncle's hand-me-down cricket bat
after he bashed the leather against a brick wall repeatedly
when he got laid off at the abattoir
the butcher blood on his knives was maroon too
My bartender's blood spilled so often
in the name of tourist town greed
"Hope yer all havin a Bundy good time!"
tinnies are maroon when State-of-Origin comes around
"Ya's can have any beer ya want
as long as it's spelt with 4 red X's!"
& ruptured vessels gather & disperse
across the stainless steel in dark pools of maroon
The colour of Queensland sporting triumph
A.B. & Thommo, 63 year Sheffield Shield drought-breakers
The mighty Brisbane Lions’ hatrick of flags
Billy Moore screaming QUEENSLANDER
QUEENSLANDER
QUEENSLANDER
King Wally sacked
little Alfie & the Murdoch funded broncos
worm-infested outback vermin
dogfood of the lowest quality
Maroon is the colour of a date-rapist's dick
"Johnnie-football-wanker"
menses on the prophylactic thrown out of court on
"Consensual technicalities"
packs of juvenile dolphins & blood in the water
Fraser Island dingoes are culled
to protect tourists from becoming dogfood
their carcasses pile up stinking of gunshot
& the dark stains of colonialism
senseless murder of natives
the blood on their dusky skin
was red, so red
dark red
maroon, the colour of my heart
Man, they were all there
Reading poetry is not the same as writing it
- some think reading poetry is an event
others only read what they have written themselves -
I’m reading Corso, Ferlinghetti & Ginsberg
Again
Read them in the toilet mostly
On buses, trams & trains too
Read them aloud in darkened rooms
Read them in murmurs & north-western accents
Find them talking to me
Dreaming with me
Together we stake out my apartment
Awaiting the muse at 2 am
Gregory Corso turned 32 in 1963
I turned 32 in 2008
45 years difference, but man, I can relate
Ferlinghetti & the City Lights
I almost made it in ‘06
Ginsberg’s America is my Australia
After 222 years
She 40 thousand years
it’s time for a poem worthy of your crimes
The Beats were there when I started writing poetry
& when I stopped
They were there
Man, they were all there
- some think reading poetry is an event
others only read what they have written themselves -
I’m reading Corso, Ferlinghetti & Ginsberg
Again
Read them in the toilet mostly
On buses, trams & trains too
Read them aloud in darkened rooms
Read them in murmurs & north-western accents
Find them talking to me
Dreaming with me
Together we stake out my apartment
Awaiting the muse at 2 am
Gregory Corso turned 32 in 1963
I turned 32 in 2008
45 years difference, but man, I can relate
Ferlinghetti & the City Lights
I almost made it in ‘06
Ginsberg’s America is my Australia
After 222 years
She 40 thousand years
it’s time for a poem worthy of your crimes
The Beats were there when I started writing poetry
& when I stopped
They were there
Man, they were all there
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