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
Thursday, January 28, 2010
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
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