Said Hello to the Clouds

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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."