i could have and was more controversial than i ever ever am. it sure is hot.
i wish the storms would come and blow rain through the window.
there’s always a window
, and i like that billowing light white curtains look-like naked thighs when the storm begins.

hello vixen across the hall, i love you
, hello
is that thunder please?

i miss the clacking-slap and flamm-bash.
never did i know what we were doing either, but i knew your tone and intonation.
how’s it working for you since
, are the droplets swathing in with your wordly storm onto our skins my corsetted vixen across the fall?




innocence is power, i told her
take off your dress
in the long grass and breeze
nervous sideways glances
innocence is hers, i told her
use it and release me

australia day

there will be a day of forty-two-c and and there will be flies to be swatted. there will be beer and there will be food to be eaten with beer. there will be zinc cream and floppy hats and backyard cricket. there will be two day tattoos of boxing kangaroos. there will be singlets with southern stars and bikinis made from flags, made in china. there will be the waltzing of matildas and the trueing of blue. there will be maaaates and sheilas and the bagging of poms. but there will be no patriotism, we’re all too cool for that. happy australia day cobbers.

bondi style

my dreams are the wild winds blowing around the hair of all the pretty blonde girls, bondi style
my dreams are the rhythm in the i-tuned swinging hips of all the pretty blonde girls, bondi style
my dreams are the splash and blue across tanned thighs of all the pretty blonde girls, bondi style
wild, rhythm and blue is bondi style and dreams are true

any better

things have changed, with inter-web-i-video-console-insert/acronym/here but the girls still wear floral dresses and the boys still pedal with fury their bmx to the park with the footy. the old men have a ride-on-two-stroke-weber and a-lasar-gps-guided-remington but have only given up smoking in favour of other marinades (et al) and their shoes still match their hat. i’m bored with it all. give me the love of a good woman, and the sun, surf, blue sky and a song. except for the love of a good woman, not necessarily in that order. grand is a state of mind, a sprinkle of experience, and faith in yourself. if that doesn’t work for you then good luck. i can’t explain it any better.


you’re so close and i can hear you breathe
but still
come a little closer


i want to make you (kiss you)
yeah, another
dose of languid dreaming please
i miss the languid dreaming


a little closer still
but breathe, so i can hear you
come, a little nearer
so i can kiss you (make you)
part your


oh! your lips (your thighs)
languid satin
white sheets and crystal blue
skies and seas of miss’ed
languid dreaming


why aren’t you taking that class? opening that store? telling your boss what you really think?
why aren’t you spending more time with your family? eating better and working out more?
why aren’t you turning off the tv? turning on your lover? cooking that romantic meal?
why aren’t you stronger? faster? taller? why can’t you make her laugh like you used to?
why aren’t you better in bed? have a longer dick? why can’t she come and have to fake it?
why aren’t you satisfied with who you are?
why aren’t you a better person?
why aren’t you a real man?
why why why?
, pussy!

wide white smile

i saw a boy on the train and he was happy. his smile was white and wide, and he reminded me of a famous poet. i’ve never met her but i imagine that she could have been the happy boy’s mother. later, i reflected that it was unfortunate that i know so few people with dark skin that seeing one dark skinned happy boy would remind me of a dark skinned famous poet lady who i’ve never met but i imagined would be happy and have a wide white smile.

that is my story about the happy dark skinned boy on the train.