indifferent fantasy, the dream

she opened up to me, and she opened up to me. i expected flow’ering of love and such but instead got words of foul stench and fuck fuck fuck dirrrrty disgust. that made me harder and made me grin with a smeared red and rotten mouth.

the next morning i woke wrapped in stained sheets and stained but indifferent memory. she brought me breakfast with welt marks on her ass and rope burns on her wrists

, but she kissed me gently and strummed her fingers on my bare chest as i ate. she told me she loved me. that made me harder and made me grin with a greased butter and bacon mouth.


yellow dress

across the other side of the park from where i sat, there stood a young woman. she wore a yellow dress. she was looking up into the branches of the tree that shaded her. she held her arms out to the side, palm facing upwards, and she gently swayed like the breeze. the world passed her by. time passed her by, but still,

she danced
in the shade
like the breeze
in that yellow
fantastic dress.

she, as now i, was lost in this moment.

in the breeze her hair flitter’ed, her dress flapp’ed, and my heart flutter’ed when she stopped and stood still. she slowly reached her hands higher to the branches above that shaded her. gently falling was a flower, from that tree, shaken loose by the breeze that swayed her. she cupped her hands and let the flower land gently in her palms. lifting it to her face, she breathed in it’s fantastic frangance. then as quickly as her smile beamed and lit up the shade of the branches above her, she let the flower float off in the breeze once more.

i looked down the blank page of the note pad in my lap and wrote “across the other side of the park from where i sat”. when i looked back up, the girl in the fantastic yellow dress was gone.


i heard the door close and her heels on the tiled floor. she called out.

“what are you in the mood for?”

“i’m in the mood to sway.”

she had expected her husband’s voice.
her head appeared around the corner.
she wore a business suit and a grin.

i stood and walked behind her.
i wrapped my arms around her waist and kissed her neck.

“what do you want to sway?”

“your mind, and your hips.”

we both looked at my wife sitting on the sofa.

happy birthday kate.


dear regret,

hello. i know that we haven’t spoken for some time. sorry, but i won’t be calling you any more. our time apart has been one of the most joyous periods of my life. actually, i’m not sorry that i wan’t be calling. this will be the last time you hear from me. i don’t want to feel your cold arms around me again. goodbye.


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.

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.

undefined order, perhaps both

he wasn’t really in the mood for writing poetry or other words in sequence that might pass for something described as such. such letterous collections are rarer than they used to be. those close to him know why, there are less needs to walk on shores with toes in sand and splashing at three minutes to midnaught than there used to be. there are less needs to be anxi-preventive, and less needs to be liked. the second-g man is no more either, that might be a factor. the damned pleasures sit four fifths complete but promisingly loved. he reflects to puzzle box again, but probably wont until he’s alone. christmas is the time for pilsner and this one is no different, but everything else is. better and different in an undefined order, perhaps both.

the dilemma of the romantic poet

i lay here in my lover’s bed, and i am conscious of her naked skin against mine. it reminds me of this new happiness. it is now that i realise.

i have written of love, and written again about love. i will write more and more about love and while flowers may blossom from the screen, sun shine from the page, and melodies whisper sweet everythings when your eyes close, smile widens and breath sighs, i have still failed. i fail for the reason that all romantic poets fail.

language fails love.
words fail love.
writing any line of any poem for a thousand forevers and a life time of trying, will fall short of describing love. it is this emotion that drives me, yet i cannot write of love, for it is unreachable except to feel it.

i lay here in my lover’s bed and i tell her. she cries, we kiss, and we know. this is the dilemma of the romantic poet.

fuckyou starless night

i stepped out into cold
night air whipped and chilled bones and reminded me that i have a soul
i took off my shoes and the soft sand became hard
against my sole’s skin
this auditorium was curtained by cloud, and night,
and my eyes were wet and rain sighed against my face
the wash’s white fingers teased my toes
and i said fuck you
there were no stars except those on the city’s horizon
and we shared reflection on the water’s retreat
and i said fuck you
pushing the cold out through my skin and i am
warm now walking
in calm’s shadow, but with a new peace
walking alone, but everything but


You know the old fable, the one that says you’ll see your life flash before your eyes when you have a brush with death?

, well

when we made love, in the dimming light of that hot summer afternoon in late spring, i had a brush with you, and it was love  that flashed before my eyes. our eyes locked, connected for a sacred second and i saw

and i saw crystal nights with blooms of flowering stars,

i saw sleeping in, on Whateverdays, until time runs over the highest brim, and kisses,
i saw lots of kisses, and dipping toes in sandy sea walks and winks and devilish grins from dares

i saw pier walking with icecream eating and hand holding  on a leisurely weekend away and being caught,
in comfortable silence
, and summer afternoon thunderstorms

and i saw your smile,
your smile, in every flash and
every time i saw your smile i knew, i knew
a little more and i can close my eyes and see that smile again and i smile
again and now i’m telling you this because it’s just magic and
i love you, and i’m telling you that
i love you, all from a sacred second flash,
of locked connected eyes


i enjoy the sweet conflict of the closed eye times when my breath rasps in beats, two, two times for a distractioned focus, fractioned we’re ordinary people in threatened fracture. i have a twitch now, at the base of the little finger on my left hand it’s kinda welcomingly freaking me out —- like indigestion too many hours after i’ve eaten. it’s not dark, it’s not nothing, it’s a swelling of My Consciousness that if you don’t understand i can’t explain unless you’re unlessed. i’m floating in quasi-free. i can laugh at the uncanny certainty that only comes in these most familiar of adolescent memorial-times. did i tell you how i used to feel it under my hands on the steering wheel, the same as when i’d cry at night without a skerrick of sleep, except it became welcome in the later years. acknowledge.


so, here’s something cool and awesome that happened to me.

i was flying across the dawn’s moon, and a shadow of her was it’s new light. she had a wink’n’swagger that was irrepressible, and she drew me to laugh’n’flatter.

so i gotta tell you, it’s happened to me rarely but succinctly only four times before. it took me back to a place where i’d slide’n’glide and for a moment i still wish i could again try my arm there. hmm, i still might.

it’s very {damn} nice indeed, thank you very-very much. it’s kinda like an armful of happy in your eyes, you know what i’m goin’on’about.

o-my, she’s a sweet aroma in my waking moment.

i told ya, pretty cool and awesome huh.


I was eating my chips and vinegar when a boy of, oh, about six years old, whirling his little chicken legs as fast as they could whirl, came running past me. I tell ya, he was a happy little fella; he cackled and clucked away like a chicken. If I was stoned that day, maybe I’d be telling you that he was a chicken.


Then I cracked open my Bundy. Ginger beer of course, not rum, it was still only 2 after all. The rum starts at 5.


Then this big fat woman came along. I could hear her puffing and gafuffing from a way’s away; she was no chicken, that’s for sure. And I tell ya, she was not happy Jan, not happy at all. She called out to the chicken boy,

“Come back Johnny, come back!”

He didn’t look like a Johnny to me, he looked more like a Scotty. Johnny’s are two-shoes, and this chicken didn’t look very goody goody to me.

But anyway.

The big fat woman heaved and hurled herself to where little Scotty had stopped, and she was mad. She was all red and aghast in the face, while he was bursting happy and joyin’ the face. It was pretty funny to look at. I wondered as I chugged my ginger what she was so freakin’ freaked out about, so I watched them like a sticky beak as they walked back past me. I wonder if chickens ever actually get sticky beaks?


When they walked past I kinda worked out why the fat wheezing oompa-loompa was so freakin’ freaked out, and it wasn’t because she was afraid of little Scotty-Chicken-Johnny-Happy-Happy-Joy-Joy-Boy running away. It was because he was only about six, and she knew that she’d lost him already.

Anyway, those chips were pretty freakin’ freaky choice. You outa’ get some from there; just two bucks for the chips and a buck fifty for the Bundy.

every day

this morning, the sun’s entry on stage brought a burra’s chortle and children’s feet clippering on the polished pines to greet the day;  it’s sunday, and the air’s crisp is like yesterday, and the coffee is like anyday, and it’s velvet silk and satin smooth;  there are smiles stirring inside me as the simple slide of the kitchen window brings a breath of breeze and fragrant flowers;

it’s like this every day you know. today is just the same as every single other day, and every day i choose to be as magic as a simple cool and cozy, lazy sunday morning, and it’s pretty darn great.

Mr Peterson

As Mr Peterson’s psychologist for the past twelve years, I’ve seen the best and the worst of him. I could write a book about him, and I still may when the time is right, but I certainly wouldn’t consider it until after the trial. He considers himself as a likable character, and I’d simply say that he could be. He makes friends, close friends, quite effortlessly and is very generous with his affection. Of course, he loses these friendships as quickly as he makes them, usually as a result of an unwarranted violent episode.  One such example is that of a man he used meet in a bar to talk about politics. They became great friends in a short period of time, but he assaulted him with a pool cue after a simple misunderstanding. As is most often the case, the man never pressed charges. Of course, any psychologist worth his salt could tell you that his illness stems from his uncle’s molestation of him as a child, but it’s how this culminated in his father’s murder that will take me to the stand tomorrow. As thick as the file marked “Charles Barlow Peterson” is, I still don’t know how I’ll testify. I don’t know if I’ll condemn my patient, or save my friend. It might depend on how he looks me in the eye.

fuck the saints

I loved those vinyl jazz mornings, after a night of leisure and being lost. From where I’d wake, I’d watch her cook and move her ass in time with Mr Paganini. I couldn’t turn away from the sway in her ‘sing it’, and the jiggle in her scat; it was my favourite thing in the world. She’d make me forget about all the sounds of the city.

Should I have expected more when I prayed to all the Saints to spare her? More than daggers and loss of faith, surely. I mourned for a thousand nights when she left us. It is only with my drunkard friends that I can tranquilize my sorrow; a welcome adjournment from my bitter harbor.

I try to write, but every word has tears of ink. And it’s crap. All of it.

The traffic is driving me fucking insane.

party people

there was beer on ice and the scent of summer in the air. the light was teasing that in-between place where the city was as bright as the sun, differing only in their shade of orange. quite a few guests had arrived, and some old strangers had already become new curiosities. i hey-good-to-see-you-thanks-for-coming’d my way through the crowd to where i knew i’d find you. you poured me a smile as i poured the rum. we took a moment, to cast our eyes on what was laid out before us. you remarked how you liked that there was Adidas, Armani, and Peter Alexander all in the same place at the same time. i said that it was time to get started.


I once met a once-charming fellow named Barlow. The first time we met, he was interested in something I had to say, but for the life of me now, I can’t remember what it was. What stuck me most about Barlow when I first met him was that his eyes were slightly different shades of green, and the left one was ever so slightly more dilated than the right one. This caused him to squint, causing the laugh lines on his left side to be more pronounced. I actually got to know Barlow quite well, and we’d often meet at the Bay Royal for a few pints of Speckled Hen, where we’d talk about politics and literature. I recall fondly one afternoon when we sat in the beer garden and laughed with futility about the lack of real political choice. I never understood Barlow’s poetry, there was always a hint of esoteric-ness, but his passion for it fed mine and my writing became more considered as a result. One Tuesday morning with Barlow at the Bay Royal, I asked him for his advice about a piece I was writing on how much greener the grass was on the other side. Barlow didn’t look at me but stood and walked to the pool table behind him. He took a cue and without warning, swung it violently, striking me across the face.  Calmly, he walked out onto the street, never looking back. This is the story about how Barlow went from being charming to being once-charming, and of how I lost my right eye to that mother fucker. I never saw Barlow again after that day. There are some days I don’t think about him, but they are few and far between, and usually accompanied by cocaine and a street whore named Desiree.


“What do you call that colour?”
“Interesting, I’ve never heard of that colour before.”
“You only asked me what I call it.”
“Oh, what do other people call it?”
“I think prefer blush.”
“That’s why I call it blush.”

A long and silent pause follows.

“My hands are still tied.”
“Yes, I know how to tie knots.”
“It hurts a little.”
“I must have tied the knots very well then.”

Cathy sighs, and the room is silent once more.

“What do you call that colour again?”
“Yes, that’s it, blush.”
“What do you really want to ask me Cathy?”
“Could you untie me now?”
“I could untie you, but it’s not time.”
“Blush you say?”
“Yes Cathy, for the ninth time, I call it blush.”
“But other people call it ruby?”

David walks across the grey stone floor to where Cathy is seated. He slaps her cheek, hard, with his open hand. A loud crack echoes off the dark, windowless walls.

“I call that ruby.”