E61 grouphead shenanigans

so, you had coffee with her?
yes, i told you that
but noah, that’s not all is it
what do you mean?
you didn’t just have a regular latte did you
you had a cappuccino
so what if i did?
noah, a cappuccino! you know what that leads to
what are you implying?
first it’s cappuccino, then it will be macchiato!
well, you don’t have macchiato with me any more!
oh my god Noah, did you have a macchiato with her?
well, no. not exactly
not exactly! what exactly did you have with her noah? tell me the truth!
the truth? you want the truth!?!
yes Noah, the tru-
i.. fu… no.. noah…
i’m sorry. i never meant,
no wait, don’t,



sunday june 20

there’s an unfamiliar winter morning sunning my lazy bones. an addict, i need another coffee. i relish being switched off and it’s all-wrapping quiet. sighing breaths coat my lungs thicker than i can or care (don’t want) to remember. my back hurts. i need another, another coffee. make this one ristretto, double and burnt. for every thousand festivals, there’s one solemn day.

grey is the new //

the sunday morning’s first coffee sip is a stinger on the back of a dry wretched throat. the opening blinds flood a squinting light whose welcome is met with the drizzling rain. within seconds, it is heavy, and falls to spite. they greys are dulcet all around this dry wretched man and his pulsing fogg’ed mind.

he can still hear birds, playing birds. are they courting each other to fuck(?), he wonders. he is, for sure he’d hoped, to be more than a typical dirty man.

there is still an ache here, in the not-so-secret garden of respite. this is where the crossroadskeeper stands. this is where dry wretched brains are held to account. this is where the coffe turns cold, like the birds (those fucking birds), and the wet drizzling and dulcet grey sunday morning sings a song that he’s not quite sure is in our out of tune.


breakfast is a warm
rustlewaker for the
bones. my foaming
milkened coffee is

for slapping dreary
and shaking weary
dreams. scatty cat
should piss off and

leave me alone, oh
all right come and
purr on my lap. it’s
time for the hum &

drum to well come
into my day. left &
right and how are
you and good day

sir. ok, now, read
three hundred and
forty seven urgent
emails before time

to think and prep
for the onslaught
of Mr mister and
the nine fortyfive

sales review. I’m
going to be fucked
again and now the
shakes start, focus,

focus and pull all
your shit together
and breathe,


, she said, how was
your day, and i say
fine and i need more
than a foaming milk

coffee. rum-mmm
pouring to crystal
cut glass, now i’m
home. respite me

liquor iced friend
and ferment some
of the wilted hope
that remains of my

day. tow me back
to the start line ex
cept it might really
be the finish line.

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.

hot murky brown

my head would throb
o’ but to drown in the hot, murky, brown

here’s where you close your eyes, and
your head snaps, back, and your senses snap, back
and you’re thrust, you thrust
back, and
you’ve snapped, back, and you’re
thrust, forward, and life’
s in fast, forward, and
you’re half, way, there, and
you’ve no, way, back, and
you’re drowned,
(shout, aloud)
in the hot, murky, brown

o’ but they smirk
(and you smirk)
for the rich, and the safe, and you
drown in the hot, murky, brown

Sunday morning over easy

My window frames hanging clouds in the morning. Dreary light blankets the street scape, grey and still. It is quiet and breathless. Sunday morning and the world is resting. Collectively, we are all sleeping in. There are no children in the street, no early morning joggers. The lines are blurred, colours muddied and I gaze across it all with an empty mind and resting heart. A sigh breaks my own silence.

I am weary today. The weight of my own existence is all the load I can burden. My eyes are my portrait, an expression of my state. Grey is the colour of lead too. Bother is something I cannot bear. Tired bones take my frame to face the day. I shower, dress and put on my best smile. The best has to be to come.

Cherub faces in angel suits greet my descent. They are blissfully ignorant. Breakfast is a welcome distraction, and talks of princess dreams begin to colour my eyes. Giggles nudge me from slumber and my heart beats faster. Rosy cheek grins crack my resolve. Tickles are a post meal treat.

My coffee is fresh and milky. Aroma fills the room and my skin. Streaming sunlight bursts through open blinds. Warmth floods straight through me, lifts me. I sit and look out at people walking dogs and kids on bikes. The smile on my face is real now. Good morning world, how are you today? Did you sleep well? Did you have pleasant dreams?

my Anais


It was everything and nothing like I imagined it would be. Being both friends and strangers, our script was uncertain and yet we both read it the same. For an instant it felt awkward but we needn’t have hurried. While the touch of your skin was what I craved, it is the honesty with which we spoke afterwards that is most cherished to me this morning. What we shared last night revealed to me what I knew was there even before we’d met. Our intimacy is not to be built on passion, but on spoken words. This chemistry is not of touch but of the mind and soul. Your heart warmed mine and for this I thank you.

Meet me in the kitchen, I’ve made us pancakes and coffee.