Thursday, January 27, 2005
This heat turns my will into steam,
empty, fleeting, then gone
I want to
found my old ring holder,
Bought it at a $2 store on Smith St.
I have only ever owned one ring
and I don't wear that one anymore
But this ring holder is more of a statement maker
than a mere servant to anybody.
it may be hot as hell
& the phone aint ringing
& your watermelon went bad
& the bar is too far to walk to in cowboy boots
& you cant afford a bike until you sell your stupid car
but I'm here to hold rings
& even when I'm not doing that
I'm still foxier than drew barrymore's pubic hair
and that aint bad.
Monday, January 24, 2005
She doesn’t use many words and the words she uses are little because there’s not a lot of room on the side of a cigarette.
I need you
I want you
I love youI hate you
And once she’s written a poem on the paper skin of a cigarette,
she sits down and
she lights up
and she smokes it.
She inhales her poems and she feels the rush of the language of addiction seeping through her body.
Tiny words like
tumbling through her blood stream like drunken cows.
People tell her
- Why don’t you write on paper? You could say so much more.
- Because then I might want to use bigger words and I can’t swallow anything bigger than a four letter word.
Yesterday she bought a new pair of boots so black and so shiny she could see her future in them.
So she wrote a poem about the future on the paper skin of a cigarette and she sat down and she smoked it and she stared into the black and shiny surface of her boots.
The future shone back at her
so before she even finished her cigarette,
before the tiny four letter words like
had a chance to reach her bloodstream
she already knew she’d write a whole packet of poems
25 poetry covered paper skins
and she already knew she’d make them a paper coffin
and symbolically set the whole thing alight
and she already knew she’d swear never to smoke again
and she’d watch her charred and blackened words disappear into the atmosphere, floating towards a sky that had been above her all along.
And she knew all this because her shiny black boots of the future told her.
The boots don’t know about the extra packet she keeps hidden in a hollowed out dictionary.
But that’s okay
she writes on her next cigarette.
Saturday, January 22, 2005
Wednesday, January 19, 2005
punctuate your footsteps
a bad night
it took one train and two long tram rides to get home from a leafy green suburb where the security guard stood on the platform staring at you
as if you may steal one of the trains
or something worse
on the train you push your phone further and further into the deepest part of your bag
public transport is like a hearing aid for the lonely
everything becomes louder and clearer
it's not her fault
she told you
she didn't choose over you
he didn't give her any choice
and you were never in the running in the first place
you fucking idiot
how could you be so dumb?
you kick one of the bins
it just grunts at you
even the bins know
don't say anything
never say anything
just let them fill you up
they'll push you out when you're done
and in the morning you'll be empty
like a baby bird
waiting to be filled up again
when you can wake up in the morning
empty and know it
this won't happen
you stand on the nature strip
staring at the long line of bins
knowing that on some quiet street
she's probably doing exactly the same thing
you told her you're an optimist
this doesn't mean you wait for bad things to turn good
it means they were never that bad in the first place
this much is true
you check to make sure the recycling is sorted correctly
somewhere she steps away from the curb
she walks into the house
and she turns off the outside light.
Tuesday, January 18, 2005
My brand new nephew.
Step off fools because this one's a little outlaw.
Look out suckers, here comes my little man Mofo.
Because every now and then,
there comes into this world
... a hero.
One day this innocent looking boy will lead us into battle
and save all of mankind from the evil robot army.
Just as soon as he can wipe his own arse.
We love you Mo!
Saturday, January 15, 2005
“Where are you going to go?”
“Who said I was going?”
“I know from the way you rub your hands across your pants while you sit. It means you’re anxious Cal. It means you’re going to do something you’re not sure of. Something maybe… maybe not the thing you should do. You know one of those ideas you have that look pretty on the outside but are empty on the inside?”
“Like a newsreader?”
“Yeah. Those newsreader ideas you have. You having one of those now?”
“Just because I rub my hands across my pants Ginnie, doesn’t mean, doesn’t mean anything.”
“You’re doing it again.”
“Am not, it was just a bit of lint. That’s different. That’s practical rubbing.”
“You’re smiling, you’re smiling Cal. I saw it! Come baby, don’t be a dumb newsreader. Let’s just go to…”
“I can’t stay Gin. You know that. Fuck. It’s only okay for you and then... you know."
Gin turned towards the TV. It was the only light in the room. Silent now because she had turned the sound down earlier when she began her ‘talk’.
I hate the way she does that
I love the way she does that.
I turned away to look at something else apart from her face.
The street lights were going on outside.
I pressed the heel of my palm into my right eye and pushed hard.
I could hear her breathing behind me.
I pressed harder.
When I took my hand away, this is what I saw.
Thursday, January 13, 2005
I moved to Thornbury.
Went for a walk down High St on a public holiday.
Found this old record shop, they just moved somewhere too, away from here.
An elderly couple walked by, watching me watching the store that wasn't there anymore.
I'm becoming addicted to spaces that once were... but now ain't.
Like the warm hollow in a bed left by somebody just a moment ago.
The weight of memory and presence.
Wednesday, January 12, 2005
The car, almost sweating, bending every corner,
looking for a way to stop the influence of air.
Me, listening to the Stones on the radio.
With a head full of snow.
I'm not driving. I'm not . I wouldn't drive like this. Really.
Arch my back, let the colours do the rest.
I hold one hand out the window and drag the street lights down and scatter them behind me. They spin and spark in my wake.
Electric breadcrumbs to follow later
to collect in my pockets on the long walk back home
once the moon has stopped laughing
once the pizza boxes have stopped gossipping
once the car falls away
panel by panel
once I've eaten one hundred phone boxes
and found not a single dial tone
that sounds like you.