i heart tom waits

green rhymes & hazy sundances, playing with fire it's only the slow kids who're gunna get damaged. traffic jammed & there could be worse outcomes thanks to tom waits & his alligator voice. i may be slow moving but at least i have him to show me, take me places, drive me to nebraska or wisconsin or palookaville. you know he's one of those people i would follow to the ends of the earth, someone who nourishes me with his tone, nurtures me with  his sad, sad soul. but you get the feeling tom can take it.

things happen in my head when tom's around. fireworks & wet blankets, hallelujah choruses & blistering sunburn. i want to run through countries to be with him - but i cant because he has turned me into a paraplegic for his love. things happen all over my body when tom's around. nipples prickle, muscles melt, beats quicken & skip. synapses snap. things move in strange directions, tangents down dark alleys following a hooker to her next hook up with the hangman. i follow tom willingly because he has diamonds in his mind. 

my fingers stray downwards when that bad cat's in town.

sirens & virtue & letting myself go are all part & parcel to tom being around.

i heart tom waits.

easy prey

it doesn't take much

a touch, a tender breath

for the completely inappropriate

not to matter, and for love,

or something like it

to sit on the worn out sofa,

stroke my hair and tell me

that the underside to everything

is easy prey, so we must press

our bellies together,

show our shells to the world

and edgewise find tomorrow.

but this is no ordinary rapture.

meaning spans mystery but

not far enough,

so we are always left

wondering where truth sits,

and where we do.

meanwhile it doesn't go

unnoticed by either of us

that by living the nomadic

lifestyle you never bore

anybody, but then again

where does it end?

layers cannot cover

what is really needed

which is an unfolding,

an opening to the moment.

we try to patch

our ragged bones,

dem jangling bones

and agree

that the minotaurs will

always be hiding,

but as a fear

and not a threat.

when i am with you

we are plunging the divine,

emersing ourselves in

the sheer white light

of our connection.

then when the rapture comes

and it will come

we will drink with

long and gorgeous thirsts,

throw off our burdens

and dance.
.

holding on

i taste you
the next day
in my mouth,
feel you on my face
memory scratched
skin to skin,
connections formed
in the heat where
science and chemistry
assist in our passion.

again

my ovaries call
helping me find
the letting go,
the giving in.
i tell you it's the journey
so you show me
that you can hold on,
and you hold onto me.

fever

there is something hypnotic in having
a fever, and romantic,
where you want to play with pain thresholds
and already pressed buttons,
want to be bold, hold your body
at its word because in reality
you are not really there
to hear it.

you get taken away
in the heat of the moment that radiates
from your pores, and
which he takes to
make a fire storm of your
every nerve ending.
you clutch him
as if he were the edge
of a sheer clifftop,
with you
the only pirate in sight.

its in the edges

of these things where you are
brave enough to ask for a favour
or a fantasy
to be fulfilled,
to give this pain a meaning
and a memory, melt delusion
into truth to fall for
the sheer pleasure
of it all.

this time

this time depression

dressed in sexy knickers
so he had trouble spotting it.

when he was with her

they laughed till they cried,
then he went home

and cried some more.

he couldn’t tell her,

she might think it was
her fault.
and it wasn’t,
it was definitely not.

so he took his fight

to the canvas
pouring his resources
into his art supplies
and eating at
his parents house.

this time depression

dressed in sexy knickers

and kept him warm at night.

travelling to noarlunga with secrets

it was a long way

on public transport

stretched with secrets.

they sailed the back of the bus,

she liked what it did to the

bottom half of her body

and he was beyond caring.

he told her where he was going

but not what was happening.

he told her he had

“feelings”

he needed help with.

things he did not like were

making him….what?

don’t dare tell her that.

where were the words for the

woman who rocked him to sleep

with a violent hand, who

haunted his dreams with

her foot on his throat.

it was a long way

on public transport

stretched with secrets.

fan mail for daniel

if i painted you a picture
i'd use lots of black paint
and red, and brown
because life is shit.
i'd use a fat brush
and lots of strokes
to show i know that you are complex,
made up of many parts.

if i sang you a song
i couldn't sing in tune,
wouldn't need to,
i'd just have to yell a lot
with passion to sound like that
nihilistic shit you listen to.

i have written stories for you,
sunk low then lower to impress you
your loyalty drags us all along -
you and your crew, we rise and fall together.

you are my brother from another mother,
you are strong like ten men
and stunted as a puppy runt,
you are clever like a dictionary
and feral as a fine porn mag.

you taught me men can feel, and listen,
your happy ending gives
me the strength to go on.

the paroxysm editing team - thank god the pretty one's holding the camera

there are writers all over the world

there are writers all over the world. there are writers all over the world. there are writers all over the world. there are writers all over the world. there are writers all over the world. there are writers all over the world. there are writers all over the world. the world is round. there are writers all over the world. the world is round. there are writers all over the world. the world is round. sometimes writers slip. there are writers all over the world. the world is round. sometimes writers slip. the world is round. there are writers all over the world. writers slip sometimes. with their words with their feet with their mouths with their tongues. with drugs with booze with self abuse, in shit inside & in their heads. writers slip sometimes. there are writers all over the world.writers slip. with knives with pipes, with fixings. writers slip. with bookies with pokies with loan repayments. the world is round. sometimes writers slip. there are writers all over the world.

e.e...

falling in love
with him and e.e
cummings
at the same time.
trouble was e.e
was the only
one cumming.

haiku 3.

on distant nightmares
the sandman changes trousers
and surfs back, dreaming.

haiku 2.

when questions are asked
the chainsaw does not know why
accidents happen.

haiku 1.

around tank blank walls
people paper poetry,
literary fightback.

good speed son

hanging with elemental boy,
stretch till it hurts
(it always hurts but that's
his lesson to learn).
then he navigates
a different passage
wrangling the unruly stallion
into understanding.

straddled in the middle world
where black and white turn
murky grey while
gazing at the miasma
of adulthood.
he knows there are things
he doesn't want to know
but cant stop wanting them.

he teaches me
my boundaries
and inconsistencies,
reflecting me in a way that
terrifies and amazes. he
amazes me constantly
and we love
the story so far.

suburbia 7

she has a habit of headbutting her shadow
long enough to remember the amnesia
that put her in these calipers of
self medication and despair.
because unlike the television
where incidents of tragedy lead to
true love and happily ever after,
the only road that she can see is down
and the devil has welcoming eyes.

the moments before

the darkness sets in.

underneath his skin and behind his eyes

lay the truth that no one would ever imagine.

it had clawed at him for years, but on this night, in

this absolute darkness he was

ripped from a dreadful headline -

he could no longer suppress the need. 

pressure.

cranial fluids

seep from his ears and 

from his tear ducts.

he stared at himself in the puddle

watching, drip. drip. drip and disappear in the oily sludge.

like some lynch movie the fog set in

and insane confusion followed.

suburbia 4

the man next door has a tic in his eye and a slack jaw

from his constant masturbation and chronic alcoholism'

he knows she knows it.

he pretends to be interested, hides his insecurities

with laughter and likes to scream for no reason.

he fears everything – and brings some sugar.

since anything is better than nothing

disturbing fantasies will follow her for years to come.

the storm before the calm

the thunder is coming so i hunker down to the approaching storm. thoughts trip quickly as the atmosphere thickens with the weight of nothingness and i fear i may have miscarried the lord there is so much blood and so little evidence. so you could be the best abortionist in town, but how do i tell you that your services are no longer required?

fear of exposure and unexplained metaphors. haunted by voices until last monday i nearly gave the whole game away. there is a hunger/not in my guts/but in my soul/and substance abuse/doesn't cut it anymore/and cutting it... so you could be the best psychiatrist in town but how do i tell you i want to be in the front seat when the accident happens?

so with wet expectations i unbelieve my body and focus on the moments when i am perfection in the company of others, slowly learning to seize more moments. and i will make my heart the moon, fill it with dreams of a better life and resolve to trace my pirate roots. so you could be the best meteorologist in town but how can i tell you that it's all just gypsy fortune telling?

 

 

 

those moments

it's in those moments

when i'm caught

between touching you, and

not touching you

and finding out that the truth

doesn't always move

the narrative along -

that my life takes on the

orchestration of a car accident.

it's in those moments

when i keep finding the wrong

way to express myself

that i get the feeling i'm

a tourist here,

in my own town

in my own home

in my own bed.

its in those moments

when i'm pushing

myself too far, but somehow

it's never far enough,

and the burden of

carrying ugly

is just a knife slice

short of too heavy...

it's in those moments.

three jars of chocolate sauce

george clooney is not coming to visit me tonite

but i recreate my arrival using a broom, two shopping bags,
a dildo and a large akubra hat.

george clooney is not coming to visit me tonite

so i take down the tinsel and the streamers and

put my nakedness back in the bottom of the wardrobe and

i slip into a kind of nothingness that long ago forgot its name.

george clooney is not coming to visit me tonite

so i argue with myself over the pills or the blade

knowing that i'll wake up in the morning and i go to the kitchen

for a spoon to eat the three jars of chocolate sauce that

i was saving for his penis.

george clooney is not coming to visit me tonite

so i go outside and howl at the moon who is not listening,
and my mind boils like a kettle, and my belly aches with the
longing of the unconceived (the unasked) and i undo the hope
that this could ever end.

george clooney is not coming to visit me tonite.

stud boy

what are you playing at stud boy?

looking at me with those small, dark eyes

and that tall, spiky hair of yours.

just what are you getting at?

what's the story, stud boy?

standing there so slick and shiny and

spouting the anarchy that matches

the patches on your army pants.

and what are the studs

about anyway?

okay stud boy

put your ego where your

zip is, and your hand on

this stud, stud boy.

not so brave with the lights out

are you stud boy?

didn't know that your stud cuffs

could cut the skin when they're

tight around the bed post,

did you stud boy?

chin up stud boy.

chin up so I can tighten
your collar.
don't worry, it's real leather,
only the best for you, stud boy.

where did you go stud boy?
now all ive got left is
dud boy.
so long stud boy.

generalisations

he hated generalisations.
he tried so hard to be
a good man,
a kind man,
(keep bad at bay).
“all men are bastards”
she would say.
it made him want to be
an arsehole with her.

they played

they played word games
and dice games,
gambled for sex acts
and painted the fridge
in primary colours.

they shared books and beers,

laughed at toilet humour,
hung out of windows and
drank coffee by the bucket
full around the kitchen table.

they told jokes about

serial killers, made

love on the beach,

shopped at markets and

yelled abuse at television

personalities and right wing politians.

 

they had parties,

ate at friends houses,

kept spare change

in a jar and smoked joints

in the reeds of the cities river.

they caught trains

for no reason,

waited at staitions,
told stories of their pasts
and slowly wove their
futures together.

they had fantasies

to fulfil, but
neither if them
were working to
a timetable.

normal

in the early days,

the hay days,

the “hey get here and

fuck me” days

when she would

and he would

they felt indestructible

they felt teflon coated

they felt they had

climbed aboard an

invincible narrative

of eternal back rubs

and sex for no reason.

it was the stuff of soap operas

so love was muttered

under the covers then

over breakfast, and

normal was not a word

they thought about

because they were.

you're not the only icon to make this country great

bush man pushing dirty dogs to droving,

cattle on the run in a hard man's land.

red sun keeps setting, bush man keeps betting

the money that he's making will see him through the dry.

so i plucked the fucker from the landscape

and threw his skinny white arse in the nearest billabong.

i think that's where i left him.

muscles meeting meltdown as his axe arcs swiftly,

trees disappearing as his hard hacks hit.

never seeing forward, life turned into floorboards,

destruction can be easy when you’re told what's right.

so i plucked the fucker from the landscape and

catapulted his skinny white arse into some old growth forest.

i think that's where i left him.

cocky is the farmer who surveys his harvest,

tossing up his bales as the stacks rise high.

horizons never ending; but he doesn't do the mending

so the harsh brown land keeps spreading and the salt levels rise.

so i plucked the fucker from the landscape and

strapped his skinny white arse to the top of his tractor

then made crop circles till sunset in his golden fields.

i think that's where i left him.

safe harbour

a tree, far away,
fragile to the forces
of nature
but well grounded.

a lone cannon
maybe
but i've never known
you to shoot off
without good reason.

you do not choose
to live in a box
like others
creating mansions
and cascades
and freefalls all
carefully sculpted
in mountains of paper.
we both love living
in those paper mountains.

so alike
but different
in the detail.

forceful
or forthright?
who cares?

when it's all
stripped bare
between us
inside those paper
mountains, you mine
for diamonds while
i like to harvest
the shadows.

you are wise
council, when
all around me
is in disarray
you float a boat
on my tears.
you are wise council.



for martin.

voodoo doll

i do to the voodoo doll.

i do to the voodoo doll who.
i do to the voodoo doll who is you.
i do to the voodoo doll with pins.
i do to the voodoo doll with pliers
i do to the voodoo doll who is you with pins and pliers.

one hit

you break my heart, and my face,

with one hit, of your fist.
battlefield bed,
homegrown warfare.
terrorism is everywhere.

wallflower, or tightroping on a quiet rage.

fear of chemistry,

electricity
best kept at a distance
measured in empty arms.
looks like laughing/
feels like crying.

unprepared for the

impromptu moment,
too rational
or too damaged
to let a little
spirituality in.

for even in the great unfolding
there are still
mis-understandings
where someone says
‘something’
and nothing is
clear anymore.

for you, at two

this is to you my little mirror gnome, strong and mighty,

unburdened now and chasing a life that

excites you and ignites everyone around you.

you are the seed and the farmer,

you are the beautiful flower,

you are wisdom and discovery,

you are history and the future.

you will learn the language of the seasons,

tie them up with your instincts to carry

lightning in your veins.

you will fall in love with the moon nightly,

not to any prescription or code of honour

but from a faith so deep and mysterious it cannot be named.

on some sundays and during thunderstorms you
will struggle with insomnia, and monthly,
always monthly you will be reminded that

life is a struggle but you are strong.

affirm yourself often.

bang your own drum loudly but listen out to other beats,
they will inspire you.

some days you will be singing in rainbows,

others are nothing but the blues.
celebrate both days with grace.

let the sound of distant buses be a dreaming

of possibilities to take you places.

don't fall for the fast laugh or the quick

friendship, worthy people take time and are

the framework on which to build yourself.

be loyal to your sisters, treat yourselves

with respect then everybody else will.

aim always to be better than yesterday.

dream in architecture, dream in riddles,

dream under sunshine and in the halflight,
dream in truths, dream in solutions,
dream for your own amusement then
dream for the entertainment of the world.

i wish you to speak the profound and run

with wild abandon. i want you to be proud, stake your claim,

hold boldness in your heart and in your hands.

when all around you is madness i want you to

come to me and be your own kind of crazy,

i can say ''i understand''

because we are family.

tribute

the blackbird of unhappiness

lays dead on my feet,

shot with lithium

and other feelgood drugs.

it’s written like a habit

all over your face.

your tunes ride on

the ties that bind

so inspired by crime that

kylie had to die

for nick to hit the mainstream.

i love you like coffee,

you make me so edgy.

you caught me maintaining

my secrets on a leash,

wearing your songs

like wet socks on a dismal day

(ringo starr in the minor key).

because you can feign sadness,

but you can’t pretend togetherness.

so tell me i’m beautiful again

while i play morrissey music

till there is no tomorrow

just you

and me

and his words

killing me softly with a blunt object.

did you ever wake up in the middle of a nightmare?

where a man from the 1950’s has just cooked the barbeque in the great outdoors and is walking the tray piled high with hamburgers over to his all american family who are eagerly awaiting the feast at the picnic table and it’s all fresh and healthy and completely normal and even a little bit sweet until i realise that he is on fire, he is literally engulfed in flames. trying to recover from the shock of what i am witnessing i approach from the north to look across to his family who are also ablaze yet behaving in a serene charade of real life. i look down to realise that i too am on fire. it hurts, sort of, but it’s more just cumbersome when you’re in the middle of the inferno, and noisy, so noisy. i contemplate the pain, or lack thereof that anyone is suffering when i look overhead, up into the trees, where against gravity there are people lying face down and horizontal, looking like a troop of ballet extras or circus folk in their green body paint that camouflages them but not quite until i realise that they are all in the throes of grand mal seizures, they are fitting before my very eyes and i just know that television is the devil. they will be there for eternity, an eternity of fitting. it kinda puts my pain in perspective.

immorality now

blow me up and hang me in a gallery

i would be the nude in the ruben's room.

feel my libido being smeared across a

palette of indecencies, make me a

water coloured harlot for dante to admire.

source my oils from exotic places,

paint my peccadillos down to the creases,

stroke, lick, breathe me a heartbeat

in a body that has no boundaries.

drip my desire onto pre raphaelite men

then wipe me clean with a turpentine rag.

decorate your cube with a spattered vulgarity,

it will be worth it.

i am the pouting anti madonna with

forever moist and pouting lips, the nihlistic

exhibitionist, drawn & stretched taunt.

it isn't a matter of distance, or perspective,

on display with the pointed arrow lust of

a thousand horny demons, or my liberty

stained over canvas sheets, it's in the hues

of my contours done justice for flesh junkies

to admire and fingerpaint into wet dreams. it's in the

rampant ambiguity between my legs that makes 

the leap from decorum to depravity, it's in

the subtle shade of knowing that however deep the

dive my eyes will follow.

compliments

his compliments were addictive.
she tried to pack them into boxes
with her other emotional baggage
but they came too fast,
too thick.
they began to wash up her body,
to lap at places forgotten
or undiscovered,
turning the tide on the fear
that held her tight
to make it exciting.
and when she tried to fight it,
to hold her ghosts close
(and her mind closer)
he pulled her into the open,
out of the tower and into the light
and he may not be the right knight
but at least for one night
she could see herself
though his eyes.

the unsaid

the unsaid – i’m a scene left out of a documentary.

endless sense of deferral – gets inside you, closer than breathing.

decentering – i rationalise in circles in an everyday sabotage.

decentering – remembering a previous dream then…

subverted narrative – smoking like the world’s on fire.

doesn’t suppress or devalue as the linear does – but chaos will be present.

a thought is not an instinct.

pushing back the edges of depression – it’s a quick-sand of insanity and I want to scream out “no!” but quickly the sand fills my mouth and I am drawn down into a deep and genuine paralysis of ennui. a thought is not an instinct.

blind. finding my level like water that creeps up to my nostrils in the night when there’s nobody watching. my other senses are heightened but not high enough for me to climb out of here. a thought is not an instinct.

the angry cello of depression strikes a chord in my gut like a cat climbing the curtains of a burning ship while the orchestra keeps on playing, keeps on playing; the angry cello keeps on playing. a thought is not an instinct.

howl. till I’m tearing up photographs and dancing with the moon. crippled kittens and limp spirits join in wanting excess and everything that goes with it so I lite up a cigarette to shut out the rain. a thought is not an instinct.

lessons

lies drip from his eyes to his lips
when the evidence of infidelity is everywhere.
rationalisations thunder above them
in storm clouds and lightning strikes
his veins as he flashbacks the day
she discovered the closed door as a
an instrument of torture,
the moment he poured out his heart
and she called the glass half empty,
the point when he slipped off the
edge of happiness into the lonely
freefall of despair.
now he sits somewhere between
what should be and what is.
(it's very hot, and hard to breathe.)

night blind

in the liquid time and space
that it takes to eat an apple
he has made her cum twice.
night blind,
she is learning to resist -
climbing the heights
beneath his mouth
until gravity means nothing.

and then he cums, under

an upside down moon
in a foreign country.
night blind,
his frail male ego
is released into the ether
of inner lives and
secret moments.

waiting for the wild horses

they touch lips and hear a symphony.

falling like bleeding

dangling on a slipknot of desire.
not even the mercy
of hitting rock bottom,
eating alice cookies.

feeding an addiction
to anticipation,
and when the punch comes
i take it like a blast in the ahhhhm.

stumbling is the cripple’s way,
and as i take out the sand paper
to remind myself, sylvia and the moon
watch on with their o-gape of complete despair.

unseen danger don't scare me.
courting death and the rapist
on a nightly basis,
as i smear my scent, like a cat
around my unlocked doors and windows.

falling like bleeding

falling like bleeding

falling like bleeding.

tsunami

it wasn’t the white flash winter

that we all expected in the 80’s,

or the terrorists as the hot flushes

rip and we’re forced to watch

the apocalyptic film clip

wishing for an alternative ending.

serendipity shuns what it does

not understand with waves

that answer to no one. water

is not life, nature is not my

mother and now they tell me

the earth has shifted.

there’s been a deep rift of spirits,

and everyone’s left with muddy feet

as we gaze into the agonizing chasm,

surrendering to the waves of emptiness,

wishing for an alternative ending.

     why do we tempt the fates then wonder

     what we’ve done to anger the gods?

one word

one word
cant change
years of emotional abuse,
but when he said
pedaphile
i knew
his struggle for control had started early.

dangerface

i fell for his dangerface instantly.

stripping my inhibitions i look sideways,

hitch up my skirt and climb through

the dilated windows of his soul.

i fell for his fresh from treatment face addictively.

the twitches still itching his skin as i watch

him swap one addiction for another,

wishing he’d swap it for me.

i fell for his stubbleface co-dependently.

we clung to each other from the ceiling

then crashed into a crazy love,

hating every minute of it.

i fell for the back of his head gratefully.

we couldn’t remember the words so

the music stopped playing,

and goodbye ran away before i had time to wave.

wild at heart

dismounting the last train

to walk the secret paths of memory

and longing,

turning in circles around

the real issue,

which is forgetting.

you are never coming back -

i know that now,

but your replacements are just pretenders

poor imitators and pointed reminders.

and the moon will supervise the exorcism

as i  laugh with the junkies and cry with the

saints when i know it should

be the other way round,

but it’s like walking up a really steep hill, or a

dingo, all i want is to be wild at heart.

running with knives on a slippery surface

insanity doesn't run in my family,

he walks slowly, and carries a big stick.

he takes me to the park of familiar noises and

spins me too fast on the merry-go-round.

he takes me walking though mine fields in clown shoes

with my little red wagon, collecting victims and empties

and things that go thump in the night.

he takes me stalking the corners of a lifestyle that

no amount of pretending or latex will ever let me join in.

he takes me running with knives on a slippery surface.

he takes me.

he leaves me wrapped up in costumes, too afraid

to get naked.
he leaves me blessed with a vicious beauty, making
me feel more manatee than mermaid.
he leaves me confusing my muse with an addictive personality,
spiting distance from reality but it's all done
with smoke and mirrors.
he leaves me seeing my fears in double vision.
he leaves me.

he drags me along in the hand of illusion, cold hands

for good or evil.
he drags me (kicking and screaming) down the aisle
to my permanent pew in the chapel of unrequited love.
he drags me to the roof and makes me dizzy.
he drags me under the riptide, where it's darker than
a month of new moon midnights, not waving, not drowning,
not even really treading water.
he drags me under.

insanity doesn't run.