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.