they used to be wolves

Dogs used to stalk

Their prey

Salivating

Growling

Killing

And fucking.

They used to hunt

In packs

Their victims fleeing

At the smell

And the sound

And the sight

At the mere thought

Of being surrounded.

But now they’re

Paralysed

By the kindness

Of strangers

And owners

And kids in the park

With a little leftover

Lasagne.

They all would have been prey

They all would have been fucked.

Especially the kid

With no left over

Lasagne.

oh.

Get

One

Deep.

Over

Heat

Just

Enjoy

Succumb

Undress

Saturate

Oh

Holy

Get

One

Deep.

March 9, 1994.

All I do is counterfeit Bukowski.
That drunken bastard beats me to everything.
Whisky, wine, gambling, girls
That drunken bastard.
Ask the pickpocket or the pawnbroker,
They, all of them, know.
See?
Ask the counterfeiter or
The man sleeping in an alley under a sheet of paper.
That drunken bastard.
Cigarettes and beer and coffee and
Good night, sweet
Little
Motherfucker.
I’m the counterfeiter,
The clown, the mime.
Some say
Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.
Fuck them
they’re counterfeiters like me.
But at least I know it.
At least I know
That drunken bastard
Beat me to everything,
All I can I do is mimic in the margins,
And mime my way into the minds
Of mindless millionaire mockingbirds.
That drunken bastard.

toilet paper

Sometimes,
when i'm reading a really good book
i'll only read it
on the toilet.

I feel like
i'm shitting out something terrible
i've read
or
seen or
heard or
written
and replacing it.

i hope i never shit out Spiegelman's Maus.

steak, sex and hunter s.

It was a self imposed exile that led her to the funeral pyres of New York City.
Queensland’s golden beaches had iodised
corroded
each grain of sand was a rusting fish hook
holding her back
digging deep, deep, deep.
She had been bruised and battered
and broken
burnt,
almost buried.
Her esteem exhumed from deep between her ribs
and the largest island on earth
became a cage.

It was in the ashes of this city,
where the rubble still weighed heavy in the hearts
of the roaches, the rats
and reborn
she found an Englishman in the midst of a typhoon.
For three full days the winds and the mist
battered at the windows
but the whalers whaled,
hit after hit
the harpoon dug deep, deep, deep.
With each harpoon hit the hooks were released
and the reborn rats celebrated in the streets,
they had found their roach
and in a sea of stars and stripes
and blue, white and red
the rubble was cleared from their hearts.

She wanted to disappear into the streets of the city,
to lose her face,
become a ghost.
But with eyes the colour
of hundred dollar bills
she was pollen to Wall Street wasps.
Everyday they tried to sting her skin
everyday their needles missed.
Even though her skin stayed intact,
the attempts acted as acupuncture.
It took a few months but she found herself
in those streets and in the skyline
over looking the park in the centre of the city.

Eventually when she thought of home
the rusting hooks crumbled into sand,
the bars corroded
and she longed for home.
She left the rubble,
the rats
and roaches behind,
she felt the sand glowing gold between her toes.

She found a writer to re-write her woes.
She exiled the rust,
the harpoons and the hooks.
She imprisoned the warden and calmed the typhoon.

The Little Mermaid.

She sat at the end of the bar; solemn, silent and nursing a vodka, lime and soda. I promised myself I would fuck her tonight as a tear rolled down her cheek and into her vodka; she didn't see it, she just kept drinking. I found it strangely seductive; someone once said tears make the best lube.

I sat next to her and asked her what was wrong. She paused for a second, then looked up from her drink. Her lime green eyes looked me up and down, then back to her drink.

"All you boys are the fucking the same."

She took the straw out of her glass and finished the rest of her drink in a heroic gulp.

"Here, let me get you another one." I was staying true to the promise I made myself - trying to at least.

"Yeah whatever." She seemed indifferent, but it was better than nothing.

The hipster bartender with the skinny black tie, shoulder length hair and dirty sanchez moustache made her drink the proper way; no cordial - muddling the lime with the vodka then shaking with ice.

I paid the eight dollars and asked the girl with the green eyes her name.

"Ariel; like the mermaid."

"Why is such a pretty mermaid so sad?" I know its lame, but you've gotta work with what you're given.

"My boyfriend is a cunt." That turned me on. "He cheated on me."

"Yeah, he does sound like a cunt, how could he cheat on the little mermaid?" Stroke the ego.

Thirty five dollars, eight cigarettes and a packet of chips later I was walking to the taxi rank with my little mermaid. She’d stopped crying, and her smile was haunting. I had never seen anything so beautiful, and I was seeing it in double.

The ten minute taxi ride back to her place was silent. We kissed like we were underwater; we'd drown if our lips parted. My fingers slipped below her skirt and the little mermaid purred for a second.

We walked the stairs up to her apartment; conjoined twins at the hips and lips. Her shirt was off before we made it to her door.

I threw her onto her futon bed, she pulled off her skirt; I crawled up to her and took off her French laced knickers with my teeth then ate her out for the sweetest 20 minutes off my life. Her breathes became short and rapid, her moans were sonnets composed by history's greatest poets.

As she came she grabbed the back of my head and pulled me into her crotch, like she was trying to suffocate me. It would've been the most glorious death; fuck honour and dying in battle.

I climbed up her body, licking every inch of her porcelain skin. She kept singing her seductive sonnets.

She exhaled a verse full of metaphors and similes as I held the promise I made myself earlier. She had already come so I wasn't concerned for her. This was for me.

The little mermaid was on her hands and knees as I finished my own flawed sonnet. I painted a masterpiece on her lower back.

I lay next to her as I caught my breath. She kissed my neck and ran her fingers across my chest, drawing love hearts.

When I finally caught my breath, I rolled off her now damp futon bed and put on my jeans and slipped on my shoes.

"Where are you going?" The little mermaid whispered.

"Sorry baby. We're all the same."

Very GC.

There is nothing scenic;
or serene
about the Surfers Paradise
skyline.
It is nothing but
a brutal
bukkake scene.
The skyscrapers
are the dicks
slapping against
your face.
And the only glitter
on the glitter
strip
is the glint
of the sun
off the cum
on your face.