bruised banana.

There was this girl; we used to make love. One day she accidentally picked up my coffee instead of hers, the way she shyly apologized and looked away nervously was strangely seductive. That's how we met, her name was Sheena.

Sheena worked at a fruit shop, which was great; I love mangoes. She showed me how to check the ripeness and what to look for when shopping for fruit. I used what she taught me on her breasts; squeeze gently, you want it to be firm yet yielding. She was always ripe.

It was a Tuesday when she found out she was pregnant. She was packing the bananas when I came in to see her; she was holding a bruised banana and looking down at it with a contagious contempt. That crayola brown banana made me anxious.

"I'm pregnant"

Fucking banana.

"What should we do?"

Sheena threw away the banana. Good riddance.

"I'll go to the doctors tomorrow, see what our options are."

It was a Friday when she told me it was alright. I didn't need to ask.

There was this girl; we used to make love, but now we just fuck.

remote. control?

Sometimes I forget my name;

and my place.

I see manicured fools

slyly check their reflections in shop front

windows.

Like thieves, successful in their art.

Keep smiling you smug bastards.

 

Time and again I forget my voice;

but not the idea.

I see these songbirds

gossip and scheme

I open my mouth and the sound is exiled

before it exists,

 an unplanned child from an unplanned kiss.

Keep on singing you birds of prey.

Too often I forget my face;

my space, 

my time,

everyday is a distant re-run

from a distant VCR.

 

feature writer on 'Coming up for Air'

Aloha.

So a short story I wrote (well it's really short, like 500 words.. I think I'll call it a Micro Story) 'The Little Mermaid' has been featured on Ira Mcguire's blog 'Coming up for Air'.

Ira is awesome and you should check it out, she's been featured in Avid Reader's current newsletter and she's always out and about doing readings which are particuarly fantastic. she writes better than me and is a bit of a fox.

http://www.iramcguire.blogspot.com/

Mahalo.

boat people are your friends.

The circumstances surrounding the white man's colonisation of Australia are not dissimilar to the events which took place in the U.S.
The main difference between the two seems to be the fact that in America, Africans were stolen from their native land and put into slavery on the new world of milk, honey and of course cotton.
As terrible as that chapter of history is, and i don't wish to detract from it all, the corresponding indigenous ethnicities between Australia and the U.S is not the Aboriginie and the African American, it's the Aboriginie and American Indian; the Apache, the Navajo, the warriors of the fertile planes, the buffalo herders and the mystic cheifs who hold a natural affinity with the Eagles and the Wolves.

Both these races were raped of their land and given either an apology or a casino as restitution. So when the government of the day and it's supporters speaks about illegal immigration, especially boat people, you can't help but wonder if they're suffering from alzheimers or whether a big night out has left them permanently deprived of serotonin.

straight edge seems plausible.

I'm washing my hands of this situation;
I'm always hungover and
midnight drunk by noon.
My head hurts and I have no money.
Where are my cigarettes?

don't procrastinate.

The word 'procrastinate' really fucks me off.
You don't sound smart when you use it, it's not clever.
'Adjourn', 'hesitate' and 'suspend' sound much better aesthetically and phonetically.
Sometimes the longest word isn't the best.

aim for the head.

She was a furious fuck, and that was fine.
I mean, I don't mind getting rough;
hair pulling and hand cuffs.
But it was her post-game play that petrified me most.
I can deal with spooning
and I can pretend to be interested in getting sushi tomorrow,
It's an integral part of the tango.
But she was thinking of names for our children.
That fucking scared me.

"I think they should both start with 'J',
Joe for the boy and Julie for the girl"

I layed there with my arm hooked below my head,
her head resting on my chest.
I was still half drunk.
And more than willing for round two.

"I don't want twins"
she said.
"I want Julie to be a few years older,
she can be the wise older sister."

She lifted her head from my chest
and looked towards my stubbled chin.

All I could think about was the fact
that i couldn't remember her name,
it migh've been Emma, or possibly
Natalie.

I've thought about kids before.
But i honestly want to have nothing to do with them
I'd like to spread my seed,
but across distant continents.

I'd like to have a Jose
with my eyes and nose
that lives with his mother.
She rocks him gently as
they bathe in pastel colours
of the sun set in El Salvador.

And I'd like a Juanita
with my passion for words
who sits with her mum
as they watch the matadors
dance that suicidal dance of theirs.

But that's far off,
and right now i just want to drink,
smoke
and make love to the girls
who laugh nervously at the bars.

I don't want a Joe.
I don't want a Julie.
I want her to tell me if she's really on the pill
or if I have to pull out and aim for her tits.