poison darts

She came into work with a walk

she had practiced.

a walk that was meant to convey

strength and composure.

I imagined her in front of the full length mirror

rehearsing; 

getting frustrated when she couldn't convince herself;

maybe the smudges were still on the mirror

from where I had fucked her;

that can't be good for this rehearsal process.

Maybe it was strengthening,

like mortar between bricks.

She threw a handful of photos at me,

I didn't care for the gesture.

She took a deep breathe as if 

summoning some more of this inner mortar

for some epic soliloquy; a monologue of her love

and how I had crushed her soul - or something lame like that.

She looked me in the eye, hers red, moist and fibrous;

her lip quivering like a composer's wand in the rapture of a crescendo.

"fuck you."  

She stood waiting for a response,

I must have taken too long as she

turned around and stormed through the door.

Her walk meant something on the way out.

It wasn't stylized or over acted.

It wasn't a choreographed march

with a well rehearsed connotation.

No.

This was real.

I picked up the photos and 

my stomach crumbled like dissolving mortar.

I turned the 'open' sign over; 'closed'.

an early midnight - like I was some ancient god 

with control over time. 

I spent the afternoon burning those photos

It's never a good idea to leave poison darts lying around.

late night

let's go late night shopping;

where the leviathans upsize their combos

for just a dollar extra,

the diet coke flows in downpours 

because we know it keeps you slim.

let's go late night shopping;

where the leeches stalk the carpark

with not a pubic hair to speak of

but a smoker's cough to rival

a seasoned, jaded writer.

let's go late night shopping;

we'll listen to the chorus of cash machines

we'll hand over our lifesavings

just to hear them sing.

let's go late night shopping;

let's whore ourselves

under the red light of coles,

on the corner of general pants and life.

dehydration

"So what should we do?" she asked. It was a Saturday morning and we were hungover; not the dark, immobilizing hangover of spirits but the more cheeky exhaustion fuelled more directly by beer.

"Not sure, but lets go somewhere nobody knows our names or our faces."

She seemed to like that answer. That reassuring little half smile tipped me off, it was no more than a dimple in her left cheek.

We drove two hours south, sticking to the coast; the scenic route. The stereo was on the whole time but I couldn't tell you what we listened to, I was more enthusiastic about the wind passing through the open window and the tuneless humming of the girl in the passenger seat with her bare feet up on the dash board, her woven anklet dancing with the wind as her feet tapped the beat.

I guess I should probably introduce you to the girl in the passenger seat.

Her name's Fiona, I call her Fix. That started when she fixed a broken a cigarette with a tally-ho paper, it stuck. Fix is one of those naturally beautiful girls; you know the ones with long, dark wavy hair and light eyes; either green or blue. I'm not into eugenics or anything but brown eyes are pretty damn ordinary.

The day passed in intervals of cigarettes and stolen kisses; she told me she loved me between drags of a PJ Gold.

I paused for a moment, looked into her sunglasses and spied my own wretched reflection.

I told her I loved her too; I figure pretending to care will get you just as laid as actually caring.

 

Consumerism Blues

I cannot this beat this city
it’s promises of hope;
but a promise is a lie
until it resolves.
it needs me to breathe
for it’s heart to beat.

I need it’s inequality,
it’s rape and it’s racism.
I cannot beat this city,
I need it to breathe.
It’s carapace of concrete
and steel
the grind of my bones
it’s glow in the dark.

I cannot beat this city.
it’s lights shine brighter
than any star,
it’s billboards warmer
than any sun.
it needs me to breathe;
I need it to choke.

about old rollercoaster

it'll burn a hole right through this town.

and all the animals will feel it in their cages,

it'll mix with minerals;

minerals and back bones.

to go home, and reflect,

how they tore this building down

and you ask for more?

it'll pass a century of soil.

icarus will see it,

on his way up past the arrow,

then i'll say

that i understand now,

it is a colour;

these are the people

that i group together.

you pre-curse the letters,

and the postcards that you sent,

well my eyes are open.

sliding your tongue

across the paper

 produces effects;

that resemble weather

then produces weapons,

in the postcards that you sent.

dig a trench with those megaphones,

megaphones and pirates.

everything will change,

when you pull this boat

ashore!

well i need more from you.

some are snakes;

some are poisonous.

you've given up life?

well i give up mine. 

from wheels to motors.

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.