Saturday, 15 December 2007

estelle sitting on her morning chair

She rescued a moth
She stayed awake all night
She watched from her window

The orange creep
over Elizabeth Bay
waits one lonely hour
maybe two
turns whitely blue
has Rose Bay molluscs
running for holes
in the sand

She rescued a moth
She stayed awake all night
She watched from her window

The grasscutters glare
from Mcelhone Park
shines upward then falls
in quick repitition
the blade like precision
has codfish swimming in circles
waiting for something to eat

She rescued a moth
She stayed awake all night
She watched from her window

Thursday, 22 November 2007

Number 51

I'm just a muse
just a kings cross muse
blanketed between worlds
stretching through eons
riding the tidals
tripping over myself
throwing in the towel
and taking up
a real fight
skinny light surrounds me
cornerstones come
and go
text messages rain from my mouth
perennial as they are
clouds gather curiously
as I hum an airy tune
a sequence
a break
a crack
bits of stars
that I once held in my pocket
fall helplessly home
its apathy well trodden
a patterned existence
a courtroom drama
a moment to reflect
I'm just a muse
just a kings cross muse.

Friday, 16 November 2007

buffalo brains don't see it comin'

The real estate guy
with his accurate watch
and an eye for an angle
paces the laneway
in his infinite wisdom.

Drinking it all in.

Like a buffalo on kakadu bank.

but what's underneath
the ripple concentric.....

a masked opportunity?
a new fallen leaf?

There's a swampy miasma
hangs over this town.

Two hundred a barrel
black slimy shock
creeps up from behind
like an old giant croc.

Friday, 9 November 2007

Whirling Ghost of the Cross

Your pendant reflects a ghost
that flirts about this room
my half moon gaze
has long become routine....

And look!
This steady hand can prove it.

Whispy haleys' comet lace
in tarantella dance
she bounds
from bites upon her neck.
Her spectral beauty
spins and spins for me.

I know it's true.
I've seen it done.
Her dervishesque excitement
leaves me panting.

And yes .....
The cutlery and the switches
are unmoved.
And curtains steady in their drop
except for harbour breezes,
keeps bristles on our necks
as languid
as the night.

and still ....
you look upon me strangely
as if I'm cursed
or worse ....
a stinging tongue
that fails to rest

Then turn your reddened eyes this way
she dances near us now
and trust my heart
won't fall for such a spirit.
For earth be earth's
and moon be moon's.

And look!
This steady hand can prove it.

Tuesday, 30 October 2007

the shout of an ordinary man

Like nothing on this earth
I'm again breathless,
float above your means.
No time can silence us
yet I'm again speechless .....
drift above yourself

love me love me
love me till i die

A cordial arrangement
it's the blessed two
I was once lonely.
Fear not the wind
but the seething sun.....
never mind never mind

love me love me
love me till i die

Monday, 22 October 2007

Fellini Friends and Flikes

He is tall, flamboyent
with a storytellers' tongue.
He has a dozen habits on full display.

There is a von Trapp tilt
to his hat
and just underneath he wears
a mesmerising glint.

Always curious
Always irreverent
and charming to the bone ..... Paul.

He runs the old shop
(and I love old shops you know)
that houses 16mm classics
and dusty tins
of Fellini firsts
and things like that.

Paul screens them once a month
in a small room
above a resteraunt
in Kings Cross.

A few of us go.

Estelle is there
the grande old dame
and so is Lester
the saucy old boho.
Look ... there's Salmacis and Alter.
Dr Death and Denise.
The Butcher, Inventoria,
the mandarin couple from Sorrento,
the Czech boys and Robert.

Greetings whip about the room
like the spring breeze
that whistles up the back stairway.
I hear glasses clink above monthly goings on.

A makeshift screen,
some crabby old chairs
and a couple of speakers
defying gravity on the windowsill.
Outside on the street ....
it's worlds away.

Paul finishes preparing
reels and cannisters
then flails into action
at the front of the room
announcing proudly ....
arms and all ....
"ladies and gentleman ......
if you would be so kind"
He regally nods at the chairs.
And we sit.

What will it be?
It's always a classic.
I bet a black and white beauty.

The lights are dimmed
and a 16mm beam shoots
above our heads
scattering the dancing dust.
The whir of the projector....
that dying art buzz.

This is how a film should be seen
says Inventoria in my ear.
I nod agreement.

Aahh I know this one.
I love it.
"Umberto D"
Di Sicas' greatest film,
some would say,
on the human condition.
An old and dignified man struggles to cope
in post war Rome.... with his best friend ...
a dog terrier ..... Flike.

As with all Italian cinema
of this era
each frame is breathtaking,
lovingly shot
with an artists eye.
A masterpiece.

We all dissappear for 90 minutes...
taken away by lights on a screen
away ..... far away.

And then the lights are back up
the room erupts in applause
as proud Paul takes a bow.

There's some cake and mutterings.
Salmacis and I talk about shadows
and how they aint in
movies much these days.

Paul remains tight lipped
about next months surprise
as the Czech boys recommend
to him a Slovak tragedy.

Inventoria catches my eye
and it's time to go home.
We slip down the stairway
and onto our bikes ....
lets call them "flikes"

We see Paul
as he leans out the window
to wave us farewell
or maybe .....
to just grab some air.

Tuesday, 16 October 2007

an essay on a fruitful life

Another day in the sun
Another neon overload
Another sacred second passes
Another day to get it right this time

Tuesday, 25 September 2007

The 5 dollar stakes

There's an old curious brown port
in the corner of the junkyard shop
that I've had my eye on
for several days.

It's got a T.A.A. sticker
and some travelling scars
and a glass minaret
for a lock.

Legend has it ... and legend it is...
when the lock is broken
to see what's inside ....
a sticky blue gas
wraps you up like a boa.
Turns your eyelids to stone.
Leaves your heart black as peat.

A menacing thought
but I pay my 5 bucks
to the grey smiling woman
and take the port home
lay it down on the table.
It feels like there's papers
and readable stuff
maybe some photos
maybe black and white.

I'll tap it with a hammer
the glass minaret
the legend I'll push it
to the back of my mind
and tense my hand round the small wooden handle
closing my eyes
counting to three
taking a shortened breath.......

When the most amazing thing happened.
..... my firealarm went off
right there and then
almost above my head.
I must have jumped
four feet in the air.
Hammer hit the ground with a thud.

I stood back and glanced
at the old brown port
my red heart beating
like a fat bass drum.

Next day I take it ...
without much sleep
up to the junkyard shop
unopened and get my 5 bucks back.

The grey lady grabs it
throws back her shawl
places it down near the huge mirrorball
and for a moment she seems so ferociously tall
as she waves me a witchy goodbye.

Friday, 14 September 2007

this and that

my ear was pricked by a breath this morning
and when I turned
was no one there

the seat of idris called my name
again I turned
was all alone

so a thousand goblins dance beneath
this ether at my nose
drinking honey mead and fig
and other spells
slipping in the splittest of seconds
you see.......
they can't be touched by hands that flow
with blood and warmth

and a small latte takeaway
no sugar thanks mate

and then it's back
as quick as that

this overwhelming
blanket tucked in
righteous .... kind of
non relenting
loudly spoken
fact reminding
oft pretending
market driven
shackle breaking
must admit I ain't complaining
piano playing day!

Monday, 3 September 2007

cyclone stanley and all that jazz

Stan whisks up to the fountain.
Around him Kings Cross has a distinct spring in its step.
A bee bop kind of swing.

He wears grey creased trousers
and his hair is short with a hint of a quiff.
His white shirt is unbuttoned and relaxed.
Stanley must be close to 80.

I say something innocuous about the day
and he eyes me off with a lion like glint...
part curious, part predatory.
It doesn't last long though.

He smiles a bit ......Do you like jazz?
Sure, I say. I like the way it's improvised.
He snorts half an approval
making a sound like a giant purr.

I used to play jazz in this park he continues.
1957. After the war and before the beatles.
Music ..... and he stares at me with that jazz players intensity ....
was no better than then m'boy.

Now I would never dismiss the good gents appraisal
but I just had to counter that one ....
when he got all enthusiastic on me

Saturday nights. Couldn't beat em ...
you woulda loved it.
He points toward the fruit shop and
paints me a picture ........

We used to set up over there.
They'd put a stage up for us and the other groups.
Alex was playing the upright piano.
Bill played the flute and the sax.
Max his double bass.
I was on the drums. A silver ludwig.
I've still got the snare

We would make it all up .....
well at least until some standard
came floating in,
then we'd run with that for a while.
Then maybe I'd hit the shuffle pedal
.... and off we'd go again.

The beatnik crew wore black suits
and crazy thin ties.
Kerouac beards and all....
always talking jazz nonsense.

Stan had a flush in his cheeks ....
stared at something in his past,
pointed and continued ....

An old speaker hung from that tree,
so the singers could be heard
way up here near the fountain ...
and to announce the next group

mmm and the sharpies would hang at the front.
Dark glasses all of em.
Right through the night.
The girls had brazen scarves
tied around their heads ....
all of em had matching thin cardies.
Everyone smoked.

Then back to Roosavelts
or maybe the Amsterdam cafe
dependin on how I felt,
with the others ... you know

Amazingly he pauses
long enough for me to
maybe say something,
..... say anything when
his friend arrives
calling his name...

Snapped back to now ...
he continues
Ok gotta go ... nice talkin

yeah .... ok... seeya I say.

What a whirlwind!

I watch him as he taps his fingers
against his thighs
scuttling the pigeons that dance now
where beatnikers would swing
and Stan used to play jazz
50 years ago
this Saturday night.

Tuesday, 21 August 2007

Serpentine Day

A princess went riding
on the back of a dragon
a komodo he was
lickety firefly tongue.

Past three lava hills
glowing and belching
under a skylight orange
that showed them the way.

And in one of his talons
he held up a palm tree
fanned back the heat
and the sand fly storms.

And when the moonshine lay resting
they drank from the river
and swam there in secret
on serpentine day.

Wednesday, 15 August 2007

dust + time = life

This branch we lay
is young like plastic
a straight up fuckin baby.
Not tested
or yet sunned to wood,
as killjoys
who misunderstood
will pass the time of day like this
so see through
and so fickle.

tick ..... wait
tock .... wait
wait some more and longer

tick ..... wait
tock .... wait
wait some more and longer

See natures' watch
it moves so slow
like Judith Wrights old cycad
not plastic now
not cleanskin wine
a fiery brew
old frankenstein
makes crisp fresh air from musty slime
and culture
out of jihad

Wednesday, 8 August 2007

Back with a huff and a puff

wake up
wake me up
from this slumber I keep
my eyes are blunted

the city billows blow
the billows blow

shake me
shake me up
from this autumn I keep
my heart confronted

the city billows blow
the billows blow

face me
face up to me
I know that you're singing
but my ears are drowned out

the city billows blow
the billows blow

.......... and then
the magnolia trees in Orwell Street
spring into life again.
The air seems more see through
and the sandman himself
goes to sleep.
Birds find holy trees and X
still marks the spot
of last nights' pinpoint

the city billows blow
the billows blow

Sunday, 22 July 2007

my grande neighbours

Who would wish to sleep like this.
It rattles, feigns a rooftop
and stinks like despots grave
whose gilded mansions,
for the moment,
hide the drizzle.
Still all the same
we sleep it off
still all the same
we die.

Monday, 16 July 2007

protea poet

an old man stands by a grave
reading poetry to his dead sister
the ice on the ground doesn't bother him
nor my glances ....

I stretch my eyes to read his lips .......

tree ferns ripple at the steeple
green ghosts whistle by the cross
marble stone scratches
and protea leaves
lost in a personal loss.
and seedlings remind me
of springtime in roma
and roma reminds me of you.
so I'll plant for tomorrow
in basalt black ridges
elvira my sister for you.

the old man lifts his head
from the leather bound book.
a whip bird breaks the silence.
the old green wooden church
sheds a tear it seeems ....
and I leave.

Friday, 6 July 2007

A kings cross morning

It's busier than usual
and the sunshine looks cold.
Lots of men about with short hair
and short haired dogs with coats.
Some with fluffy hoodies.
I mean ....... really!

An old lady taps her fingers
in time to something
only she can hear.
The wind starts then stops
then starts again.
A seabird hitches a ride.
I think about my lover
and that I should write a new poem.

There's a big ship in town.
and red white and blue balloons
hang from the shopfronts.
A red one frees itself
and I watch it's upward escape.
I remember an old book I once had
called the red balloon.
Some kid spent his day chasing
this balloon about the streets.
I loved that book and I have an idea...

Now .... where'd that balloon go?

Monday, 25 June 2007

a day at the flicks

Lester is a Kings Cross character
who has featured on these pages before.
In 1958 he was a celebrity of sorts
and on this day was to give an interview..
at the Minerva ... now the Metro in Orwell Street.

Lets peek back at his day ...........

Apple schnapps, cherry wine
and the misfortune of another interview.
This limo has no guts...
Lester stared out the window
to Macleay Street people.
Beatniks in bleachers with the hint of a suntan.
New lovers, old lovers, reinvented lovers
patchwork lovers and lovers to be.

The door opens at the top of Orwell Street
and the flashlights dance around his face.
Lester spills schnapps on his greatcoat
as he crashes for the door of the theatre.

The hiss and screech of film,
flashes of warmth on his face.
"Lester will you ..... and the new movie,... can you"
a woman yells something important in his ear.
Lester sees a face he recognises
but it gets lost in the throng.
The carpet has a blood stained hue.
"This way ..... please...."
and up the snaily stairway he goes.

Lester stood at the top
and turned back to the waving crowd
in the foyer below.
All eyes stared him down.
How strange, he thought, to be so desired.
My back hurts, my teeth are yellow
and the whole things a fuckin mess.

A door behind him opens sharply
as a clumpy man swings into view..
"This way, quickly, she's waiting".

Lester walks through the doorway
and follows the rather gruff and pompous fellow
along a thin veneered hallway
into a large leatherclad office.
The light was dim and the roaring open fire
bounced from the cheeks
of the old lady sitting in an armchair.
She wore a long tartan skirt
and a bright green skivvy with the words
"now or never" emblazoned across the front.

"Welcome Lester. Nice to meet you..... "
pausing for some kind of introduction.
Please sit here .... next to me
I have something to ask of you ..........

........At this point we lose transmission
so back to akkm and regular bloggin .....
We'll catch up with Lester another day.

Wednesday, 13 June 2007

bonnie and clyde river

The old river is graced by pelicans
for most of the time.
Except when it rains at lake eyre...
2000 miles away.
Only happens once in ten years.
But they know somehow.
Fly away to eat
and do what pelicans do .....
a wise man told me so.

But why do they do it?
How do they know?
Good fuckin question.
Guess they just know
more than we do.
Webs on the earth
for eons and eons....
stepping in god
that they call the ground.

Don't need to make stuff up
to get themselves through....
the old souls just fly west
cause they know they have to.

Tuesday, 5 June 2007

run for the hills

The Paragon is a ghostly place
It creaks and shivers
like deco should.
Fills my head with 78's
and dusty tunes.
Windows bluffed by snow machines
and tasty treats.
I churn back time.

Behind the shopfront
there is a grandeur.
A chocolate factory and a bakery.
Boxes of photos and old invoice books.
Parasoul girls give me black and white looks.
And wise green machinery,
rust filled and murky
once whirred for the noblest
from Old Sydney Town.

Now I haven't been there for years
But I used to go every day......
Poured the coffee and cooked the eggs.
And out the back
there's an old school ballroom
with a mirrored bar that'll take
your breath away.
In the 1920's they danced till dawn.
Some of the old boho's still visit the ballroom,
even though they've been dead for decades.

Never fully believed that stuff
till I saw it myself.
Standing there in his red buttoned coat
Like some lord of the realm ......
But there he was....
as I ate my lunch.
Plain as day.

The Paragon is a ghostly place.

Saturday, 26 May 2007

a successful conversation with a teenager

m= muse t= teenager

m... what would you do if there was no electricity?
t... well that wouldn't happen. Would it?
m... one day, I think it will. Imagine.
t... sigh, ummm

(I interupt like a know it all)

m... no itunes, no westfield, no tv, no myspace
t... well I'd have to kill myself then.

( I detect a healthy sarcasm)

m... you know what?
t... no
m... I'm going to take you camping
t... OK
m... OK

Friday, 25 May 2007

you left some feathers behind

Above my head
there are cloud lips.
Below my feet
there are cobble green eyes.
And Llankelly Place
is a stretched out arm
with the touch of a black cockatoo.

Monday, 21 May 2007

scribbled on a ticket december 03

Don't define love
show love
a definition is a substitute
for the real thing.

It's like being stranded
half out of life.
And the language,
it's beauty, imprisons us,
holds us servant to words
To sneer and crack
and crack again..........
and still never get the meaning.

Tuesday, 15 May 2007

Old World Charm

Picture this.....

7pm mid May 2007
Kings Cross Sydney.
3 plastic tables cluster about a struggling fern or two
in an open courtyard.
The sign on the double glass sliding door says
"dine in the elegant dining room
or perhaps outside in the beautiful
tropical garden setting" .....
I turn to look at the plastic tables.

Through the doors a bar is dimly lit
and splashed by a blue cristmas decoration
lazing on the benchtop.
It sparkles off the Cointreau.
12 empty tables spread out perfectly to the right
bordered by a deep violet curtain.
I'm glad I've worn my velvet jacket.

Chandeliers hang overhead
like a crystal jigsaw puzzle.
Statuettes sprout lights and trumpets.

My sweetheart (the master inventor .... Inventoria) and I
decide to partake of a cocktail before dinner ....
Two margueritas please.
They are promptly made without fuss or flare.
No tricks or twirling bottles.
No plates for change.
With salty lips we wonder where the world went.

The chef steps out of the kitchen,
wanders past us and says hello.
Dean Martin and Ole Blue Eyes
swan about the room as we order another one each please.
The world outside is distinctly remote.....
What magic is this m'dear?

We escort ourselves to our table and menus arrive
What! ....check it out .... no, it can't be true ....
But yes ....there it is .....$3 entrees
Mussells on the half shell ..... Eggplant and relish
Angel hair pasta.....and of course prawn cocktails.
Inventoria orders three because they are such good value.
I stick to one. I'm saving up for the $9 mains.
Now ....I'm a muse who knows a bit about a Dianne sauce
and I've not had quite such a pleasure since .... well ....
since "Hair" played at the Old Minerva.

Tables fill up slowly.
A nervous first date, a cockney family,
a seasoned old gay couple.
Mutterings melt into the curtains
and there is a soft edge to the evening.
We leave reluctantly.

Outside the years come flooding back.
Sharp shiny edges with a neon overload.
A cacophony of stuff.
A Nissan Pathfinder blasts on down the road.

Back here .... Back now...
Where have we been for the last two hours? I ask
Inventoria shrugs ponderingly.
We turn to face the resteraunt.
There's nothing there.
It's gone......that old world charm

But if you look real hard ...........

Wednesday, 9 May 2007

Do you remember a guy thats been?

A large stone mansion appeared on the hillside.
Maids and waiters ushered plates
to the people lying on the lawn outside .......
What am I doing here? wondered Lester.

The afternoon sun relaxed.
Strangers laughed and the breezes
circled their voices.
Lester rested his moppy head
and stared at the bluest sky he had ever seen.

He had been here before ...
thousands of times
but not once could Lester remember.
Not even the faintest feeling of it.

A trick of the light
A trick
the light

A television set appeared on the lawn.
Lester watched the screen
flicker to life.
Everyone was falling asleep.
The sunshine too became weary

A video clip .... What is that song?
muffled .... flickering scenes
with cotton wool melodies,
asking gently to be noticed.
Lester leaned forward
and fell headlong into the image on the screen

He stood on a brown desert plain,
A clown marched past....
also a diva with 1983 makeup.
There was a colourless menacing sky
and a wave rolled onto the shore....
It's that ashes to ashes one!
The one about an early song,
What am I doing here? wondered Lester.

A trick of the light
A trick
the light

Monday, 7 May 2007

My Days

This is how I spend my days
This is how I break my back
This is how I live my dreams
This is how I write a tune
This is how I ring my daughter
This is how I sometimes feel like shit
This is how I buy the milk
This is how I show fucking respect
This is how I call my friends
This is how I hold my head up high
This is how I fall in love
This is how I spend my days

Tuesday, 1 May 2007

Another day at Jasons guitar shop

Jason was a man that accumulated mess
and he seemed to very quickly.
Dust on the shelving
wood shavings on the till
paint splattered carpet
superglue on his hands.

The counter was a pile of guitar parts
scribbled down notes
last nights dinner
last weeks breakfast ....
my phone was down there somewhere.
Leads and batteries
half a distortion pedal
at least three coffee cups
Jasons tablets
the chords to a new song idea .....

This was the counter mess.
The mess though,
was much larger than the counter
and would spill outward
to become general shop mess
or behind the counter mess
or window display mess.

Shop proirity was not cleaning.
Suited me just fine.
I've kinda spent my life surrounded by
guitars and bits and bobs....
tripping over leads and instruments
with scant regard for domestics ..... therefore
at Jasons you wouldn't here me complaining
Well maybe only one day ......

It was an early morning customer
about 11 am.
I was in the shop standing behind the counter
pondering the mess.
Jason hadn't turned up yet.
But I had a distinct feeling
he had been in the shop till the early hours.

Do you have 2 sets of bronze wound lights
12 gauge preferably.
Sure mate I said ...
scrambling through the counter top
I found one set easily.
The second set would be a liitle harder to find.
I tipped books and bills onto the floor.
I pushed coffe cups around like that magic trick...
careful not to tip any over the good customers wallet
that he had placed delicately
on the only counter space remaining.

I lifted an opaque tuppaware container
three quarters filled with some yellowy liquid.
I moved it quickly to the floor behind the counter.
The lid was not secure and a good splash landed on the wallet.
Luckily the customer was distracted
by the Midnight Blue Fender Jaguar
hanging on the wall.

"Great neck on that one" I enthused
as I smudged the wallet almost dry.....
I found the second set of strings and the customer paid up ......
like nothing had happened
He popped his dampish wallet back in his pocket
smiled and left.

Normally I would just apoligise and be upfront
about a spillage like this ...... but you see
the shop had no toilet
and with Jason working late most nights
or the coffee shop toilet in use
one had to come up with solutions.
Jason even labelled the tuppaware containers
with our names .....

When Jason arrived
I told him about wallet man.
It made his day.
He thought it was hilarious...... and it was.
I also took the opportunity to say to Jason
that the counter mess was ok with me....
but could we draw the line with human waste.

Sure said Jason.... agreeing with that impish look of his
He rattled his keys, pointed to the door and said ...
c'mon ..... lets go to the Piccollo for a coffee.

Friday, 27 April 2007

technology head

Gangster rap and all that crap
shoot me dead in the head
You know you've made your own bed
so many words but nothing said

Back to nature we must go
find out where we came from
cause now we've got the A bomb
the ferarri of destruction

Educate and liberate
every soul a concious state
koala boys and swiss girls
everything around the world

Media and television
lies and truth in collision
have you learned of life itself
before you take on education

I don't think so technology head
I don't think so

Catch 22 for me and you
planet earth goes down the loo
so few know where drowning
and the ufos are coming

Religion and evolution
black and white thought pollution
can't we get some new ones
the old ones are just no fun

Something is dying
and it's not the aussie dream
our eyes are filled with lust and greed
when they should be filled with tears

Crying for the dead trees
and the damage done
how long till we realise
mother natures number one

so now I ask two simple things
because I've gotta know
is there a way of turning back
is it too late to get back on track

I don't think so technology head
I don't think so

........... reprise.....
back to basics all you slackers
pray too hard and you'll turn crackers
seems the meanings in the breathing
believe you can
with all your imagination.

......because I can

love akxm

Tuesday, 17 April 2007

would you like greens with that?

It's an inviting shopfront.
Swirling and indifferent.
I push the door.
It opens effortlessly.

Strange and oblique objects
adorn the walls.
Gliitering things that rob
my attention.
Things as tiny as quavers.
Things as large as families.

Things I know i can afford.

Sitting behind the bejeweled counter
is Salmacis ....
The Teardrop Collector.
A hermaphrodite mother
that looks right through me
but speaks at me directly ......

Hello ... welcome.
Lester said you were in town.
Choose what you wish.
I smile politely.

I'm drawn to the silver bullet
piercing a blue sky.
An artwork and a responsibility.
It hangs in time and out.
A portent or maybe a dear john.
I've owned it forever ....
and it me.

This ..... I'll take this,I say.

mmm,,you'd better be sure
says the Teardrop Collector.
I've sold a heart for less.....
but none as rich or as rare
as this planet earth.

I'm outside again ....
The shopfront swirls at me still.
My pockets are full,
full of riches and promises...

and responsibilities.

Monday, 16 April 2007

a proper poem about the wind

How invisible the road that
brings my soul news
of tempers and drifting love
of passions and hatreds and seedlings just born
of marketplace chatter of fraction and thorn
and for a moment I feel it
till it's shattered and torn
by the banter of Blustery Bill
even whispers from Wishing Well Hill.

Now a swing in the seasons
from Rosehip to Myrrh
sets a pace to the etheral tide
blowing secrets and trystes and truths to be sworn
past the opiate evenings
past a crystal clear dawn
now I know I can feel it
so I'm silently drawn
to the Darlinghurst Rd Kings Cross Fountain
by the breezes from Glorious Mountain.

Tuesday, 3 April 2007

exert from a breakup letter

The gods were close today.
I could feel them.
I said it to myself earlier.....
The whole day seems strange.
Strangely pleasant.

For me...
when they are close
they are trying to tell me something.
you don't deserve to feel like this
and that the sun
is about to come up

and it is.

Wednesday, 28 March 2007

The apple of my i pod

There's a message at my doorstep
Lace trimmed and violet
It reads ........ Turn around now!
I don't even think
I should but I never do.

So I tumble like a tuft
Fearless like a firefly
Funny thing is ....
there's nothing there
save for this expectation
and a hope of you.

Thursday, 22 March 2007

old man river

It's a settled heirarchy.
Ghouls,ghosts, gods and children.
I pretend to understand
but something washes over me,
diverts my attention.
Scatters my thoughts.
Something about a mangrove swamp
the moon and a river.

The hookers look so lonely.
In need of a swim.
But what would I know ....
I'm just a drag queen
ready to put on a show
about my fabulous shoes
and my fabulous things.
But the twist is ...
and get this,
it's really about
my fabulous sense of direction.

I know where the stage is ...
over there..
draped and three steps high.
Flickering candles and round french tables.

And I know where home is ...
Down the stairs and round the corner
left and a little on.

And then it's gone.....
that thinnest of veneers,
that veil of misconception.
Lets the stars shine on down,
whistling past the moon
and the mangrove swamp
.... to old man river.

Friday, 16 March 2007

a simple round

Once I knew a man
who used to tread the boards.
He sold his soul
for a moment
and a red velvet jacket.

What was that sweet thing
he used to sing about,
what was that sweet thing?

Once I knew a girl
who asked me out to dance
by the waters of St Andrews
where the lights
have a mind of their own.

What was that sweet thing
she used to sing about
what was that sweet thing?

Once I had a house
that went for miles and miles
or so it seemed.
You know why ....
It had four wheels
and an engine.

What was that sweet thing
it used to sing about
what was that sweet thing?

Once I knew a beach
that used to know my name.
I used to lie upon her shore
And listen to the
night time tide.

What was that sweet thing
she used to sing about
what was that sweet thing?

Once I had a beat up
three string guitar
a rattle in a box
and a junked up
buzz saw band.

What was that sweet thing
we used to sing about
what was that sweet thing?

Once I knew a man
who used to tread the boards.
He sold his soul
for a moment
and a red velvet jacket.

What was that sweet thing
he used to sing about,
what was that sweet thing?

Monday, 12 March 2007

The Great Procrastinator Strikes Again

What if you had one wish
Just one and no more
and only 60 seconds to decide....

Would it depend on the moment
or would todays wish be
different from tomorrows.
Would it be a global wish
or self serving,
or a combination of......

50 seconds

And heres hoping that the giver
is of sound mind and background.
Would it be for the good
of your children
or your childrens children
or just a plain old miillion bucks
right here, right now.....

40 seconds

No time to consult
those that should be consulted.
Your fucking decision
and nobody else has a say on this one.
Shall I spend it wisely
on the planet
or that fickle river called happiness.
Oh ... but without the opposite what am I?.......

30 seconds

Lost love, future love, fixed up love.
Fame,fortune, famine free or fantasy.
Do I really have to decide?
Yes you do ....

20 seconds

A talent to surpass all talents
but not without the grounded stuff.
or what about
a never ending holiday
full of Atlantean beauty ....
but could I?
or yes ... a big.... no huge house
thats fully green and solar of course ...
with everything

10 seconds

Ooh better get serious now.
mmm mmm
all this wanting.
gotta be one of the big ones
I suppose ..
love,beauty,family,friends ...
oh good lord
how can I wrap that up in 3 seconds?

oh bugger it...

I wish for
more wishes please.

Wednesday, 7 March 2007

water water water

Now that was a rainstorm ...
A nightstorm.
And outside
with the steam rising from the street
it could be
Gotham City
Blade Runner
The Maltese Falcon
or even .....
The Day of the Triffids.

And what now....
that the last storm of summer,
tho long inbetween,
washed little away
that didn't belong.....
'Cause where's left to go
now the drainpipes are full.
Except down to the sea,
the salty salty sea.

Sunday, 25 February 2007

Jason and the Infinity Tattoo.

There used to be a guitar shop
in Roslyn Street.
Just up from the Piccollo
and opposite Barons.
It was always grotty and dusty
but had some sparkling guitars
hanging on the wall.
It was run by Jason.
A short muscular guy
who was prone to wearing
leather jackets and chain mail singlets.
Jason would often work late into the night
repairing or just playing guitars.
In the morning I would often find him
asleep behind the counter.

He says to me one day ....
you know my life is fucked ....
I never leave Kings Cross,
actually I hardly ever leave this street,
or this shop. ...
He'd laugh though.
He thought the whole thing was funny
and sad.
Ok, I say. How about I work the shop Thursdays
and you can jump on your bike
and ride somewhere....
Yeah ... really ... he'd say,
.. thats a great idea.
I could ride to the Blue Mountains
He seemed enthusiastic.
He only went once.

We used to sit around on amps
playing songs all day.
He taught me major seventh type chords.
Real Burt Bacharac sounding.
Sometimes touring guitar players
would walk in to the shop mid verse
to buy some oblique looking Fender
that was hanging on the wall.

Another day Jason says ....
hey have you got a tattoo.
No, I reply.
Well you can't work here without one.
He locks the shop and drags me up to the local parlour
on Darlinghurst Road.
We scan the images on four walls.
Jason points .... what about that dragon ....
or that tiger..... oh no that skull and cross bones ... hey?
What about that star up there ...
in the corner ... I suggest.

Jason sighs, resigned to the fact that stars
are more my style.
Here's $80 .... it's todays pay
see ya back at the shop he says.

Jason was a lovely man and a good friend (RIP)
He succumbed to the black dog
a few years after the shop closed.
Ironically I moved to the Blue Mountains
for couple of years .... so hadn't seen him in a while.

When I'd heard he died I stared at my tattoo ..
An 8 pointed star
with an infinity sign in the middle.
It's no giant wizard .... sorry Jase...
But thanks .... I love it.

Thursday, 22 February 2007

say this over a crazy loop

This place will be filthy one day.
Filthy with the stench of the human race.
I am so lucky to be here today,
the water is so clear
and the air is so fresh.
I'm so lucky to see and smell these beauties.
My grandchildren will only hear of such places.
When they are old enough to do
what I am doing now
this planet will be filthy,
filthy with the stench of the human race.

The people here are friendly
and why not?
The air puts roses in your cheeks.
And when the last shop is shut
the only sound you will hear
is the wind
or maybe a few wild animals doing it in the bushes.

There is snow on the mountains,
the mountains drop into the lakes.
The lakes drift off into the distance.
When the sun rises
the cold night disappears
and there is instant warmth.
Warmth and peace in my mind.

There will be records kept of this place
for future generations.
Maybe photos with written descriptions.
But this place will be filthy one day.
Filthy with the stench of the human race.
............It's sad

by d boy meets elvis.
aka akkm
johnny .... you're a bit of a genius.

Tuesday, 20 February 2007

Position Vacant

A position for an experienced and qualified
Trader in Tears is required by the
Ministry of Emotion.

Answering directly to the Teardrop Collector
you will be responsible
for local and international transactions
in this robust and volatile department.

A concise understanding
of bereavement procedures,
broken heart and grazed knee trading
is essential.

A familiarity with tissue flicks,
such as On Golden Pond ....
or plain awful flicks,
such as On Golden Pond...
will be highly regarded.

The successful candidate
will be a sorrowfull type
with at least three years experience
in teary situations and will also hold
a diploma in simpering or above.

Here's you're chance to use your skills
in bringing others to tears
in this dynamic and community focused
government department.

An attractive remunuration package is offered.

Please forward your resume to

The Ministry Of Emotion
Department of Teardrops
in your capital city

This position is brought to you
by your Federal Government .....

bringing you to tears for a decade.

Saturday, 17 February 2007

where's my acoustic guitar?

thump thump, doof doof,
eccy roll, space pad
sustain .........

thump thump, doof doof,
dumb sentence, four four.
again .........

It's all 2 ezi.
mirrors an age.
click here for genius.
something is missing.

must .... have electricity ... thump
need elec...tricity .....doof (but fading)
more bits .... tick... need more .... power
running low....doof (hardly audible)
help ... need more ....
must..... have.....more ...tock
elec....tric .... ity


Tuesday, 13 February 2007

you're own personal jesus

Estelle is 93 and a grand old woman about town.
She lives alone on Macleay Street.
Save for a dog called Bunyip.
They walk each other regularly.
Estelle visits the market almost everyday,
sits by the fountain ...... and watches.

In winter
she still manages to venture out,
takes a cushion to sit on
and a woollen shawl
that she bought in Prauge in 1951.
She drapes it over her legs.

Never in much of a hurry...
even if she wanted to,
she couldn't be .... i guess.

Always and without fail
Estelle wears a hat,
or so it seems...
I've never known a woman with so many hats.
Brimmed,peaked,creased or angled.
With veil, feather, stone or trinket.
Laced,beaded,turned up or turned out.
Over the top and just perfectly so.

One day I say
Estelle ... you're hats.
there amazing ... and ...
I've got 364 of them she interupts intuitivally.
One for each day ..... except one.

She tells me that on her birthday
each and every year her husband
would sit her down by the window.
The view ... Elizabeth Bay ... and beyond.
He would pour her a glass of vive clicquot
(here's lookin at you kid)
Then he would wash her hair.
And brush her hair.
They would talk about the children
and that film or sometimes say nothing.

He died 6 years ago you know
and I miss that and I miss him...
Thats why I don't wear a hat on my birthday.
I like to feel the wind in my hair
and the spray from that fountaiin .....

It reminds me of him.

Sunday, 11 February 2007

of trumpets and tea

This has gotta go somewhere.....
like down to the river
to drench my thirst and temper.
whirlpool games,
swimming in currents near and dear,
your shining skin
as cool as trumpets.

I planted one for them
and grew one for them....
see how the miner swallows his sword
when the bullfrog calls to stone.
he mutes the millers tone.
lets stop and drink an ounce of warmth
like tea.

Monday, 5 February 2007

here ....... at last

A small gathering of friends
lit the earth thismorning.
I could see them from Orians' Hill.
No screens or mind blankets,
just the gap between us.
In love I will remain

Saturday, 27 January 2007

don't mess with electricity

Another jolt to the chest
and I seemed to be coming around.
I'd forgotten what I was actually doing.
Something to do with the powerbox
out the front of my apartment
and an old ceramic fuse.
But here now, I felt like somebody else.
Somebody I knew.

The doctor looking person
paid particular attention to my chest.
" ok I'm here now" I thought.
" you can put you're machines
and furrowed brows away .... or say hi .....
oh no ... don't do it again .... I'm perfectly fine,
I'd like to get out of here now".

But no..... he paraded into action
with a prospero like tempest,
swinging like a willow tree, cables and all.
A sight to behold from where I lay....
I guess.

The room otherwise felt oddly relaxing.
Then everything changed.

The colours and sounds moved outward
and started competing for my attention.
Objects stopped floating and clumped
like hollywood robots.
Noises that had been wrapped in felt
fell to the floor with a harsh and sparkling reality.
I was back ...... well at least I knew I was.
Captain heartrate wasn't so sure it seemed.
He kept on coming .... that green capped,
cable swinging goliath.

I then did what anyone in my situation would have done.
Anyone who was about to receive an unwarranted jolt
of biblical proprtions to the chest would have done.
I vomitted.

The doctor stopped shy of bellowing ..."clear"
to all and sundry, looked me in the eye and smiled.
" oh I see you've decided to join us" he said.
"You are kidding aren't you" ... I think I mumbled.
This time he heard me.

Friday, 26 January 2007

on this day

The captains name was Arthur.
Leading his ragged fleet along the steamy waterway
was hard going.
As he approached the cove
and elderly native man was waving.
Was he suggesting where best to come ashore?

Arthur was the first to step onto the beach.
The native man seemed excited,
dancing in circles.
Arthur watched and his men laughed.

They were led to up a hill to a large cave
where a fire was burning.
It started to rain.
Everyone sheltered in the cave.
Arthur looked outward toward his fleet
anchored in the distance.

The native man pointed to the cave floor
and spoke in a tounge
no one but he had heard before.
Was he offering the cave as shelter?
It was certainly large enough
and they could at least be dry.
Arthur sensed a trap
and went back to the fleet.
The night aboard was wet and uncomfortable.

Next day the native man
was standing on the beach.
Slithers of smoke sliced the sky
from the trees behind him.
This time he had brought others.
They were all carrying spears.
Arthur took the rowboats ashore.
His men were armed.

The natives began chanting and dancing.
Was it welcoming or warlike?

A failure to connect.
The one thing in common
they all stood on.
More Australian than a pie
or a holden or a blue piece of cloth.

Sunday, 21 January 2007

summer sunday morning

red carnation is electric on blue tiles.
the street sweepers name is rex.
kid dealers must still be asleep.
markets sprayed by that icon.
I remember that grotty guitar shop (rip).
latte lovers creep forever southward.
no one stops to cross the road.
a look in the eyes reveals a tragic night.
you can smell the harbour from here.
sunlight dapples down.
lazy tabloid starers pick a seat ....
on this summer sunday morning.

Friday, 19 January 2007


I haven't heard that bell
Since this time began
A note for the eons
A heralding for the magi

I heard it last night
As I crossed the road
Some kid,lying useless
had the shit kicked from him
Infinity sighed
and the bell was struck

The ancient trees welcome
Kanyini and Zeus
Parvati and the Astikas
Old greybeard himself
will shuffle in line
to the VIP seats at creation

Wednesday, 17 January 2007

department of dreams

The complaints desk
at the department of dreams
was somewhat busy.
Last week , the lads in the warehouse
got a whole bunch of orders for recurrings
mixed up with b/w fantasies
and a crate of lucids.

"What do you mean I can't expect my
movie star recurring this month" ........
"I can't use these lucids..
and there all last seasons stock anyway" ....
the phone was going ballistic.

Jasper grabbed another call.
"department of dreams can I .... yes maam
yes I understand... well 3-5 working nights at least
and yes maam .... no I can't guarantee colour and" .....
so it went on all week.

It wasn't quite as bad as back in 2011,
the year dreams were regulated.
Jasper remebered the time
a container load of nightmares were mislabled.
the whole lot were sent out by mistake.
many pallets ending up
in kindergartens throughout the land.

Quivering 4 year olds,
screaming uncontrollably at afternoon nap time.
The laundry bill itself
became a national dilema.
the inquiry went on for a month,
the minister forced to resign.

Jasper sat back in his adjustable office chair,
stretched his arms above his head
and smiled to himself.
again he leaned forward to grab the ringing phone
"department of dreams can .... yes maam ... oh sorry sir..
yes I'm sure it has ... no... no recurrings in stock ...
no sir you have a transaction number for that order" ...
and so it went on all week.

Tuesday, 16 January 2007

lesters not tiffanys

A killer instinct and a whiplash wit,
a mask and a plastic bag of prose
is no armoury for breakfast with Lester

For breakfast with Lester requires
sure footed sanctity with ruffled charisma
and a hip flask of vodka for the O.J

His doorman stares me down
but I stare harder.
shall I salute or blow him a kiss...neither.
you leave that kind of behaviour
along with all form of tawdry remark
on the gargoyled hat stand in the foyer.
"morning" I say.
I curtsy anyway.

Lester lives in Springfield Avenue.
A mansion of sorts,
beguiling in every way.

The breakfast party usually consists of
Lester and his doorman,myself
and a couple of worldly noteables,
hands in the air inverted commas.

Last time it was Vladimir Putin and Bjorn Borg.
Vladimir couldn't keep his hands off my vodka.
Mr Borg told me what he really got up to
with Johm Mcenroe's girlfriend
after the 81 wimbledom final.
Fascinating stuff.

The doors to Lesters sunroom
are carved with angels.
I brace myself, grip the halo handle,
and push the doors torward another
breakfast with Lester.

Sunday, 14 January 2007

well they got the sign right

Don't expect any sunshine here...
says the sign outside the shop.
it got my attention. I had to peek inside.
of course it was dimly lit,
full of stuffed green frog heads
and sinewy entrails
in larger than life fish tanks.
no need for a filter..... nothing alive.

The man behind the counter
at the far end of the room
was wrapped in a black plastic bag
and hung from the ceiling by his feet.
his hands swung in time
to the flickering street light
that blinked my vision.

No sunshine in here,
No sunshine at all

Saturday, 13 January 2007

Great Southern Line

Imagine this.
fourteen blocks from home.
another week at the boutique over.
hair in a mess.
dumped by partner on Tuesday for a cross dressing showoff.
left car at home for enviromental slash health reasons.
no invitations.
friday 6.30.

The red man flashes and beeps in sequence.
across the road a train station looms like a used up Scottish castle,
exept it's bang in the middle of Sydney.
the air is always thick at central station.
central station.
i've always thought it was an ugly place.
i'll tell you one thing though ...
it stands on what was an old graveyard
for the early white marauders.
no disrespect to those resting bones may I add

I'll catch the train from the 2425 platform.
where have all the punks gone?
remember how they used to line the elevators
in all their red and green and pins
I do a terrific mohawk if I do say so myself,
a menacing mohwie is the best mowhie.
but I suppose it depends on whose head its on.
i stare at some girls beanie.

The green man lights my way across the road.
leads me right up to the castle gates.
past the crappy pie shop
perhaps i'll just go home.
I scour my purse for my ticket.
fuck it I'd rather walk

Thursday, 11 January 2007

rosebud and the orange sky

Rosebud knew her shit
and she spoke like she did.
honesty instead of routine.
an activist and an early morning woman.

Thismorning the world turned orange and misty.
the day hid behind a swirling blanket
of iridescent cloud
that hovered above
and then swallowed the earth.
the air moved with the ferocity of a samuri
cutting a frightening swathe
from hilltop to ocean shore.
a trillion heartbeats raced and the sun sighed.
it's radiant defiance no match
for the moment.

Rosebud threw her arms in the air
surrendering to the might of nature.
she looked up at the deepening mist
and yelled a cleansing yell.
such a shrill and true tone.
she felt her feet lift from the ground
and she was free.

Then there was an almighty clap of thunder
and the earth stopped breathing.
nobody wept.
the winds turned in on themselves.
the seas gave way to space.
the mountains dropped away with the colours.

nothing ..... nothing except a shrill and true tone.
just like at the start of it all.

Wednesday, 10 January 2007

the candle the old man and the girl

my friend plato has a ghost in his house.
one morning as plato was preparing his notes for a day of oration
his morning candle flickered
then extinguished.
calmy he reached over his notes to relight the flame.
he flicked his cigarette lighter and moved his hand torward the wick
but the flame relit itself with a menacing precision.
a sense of urgency overcame plato that almost brought him to his knees.
half standing, his papers enguled by the morning candlelight,
he wrote without pause ..

"don't mess with me, don't you know what you're in for,
hear my call for there is nought to fear
I stand with the old man who shouts
you down... I only want to play you know"

later that afternoon plato spoke of politics
and his vision for a just society.
the gathering ears lapped up his words like a cat does cream.
a ragged old pawn broker cut the silence by
leaping to his feet (with a menacing precision) shouting
"speak of the morning candle"
plato was almost brought to his knees for a second time that day.
he attempted to continue his oration
but was burdened by reality
so he shed his notes and began to speak from experience.
he spoke of the candle, automatic writing and serendipity.
he fumbled at times through interpretation.
the ears jeered, turned and left.
as plato picked up his notes
he caught the eye of the old ragged pawnbroker,
who apart from a young girl by his side were the only people remaining.
"why did you want me to speak of the morning candle"
plato asked the ragged old pawn broker.
the little girl smiled and said
well you were being boring again
and anyway ..... I just wanted to play.