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.

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.

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?

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.

water water water

Now that was a rainstorm ...
A nightstorm.
And outside
with the steam rising from the street
it could be
Tokyo
or
Gotham City
or
Blade Runner
or
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.

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.

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.

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.

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

sustain......................

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

showtime!

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

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 ...do you have a transaction number for that order" ...
and so it went on all week.

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.

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

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.
bored.

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

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.

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.