mr fox and the duck

business be business
said the fox to the duck
sorry to say
but the wind speaks it thus
can you not hear it blow.... ?
quack said the duck
pretending to be
oblivious to her plight
oh how your eyes sparkle
mr fox
and your tail blooms
like springtime
mr fox
so tricky
so slinky
so dazzling to watch

and with each compliment
mr fox's cheeks
grew redder and redder
flushed with success
and panting for more

and your paws
so soft but oh so deadly
master of the night
you are mr fox
as clever as ....
well as clever
as a fox is

and on it went
compliment after compliment
right through the dawning
till sunup and beyond
upon which the fox lay down to sleep
lulled by the praise
ringing in his pointy ears

and once soundly asleep
the smart little duck
waddled away from the fox
to the farmers house
upon which lands he dwelt
and peeked in the back door

whereupon the farmer exclaimed
good morning little duck
what brings you here
a fox mr farmer
a lazy and gullible fox
lays sleeping in the yard
under the shade of the apple tree

damn fox said the farmer
grabbing his rifle
and his last piece of toast
heading out back to sort things out
yes mr farmer
yes said the duck
business be business
can't you hear it on the wind?

====

the taliban====
the talisman====
the forgotten man
the book you'll write
the something new
the news today
the proper way
the tv prey
the sombre line
the soldiers dead
the vote was rigged
the watershed
the biggie lies
the fireflys
the endless stars
the crowded bars
the bottom feeders
the morning frosts
the poem today
the only way
the taliban====
the talisman====
the life you choose
the lot you've got
the life you choose
the lot you've got

the tranny

the transistor crackles
beeping
this background noise
commenting on stuff
like a noisy blog
a blind tv
at the ears of racegoers
that's how I remember
or on my windowsill
tuning in to 2SM
before FM was a wave
that blipped through
our ears
and blipped
at our brains
standing still like a mini
skyscraper
on the grass
in the summertime
can't hear it really
not over the lawnmower
or the cicada's
but it's there
somewhere
crackling
beeping
blipping away

who painted this mess?

oh what a temper
billowing and flamed
the doorkeeper holds her back
high heels scraping
pink nails flashing
a crowd gathers by the maccas
like the pie stand
at the footy

the fruit seller
sighs in arabic
as if a friend he knew
long ago .... had
just died
I wonder

sometimes
when I bustle home
this messy pathway
full of shakespearian tragedies
in peaked caps and mini skirts
leaves me empty
and sometimes
it's a life sized picasso
or if I squint
a turner

fleeting past before I knew it

in an ambient moment
a feathery glow
that hangs above me
twisiting about my body
as a warm wind does
grabs hold
and won't let go ...
i try hard to compose myself
look unruffled
but her grace
overwhelms me
and i fall
unprepared

my last thing

If I only had one thing left
I'd share it with you
Under the drizzling sky
....or the blankets of blue
Between stormwater corpses
.... and a peddling crew
Ousted by sanctuary beckonings
.... what else would I do
If I only had one thing left
I'd share it with you

the idea of south

from the blue blue south
that chilly skin corner
the maverick and the captain
steer a course north ....
toward the midday sun
that peeps it's dusty eye
for never long enough

rickety wooden jalopy barge
bolts that loosen
with each bow crashing wave
slaps hard on the icy water
skews their bones like
tangled pipes
takes their breath away
like the morning

underdeck the bounty flaps
and waits for death
while not one soul will wonder
why or where they came from

the captain billows
watch your stern
there's islands out here ..
between the swells
that'll rip your joyous butt
apart before you see em even
blow this ship away
like sand
and send us all to hell

the maverick jeers and flirts with fate
throwing his rustled beard to the breezes
tempting the grand old ocean
with a rum stained glare
lead us home you beasts
you watery mountains
you churning anger
lead us home

and having heard this
the idea of south
came to an end ....
the dusty sun grew longer
and the bitter days soon
were passed

fa'afafine from roslyn street

in samoan culture
when a family lacks girls
a boy will often be
brought up as a girl
to be treated as a woman
not homosexual but
a third gender
the fa'afafine

household duties are gender specific
and heavier domestic tasks
are delegated to the fa'afafine
whether they like it or not

now this throws up
a conundrum or two ......
is gender a social construct?
is this the role of parents to decide?
should we respect the cultural norms?
what about the feelings of the boy?
how about girls who want to swap gender?
isn't life interesting?

my respect for the fa'afafine
is a personal one ...
and it goes like this

back in the 'good old' days
when roslyn street
had a european ambience
there was a community aura
people lived there
just didn't blow in on
friday and saturday nights
to get plastered and puke everywhere

there was the amsterdam ...
that notorious cafe
that sold the odd joint to travellers
was loved by daily telegraph
and a current affairs reporters
as the great expose

anna had a great place next door
good tea and rolls
and a grumpy but wonderful nature

barons was there
the late night leather clad
backgammon bar that
was right out of prauge

and jason's guitar shop was there
grotty and wonderful things
adorned the walls
and every inch of that
little shop

the only thing that still remains the same
in this now neon and tacky corner of town
is the piccollo
..... go there if you haven't
before it too ends up
in the cultural graveyard of regrets

anyway .....
i'm tending to business
at jasons guitar shop
and it's a little quiet
on the customer front
because an amiable drunk
has spent what seems like
a day or two
camped very close to the
front door
scattered cans and bottles
ciggies and torn blankets
he has a penchant for song
and he knows a lot of 'em

after an hour or so
i decide to play a gibson sg61
really loud through a boogie
... bad call
he wants to join in
and almost crawls through the door
billowing still

ok that's it i say
no you'll have to stay outside
whatya mean young fella
lets have a sing song
c'mon don't be like that .. . he groans

i manage to keep him out of the shop
... still no customers
as you can imagine
but he continues to billow away
out front

now all these goings on
were being observed
i was soon to discover
from across the road
upstairs from the amsterdam
from an apartment window

i was rewiring something
when i heard a big burly
bottom end voice say ...
ok that's enough
we've all had enough
go away and leave the young man
in peace ... go on shut up get up
and move .... and you can't sing for shit ...

i turned to see the amiable drunk
gathering his things quietly
a large samoan man
in a dress with lipstick
and a hairdo weilding a cricket bat
was standing over him

what a sight
a 6 ft plus samoan man
in a floral dress
and pearl bangles
and a cowering drunk that
looked like he'd just seen
a pink elephant
right outside the guitar shop

the fa'afafine gave me a smile
ok sweety
he won't be bothering us
anymore

yeah thanks i say
as he ....
or is it she
spins about and marches
back across roslyn street
with long locks flowing
and a cricket bat over a shoulder

unuploaded?

neglecting a duty
to myself
writing poems
on scrap paper
unuploaded
throwaway dribblings
some bits stick
together and become
a river or an ocean
or starters for the fire
amongst lists and lyrics
somebody's number and
the great new idea

hurry up wind
bluster away
clear this pedestal
of all these ink serpents
knock me out cold
this volume is closing
the tea house draws nearer
cloaked crier is calling
hurry up wind

never mind his bollocks

she cracked
half a smile
and stretched
her withered finger
out in front of her face
leaned through the window
of the taxi
and deliberately said
fuck you
her red hessian
shopping bag
was dragged along
behind her
like a see through
ball and chain

he blew smoke upward
leaning half in
and half out
of the two dollar shop
leering at the girls
parading the walk
like tired flamingos
his half undone buttons
revealing a faded
johnny rotten t shirt
customers give him the shits
which i guess is why
he sells drugs on the side

she twisted the red
hessian bag over her shoulder
and marched on
she was in a mood
a lit cigareete was thrown
at her feet
she stopped
stared at it
then lifted her gaze
past the sex pistols
to his grinning
crimson eyed face
....... "and as for you
you sleaze bag..."
she swung the bag
square into his bollocks
knocking him to his knees
a tear rolled down
his puffing cheek
she straightened herself
and then fixed her hair
with her bony hand
.... " and as for you ...
you can fuck off too"

c'mon boy ....sign that there paper

lester ambled through kings cross
the gaudy greek taverna
and the sky
were the same colour
which is probably why
he didn't see it
actually he walked straight
into it .....
a card table on the footpath

not too odd for kings cross
could be a jewel maker
a seller of watches
could be old paulie moulds
and his band of ratlesnakes
or a reader of the wisdoms

....yes it could have been
but no

and so there it was
on the corner of
darlinghurst road
and llankelly place
the actual card table
of the gods
and as has happened
since time bespeckled
when you see it
nobody else can
only you and you
alone

lester moved his gaze
about the table ...
sitting at 3 of the 4 chairs
was an elderly man in a scout uniform
an old woman in white that he could see right through
and that cartoon guy with the gun who tried to shoot bugs bunny

the ghostly woman nodded to lester
and spoke to him
without speaking .....
lester sat down

darlinghurst road carried on
as if he wasn't even there
as if none of them were there
which is kinda the way it was ...

the scout in his ridiculous
brimmed hat and badges
officially slipped a piece of paper
toward lester
across the table

cartoon guy jumped on the table top
sign it there son ...
don't bother taking your time
there's nothing to read
just sign

on the paper was nothing but a large X

the scout slapped a silver pen
in front of lester
cartoon guy aimed his cartoon shotgun
square at lesters head
c'mon boy sign that there piece of paper
ghost lady frowned
and he reluctantly retreated

lester leaned forward to grab the pen
it rolled away
his hand felt heavy

lester noticed the sunshine
and the bikes
from across the road
some kid leaned in his ear
smoko

all the while the pen
was just out of reach
the card table dipped
and swallowed itself
the trio
splattered like an out of tune tv

with an almighty breath
and a focus as deep as a mountain
lester grabbed the pen and
with his other hand
held the paper tight
scribbled his signature next to the X
as the world turned
in on itself
and as the sky became orange

lester seemed alone
the air was strange
but beautiful

then rosebud appeared ...
as she has done before
on her bike
with a basket in front
calling to lester
from across the road
well done
you did it
it's about time somebody
recognised that lot
and had the guts to sign
you know if you'd asked them a question
or hesitated
you would have slapped your arse
hard on the pavement
fallen down like all the others
grazed and confused
nothing would have changed
but you didn't
you broke the curse
and from today
and until we decide
this be the way
it is

undevelopment proposal

under section 181
of the impossibility act
this zone will be
undeveloped.

there will be no construction
no change to the building facades
all existing structures
will be left untouched
preserving a history
and a culture
no precincts will be erected
of the retail or
residential variety ....
or any precinct whatsoever
for that matter

there will be zero
carparking spaces made available
thereby encouraging
public transport usage
bicycle riding
or the use of one's feet

it is also proposed
that due to this undevelopment
there shall be no inconvenience
for nearby residents ....
no 7am jackhammers
no wolf whistling plasterers
no dust coated windows
no truckin convoys
and no bloody diggers

section 181 of the impossibilty act
also states ....
and states emphatically
that this undevelopment
may lead to
a sense of community
amongst reidents ...
buildings that compliment
their surroundings ...
a trend away from the cheap
"lunchbox" designer dwelling ...
and an old world charm

in fact
we here at muse constructions
will be hanging up our shovels
building nothing
knocking nothing down
leaving all as is
bricks unscathed
walls and their stories
left in tact
to sing and remind us
that things can be built
with beauty
and care
ornately and crafted
to stand the true test
of time
as an art
and a place to be

this undevelopment proposal
will be on display
at the kings cross muse offices
for comment and discussion
for a very long time

270 left to go

this road stretches out
white sun beat down
and a heart marked
by love
like nothing else could mark
beats an extra restless second

I get a redneck goodbye
at the filling station
cause that's what they call'em
in dusty road poems
but it's kinda
unromantic
cause you gotta fill yourself

and somewhere in that farmhouse is
a life unremarked on
a cotton and straw life
a ute and gate life
a slip into town life
I imagine what it's like

and the sunday markets
have a quilted grace
a chance to stare at jars
and take a pee
I don't talk to anyone
except g'day
and nobody talks to me

back to the grind
the constant grind of steel

this road stretches out
white sun beat down
and a heart marked
by love
like nothing else could mark
beats an extra restless second

me and my ducks

i have two ducks
that follow me
most places
along orwell st
and up to the fountain
they love a swim
and to scatter the pigeons
then on to the dreaded
darlinghust rd
we waddle each morning
to sunny cafe
where they stand on chairs
sipping water and crunching
on toast or snails

snails are a treat
and so is the grass
it bothers me more
than it seems to them
and so without complaint
or sarcastic quack
we go to the greeniest
place we can find
just over the hill
and along a bit now
i'll sit under the tree
while they roam about
duck like ....
oh what a wonderful day

a distinct lack of bohemia

gosh
another fancy pants
night clubbin ....
apparently one bloke
owns 17 of them
all here in the cross
didn't even know
that many existed
we've all heard the stories
you shoulda been here yesterday
but i'll tell you something
for free
there's a distinct lack
of bohemia about this place
the pockets are thinning
the onslaught oncoming
I can hear it from here
an apathy well trodden
stand your ground
you saucy old bohos
do it not for yourselves alone
but for a future aesthetic
where all words and thoughts
stand on an edge
tipping
directionless
gather your shields
your ink and your spears
slow them at the gates
the coca cola gates

a year for china shops

tomorrow morning
i will make sense of this
all this loose makeup
and throwaway lines
the forced mirth of a bull
whose horns are but
peep shows
carrion seeds
in need of some living

I can't turn a corner
without my horns
bumping
into the new furniture
a seasoned dictator
a horny minatour
tapered and practical
useless to most
but that be the numbers
a starry starry night
don mclean style
baby its another year

revisiting ....would you like greens with that sir?

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.

the old painters daughter

the chesterfield
and the lamplit room
that round dark table
and a leather book cover
settle in for a decade
...... or two

standalone museums
they are
like nora
who plays solitaire
with her vodka

she has the sharpest wit
and an ironic twinkle
and then she has the hats

draped across the octopus
i call it ...
hats hats hats
a hat stand that brims with life
like a waterfall
in the hallway

she doesn't see me
so I make myself some tea
and sprinkle what sugar
is left from the rim of a jar
and settle on black
cause she likes my whims

she wants to paint me
i would like that ...
she thinks my beanie
is the colour of blood
and she likes that
she has paintings
in the art gallery
and her father
was a great landscape
artist
a print was on my wall
as a child

but she doesn't paint me
she just wants to talk
about the harbour
and how kings cross
used to be
and how kings cross
always is

she says
leave your beanie on
please
i know its a little warm
but it glows
right on top of your head
i say
does it make me look
like a matchstick

she laughs and says
put that nasty looking tea away
and have a bloody vodka

the swap

one day i'm gonna swap
this neon for something greener
one day i'm gonna take
this makin it up stuff seriously
one day i'm gonna angle
for a year in the desert
one day i'm gonna buy
full cream bloody everything
one day i'm gonna write
a story on my back fence
one day i'm gonna do
all the things i'm gonna
because one day i'm gonna
swap this neon for something greener

puff the magic dragon

she cried
when i sang
puff the magic dragon
not because my voice
lilted in spots...
not because my hands
cradled the guitar
with ease ...
nor because these things
together
made a harmony

not for any of these reasons

but because the boy
had grown up
and life was not of dragons
and such adventures ....
no time for high sea
imaginations
or playful autumn mists
and so alone puff
retreated into his cave

she cried for this
and said ....
with all the fire it brings
and upturned boats
with all the strings
and ceiling wax
and all the fancy other stuff
along the way
our puff the magic dragon
shall have a place to stay

from the teabird cafe

wrapped up in the morning
salmacis fills his pockets
with last nights refuse
and a solitary wish

pretends his friends
are gathered
bustling feverlike
tell me more salmacis
tell me more

from the teabird cafe
without a bird insight
he glazes out
over orwell street .... see how
the morning dew
disappears quickly
round here
'cause there's
no where to linger


..... touching the leaf
in his pocket
and the golden coin
he found
on the pavement
he turns to nobody
makes up his wish
closes his eyelids
then lingers
..... like dew

i'm all at sea

underneath my stairs
there's a crocodile
careful of those teeth
that is not a smile
underneath my bed
there's a manta ray

living in the sea
living in the sun
guess this kind of life's
not for everyone
got two flipper hands
and my skin is scale

you got what you want
for the moment at least
microwave meals
and a truckload of peas
I don't read the headlines
out under the waves
I'm all at
I'm all at sea

want to shed your skin
come and live with me
go adventuring
to infinity
underneath the sea
underneath the sun

my new pot plant has a history

cyclamen petals turn
the world in on itself
hurling colours
magic dots as airwaves
my microwave eyelids are
free to see
whatever they want to .....

a circus parade
castaway
pinky greener
arguable gender ..... tick
short on stature
long on longing ..... tick
starts a scene
with a sideways glance
testing the resolve
of the morning ratters
holding court at
kings cross station

then science does the god thing
or is it god that does the science?
and I'm free no more to see such things
this cyclamen pastiche
is all I view
and 6 bucks is a bargain
tripped out plant
sings take me home

the flu, literally

doctor of words
my well is emptying
the bucket drips
adjectives pronouns
spilling and useless
all the great phrases
and painted descriptions
thousands of words
left in the dirt

take two of these
they may make you dizzy
rest on your lauriet
or else you'll be braindead
nurse .... see the patient
does what I tell him
scripto fantasticus
stare out to sea.

a little mending

on the windowsill
a ruby grapefruit
sits out of place
next to Yeats
my musty brown stamp album
that new Helen Garner novel
and an aussie guide to herbs

they look so lazy
unopened
a little sun bleached
perched and teasing
I start to sing a song
from my childhood
..... one of these things
just doesn't belong ......
I grab my hessian bag

walk all the way
through Darlinghurst
without noticing ....
then
over the hills
to the beach
the sun hits my back
inventoria smiles at me

we buy two coffees
in throwaway mugs
eat grapefruit at the icebergs

and put some things
back into place

the moon has a cat in it

a beach and a full moon
cold cliffs and mildew
grey ghosts bend
so close they almost
touch the sand
a rickety jetty
points into blackness
a lonely green street light
shards over splinters
spreads a skirty shaped glow
on the ferry timetable

8.08
still 8 minutes left
I can hear it somewhere
out there in the bay
it's me and this lady in green
small purple flowers
rings through her hair
our two little children
dance about wildly
twisting
lost in a trance
cause the ferry is close
to take us away
away from this dream

reverse ....
all crew reverse
the captain billows
and sailors in black and white stripes
start slowing things down
with ropes over shoulders
the rollicks are clanging
the sirens are singing
a thick fog surrounds us ....
it's gonna be close

my head hits the lamp post
bubbles and muffled sounds
around me
surround me
a trembling lip
not cold anymore
I'm a dropped anchor....
I stare at a rippling light
that floats on the surface
I know her face
and I gasp recognition
its the full bloody moon
swim for the light

back on deck
or the jetty at least
the captain smells
of irish whiskey
and old blankets
he billows new instructions
to his dreamy crew
as I stare at the moon
with my child on my
soaking wet knee

the moons got a cat in it
you know don't you daddy
his face creeping over
just in the corner
if you look you can see it
there
there he is
if you look you can see it
and see it I did

winter reminds me of this

I used to live in Katoomba
a strange place
where all clocks tick slowly
my living room
had little french doors
that opened onto an icy balcony
right opposite the Carrington
a grand and wonderous building
on the street of a thousand hellos
or so I used to call it
cause
you know everyone
and they know you .....
I used to like that
and sometimes I didn't.

I would work at the Paragon
another beautious place
that I've mused on before ....
one day I'm told
that the very flat I live in
the one with the icy balcony
was owned by a regal gent
an old owner of the Paragon ...
now there's a symmetry
I thought

Now this regal gent
wore a long red coat
boots and a stately air
I've seen his photo hanging
in the old bakery.

One evening at home
I was telling a bedtime story
to a young lad
that I used to know
he looked over my shoulder
toward the doorway and said
who is that man standing there?
what man ... I say
the one with the red coat on
right there looking at us
I turned and saw nothing
is he still there?
yes .... and now he's gone

I walked about the house
and thankfully it was just us ....
good old fashioned earthly types
as far as I could tell

The perception
of an unclouded youth
or an imagination to envy
I don't know

Thinking back I'm amazed
at how calm the lad was
and how calm I was too
a truly serene episode
like a spell had been cast

And let me go on .......

A commotion at the Paragon
tourists all a fluster
this dimly lit day
I'm in the kitchen
pondering a cauliflower soup
and it's all yelps and oh my gods out front
mmm ... let me investigate!

A woman was panting to Joanna
the owner at the time...
I just saw a ghost
in the ladies toilet
a man with a long red coat
oh my god ...
Joanna calmly
and in a stately tone
all of her own says
Oh don't worry about him
he's just an old perv

Well there you go
the red coat
makes another appearance ....
out of the blue
just like that

now ... ....
back to that cauliflower soup

a new song to sing like johhny cash

Feels like my heart
Is harder than my brain sometimes
Wasting precious moments
Walking the wrong way

I can feel the wind
Tellin me there’s troube
Like a smoking signal
Showing me the way


I got lazy
I got tired and
I got bored
I put everything on the table
Face up aces
Face up swords
Faced up to it
I'm no angel
But you ain’t seen nothing yet
I promise you
I promise you


I can see a dancer
Letting loose on the moors
Pipers out of breath now
Won’t hear those baggers anymore

Thank Christ for that
Silence is a golden colour
You are my latest weakness
You are the break of day


I got lazy
I got tired and
I got bored
I put everything on the table
Face up aces
Face up swords
Faced up to it
I’m no angel
But you ain’t seen nothing yet
I promise you
I promise you

one two three four

suckerfish amnesia
carpetbagger steak suit
crayon viola girl
pardon my grammatication

words that spill like rhyming games
making sense to nobody
like better frank the navigator
abbot has the key

its a beat box bantering
that lands upon the one sometimes
or skips a second quavertone
to make it finish thus

but if it doesn't work for you
no fret if tears though tumbling
just sing it out don't read next time
go dancing in your head

the infinity tattoo and monster of a clue

infinity tattoo ....
now that's a secret
are you sure you want one?....
prepared for the consequences
prepared for the aftermath
prepared for it all
...... the sideways 8

there's a place in kings cross ....
not a parlour
more like a church
if you say the right words
tell salmacis a poem
about numbers or love
but mostly about love
she'll take you backstage
sit you down on a cloth
hold a hand to your heart
point at your skin
ancient nails and ruby robes
i tell you it's true ...
and here's a hint

follow the lankey cobbles
north for a bit
past lesters old curves
a bit of a mission
set down a dime
and tell em a rhyme
..... i dare ya

oops i've said too much
better hold my breath its starting to tick
better hold my head i'm feeling sick ....
infinity
your brand new sun

vernacularity

i like the word envelope
could be e
could be o
i like the word copper
could be trouble
could be metal
i like the word lands
could be spacious
could be touchdown .....
i just like the way things go
and other ways they go
the other ways they go
i really do

notes on scrap paper

naked
red eye trimmigs
victory is near
a bitter sou wester
a retreating autumn ensemble
listen carefully
and you'll hear
miss winter warming up
backstage

around the card table
of the gods
seasons are dealt
like ideas at andys factory
another poem about the weather?
another versa descripto on nature?
another fifteen minutes of sunshine?

so what!
maybe its meant to be
none of these
or just to be
contrary .....
all of them

then I remember
what I wrote yesterday .....

make hay
break your back
making it
let the nature
determine all things
and the dreaming
our directions

refinery town

kurnell bay
black soot drips from the leaves
grasses like shadows
steeper and steeper
wondering if i'll ever
stand up
or just watch
the goings on

menacing machine world
tin plate iron clad
run by the lonely
hoodwinked
spaceless
bakerlite dreamers
promise of water
lungs ripped to shreds
at the autumn sun party
but everyones happy ....
cause caltex
sponsors the children

tanker tanker dripper of life
blood on your bow
the captains a drunkard
blood on your bow
the crews a computer
blood on your bow
the puddles are purple

and black cockatoos
fly north in the morning
splash teardroplet eyes
on refinery town

in the blink of a blue blue eye

downpour ....
a crack of lightning
systems failure
meditate on anything
anything at all
picture book lands
an overlay with pop ups
a childhood fable
further back
much further back .......
a flat wooden carriage
shots rings out
my coat is bloodied
and the air stinks
the man lying
next to me
has half a face
under a bandage
further back .....
too quick to see
slow this down
something about a candle
I'm lighting 100 candles
on a table before dinner
a mischevious grin I'm wearing
strange to watch yourself
back futher ......
I'm sitting under a tree
a dog or is it a wolf
rests on my lap
I'm singing in the strangest tongue
I remember it now ....
the wolf turns to me
not the me under the tree
but looks at me
the one looking on
and howls
out over a valley
beyond me
ringing on and on
the animal gets up and walks toward me
his eyes are so blue
so very blue
I hear thunder
and fall away
my arms flailing through
this cinema ....
I am lying on the road
looking up at the giant
coke sign
rain pierces my lips
I smell burnt hair
lightning continues
I feel good
but people tell me not to move
a lady with a dog lifts my head
the dog whimpers
his blue eyes I remember
from somewhere ....
that was some boom
I try to say
as I fall asleep again

kids have thinner skulls than us knuckleheads

cells talk
each one jumping
up and down
around the may pole
under our skin
before our eyes
defying belief
turning in on themselves
to resurface again
to realign again
as it always has
only each time
ever so differently....
and then along comes
the big bad wolf
a cellular fuckup
of monstrous proportions
in our very pockets
in our very ears
the brains of our kids
will never be the same
i dreamt the worst of it
still to come .....
your mobile phone
is killing you ....
throw it away

as it is in art part 2

what is it you see
that i don't ?
these colours
and fine lines
scratches and blocks
still before our eyes
wrapped up in a sleeper

don't try to explian
it confuses me
more

especially I like
this surry hills light
bounces off your pinot
turns your eyes devil red ...
firestorm glow worm
lets hang you on the wall

as it is in art part 1

moments whistle past
my cheeks alive with breezes
scars across my face
are spread out like antennas
nothing new to them

the painter and the angel
pose for one another
out of artful duty
in which this leaves them speechless
nothing new to them

a drip a drop an eyelet hole
remember me she says
fleeting past before i knew it ....
muse go through me
like the wind

hijack on the 380

It was the seventh
moonlit night in a row
I was ambling through
the grasslands
the great monolith of pictures
was my keeper
cat burglers muggled
amonst the trees
bats shuffled overhead
I was tingling with foreboding
somewhere in my head
a portent

I met my sweetheart
inventoria
at the taylor square
a late night bus trip
to bondi
the infamous 380

Just before the bus takes off
a giant of a man stromps on
well to do
and not too scruffy
he takes a seat
across the aisle from us.


"hey mate .... gonna pay up"
says the driver
Goliath just sits there
hands as big as countries
muscles like planets
just sits there and stares
straight ahead
with a Jack Nicholson look
in his eyes
except goliath ain't acting
(not sure if Jack was either ...
but that's another blog)

"hey mate pay up
or we ain't going anywhere."
The driver switches off the bus
and sits calmy
waiting
waiting ... both of them
like boxers before the bell
sitting calmly in their corners
Inventoria is wide eyed
and rightly so
looking a bit freaked ...

Our fellow cashed up commuters
start calling out .... "c'mon mate pay up"
"yeah ... we did", "get off and walk man."
"don't be a jerk" ..... etc
I say something innocuos and
hardly threatening but
I can see the look in his eyes
I can see his bulging neck


Seconds tick by
but are stretched
to their agonising extreme
The driver calls the cops
and opens the back door
so people can get off

A lady offers to pay for gigantour
so we can just get going.
He says "you aint payin for me lady ..... sit down"
Goliath walks to the driver and stares at him
says something in a slow deliberate tone
about not having to pay
The driver remains calm
and Goliath sits down again
We decide its time ...
we jump out the back door
so does everyone else

The 380 to bondi
stopped at the taylor Square
with a determined and brave driver
and a determined and crazed passenger
both sitting patiently
under the neon light ......
of the toolshed

alarming, impossible, scary, bizzare
a darlinghurst standoff

and then, just as he stromped on
he stromped off
marching past us passengers
all lined up outside an empty bus
he couldn't resist one last threat
"get back on .... all of you"
with fingers shaped like a pistol

so we all get back on
and congratulate the driver
Then the cops arrive
and so we have to wait .... some more
Inventoria and I look at each other
with a " I knew tonight was gonna be strange"
kind of look

And then it gets just a little stranger....
Gigantour decides to turn up again
whilst driver and policelady are
running over the finer points
of the standoff
someone points and says
"him ... there he is. It's him"

Goliath sits quietly
at the bus stop seat
and does what the cops ask
without question
he doesn't look angry or regretful
he just looks tired
maybe he just wanted somewhere
to sleep .... I don't know ....
pity replaces fear

A new bus pulls in quickly
to take us all to bondi
proceedings continue outside
like a press conference
after a fight .....
without one punch thrown

icepet icepet

Ashphelt undergrowth is softer after the rainstorms
Keeps me concentrating over puuddles and stuff
Instead of alladdin lamplights madly swinging
No time for sleep or perhaps a little chitchat
Guardians of the unkempt, The old game
Smart aleck kid with smart aleck shoes
Crosses me once crosses me twice
R is for no ones owned up yet
On this day no one ever will
Say much about anything
Save for smoko smoko
Mate want smoko
Up for anything
Something ...
E

stuck inside with ambientia

ambientia lolls about
rocking her head
back and forth
letting it slump
taking her time

cat eyes half
concentrating
on the blue x
of the sex shop
muddling footpath
circling strangers
midnight muster

prodded at with black gloves
she can smell their
stinky breath
raised up like levitation
and placed inside
an ice cream truck
except its locked
and only her

ambientia remembers
for a second
saturday bells singing
greensleaves
running up the hill
how free she was back then

this ain't no
ice cream truck
this blue flashing bubble
it's kings cross
and there is no freedom
not tonight
for ambientia
as she lolls about
rocking her head
back and forth
letting it slump
taking her time

captain goodvibes

88 notes of dopamine
under my window
a curved 1970 something
morning shimmies in .....

my friends
are outside
tracks magazines limping
from their back pockets
quivers
of mccoy
and hot buttered
transistor radios
ego is not
a dirty word
next to them
on the grass

A dilema saturday
mums orders
piano lessons or surfclub?
well i can't wear
red sluggoes...
god forbid
not on captain goodvibes life
would I ....

Piano it will be

The lesser of two evils
remains a full blown
embarressment

I'll cross the road
2 streets up...
the old salvos land
i'll run it...
bypass wicks

up to miss thompsons
for a 10am scale sesh

think I only went twice
the thought of being caught out
busting the ivories
instead of the waves
was unbearable.

I'll give this scale shit up

Thankfully
I never did

Still don't know my major third bellisimos
from this or that

but I write a fuckin great surf tune.

cobargo

scented
the sunflowers
over your head.
call it mystery,
rain in the country
instead

on the porch it would light
like a firefly night

with a sense that we're all
back at home

sunrise over kellett street

the gypsy woman's name is Suji
an old forest word meaning sunrise.
her home is in Kellett Street
and she is thousands of years old.
you can't see her
unless she dances
you can't hear her
unless she sings
you can't feel her
unless she wants you to.

once she lived with the trees.
her arms were swaying branches
her skin like paperbark
her toes were snakes and earthworms
beautiful and beguiling
twisting
tracing
trickling
home to feed.
her eyes were gaps between the leaves
that shone the light through
millions of times.

anyway .... she moved on
she had to.
that's ok with me she'd say.
so here she is....
in Kellet Street walls
inside these very walls.
you'd know the ones
when you open the door
instantly eased
and fully alive.
she would sing to us all
old forest songs

yesterday Suji told me
she'd be moving again.
they're knocking this place down.
an ugly DA out front on the gate
portents destruction.
I can't grace that gyprock stuff
she'd keenly protest.
there'll be no pressed metal
to stare at ....
and anyway
those plasmas burn my eyes out.
another monstrous, apathetic construct.
I've cursed for less ... she grins.

where will you go?
back to the trees? ....
oh I'd never do that ...
there always here with me.
She sings these words to me
over and over.

no.
I'll find another place
where new things are old
and the art that my ancestors played with
hangs in the hallway.
somewhere a single tree shades you
and pots full of growth
remind us of things.
Where promises sprout out of ideas and talk
where dust dirt turns into gold.
because it always will.
like the sunrise ....
over Kellet Street.

and maybe
around the corner I'll be ... she dances and spins
you'll know the one
when you open the door
or if you ask me to sing.

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

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
instant
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
cause
I'm just a muse
just a kings cross muse.

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.

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
unfettered.

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.

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

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.

6....5....4....
This is how a film should be seen
says Inventoria in my ear.
I nod agreement.
3....2....1....

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.

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

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.

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

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...
STANLEY.

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.

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.

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

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
crucifiction.

the city billows blow
the billows blow

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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 ...........

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
of
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
of
the light

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

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.

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

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.

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.

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.
Like....
you don't deserve to feel like this
and that the sun
is about to come up

and it is.

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