Thankyou and Goodnight

AND SO IT ENDS
THE KINGS CROSS MUSE
5 YEARS 155 POEMS
MOMENTS MOMENTOUS
A MEMOIR A MUSE
BY THE DOOR
WHERE WE STOOD
WITH OUR FRIENDS
SOME OF BLOOD
SOME OF LORE
ALL WITH LOVE
FOR THIS GREAT
AND QUITE REMARKABLE
PART OF TOWN.



Thanks for reading those who did

I've moved on ..... to new adventures.

I'll be doing a Kings Cross Muse book with my favourite
verses and some interesting drawings of Kings Cross.


Spoken word poems will be available at the Kazula Records site soon!!

.

Thank you to the locals past and present of Kings Cross.

Thanks to Inventoria, Jason, The Piccolo Bar, Stan, Estelle, Lester, The Czech Boys, Sunny Cafe, Cronk, Sorrento Cafe and all saucy old boho's!!


Love

The Kings Cross Muse
xx

In Astral Air

she lit the stairway
golden rings of fire
the maple landing
respite from it's blackness
that with each footstep
though just floating above it
a tingling sensation
at the back of her neck
made her feel real enough
until the very thought of this
returned each inch of her body
to bed with all that is heavy
where she lay unaware
of her travels once more
the tickets to which
life upon life
are etched upon
her  sleeping soul

For ever

A small gathering of friends
lit the earth
this morning
We could see them
from Orion's Hill

No tricks
or mind blankets
just the gap between us

In love we will remain

Rosyln St Kings Cross, circa 2012

On an evening not long ago
I was wandering and wondering
down Rosyln St
when it struck me
how much things have changed
how they do
how they go
memories jostling for position
my heartbeat keeping at pace
with my scuttling high heels

I rest against the old and dusty tree
and close my eyes ....
barons was there
all those rockers and rollers
fashion was rip it up
purple paisley black jackets
and dirty.
It was as if Andy Warhol's lot
had been let loose in a Scottish castle
and all the lights had gone out ...
bloody fantastic strange and exotic
...... though god awful in the daytime

Just next door was the Amsterdam Cafe
I can here the staff groaning at the thought
of another day
coffee crowds and a little secret ...
the place where you could buy a joint
it must be true .... I read it in the telegraph

Upstairs the fa'afafine girls would sing
island songs and bluster about in
colourful dresses and size 12 boots
wonderful friendly souls
if not a little odd
men be men and women be men and some big men
be girls too

Outside
in what I shouldn't really call a park
gather the underlings
of the underlings
who do running jobs for a small
time dealer's offsider
they scurry when the cops come
like a toddler running into a flock of
seagulls at bondi beach
hours of amusement

There were a couple of dodgy
second hand establishments
they're  all dodgy aren't they?
even the ones outside of the cross
gosh you could pick up a bargain ....
once I found my bike and my guitar pedal
and my phone sitting in the
good dealers window display
now I'm sure I'd left them at home ....... oh shit

There was Annie across the way
a little foody place
with great toasties
and a chess board always handy
when Annie was grumpy she was a time bomb
when Annie was happy she was a delight
a smile always around the corner
and always time
for the sad ones .... she was like the street's mum

Jason's guitar shop would ring to the sounds
of jamming. Old and lovely guitars
would hang in the window and the place would smell
like superglue
Jason was short and wore leather
and chain mail shirts
a well educated guy
always good for a chat
about the state of this or that
his laugh could
be heard from the darlinghurst road

Oh I do reminisce. ... with my eyes all misty
although they're still closed

and minutes later
or that it seems ........
I open them up

Across the road is a bar with a flat concrete
wall and flashing neon sign ..... it says FAKE BAR
oh yeah
I've heard all the hype

Three biggish chain takeaways and more neon
another flat lunchbox type building ....
squareish and plastic
not meant to see out the term
let alone the decade
or a hundred lovely years

Now an old girl's allowed to quibble
an old girl's allowed to quabble
but this old girl is brought to tears
this evening
yes I miss the old street
yet I know things must change
but as the sun sinks over
the lane way with two L's
and a glow quite lovely
fills the spaces between

something is missing
there's nobody here

I don't much blame them
it will
I'm sure
be out of control at the
fake bar after midnight
patronage
spilling on to the street
with pockets full of regrets
the young girls with all the charm of a shock jock
and the boys
beefed up and brazen
.... bless there little cotton socks
I truly hope they have fun

So for me
I'm going to scuttle down to the Piccolo
for a long black
the last bastion of bohemia
an oasis in the desert
a jolt to my poor jaded heart. ..... oh no
closed for renovations
don't worry
it'll still be the same old place
or so I'm told

for that my dearies
we wait and see.

not today

Each step she takes
upon the opaque filament,
the dewy concrete
tippity taps me from my sleep.
........ a cackling laugh
not far behind.

It's clammy and my sheets are wet.
I've given up sleeping
for another day.
Even the currawongs are sighing,
weighted from their branchy perches
by the thought of no worms ..... again.

Pulling back the curtain .... I knew it,
grey grey skies and speckling rain.
My heart skips a beat
at the thought of a long movie,
alone .....
and another
when I see what crap is on!

Oh but of course dear sir .... it is ridiculous!

I had a conversation with a fella,
some would say gentleman,
who said to me ..... I don't know how you write
poems dear sir.
And in the course of the same
conversation I said ...... I don't know how you write
novels. All that plotty plot plot ...
all that .....  he said she said he went she sighed.
I also made the ambitious statement
that  that one day I would try myself,
maybe. I also let him know that in my opinion most humble
it was an amazing form that eluded me.
He said .... ahh but poetry
is the esoteric art, the beauty but captured
in a turn of phrase. The moment held for a moment,
the world so ambiguous and yet so obvious.
Beautifully put, I responded as I scoured the
room for something poetic to inspire me. But of course
it was always there. Right there in front of me.
I paused ....  and then he said
and how you end those lines and
then start them
again. With scant regard for .... ahh endings or
starts.
I really did wonder what he meant. Funny though ...
because you see it's different
when you talk about it, unlike when you write about it.
Which is what you do if you are a poet.
And I don't confess to be a good
one ..... now back to the story ...
I said, No ... oh no my learned colleague.
It is I who have but praise
for the long form.
Lifting the caraf of pinot in the direction
of both our glasses, I continued ...
and how you hold a story together and beguile
for hundreds of pages, twisting, turning, cascading
with nothing but the purest of regard
for the dear reader. It is a triumph. A grand triumph indeed.
It would be as if .....  and now in full Parisian twoddle talk
as if the Maillot jaune
at literature's very own Tour de Francais
were worn by old Proust himself.

Well if that didn't bring the roof down!!

And so the night continued .... praise and pinot
and not a single word written.

a prayer for upturned lips

Her lips are curved
downwards
as if the edges are weighted
with imaginary strings.....
And the colour has drained from her eyes.
And the water has leaked from her skin.
And the spirit has fled from her voice.
Her stately stance is stooped
and forever clutching.
Her gaze darts about as if a camera
swirls about her shadow ...

I know this place.
I smell it's creeping breath
and hear it's whips, cracking.
I remember the climb, the muddied eyes,
the sting in my words. I remember
the day my soldiers fled
and the night I lost my way.
I know this place from long ago
tho no home have it here anymore.

Will you wind, blow love from the west
to rest upon our mountaintop
to pause at the feet of a friend
with lovers who are sleeping
to conjure up a trick or two
and bring her spirit home.

An Acute Sense of Spokie Dokie

You know those spokey things on bikes
that rattle when the wheels are spinning,
that are coloured and plastic
and cool for little girls ....

Inventoria has them on her bike. My bike
is the same except I don't have the spokies
and I don't have suspension. I have
an anti mining sticker and a picture of a wave
around the frame.

They are good bikes for us.
Chained to themselves or each other, occasionally oiled,
slowly rusting and resting out the front of our
apartment block on a small verandah. There is no room
inside, so out the front they remain like
patient dogs.

Inventoria, as a brief aside, has an acute sense
of smell. So acute in fact that I wonder
if her acute imagination is not ruling her nose.

"I can smell tobacco coming from outside"
she would comment at 5 am in her most enthusiastic detective voice
"you know that one that all the crims smoke ... ox or something"
"mmm ... that's nice dear I would mutter ... I mean oh ... I can't
.....white ox you mean"

and this would go on for some weeks ... my nose none the wiser

Our apartment at this juncture was in a fairly quiet part
of town ... in fact one where tres early walkers
would more likely to be carrying small dogs in tow
or personal trainers ... not puffing on an early morning ox.

On this particular morning, the air was still and warm.
Half sleeping Inventoria's senses begin
to come to life. I only inches away dream on snoringly.

 ..... and like a panther inventoria leaps

Out the bedroom door,  left toward the front door ...that
opens onto our little verandah with the bikes
and other odd assortments.
As she leaps stark naked ... I turn startled to see
her bottom whiz around the corner as she yells
.... the fucker!!!

I'm all aglaze. Did I hear something in my half sleep ...
a rattling, a familiar sound? Yes I did.
The clickety click of those spokies

Now I'm up too, naked and dangling about. The front door
is open and there on the footpath is Inventoria's bike
with wheel spinning, it's naked owner cursing some
fleeing and unsuccessful theif.

You see the spokies alerted Inventoria and her cat like
reflexes saved the day ..... "not entirely the noise" she said
with a deserved sense of triumph....
"I could smell him coming"

And as we stood in the early morning light
naked with hearts thumping, a bike strewn and tangled
on the footpath, spokies still spinning slowly ... I took a deep breath,
and yes .......  there it was,
I smelt it with my own nose
the faint and somewhat ominous smell of
white ox ....

The moral of the story is that if you are going
to rip off a bike from the front
of someones house ... put out your fag first.

the luckiest dip of all

Of all the things old and new
that you and I have wondered of
and discarded
taken but for a glance
left to drip from the soles of our shoes and forgotten about .....
these little things that fly in unnoticed
and unannounced
that don't make sense till tomorrow ....
lets catch them up and keep them in a basket
that sits quietly on top of a cupboard
in the kitchen
and when we need a way through this
ready rolled pre fab
or when a pocketful of senseless misgivings
would do wonders for our stiff necks
or the thought of letting it go
just letting it all go
at least for now
sees us reach for the basket of gatherings
dip down deep like a lucky dip
hold on tight like a baby would baby
don't let go
no .... don't let go
cause the magic is 'bout to begin

Once upon a Ragtime

Once upon a ragtime
in a stout house by the sea
sat a bold and carefree woman
with her one child on her knee

The kettle on the belly
brackish sand was in her hair
washing in the window
tanner in the lair

A mighty cloud was thickening
sou' easter off the coast
if Papa ain't got anchor
the old dog's sure be toast

So sitting ain't done easy
all thinkin what's gone wrong
my child and I will whisper
and sing a dreamy song

Till sun up brings the tidings
and someone from the sea
his rattling chains and sardines
are home and home to me

5-7-5

In the fading light
............. I sit and listen to my
Breathing - take me home.

throwing a dart at the world

I picked a random town
a random city by throwing
a dart at a map of the world ....
grant it took me three goes to not land in the water
and then googled their public art
and below are the names of the public art
in Mountain View California
in no particular order

white tail by
mosaic
bicycle kids
silent shapes in space and time #1
fantasy
going for all the marbles
ibis
solar system iv
aura 11
crocodile dandee
toads book club
and untitled .....

I'm sure there's more
and no idea if they are loved,forgotten
admired or inspired ...

doesn't even give too much away about the town
suffice to say they do have public art and a website about it

A good way to get inspiration for a new poem
or a new song .... perhaps

........ crocodile dandee !!! .... sheesh ...
hey it's a cool sculpture

this old mouse trap

Today will stretch out
further than my lips will ever tell
and the sun will hang
like a puppet ....
the trees will sway
an everlasting dance
for each who care to see
such things.

Again I sit in the dress circle.
The actors look tired
in the white light ...
the audience - fascinated easily
applaud at each flinch
gasp at each heralding
tap their feet
to the gutless tunes.

I have my eyes on the curtain
and the exit sign above.
It winks at me
like a hooker from the
dirty half mile and
has me bounding for freedom
.... the first to leave they say
in over 200 years.

Tripping down the stairs
to a cold steel door i stumble ...
and outside
the afternoon sun hits my cheeks
where I fall unprepared
into the longest day
that ever has there been.

old beautiful things

I saw an old picture of you
and one you took of me
one a bit faded
the other wrinkling
at the corners
both stuffed in a box
marked don't throw these out
I wonder if you kept a picture of me
and have it stuffed in a box
that overflows with useless things
and beautiful things
and old things

afternoon tea

Such a desperate look in his eyes
and hers not far behind
reflecting not the rain
nor the droplets of light
but the blue x of the sex shop
.... tonight there could be trouble
a TV game brings in the raffiest
from far flung villages
war paint and guernsey arrmoury
folded arm buffoonery
and it's only mid afternoon.
I check in to the local cafeteria
and a large pot of tea
is promptly placed afore me.
I stare out at the street
I stare out at nothing
I hear another siren
I tappity tap my fingerless gloves
I blow the steaming tea away
then close my eyes
and think of you

These Things

These simple things ........
A tune that works
A smile from my daughters
When the words flow
A kiss from my lover
When I call my folks
When I pick up the guitar
Western NSW from an aeroplane
Kings Cross Station
A job well done
August
Remembering stuff
Sunday coffee with the locals
An odd light
The key of A minor
A slightly curling 4 ft wave at Longy bomby

why would you care or be slightly interested??
the nature of the blog
and the desire of the poet

..... so there!!!

when the raven leaves your window pane

this will be a shorty one
about things that seem
too big in the night .... and
when darkness ends
when the raven leaves
your window pane
and the dew drops fall
down from the branches
slipping with it
all the beasts of the night
that wrapped your head
an held it tight
these simple rays
of soft delight
make them seem so far away

In Hindsight

You have this thing
That I see sometimes
When I really don't expect it
Actually I didn't even think it was you
Who would tell me this and
It's so obvious in
Hindsight
That it always was you

it's only a ripple

Dipping my head below the waterline
Lifting my feet from the sand
Tumbling backwards toward you
Whisper with me ... Here comes another ..

It's not quite as I'd imagined
The way things would turn out
All these shadows and rays
Wobbly lines, the deadrise of ships
Whose high tide marks leave me
Walking in circles.
White froth from her belly
The things I want most
Back for another again and another
But it's not quite as I'd imagined
No .... it's nothing like it at all

Hello, now that I'm breathing
This time I will be
Prepared
I've read it I've heard it
I've thought it out loud ....

Oh where is this place?
Now that I'm here

I've nothing to give you
Nothing to please you
Nothing you need
Nothing at all
For now that I'm here
I have nothing to soothe you
Nothing to bring you
No nothing at all

And so it seems I have
Given my soul, yes
Given my soul
To the Old angry sea
Where there it will stay
Along with the froth
In the belly of this beast
Yes there it will stay

Dipping my head below the waterline
Lifting my feet from the sand
Tumbling backwards toward you
Whisper with me ... Here comes another

exert from the beekeeper

around the card table of the gods
seasons are dealt out
like ideas at andy's factory
another poem about the weather
another verso descripto on nature
another 15 minutes of sunshine

Rosie's Dream

The siren screamed
and the bird whistles turned
to dust.
The crumbling road
crumbled further
and the crimson sky winked.
Rosie rode on through it all.
Her shoulder length hair curling backwards
as Rosie's little bike swung into Orwell St.
Her basket was full of wishes and regrets
that fell hopelessly onto the footpath
where desperate souls filled their pockets.
The Old Minerva swayed to the sound
of old songs imagined.
Heartbeats raced a thousand times over
just as they did in 1943.
Rosie and her bike rode on.
Past the steaming chinese laundries
and the coal faced boys ...
past the back street liquor
and the wooden lamposts
that skirted eerie glows
all about town .....
then the skies winked once more ...
fading crimsons
flickering a different channel
as Rosie slowed to lean with one foot
upon on a sandstone bench.
Her dream was ending.
She knew it would.
And soon the afternoon hit her hard
as the blue blue sky
sunk quickly in.

The sound of bells as the weather cools

Underneath the whistling
the swirling and forgotten
I hear the sound of bells
ringing 'bout the cross

Call me to the harbourside
steely, silken, glassy
and there I'll sit till sunset
amongst the rocks n moss

no strings attached

What is it about this place that draws
you back .... and back again.
Pulled by invisible strings.
The puppeteer sees you coming.

My old mate, Jason, who ran the
guitar shop in Roslyn St had a theory.
"Well where else do you go after this ....?"
perhaps he was right ...
everything else seems just a little tame
after you've spent some time at the cross.
"But there ain't nothing wrong with tame"
I would argue , being the devil's whatitsname.

Nonetheless Jason would try to occasionally
get out of town with all grande intention ....
perhaps into the burbs for a daytrip.
Perhaps an excursion a little more adventurous
with tent and sleeping bag ....

No surprise to me he would get bored ...
Longing to return to what he knew best,
back to his squallid little flat
and his squallid but oh so cool shop.

I, on the other hand
am happy to get away ...
and for longer stretches of time.
Particularly now that the bohemiam gods
are slowly vanishing from this old township ...
frightened off by vomiting teenagers
a creeping conservatism
and disasterous new architecture.

But I am drawn back ...

maybe to Piccolos's (last great bastion)
or to sit in the park and visit the giant fish,
that bookshop, the weekend markets,
the laneway with 2 L's, the secret resteraunt
or the 16 mm film night. Perhaps to visit Estelle
or Lester and frolic on old times
or just to soak it in for a bit.

No strings attached

Wishing for what ya got!!

If I play my cards right
getting a little luck
smiling as I go
I'll be able to do what I do
smiling as I go
getting a little luck
If I play my cards right

As morning falls away

Somewhere I hear a drip
Guttering from the skies
Washing over cobblestones
My head between the blankets still
Wondering if the world is blue
Wondering where my sweetheart is
Falling back below the surface
Under spells of daybreak
Down to where the waters go
As gravity takes it's hold

That werewholf feeling

I was asked to an event
a long way from here
to celebrate a moon even further
that was big and bold and half hidden from my eyes
by an unseen sun ...
a smoking ceremony was planned
with a leafy tree part
and some very old souls ...
all of us gathered
'bout a fire light.
I knew it was special ....
like a old Saints gig
or one of those days when I would skip school early
to go and see swinging steve and the surfside six
at the narrabeen antler .... except I knew it was midnight oil
when they really played it hard
the place was steamy and the beer dripped
from the ceiling and the energy was
mind blowing like nothing I knew about
half starved for oxygen
but more than compensated with by spirit ...
maybe it's not the music but the shear force of raw energy
that I remember ..... although I love the ambient
.... mmmm

Anyway ... here I am
miles away, feeling this special something
in the early full moon evening
thirty years on
when I jump the gate
instead of opening it and walking on through ..
I shattered my kneebone ...
nothing is more painful than a crack to the knee
not a poke to the eyeball
or a long time regret ...
but I was overwhelmed by a madness
and paid the price

I couldn't even hang about for the smoking part
I sure could have done with the healing
but I had done my dash
and hobbled home
to ice packs and pain killers

Then I thought that it was all making sense ...
oh yes I should have cracked my fucking knee
and missed that old saints gig feeling
that ambient night time energy
because I hadn't learnt rule fucking one

....open the bloody gate!!

The Market of Souls

The market of souls is an ethereal tradition.
When you see it for the first time
you are struck by the crimson light
and the large posters asking you
to tread softly upon the ground.
The traders line the alley,
each side glittering for centuries.
And as moments whistle by
your days become your life
and you are yet to snare a bargain.

Today I am an observer.
I have not the ticket
to buy or swap or sell a soul.
Old time hagglers and the new
ambitious types
bump and jostle, smoke curls
slowly above the tents while
strange and beautiful music
lilts through the air.

Old greybeard herself sits quietly
on a treestump. She doesn't do much
trading herself these days ... or so they say.
Only if the urge takes her, or unless there's a
Picasso or Michelangelo or that lovely old temptress
from down the road up for grabs ...
Her work is done for her ...
When asked by the Ethereal Post recently
on her apparent lack of trading ... she said
"oh these things take care of themselves ...
I'm only here for the spectacle"

And so I wandered with this in mind,
watching the way of the souls ....
back and forward, wrapped up and boxed,
on display and discounted ...left on the shelf,
making their own way.

what's all this dribble

an apple tree sits outside the window
the taste of tea still in my mouth
I've returned again for inspiration
instead of driving south

the incessant sky is non stop
the days are upside down
ain't no bellbirds singing
there's nobody in town

the green is somehow greener
the gutters full and flowing
another week at least they say
the back yard needs a mowing

the ocean

Tonight we hear the ocean
she rumbles like a womb
she wraps us in her salty arms
she takes us in her spell
and from these streets
all black and sticky
danced upon and breathing
we know how close you are
although it seems
a million miles away

all scoundrels amongst us

on my sleeve I will display
all misgivings and kept secrets
invisible to me
outrageous

in my heart I will know
what is right and what is wrong
invisible to me
outrageous

what will it take .... ?

the simplest of tomes
a slap or an airy second
the yellow in the eye's
of a beast that once
made me wonder of such things
like a chink ... the changing of keys
when concentrating on lyrics
abated and rested
abled by moments frozen
sweetened
soothed
a sigh of relief

glowing like a whorehouse
a twinkling of the dubious
on the outside
this sloganed t shirt
is the frontline of a generation
all entered and backspaced beyond repair

digress ....

shakespeare was a jaunty fellow
did you know he only wrote in black robes
so as not to colour his arguments
a 15th century emo
whose misgivings and kept secrets
fell from his pages
inking fragilious
opting on out

oh yes ....lovely she is

and so it goes
this whispering wheel
this flaming circle
this firecracker heart...

I peeked behind the old curtain
the one behind the mystic's shop counter
and saw the potions lined up
rows and rows of them
lit only by candlelight
I'm sure their were frogs
in some of them
and I definatley saw
a puppy dog's tail
in another.
Old greybeard was hunched
at the maker's table
feeding his bats as he did
strange mathematics
...."another child" he billowed ...
"these orders are never ending"
but still ....he plied his magic
as he had done so for ever
conjuring, mixing, believing ...
and with a clang, a puff of smoke
and that old spinning wheel
he did it ....
again
another little girl

and so it goes
this whispering wheel
this flaming circle
this firecracker heart...

a bird calls me onward

A garden dreams at night time.
The whistling leaves are resting.
Naked are the grasses
That slink between the dews.
It's over says the currawong,
His yellow eyes be knowing....
A fever hits the restless
And faves the bravest few.

before the swirl returns ... I stop

Standing still
An eye surrounding
All that waits
For opposites
Now having given half
The other is received
And if the taking is your shadow
Soon the wind will strip you bare

The Strip

You get to know, at least by face,
the locals on the street. The strip
as it's known. Sometimes Inventoria
and I would rather bypass the strip
and whiz down Victoria St or cut
through the park and around by Picollo
to avoid the human bricolage.
Other times we choose to walk the
strip, observing the colour and the faces.

We avoid weekends and walk the strip most weekday
mornings. You are assured a high locals content
at this time of the week.
This is when the characters are
about in all their plumage and all their
distortions. At the Fitzroy garden it will start.
A couple of lazy loudmouths perched on
boxes, rolling cigs and following the sun.
Around the corner and into the strip proper we find
the lads with baggy shorts, no socks,
big sneakers and a collar turned upward
proudly standing their ground like cherry eyed
bower birds, ready to do business with a backpack
full of mischief.

We see the usual crowd outside maccas,
slurring and swaying. The early morning
girls with blistered feet from those
way too spikey shoes. Outside number 66
the pressure is on to wait till opening. The needle
exchange .... thanks to this place users have
a safe place to do what they do, maybe get a helping
hand or sympathetic ear
and remain off the street for a while.

...which could be a good thing today ....
you often see people nodding away, perhaps with a
far away look in their eyes ... but today those same people
are slumped in doorways, asleep at chairs or on the footpath
or standing up asleep outside the station.

We say their must be a strong batch in town this week
and are reminded of why the strip has at times
a dark energy. It sits behind the colour of the
characters and the miasma. I guess
that is and always will be ... Kings Cross

this thing I hold

it sings like the whip bird ...
startling passers by
and mesmerising those
who pause to stop and stare.
I have molded it
with my own hands and
my own imagination.
I have caressed it with my
breath and words subtle.
I have watched it grow .....
still excitable, but having
more to glance back, reflect upon
than once it did.
It still shimmers when the
morning sun hits it
and it still shivers
when the winter sets in.
It has seen you even when
you have not and it still talks
of things that are yet to be.
It makes sense of the unknowable
and tears away the stitching
of thousands of years ...
but don't ask it how
and don't ask it why
a spec in the voids
where everything is magic.

car hits roo

as far as the eye allows
as slow as our turning heads
the scene from this roadside rest
bristling

an eagle above the roadkill
waits for us blow ins to depart
to pick from the fresh remains
glistening

inhale exhale and some things in between

A puff of smoke
rises above the brick wall
and drifts off
with the breezes.

Breathing in .....

I know that smell,
it seems out of place.
You don't see much wood burning about town
these days. It's cold outside
and the south walls are eternally
damp. Lizards go underground and eyes
remain downcast. Places that give refuge
in the summer are out of bounds for now
and the birds are different ... if you notice.

My shoes have holes in the bottom
that I have gaffed over letting me chase
the chinks of sunlight that appear
before they are whisked away like
a magicians tablecloth. The menus are
full of lamb shanks and slow cooked
and the music is all minor and moves
toward me quickly in the cold.

I breathe out ...

A puff of smoke
rises above the brick wall
and drifts off
with the breezes.

crazy day with an expletive warning!!

I'm following you -
he said to me
as I sat at Tropicana
eating porridge
under the din of
a world cup replay.
And I'm going to follow you all day ...

I almost spat the prune out.
What on earth for? Well that's what I said
but what I was really thinking was
how creepy is this guy ... the only day
I eat here on my own
because inventoria has headed up the hill
and I get Lurch leaning over my flat white
with bad breath

Excuse me ... your going to follow me I said ...
he stared right through me for a second then said
what did you say

Oh boy ... I thought .... let me just eat my porridge


OK ... can I just eat my breakfast alone please?
Firm but friendly ....isn't that how your supposed to react..
and it worked . Off he trots out the door
to creep out someone else

Mind you, all the way to the Taylor Square I'm
looking over my shoulder ....no sign of him though
thank heavens

Then I get to the art school ... It's the old
Sydney Goal ...high sandstone walls with kids walking about
as if they're gonna be the next Sidney Nolan .... or
Joy Hester. Walking installations many of them.
I wonder which one could be a great artist ...
perhaps it's the one that looks like
a banker or the one with a very unstylish haircut or
the girl who seems as if she spent all morning
making sure she looks like she couldn't care less
what she was wearing
..... I wonder

then I get to the courthouse on the corner ... a truck is
delivering the prisoners for the day. Fate in the
hands of the jury i suppose ...or the judge.
The truck backs up to the dock
armed guardians opening a big iron gate ....
ahead on the footpath outside
sits a group of people
who look like they have slept the night
out in the cold, surrounded by empty bottles
drunk as they can be .... and it's 9am.

Anyway, they see the truck pull in
and one of the fellas shouts out

..."let the cunts go ya cunts" ...

well I can't help but start to laugh
just a little ...the whole episode is
very funny although blanketed in several layers
of sadness

I keep my eyes straight ahead

what are you laughin at mate ... slurs the group antagonist as
I quicken my pace a little

yep, I'm thinking to myself ... it's already a day to remember and I
haven't even got to where I'm going

let me just say ....

our languid thoughts aren't
real enough for action or nation
saving deeds - only little
flames, triggers,corner stones
to build upon. I envy do ers,
types you see at
amnesty international
seminars - except the ones who
are there just to pick up - mostly though,
behind the floral skirts, underneath the flaxen
shoulder bags and behind the greying
new found convictions there's someone
bloody inspirational

oh.... I do my bit, I think
I do. To quietly fight with words
is a bearing of arms that poets
bring to battle, to swathe through
meaning to fire at rigidity
to softly bend the unbendable

But still these types ...these
do ers with worn shoes,unseen
and at the front line I find
bloody inspirational

mark my words

I gave a dollar to a bloke
who looked like he needed it
and he said
do you have another one?
I went to the supermarket
to buy some food
but there was none there.
I looked in the record shop window
for something exciting ...
and left bored.
I said to myself
how about an afternoon coffee
in the struggling sun
to cheer myself up...
it arrived luke warm (the coffee and the sun)
and when I complained the barista said
that's how they serve them in Paris
and I said well this is Darlinghurst Rd
not the bloody avenue des Champs-Elysees ....
he grunted ..... so
I walked home
to read my book
which is dark and depressing
and on the way a bird
shat on my shoulder
and when I got to the door
of my apartment
I realised I'd left my bag
at the coffee shop.

Alright .... I'm gonna turn around
and start again
get my bag, smiling
to the barista
as i go
walk straight past the poor
chap on the footpath, flick him two dollars
then disappear into some movie house
to watch a film
about someone else'e life
and escape this sodden,though
quite remarkable day

kings cross ahoy!

Morning whistles up the laneway
coffee and sunshine strips
sparkling off windows. Somewhere
lovers caress, white sheets
slung to the breezes
as if today, Kings Cross
could sail away.

Sail out through the heads
detatched and uncaring
a glittering boat with bright
neon mastings, short skirted
deck hands hoist
business boy rigs.

And I'd be the captain
the muse and the poet. Steering
a course out and beyond
billowing orders
to those who would listen
sail on an island
break into song.......

.... my daydream is brittle
splintered and earthen
by buskers lament
a wondering song
of high sea adventures
white sheet fantastic
Kings Cross ahoy
break into song

in good hands

mists cuddle the house
gently falling, stopping
to peek through the windows
sometimes resting as a droplet
sometimes curling and billowing
with each zephyr
languidly fighting the sunrays
that turn all to dust

inside the radio crackles
daydreamless stuff really
I wonder if i should make
another cup of tea
or start something new
awakening the embers
with a puff of oxygen
and some new found enthusiasm

but the mists return
with a vengeance
of their own
hypnotizing through the leadlight
cracks meandering as if the voids
were a rivulet
taking all my ambitions
downstream

at the kings cross roads

the curving apartments
roll down macleay st
coffee aromas
blanketed eyes

this monday morning
unlike the others
spangles replaced
by business boy ties

then the rhyming stops .....
as if a pungent garbage truck
pulls up in front of you
in the middle of a daydream ...
as if the shake of a herald
twigs you into conformity
for ever and ever...

and for a moment
you glance back
over your shoulder
and see yourself running
in the opposite direction
kicking up red leaves
from the gutter
like an old movie
your body fluid and joyous
your hair unattended
and your clothing
nothing but comfortable

so the waiting is over
the beckoning giant
has slapped you from slumber
complacent, compliant

with a take away latte
and a spit polish shine
head down regardless
and on with this rhyme

The Laneway that Starts with two L's

xxxxxxxxxxxx
xxxxxxxxxxxx
xxxxxxxxxxxx
marks the spot
where you stood
1000 days ago
in that laneway
that starts with 2 L's
where the sex shop
has become a wine bar
and the wax museum
a harris farm
where old man alter
and his rituals
in the black arts
are soon to be replaced by
something much whiter
and fancier
.... oh it's all good
progress be progress
and even though the airs
and magics will keep their distance
that spot
the x one
near the mini red door
where the cobblestones tremble
and the cockatoo soars above
in circles upwards
until all you see
is a falling feather
... will always be
1000 days ago
today

a twist in the story

petit little petit
underheard overshout
crowd pleaser
brain teaser
bless you
my little darling
our secret kept
will soon be out

wet wig dreaming

I hear the floorboards creaking
stuttering beneath my shoes
with candles flickering
lovers bickering
I am the kings cross muse

Another night of dancing
inside, away from rains
suburban boys
get cheap shot joys
that slowly melt their brains

My wig is sweat soaked dripping
my voice the morning blues
I've earned my shilling
now sleep god willing
I am the kings cross muse

With a reference to Mr Patrick White

Awake now.
Wandering beneath
a bat's escape ...
art decopauge
cardboard cutouts
herald my arrival.
Each one of them
buttoned up like my lips,
curtains drawn like my eyes.

No daring the intruder ...
rich or poor or over or under
indulged
and hardly a native tree in sight.
No way in ...
for hardly the light
is given the passswords.

Then through the glass door
but in reflection ....
so I turn,
a young man points
his outstretched finger
quivering
and from across Macleay St
says to me ....
"see the girl over there
with the cigarette holder...
she's taking me out
tonight" ...

oh summertime

a small scratch on the pavement
a can of coke in the sun
a double taking tourist
a walker on the run

no dripping towels at sunset
no afternoon soaked rain
this kings cross concrete summer
melts slowly down the drain

the old stone house

stepping out through the trees
eluding us as if
the night were a hoodie
though the morning
has risen for hours
a rickety stone house
barely standing
ages as testimony to
the crafters
beckons me
and my horse
dismounted we walk
eyes transfixed
spelled
magnetised
the years scream and laugh
cry and talk to us
of passes by and
those who stayed for longer
of those born
and those who passed
inside the stone
they wait or at least
part of them does
we listen for a time
then drink from the eaves
refreshed and remounted
we amble back through the trees
where the day
which blazes noon
is lost to us
for now

drinking the stars

at the time of the great battle
a time when demons strayed
deep into our world
the trees quivered
and the frogs knew
what was to begin

from the forest
deep inside
a drum hummed
so low
as to wake even the
sleepiest of beings

raising his cup
the strongest and most feared demon
was about to drink
the elixer of life ....

the sun and the moon
would not stand for this
and alerted the great gods
who decapitatede the head of the demon
before he could swallow the elixer

his head of course became immortal
and out of anger
he would
swallow the sun
and the moon
only for them to shortly reappear
in our mortal skies


this is ...
apart from a wonderous story
the true and correct
explanation of the eclipses

baloney

L Ron Hubbard
went to the cupboard
to fetch him poorself
a religion

When he arrived
he found workers who thrived
on the leftovers
of his next million

drip

black cockatoos
fly north
in the morning

splash
teardroplet eyes
on refinery town

brimming with dreams at my feet

I got a box of cd's
from a record company
to give away
to my msuic students
disks they didn't want
disks sent in hope
all that passion
all those late late nights
squashed down to flat plastic
and ending up
in a box under my desk
hundreds of albums
thousands of songs
I can feel the weight
of the artists
sighing
looking up longingly
treading water
over here .... no over here
pick me .... pick me ...

there's a real nice looking
bunch of chaps
with shoulder length shampooed hair
and fantastic stances
and expensive guitars
wedged up against
the doppleganger of Britney
with ruby red lipstick
and a ridiculous pout
lying against
the next lryical hip hop
master of the mouth
takin over the streets
rewriting the genre
or so he says .... p-lease

anyway
there they lie
profoundly hidden
and rather lonely
my students snap up a handful
but the box
is still brimming
brimming with dreams

which somehow makes me think
about the art v technology debate
ah ... that old chestnut
but that's another blog

so for now ...
dream on!

little darlin'

sometimes, as the waves break
and the cockatoo sings to me
I remember you

and

sometimes, as the mists clear
and the horizon beckons
I remember you too.

the impossible hat stand of regrets

Apart from the odd visit
or market day
I've been away for a while
.... but now I'm back.
Inventoria and I have returned
from the radiated lands
pens firmly in hand
eyes firmly on the circus.

Now the first thing I do
is visit Estelle ...
if you don't know her
I humbly suggest that you read
this very blog's entry from
feb 07 ... "your own personal jesus"
.... anyway, she's quite the lady.
Estelle gives me a hug that says
... "gosh it's good to see you
but I ain't gonna say it"
Estelle darts mesmerisingly about her flat,
the park below reminds me of
something I left years ago.

There is something different about her.
The look in her eyes flickers between
frustration, sadness
and that of an unknowing child.
Her steadfast glint, her unwaivering precision
is waivering. I wonder what getting old ....
and I mean really old is like.

She interupts my self absorbtion in her
state of mind by asking me a question...

If you were about to die ... old boy
she says to me ... today, right now
what one thing would you regret?

I fumble slightly and smile at her ..
well it's nice to be back I say.
she doesn't return my sense of flippancy
but calmy says .... well you don't have to answer it now

The afternoon ambles onward
the two of us wrapped in it's spell ...

Estelle tells me much of Kings Cross
the Clunes and their gallery cohorts
Olsen, Hughs, Klippel
she talked of evenings at the California
on Darlinghurst rd
or just opposite at the Arabian ...
two cafes that would look sadly out of place in the cross today.
I hear about her friend, the courageous and beautiful
Juanita Nielson who paid a high price
for us to enjoy the trees on Victoria Street.
I remember her name on the telly
as a kid ...

and on we discuss ...
i tell her of the saturday night scum
the cars, the plasma screens
the distinct lack of bohemia
but it's not all bad I say
I paint you the worst of it
I know she says ...
looking tired, I decide to leave

She gives me another hug
a warmer one it feels
and says visit again ....
won't you?
and answer me that question

As I turn and head down her
oppulent hallway
my shoulder brushing her impossible
hat stand
I'd regret I say to myself ...
I'd regret
hhmmm ...

Kings Cross has gone Soft!

Early Sunday morning
Kings Cross ...
after a good sleep.
I dare not head around the corner
up past the slowly fading bourbon,
but set my boundaries
firmly about the Fitzroy Park.
Have you seen the knitting?
It surrounds the limbs
and posturing branches
like a good old fashioned
hippy jumper.
The trees have little coats,
knitted with care,
stitch by stitch
by a troupe of artisitc ...
...umm ... knitters

Even the non organic structures
get a gurnsey ...
Street poles, bike racks
bus stop benches
and the police station too.
All soft and woollen
in constabulary blue.

I've noticed the odd knit
about the streets lately,
here and there.
I touch them as i pass.
It's kinda cosy
like wearing a beanie ...
but boy have they gone
to town in the Cross.
Especially here in the park.
Head on out and have a look
and a feel...

It's good to see needles
being put to good use
arond here ..... for a change.

mcpath

smoke filled tavern
northern scotland
15 men drink warm brown ale
share their thoughts
and hopes
and rations
stoke their minds
a fiery haze
then walks in the inn man's daughter
with a bright blue dress
and a phantoms gaze
that would kill a thousand monsters
from the lochs of nessies salad days


he turned around
walked on down
to shoot this whole world
upside down
to die die die die with you
to die die die die by your side
to die die die die with you
to die die die die by your side


next night high society
he has to hit it with the best
and a champagne haze
that all melts into insignificance
even if he's panned wide
or out of phase
then walks in the inn man's daughter
with the same blue dress
and that phantoms gaze
that would kill a thousand monsters
from the locks of nessies salad days

as the shadow comes, it goes

A shadow passes near I feel
and tips me with it's wing
as eager as a ring worm
formless, faceless, fearless

A breathe or two ... or three or four
a walk amongst the old worlds
all grecian urn and statuette
will set things straight
like stone

A half diversion
painted thickly
creaks and clinks unoiled
my armour of rice paper
blows away ontop the breezes
blows away far out to sea
leaves me standing here half naked
leaves me standing here ...

this passing shadow passes

a poem for the equinox

brush stroke stanzas
eloquently told
sparring old witches
spells sevenfold
the market square is buzzing
yellow magic fills the street
the magpie saw it coming
like the owl and lorikeet

memory in a box

I overheard an old fella
talk about his memories
the ones he brought out
each springtime blooming ....
he kept 'em in a box
safe from the frosts of bitterness
away from the petulant story tellers

and when he scented the daffies
that blew in from the hill
be they earlier each year
with earnest he said
It's time to bring 'em out
dust the old boys down
and give them a damn good airing

where was I when ....
remember the time ...
those were the days ...
oh how I felt ....

good,bad, sad and exhaltant
thoughtful, dreamy or whimsical
there they were
hung out to dry
living a bit ...
all over again

the problem he said
as I stretched out an ear
is that the box gets bigger
and bigger each year

what a strange fella
I remember I said
I'd rather keep mine
wrapped up in my head

at the gold coast with gwen and jeanie

went to leave the gold coast
in the queue
behind me
gwen and jeanie
missed the flight
had to wait back in the lounge
with double g and tees
probably happy
except can't smoke the styvies
without goin outside
so annoying really
true ... yeah true
but it's all good
.....yeah
it's sunday evenin
cry tv

if the news
won't bring ya to tears
then
random moments of kindness will
it will .... I tell ya
like that nice woman
so deserved it actually
yeah she did ....,. yeah
actually .....
yeah
I hate flying
me too
yeah i know yes
it's so bizzare that many miles in the air
yeah i know
yeah
i hate taking off
i know it's so bizzare
mmmm
yeah i know
it's so bizzare

moments whistle past
my cheeks alive with breezes

god love gwen and jeanie
but i'm off
back to the cross
kings bloomin' cross

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.