Control

Outside the rain pours
and fogs up my windows until I’m encased
in a private car-shaped box
a universe of plastic leather and aluminium
and outside that is only a noisy nothing
knock-knock-knocking at the door
with tiny insect fingers

Inside is safe and warm
and when I sweat the
universe sweats with me

I Miss You

White sun fingers burst through cirrus
piercing the azure sky and flexing
pointing West with intensity
as if showing the way
urging us on with impatient beams

Down below
the sloop bobs slowly in the sea
the wind holds its breath in anticipation
while the lad watches from the crow’s nest
his skin like old leather
aged beyond his years
rope-callused hands fiddling with the telescope
squinting into the uncertain distance

Yes there is land ahead
he’s sure of it but makes no declaration
he eyes dark clouds that lurk behind
they are inching ever-nearer
but he is not afraid

The ship is steady
it will go the distance
it will stay the course
it needs only the winds of time
to carry it forth

In the crow’s nest the lad leans back
closes his eyes and telescope
and reminds himself that
the winds will come
Soon

Some People are Poison

Some people are poison
they’ll wrap around you like vines
and wring your neck if you let them
and they probably don’t even realize
what they’re doing.

Some people are poison
and some of them are in disguise
wearing china-doll faces and g-strings
snorting like a child and fucking like an animal
and inside very very cold.

Some people are poison
and thrive off their own excretions
shoveling dirt and grit and coal into the furnace
of a train car that isn’t even moving
and holds no-one’s interest.

Some people are poison
and dirty-haired and the colour of rats
will do anything for you while you’re in their line of sight
will lie, cheat, steal, rape and giggle their way to the top
and are worthless.

Some people are poison
and I want the antidote if it exists
a solution other than an ectomy
a slap or a wake-up call
I want to help.

so tired

so tired I want to throw up
who’d have thought exhaustion could make you feel like this
12 hours sleep in 4 days
the heat
the heat
the heat
woke up today to go work
should’ve known it was bad
stomach disgusting and swollen
fat sack full of shit and bile
want to spit at myself
seeing that in the mirror
work and caffeine and work and caffeine
and for a little while its ok
and then its back to crap
the sweat
the sweat dripping
oozing like oil down my neck and back
candle flame burning on the inside of my head
on break and into the toilet before I lose my breakfast
but it doesn’t come out
take a shit instead
hot and bubbly and god-awful
when will it end?

Trying

She wants me in the day
she wants me at night
In between she’s got me sitting on ice-packs ‘til my balls ache with frostbite
but there’s nothing blue about them.
The sex is good
but honestly
my favourite part is afterward
seeing her looking so stupid and adorable
standing on her head
to help the sperm on its way.

Float

Yesterday I got a promotion
the boss said all these nice things
about me of all people
and I wondered what was going on
but couldn’t figure it out.

After he told me I tried really hard to keep from smiling
I didn’t want them to know
that I secretly felt validated
I didn’t want to relinquish my grip on my cool persona
I like that persona.

I still don’t understand
I stopped trying to impress people a long time ago
and that only seems to impress them more
I stopped trying to be accepted
and people seem to like who I am
I stopped looking for love
and it snuck up on me.

I don't get it.
I feel like everything’s gone crazy.

Ways I Feel After Watching A David Lynch Film

Scared. No, Terrified. That is foremost.
Tired and Woozy.
That weird Headachy feeling. When your eyeballs slide.
Sexually Stimulated, particularly when Naomi Watts is involved.
Titillated, Fascinated and generally Overstimulated.
Confused like running through tunnels.
Awed that someone can imagine that way.

A Version of Me

Sometimes I wake up in the morning half alive half dead and wonder whether there’s any reason to get up at all.
Sometimes I realize I don’t like me a whole lot but that’s okay I’ll just create a new me starting now.
Yesterday I realized my narrative voice is terribly unnaturally inauthentically me.
Yes, yes there are a lot of things to correct.

Most days I spend at least 15 minutes wondering just what the hell it is I’m doing.
In summer I usually seize up in terror once a day wondering if this is the day my hair melts into the top of my head like some greasy cake decoration.
(Black things conduct heat)!

Sometimes I think my love of sci-f has taught me to be good at sex.
No seriously because I can suspend my disbelief and focus and not get hung up wondering how on earth I got myself into this situation in the first place.
Otherwise how would anything get done?

In certain specific conditions I will lose my appetite entirely for three days and not really know why.
Then my hunger will return at 3.22am in a rush like copulating teenagers.
And then what do you do?
Somebody tell me seriously I don’t know. Can you justify getting something to eat at that time?

Some part of me still wants to be used and abused by awful sorts because let’s face it doing the wrong thing can be fun sometimes.
Even if it ends up feeling like tearing the muscle clean off the bone.
No no wait no it’s more like that disappointment feeling.
Like that moment of quiet ‘oh.’ when the house lights go up at the end of night/start of day.

Sometimes I like to go swimming in the mornings even though I’m half a chance to drown myself.
Me in the water is like a fish trying to swim through chocolate syrup.
But that won’t stop me I’m stubborn like that plus I love that aquamarine colour of water in a synthetic body.

Somewhere I read that the smell / look of violets evokes memories of the dead and dead romance.
This interested me enough to write it down in my notes but how can I use it?
I don’t know anything about flowers.

Passenger

Today I’m not the driver
someone else is in control
but from him or her I’m totally
divorced.

I’m not sure that I trust the
person sitting at the wheel
because they’re always trying to make
a stop.

I hope they know the way to
go I’d help them if I could
but it’s difficult because I’m
half-asleep.

Little Tree

Here I have a little tree. It wants so much to grow.
It needs a lot to nurture it, but what I do not know.

I don’t know how to care for it, to get the balance right.
Frequently that keeps me up with worry through the night.

There is no other like it though that you won’t believe.
Secretly I’m worried that it’s losing all its leaves.

The little tree is stunted, sickly, colour drained to mauve.
It has no place to plant its roots, no sanctuary grove.

But still the tree it struggles on, it knows no other way.
Apparently it’s meant to keep on living day by day.

Sometimes I even prune the tree, to keep it safe and small.
I wish I could protect it, hide it, block it with a wall.

A person tried to strangle it, to wring its life away.
I didn’t get his license plate. It ended in a K.

It seems there’s always someone trying to hurt my little tree.
But half the time I tend to think the hurtful one is me.

Of late I have been wondering how long my tree can last.
Any way you look at it, 8 months won’t go by fast.

But if my tree can last that long it all might be okay.
Apparently I have to keep on living day to day.

Aileron Song

That tarot smile has got me aching
Honey drip eyes upturned to heaven
“Somewhere out there
the story of our lives is written”

[Chorus]
Did you really know we were ready to go?
Torn up, ripped up, metal debris
Little bits of fire falling into the sea

She’s locked me in with words of reason
Can’t seem to breathe, the air’s recycled
Fixed on this path, I’m acting like
My aileron is broken

[Bridge]
What’s the answer from above?
What truth pulled from the ether?
God looks at us and shrugs and smiles,
says “I don’t get it either”

The turbines cough, the engine splutters
We can’t compete with such resistance
Luck takes no sides, it isn’t fair
But what were we expecting?

Berlin

Are you afraid?
Underneath
Static-coloured sky

Feel the vibrations
Social minefield
Watch your step
Watch your step
Where’s it gonna land?

Hitler’s in the parking lot
In the dirt
Underground

Watch your back
Keep your eyes on
The Blue Gate
The Blue Gate
Guards are on the edge

Keep away from me
Those tombstone teeth
Barbed-wire hair
Ripping up my face
Hurts my eyes
Bomb-scare breath
Leave me gasping
Where’s the mask?
Where’s the mask?
The dark eyes?

O Country

O Country,
how you permeate all things.

O Country,
how your fingers work the strings.

The words I say, the ways I think,
the things I crave to eat and drink.
The brazen views on ways of life,
the one I choose to be my wife,
and oh so much more.

O Country,
is my character my own?

Or Country,
am I just one of your clones?

To fight for inches, tooth and nail,
and hope for smoothness in my sail?
To knock and sell things door-to-door
to homes that shine, where flags do soar,
or am I maybe something more?

Summer Days at Elizabeth St

Imaginary

Little waddled steps
on little stumpy legs
down into the backyard
for a new adventure
already lived a hundred times before.

Carefully, carefully,
down the red concrete steps
into the pavement wilderness,
under the yellow sunny sky,
hot and sticky.

The heated air rises
all wobbly and warm
jumping up from the bricks
on to my hands that sweat and sweat
til I wipe them on my denim overalls.

Now watch me go!
The mini-Indiana Jones
hopping from brick to brick
dodging the cracks
‘cause the cracks are the traps!

Into the jungle shade,
into the darkened caves, and -
Look out!
A snapping yellow wolf!
Imprisoned in a wooden cage-

-“Watch your fingers! Don’t get too close!”-
- Rusty barks twice. –

I’ve beaten the traps,
and now for the GOLD!
I snatch it and clutch it tight
and run and run,
invisible boulders rolling at my heels.

Big Plant

The bright yellow sun is right up high
leaning on the cloud
in the middle of the sky
its long golden fingers poking at me
making me itchy and more sweaty

So I go seeking refuge
inside the clothes line,
its drippy inhabitants so cool and white
they flip and they flap about when I pull them
and SpinSpinSpin!

And then a voice cries:
“Ah-ah-ah!”
And it’s time to run and hide
into the plant, quick!
Crawl inside.

Cool, wet shade and a hiding place
that smells of rubbery green.
The big leafy arms curl around to embrace,
while I brush the prickly dirt
from my hands and my knees.

The voice says: “Where is he? Where could he be?”
I stifle a giggle because they can’t see.
And the thrill and excitement
and small tiny fear
they all make me grin ‘cause
they’ll never look here!

Untitled

Last night I had a dream.
I dreamt I walked down a long corridor
further than eyes could see or ears could hear
and as I walked I realized
I was not alone.

Around me in the darkness stood a million solid figures
with a million solemn faces;
every person I had ever known or met
standing in lines to infinity
on either side of my bare shoulders.

As I walked my eyes adjusted to the dark
and I noticed each person, though unmoving,
seemed always to face me with eyes that prickled my pale, naked skin,
seeing deep beneath the surface,
into me and even through me.

I noticed then that each person held a single object
clasped in white-knuckled hands
and pointed straight at me
held aloft in judgment in the shrill, piercing silence.
I tried to focus.

A teacher held the test I cheated on as a 10 year old.
My brother held a guitar with missing e string.
An ex-lover gripped a bloody heart in her fist.
A cousin held a dead bird, a bullet hole in its' chest.
Frightened, I began to run.

My footsteps made no impact on the deathly silence.
The invisible ground was cold on my lonesome feet
as I passed by the people of my past,
the curator of a strange museum,
with exhibits more disturbing than wax figures.

As I ran I glimpsed you from the corner of my eye.
I skidded to a halt, slipped and crashed to the ground.
I scrambled to my feet, eyes searching for you frantically
until I found you in the line,
one amongst the millions.

Carefully, I approached
struggling to see what was held in your hands.
As I came closer you held it up before me
A mirror shrouded in white light
and I was unsure whether or not to be afraid.

Conscience Can Be Hard To Find And Harder Still To Lose

I came inside
with a fistful of 20 cent pieces
and all my dirty laundry
my phone turned off and left on the car seat
I was alone and untethered and it felt alright

Flyers on the wall screamed for
my attention but they only disappointed
like the old magazines at the doctors surgery
the desperate refuge
of a bored man

The door opened
and the winds rushed in and in
she came
windblown and green-eyed and
oh-so pretty

All woman and right there in front of me.

At home I stumbled on the front step
my hands once so sure
couldn’t find my keys
the keys couldn’t find the lock
and the floorboards cried when I stepped on them.

Everyone asleep.

I took a shower
in water that ran cold
I eased myself into bed and drew the covers up
and sleepily my wife
threw an arm around me

I shut my eyes tight and waited for sleep
to engulf me and wipe away the day
and as I drifted off I realised
I fucked her
I fucked her in the laundry as our wet clothes tumbled round us

Elegy for my Lost Keys

O how could this come to be?
What trick or trap or devilry
couldst provoke this tragedy?
Come back to me o missing keys.

I took for granted for too long
your metal jingle-jangle song
come back to me, for I was wrong
Come back to me o missing keys.

You travelled with me far and wide
when doors were drunk and hard to find
those nights you let me back inside
Come back to me o missing keys.

It took me far too long to see
you weren’t just a utility
to open doors and beers for me
Come back to me o missing keys.

At a Bar, And Afterwards

A room of recognizables, but strangers nonetheless
I sense the ghost receding, pressure easing in my chest
A world of dancing dangers lurking down around my knees
Is somehow strangely soothing even when I hold the keys

A synapse fires early, and the words escaping out
Conspire to overthrow me, get the General to rout
Decorum is the enemy, I hide behind my eyes
And all their polite questioning is only to disguise

The mottled, blind, self-interest that makes me so forlorn
An answer out of category will win the people’s scorn
And when did the brains trust decide that this was all okay?
For cultural myopia to rule the children’s play?

Alone, at home, I feel that I’m that cat inside the box
Equally alive and dead, so long as no-one looks
And why can’t I express the things that mean the most to me?
Her words take me to other realms I feel but cannot see

And yet my words fall silent, dead before they’ve left the tongue
Perhaps the words have dried away, used up when I was young
Or maybe I can find the words in someone else’s song?
And use those ‘til my own return, I hope it won’t be long.

Near or Far

You are my late nights.
You are my early mornings.
The robin’s sweet song and the cool breeze from the North.
Far from sight but never from mind.
You make my heart dance, dance, dance like soda bubbles.

A Strange Man

I met a strange man in Arts Lecture Room 8.
He frightened me at first glance.
He had the look of a wild dog backed against a wall.
I swallowed hard when he sat next to me.

He wore a long-sleeve collared shirt that might have started life as white,
But had long since been stained yellow like the teeth of a pack-a-day man.
The shirt had a print that looked as though it had gone
Out of fashion in approximately 1971.

On top of the shirt, he wore a shabby brown vest, woolly and dirty.
Brown pants with no belt.
Tattered shoes clinging desperately to their own remains.
Dark hair, unkempt. Dark eyes.

Unshaven. A slight odour.
The general look of a man who had spent the last ten years
Grifting his way through the mid-West.
A time-traveller from the Depression-era.

He sat next to me; I kept my head down, kept reading.
He muttered to himself incessantly. He made me nervous.
He asked what I was reading: Calvino, for Post-Modernism.
He said: “I loved it. Did that unit. Did pretty well. Wait til Murakami though.”
Hehe.

He asked about my summer.
I said it was good fun, but that (as usual) I’d got to a point
Where I was itching to get back to doing something real.
He said he didn’t have a job over summer, so he’d had a great time.
Hehe.

After the lecture, he got up and walked away;
With the posture of a bald eagle, rigid, unyielding,
But the fluid movement of a dancer,
The jittery spasms of a junkie,
The imbalance of a drunk.
He was gone.