ThomFoolery

AUSTRALIA

2014-02-13T04:39:00.004-08:00

AUSTRALIA

Australia without you I'm nothing
Australia 22 dollars & sixty cents, January 26th, 2014
I can't even afford a barrel of oil
Australia why do you celebrate your own invasion?
Go fuck yourself with your white supremacist policies.
I am feeling UnAustralian
Australia I am furious
I weep for your infamies
I decry your enormities
Your last Yes vote referendum was 43 years ago
When will you stop killing the natives?
Australia with your Us & Them
Australia you might have become One Nation

I’m joining the pirates to save the whales
I’m your ninja in corporate clothing
I’m going dissident so try me now
Try your sedition laws on me please
I want to be unworthy of you
I’m harbouring Boat People
We threw all the children overboard
Jihad Jack Thomas is our poster boy
Mamdouh Habib was over for dinner
We ate halal & licked our fingers & wiped our mouths on your imperial flag

Australia I take twenty minute showers every day
& I'm not sorry
Your dams were all built in rain shadows
& your Desal plants are getting rusty
My washing is never dry
But your rain washes our human refuse into the ocean

Australia, when will you be worthy of your million anarchists?
Them Muslims them Muslims them Jews.
And them Muslims
Them Muslims wants all the oil
Muslim nation cries death to the infidel
I think they might mean us
I saw it on TV so it must be true.
Fatwas all round, think I might be next.

My ambition is to be Prime Minister,
even though I’m Atheist
My first act will be to make education free for everybody
Followed by jailing all lawyers without trial
Australia you made me an autocrat
I’m short sighted & have difficulty focusing on anything
But even I can see this mess we're in

Australia you stole a generation & you aren’t really sorry
Australia you let them bomb the Pacific with Nuclear weapons
Australia take your Free Trade & shove it
Australia I won’t pay tax if I don’t want to
I’m addressing you
This is spurious Australia

I still haven't told you what you did to Uncle Tony
after he came home from Juvenile Detention,
still a teenager yet with the face of a 40 year-old,
virginity broken both ways
& a life of violent crime his only vocation

Australia I don’t prefer either of your two parties
Australia I urinated in a ballot box once
when my mother took me to vote as a kid
in the Queensland Daylight Saving Referendum.
All the talk of fading curtains,
them confused cows and all those lawns to mow twice
left my bladder feeling sensitive.
I guess that makes me a good no-voting Australian.

Australia this can’t go on
The World is laughing at us
Little Monarchist U.S. arse-kissing banana republic
Australia your Dream is a fantasy to me
Your Baby Boomers own everything that's nailed down
& most of what isn't.
I haven't got a moneylender's chance

Why is your National Holiday made in China?
When will we have a true democracy?
I'm putting my last dollars on a hundred to one longshot!
I'll wear a cheap pin-stripe suit,
Put product in my hair
& kiss every girl who calls me a Metrosexual

Australia many of your children still live in poverty
Australia when will you let us rejoice?
Australia when can we finally be young & free?
& what good is golden soil
When we can’t afford it anyway?

Shitex Incorporated

2012-08-26T06:13:00.002-07:00

Shitex is the sound of one hand clapping,

It’s a blood-soaked bath that’s near over lapping,

It's a thousand kids rapping crappy rhymes

and whatever else passes,

with pants that don’t even cover their arses.

Shitex is the traffic jam where Punt becomes Hoddle,

It’s the mad Monday munt when they all hit the bottle,

the truck drivers on uppers going full throttle

and a holiday road toll losing an unwinnable battle.

Shitex is the Byron Bay tracks without any trains,

When it never pours but it always rains.

It’s the State Liberal Government going to pains

To silence the poets and all the people with brains.

Shitex is a new tax, carbon pricing, mining resource rental,

goods and bloody services tax,

taxes masquerading as levies, tariffs, fees,

discounts on fuel and excise on tobaccy,

taxes on ya booze, on ya gas and ya leccy

tax on taxes, on ya house,

on ya car and even ya funeral casket.

Shitex is the opportunist start up upstarts overcharging on utilities.

Australian owned used to mean owned by Australians,

but Shitex means you pay through the nose,

through both nostrils and out your arse too.

Pay Shitex for your phonecalls, line rental and handset,

John Howard fucked Telecom just like he fucked Ansett,

now they've got us browsing for flights on webjet,

crouching in cattle class, while shares are down at Qantas,

moron CEO asks Mr Abbott “why don't you want us?”

Shitex Party Politicians are laughing and saying “not yet!”

Shitex is supermarkets without any baskets,

no baggers or hard sell,

it's available on the Internet, or novated lease,

Shitex is guaranteed without credit checks for bad debt.

It comes in all sizes, for all shapes and all vices.

Shitex even makes nappies and tampons,

sells giftcards and coupons,

and all kinds of add ons,

you can even get pills to help with your hard ons.

Shitex is the Brisbane Bears or Newtown Jets,

your money back on losing bets.

Buskers thrumming on splintered frets,

3 men short of a string quartet,

Forensic cum stains on her epaulettes,

Army rations on plain-packaged cigarettes

Shitex is your darkest fear in an awful year,

A cold wet tongue in your sinful ear,

You can even get it in a pull o' beer,

or a broken promise from a bull's rear.

Said Hello to the Clouds

2010-08-16T23:59:00.000-07:00

I spoke to the clouds one day

up there in the rarefied air

They weren't very good listeners

flitting by in their cloudy way

but since clouds are born gossips

I had no lack of conversation

I told them about you

how you put butterflies in my stomach

with a word or a glance

& how your smile is so brilliant

it's the eighth wonder of my world

They said- "Oh yes, we know that smile,

she visits from time to time

& we dance in the currents of her eyes."

They said your eyes were sapphires

the colour of ozone and the ocean

shifting from bright azure

to grey goodbye

startling even to such as them

They told me of rivers & lakes

that sparkled in the motes

of the westering sun

yet nothing could hold a candle

to the magnificence of your smile

Then they told me of dreams

when you were off away with them

from fantastic surmise

to nightmare cries

and sleepwalking until sunrise

The clouds carried me across

the Great Divide in the jet stream

spoke to me of hunger & drought

fire & flood & famine

and showed me wastelands of regret

They said- "You crossed this way before

but you lost your way."

Then they told me to follow my dreams

trust to my instincts

& to never lose heart

The clouds spoke to me that day

& they said to say hi

drop by when your eyes are clear

your smile is near

& your heart is in want of nothing

Your Language

2010-02-06T07:13:00.000-08:00

Lulled traveller to your sweet siren

I float in your blue moon swell

deaf to the insistent world

Conch cupped to my ear

I listen intently to the deep, stirring

rhythms of your heart

Each poetic bone in my body

feels the music of your velvet voice

& longs to learn your language

Drifter on the tides of time

I dive deeper to breathe the stories

of your life’s many mysteries

Drowning in a sea of dreams

I taste the promise of your lips

dumb to the waking wonder

Wayfarer on the early evenflow

my eyes have no purchase

blind in the naked night

a likely lad

2010-01-28T03:50:00.000-08:00

I nursed my fourth knock-off beer

switched to my left hand

& stopped talking for the first time in fifteen minutes

the businessman beside me who was buying me drinks

arched a thick grey eyebrow & said:

       “Yure eh likely lad, Rocco.

        Ye fit, young, eager

        Un wots more, yuv goat

        A gud head on yure shoulders.”

So saying he clapped me on the back

drained his pot & roared for another

it was the Summer of ‘99

bartending BrizVegas

working in a trendy inner-city gin-joint

that is, until the owner got busted

for coke by undercover cops

but I was a jack-of-all-trades

got a job in a hotel/motel

- no-one can tell the difference these days -

of an afternoon I'd wash dishes

chop onions, spuds & carrots

polish glasses & cutlery

answer telephones

brag, boast & exchange lies with the Texan Chef

& the gay Maitré D

by evening I'd wait tables

tend the bar

stock the fridges

clean the kitchen

sweep & mop the floors

answer telephones

& take room-service up to celebrities

one night, among many

I got call from room 56

a reggae band in town & outta booze

        "Hey mun, canna ave t' soup o' tha day

        for seven uf us,

        also, cun you get us

        2 litres o' pineapple juice

        3 lemons & a pint of cream?"

I asked him if that was all, sir?

        "D'ye ave rum?"

Wot, Bundy?

        "No, Mun. Bacardi... White Rum?!"

In no time the Chef's bell rang

I loaded the trolley

punched floor 5 room 6

& knocked (knock knock na knock knock knock-knock)

        "Eeeyyyyyy, D'Artagnan!"

the rasta lion dread-head

sounded like the love-child

of Bob Marley & Fonzie

the stench of ganja hit me square between the eyes

blue-grey clouds billowed out into the hall

but I was blocked at the door

I felt like a five-star pizza-boy, accepted a toke

- no prizes for guessing what they tipped me with -

then went downstairs an tried on a few ten-year-old tricks

y'know, smashed a few plates

rattled the cutlery too loudly

yawned & bitched & complained

until the boss sent me

& my stoned arse home

Her Dark Hair

2010-01-28T03:32:00.000-08:00

A cushioned fall

oblivious young lovers frenetic with passion

& consuming desires

we fell many storeys

& as we fell the ground rushed up to meet us

but it was always a soft landing

with the ferocity of otters in rut

we tore snouts & grunted with sweaty abandon

when I came up for air your hair was intoxicating

in its black lustre & I was claimed

The hook I found later embedded in my lungs

was as sweet as your sex & I breathed it deep

what came next I could never have imagined

in the very beginning; a chest-pain horizon

when I came up for air

I was dying the death of a dog

but no hairball; only one black strand

I pushed you back into the pillows

a spent force of endorphins & ecstasy

staggering - like a drunk on his last bender -

I caught the sink with desperate hands

in the mirror I saw a floating face

with white splotches & one dark hair

hanging from my mouth

The blood rushed from my penis

as the rubber slipped & I thought:

“SOMEONE’S GONNA HAFTA CLEAN

THAT UP SOONER OR LATER!”

when the wet ‘Thwack’ of sperm

& vaginal juices hit the bathroom floor

As I pulled that lone hair

I knew the end drew nigh

for it was more than I could give

when I came up for air

the sink brimmed full with festering hopes

& mouldering desires

You fell back into cushions

with a mournful sigh

- a black-maned lioness -

but the Goddess only knew

I would never be the same.

phone booth

2010-01-28T03:21:00.001-08:00

A death rattle

like shifting gears

is all I heard before the scream

Leap out of the car

Dodge the traffic

Hurdle the hedge

Slam into the phone booth

only to find I’m not wearing

my Superman costume

0-0-0 o-o-o Oh! Ohh… Oooohhhh.__________.

Then the sirens

ignorant traffic

like you hear

when other people’s Dads

have heart-attacks

like you see

when ambulances

start to cruise

like hearses

because he’s dead

& the emergency’s over

by dawn

2010-01-25T22:39:00.000-08:00

a bartender

sits in a moon-lit bus-stop

writing bad poetry

toking a joint

sees carloads of

student-Discount-Revellers

imagines pouring

a drink for each one

knows that

by dawn

he might

a waitress

walks down a lamp-lit path

humming a ditty

smoking a ciggie

sees a prostitute

being solicited

imagines changing

places for just one night

knows that

by dawn

she might

a manager

stands in a dim-lit bathroom

snorting a line

through a roll-up fifty

sees tension drain

from a haggard mirror face

imagines reliving

a mis-spent youth

knows that

by dawn

he might

a hooker

lies in a gas-lit backseat

closing her eyes

sucking an eccy

sees an angel

wearing tarred feathers

imagines losing

her god-damn sanity

knows that

by dawn

she might

a Turkish saying

2010-01-25T22:27:00.000-08:00

The balding ocker in flannelette

stands impatient at the bar

scratching his balls

as though it might stimulate his thoughts

& sez –

“Whaddaya mean there’s no fucken voi boi?”

“I’m sorry, we only serve Tooheys affiliated products.”

“Tooheys? That’s fucken cat’s piss.”

“Nah mate, you’re thinking of Geelong Bitter.”

The Chef rings her bell for service

& I swear she’s gonna break that thing one day

she’s five foot nothing of sub-continental spice

pound for pound the toughest kitchen bitch

in Fitzroy & Collingwood

“Take these meals out, go on, get out!

No come back here, now go, but come straight back!”

The Mediterranean band plays a song in Greek

I know the tune, but don’t have any idea of the words,

so I make them up:

        “First I eat my Mezze plate, then I have a Souvlaki,

        and I eat some Baklava, Yassou, Yassou!”

The Manager is Scottish, from Glasgow (likes the Rangers)

is fond of pints & frequently uses the term shite

as a noun, an adjective and even as a verb

but never as a superlative,

for which he reserves his favourite continental curse:

“Shizenhauser!”

Turkish customers are arrogance personified

though not as bad as most southern Europeans

but they can’t get their heads around our currency

you see, in Australia we deal mainly in tens & twenties

whereas in Turkey they deal in millions

- you’d need a wheelbarrow to carry a weeks pay -

so when a dozen money-clipped

hookah-perfumed Turkish debonairs

wander into our bar our register is plundered

filling fast with fifties & hundreds

I mean, who pays for a coffee

with note large enough to buy forty of them?

It’s not nearly as bad as the Italian café I worked in

The boss’d say

“Get me latte!”

I’d piss-fart around trying to make the coffee

& he’d say

“What the fuck are you doing? I need a jug of milk.”

An hour later he’d say it again

“Get me latte”

I’d tentatively hold up a small jug

“You useless fucking mongrel.”

He’d say, as he pushed past to make the coffee himself.

My wandering thoughts are broken by a

“Rum & coke mate”

I reach for the bundy

“aw fuck no! I want Bacardi. White rum.

Where’re you from anyway.”

Queensland

“Splains it.”

He says this as though my revelation

has set to rights some violent upheavals

in his piss, pot & pussy obsessed mind

& all the while the boss sits in the corner

shaking his head

smiling a sly Turkish grin

muttering under his breath

        "Australians, they make me like this."

he says, holding his hands in front of his crotch

        "Busta ma balls."

Bring me wine & make it as cold as cancer!

2010-01-25T22:02:00.000-08:00

It began with the never-ending

procession of good-bye gatherings

fresh bright faces burned into the retina

as they faded into the ether.

There were graduations & dissipations

broad horizons & distant opportunities

to be grasped in the face

of a crumbling friendship circle.

The sisterly femme-fatale actress

the wanna-be rockstar

the itinerant disillusioned poet

the writer of a paper heart

comrades in arms & others

took part in an all too familiar scenario

of repetition & circumstance.

So too gone were the old flames

once twice & even thrice removed

        sluts     sluts      sluts

& the judas mother-lovin' dandies

acquaintance after acquaintance

some of whom we didn't bother

sending off with a party.

Many were the wakes we held

for those among the bastards

who dragged us down:

the fuckers of betrayal's intent.

The ritual burning of photos

effigies to a drunk god

pissing her name up a wall

& in the ashes of memory

until we'd emptied countless bladders.

& always

- as with parting -

there remained a longing

just to hold that person

one more time

as if that would fill the void.

       “Bring me wine!

        & make it as cold as cancer!

        Gimme scissors, some papers & a bowl

        & I'll roll a joint that'll last until sunrise.”

When I would awaken

it would be afternoon

after binge

      after sleep

            after thought

                  after dreams

                          of better days.

Those James Dean

photographic delusions of grandeur

with a tangible sense

of avant-garde road-movie

faded into melodrama…

the quick fix

2010-01-25T21:48:00.000-08:00

early morning alarm-clock radio

it was Wednesday

I knew immediately upon waking

for unlike any other day that day

I actually had a reason to get up: it was pay day

I usually take an hour or so to clear my head

in the morning, but that day I only needed 17 minutes

acutely aware in my bones I'd gone

longer than 24 hours without a fix

nauseous bus fumes mingled with brown-tongue

coffee residues accosted me on the way to the bank

I imagined the fillings I'd have on my kebab for breakfast

that helped the nausea but crabs

in my stomach clawed it inside out

- sometimes having an over-active imagination

can have negative physical side-effects –

I wiped my mouth on a napkin six minutes

after transacting every last dollar from my bank account

I literally fucken inhaled that kebab

giving my fragile digestive system a real workout

but it took care of my all-important daily

dietary intake & it was nearing beer o'clock

thirty minutes after transacting every last dollar

from my bank account I stared into the bottom

of my first schooner of XXXX for the day

& went to pay the bills

for an arse-hangin'-out-the-back-of-his-trousers

dole-bludgin'-loser like me there were five of 'em

RENT

          PHONE

                        POWER

                                      FOOD

                                                   DRUGS

& not necessarily in that order

fifty-two minutes after my dole-day ritual

of fortnightly transacting every last dollar

from my bank account

I crumpled my rent receipt, abandoning it

to the gutters of the concrete jungle

my small fortune effectively reduced by half

economists say that you shouldn't

        "pay more than a quarter

        of your income on rent"

I decided there & then that my

Final Notice electricity & overdue phone bills

could join the rent receipt in the fucken gutter

it was time for a fix

one hour & 25 minutes after my dole-day

ritual of fortnightly transacting every last dollar

from my bank account

I was drunk & slothing in a beer garden

half listening to irrelevant conversations

composing bad poetry in my head: just waiting

it's like that sometimes

drugs just have to happen to you

sure you might ring someone

& they'd greet you like a long-lost friend

but it's all on false pretences

you're only there for the drugs

'cos they've got the drugs

the conversation is clouded by druglust

because that's what it is sex

& the deal is fore-play

so like clockwork two hours after paydirt

I struck up a conversation with a fellow

welfare recipient we drank & drank hard

our mouths running free

I duly accepted his offer of a spliff

in reverence to the ritual:

the quick fix

Tea break

2010-01-25T21:41:00.000-08:00

A man sits with a walking cane on disused steps

his pale skin is flushed with exertion

some pass & thinking him a beggar

avoid his plaintive expression

his legs have failed him

yet a brief space of rest

is all he needs to gather the strength

to make it back to his work desk

watery eyes and pallid skin

tell but part of his story

he is bowed, but not yet beaten

this illness is killing him

his disease is as much mental as physical

although he is winning the former battle

if not the latter

with a whine of pain

he swings into an upright position

then stumps back toward work

tea break over

* * * * *

A woman sits in her wheelchair

smoking during her morning tea break

half a woman

she is dog-shaped torso

stunted arms thalidomide legs

in child sized chair.

Those who know her

smile & pass greetings

those who don't, try to hide

stares & morbid curiosity

she is different

she is to be pitied

she is not whole

a broken thing.

The whole and perfect pedestrians

pass judgement like movie critics:

they do not like it & will not watch it

some see her strength & marvel

face bravely the prospect

of being in her position

yet none arrive at a satisfactory conclusion.

she is different

this nameless woman

with brilliant hair

& eyes as sharp as grass blades

putting precious life into perspective.

Name your poison

2010-01-25T21:22:00.000-08:00

        “Ya right mate?”

“Ummmm, bourbon!”

a bourbon drinker

how original

I make his night

& give him a discount

he makes mine with a 20 cent tip

drunken souls frolic & flop

carousing with an abandon

they clamour & argue

spit spew laugh bitch & bawl

night after night

all night

every night

plastic nails & spastic males

pierced noses & tattoed roses

pretty faces & serious cases

penis extensions/breast implants

enhancement touches & breaks

the delicate balance of cruel façade

paralysis prevents & presides

over the immunity clauses in my

Bar-tender’s Social Contract

so I watch impotent

slave to the bar-flies

        “Screw this!

        I’m goin’ for a cigarette.”

I step into the fire-escape

rather aptly named

after the collection of butts

& quick-release desires

the boom BOOM BOOOOOM

of the music

penetrates even these walls

there is no escape, I muse

as I step back

back into the fire

         "OK, who’s next?”

the meat market is in full swing

Cupid takes aim… & misses

the melee swirls teetering lazy

I am their feeder

the Zoo-keeper

perennial nameless slave

faces ebb & flow

identity pokes & guesses

rising falling away

down

down

creatures of nocturnal calling

toothy for booze & sex

        “Name your poison!”

The pack found her first

2010-01-25T20:31:00.000-08:00

line-up at centrelink

has me standing a minute

             setting off the auto-door

before I                  break with conformity

& stand to the side

the person in the line before me

continues to activate the sensors

as he shifts from foot          to foot

inwardly cursing bureaucracy

I realise that his clothes

    are the same clothes

they arrested him in

over outstanding fines

     or domestic violence

a staff member

        breaks with         convention

singling out the convict

on our side of the petitioners' altar

& pins him with a quiz

        "When were you released?

                What time?

        How did you get here?

                Have you got a place to stay?

        Can you wait until tomorrow to be paid?"

then a peremptory gesture

as they take a booth

with no prior appointment

         no parole-officer

           or advocate in sight

then in walks lucy

              or so they call her

few sangas short of a picnic,

got some screws loose, lucy

       she skips the line

       slurring demands over the counter

I see her around a lot

not usually like this

   all       over        the        place

like she's gone to the dogs

                      or the pack found her first

today I haven't the strength

to deal with lucy

         or the lonely convict

my heart is no longer in it

                                       at centrelink

pocketing my dole-form

I give lucy a rueful smile

               & wish the staff

would go a little easier on the con

activating the auto-doors

I'll wait another day

    to process my form

           & give the line-up a little relief

at centrelink

I drop in my dole-form

              once a fortnight

when I mingle

                with the underclass

Mister No Talent

2010-01-25T20:15:00.000-08:00

Tezza was, among other things, a bit of a local character.

He wore second hand clothes: grubby T-shirts,

trackies, thongs and whatever else he could ransack

out of the overnight drop-off bins.

It paid to be upwind of Tezza whenever possible,

for while he could be charming,

even Brut 33 aftershave would have been an improvement.

To say that Tezza was missing a few teeth

is like saying a bald man was missing a few hairs.

But it never stopped him smiling.

On a bad day, Tezza would wander up & down the street

yelling at anyone who would listen.

        "I hate West End!"

He would bawl at the local member for council.

         "Socrates was a fraud!"

He would shout at the Greek Green Grocer.

        "Huey ya bastard, this weather's fucked."

He would holler at the solitary white cloud

in an otherwise clear & prominently sunny Brisbane sky.

Tezza would buy a bunch of flowers on pension day,

usually for some lucky girl

who worked in a shop on the main drag.

He was often rebuffed,

for he had quite a reputation for fortnightly harassment,

although sometimes he made somebody's shitty day a little brighter.

For a few days after payday,

Tezza would offer everybody cigarettes,

then proceeded to mercilessly scab from them thereafter.

He lived in a small Housing Commission flat

across the road from me,

but told everyone that he was homeless.

His mates on the street were two blokes

who had houses and families of their own,

but reckoned they could make a decent living out of being bums.

Come Friday night though,

and Tezza would make a miraculous transformation.

Dressing in his moth-eaten tuxedo,

he would beg 70c from a street café tip jar

to catch a bus into the city,

where he starred in the role of

- Mr No Talent

                  & The

                           One-Eyed Trouser Snake

He'd stand outside nightclubs

singing snatches of lyrics at the top of his lungs.

        "Yestaday, aw moy trubb-ulls seem so farraway."

He made more money from people paying him

to go away than he did for his mastery of song.

Occasionally he'd crash another busker's gig

and they'd pay him to leave too,

or loosen a few of his remaining teeth.

Every year Tezza would apply for a gig

at the local music festival, and every year,

after being politely turned down,

he'd do his show anyway.

Then one day, after putting his furniture

and whitegoods out for hard rubbish,

he cleaned out his flat

and chucked out half his wardrobe.

We didn't see him around much after that

and then we didn't see him at all.

No-one seemed to miss him much.

Things went on as usual.

Mail still got delivered.

Pension day came and went.

The pub still closed at 10pm because of the race riots.

People sat next to the road and sipped café lattes

and chain-smoked and rattled loose-change in their pockets

to torment the buskers and street urchins.

But I found that I kinda missed Tezza & his local character.

After all, people paid good money to miss

Mr No Talent & the One-Eyed Trouser Snake.

        "O, I baleave in Yestaday - HMM HMM HMMM HMM.______. HMMMM._________hhhHHHhhmmmmmmm."

her decision

2010-01-25T19:31:00.000-08:00

the days dragged in that endless summer

when we'd drink tinnies every afternoon

waiting for women to wander by

so we could wolf-whistle

& call out lewd suggestions

        "3655 Main Beach Parade

        come back to-nite

        & you will get laid!"

we were in the desert of lonesome desolation

& sometimes I would forget the feel

the scent the luscious tastes

of a rapine lustful body writhing

beneath my own masculine form

driving desire home

we came back from the Sunday session

down at Fishies in the beer garden

sunburnt & sunstruck

with a cold slab

a bag of dope

& the surfies nextdoor

had a bunch of eccies

leftover from Saturday night

I don't even recall her name

but I do remember

her picture in the newspaper

her bright blue skirt

sweat through her spun gold hair

& the moment of indecision

the boys had one thing

on their little date-rape minds

& so did I

but my innocent offer

caught her in the porch-light

head-lights of indecision

a matilda roo on my driveway

with nowhere to flee

looking for somewhere to hide

it was hard to see

in that drawn out moment

the ex-private-school girl

behind the smeared mascara

dilated pupils & the stale scent

of spent love

I imagined her cool flesh

naked & supple compliant

beneath my searching hands

but then she chose

made her fateful decision

went nextdoor with the surfies

leaving me to go to bed

my imagination screaming

with overloaded carnal heat

sleep eluded me

without narcotic depressants

hard coma with the moisture of pillow drool

& fifteen minutes of masturbation

two days later

I saw her picture

in the newspaper on page 13

with the recycled headline

        "19 year old overdose victim"

The Post-Modernist Penis

2010-01-25T19:08:00.000-08:00

The post-modernist penis

A most confusing genius.

art is dead

dead is art

is art dead?

is dead art?

artist dead

the post-modernist penis

the post-modernist jesus

a state of art

a state of religion

a state of confusion

the post-modernist penis

jesuses & penises

dead artists & bad religion

jesuses & penises

penises for jesuses

jesus had a penis too

it was a lot like mine

& it was a lot like you

dumb fuck!

Autonomous Hands

2010-01-25T08:17:00.000-08:00

Some customers just won't be ignored

        “Johnnie Walker on the rocks,

        Black, just like me.”

the melodic accent intrudes with sensual rhythm

knifing staccato into my delirium

I pull myself together

out of a reverie of derisive self-pity.

Diverting my attention to the new customer

I discover that this smooth-talker

is none other than Death

- the Soul-stalker -

right there at the bar.

        "So, Death," I say as confidence deserts me

        "It's come down to this."

Death arches a meaningful eyebrow

        "How 'bout dat drink, Mon?"

the eyes within the deeply hooded cowl begin to glow

whether this is due to my bumbling incompetence

or the encroaching moment of my demise

- I'm not sure -

to my immense relief I find that said beverage

has already been prepared by my autonomous hands.

        "This one's on the house!"

I smile

- try to smile -

        "Nothing in life is free, Mon."

        "Look, spare me the trite clichés

& I'll spare you the false platitudes, Death!"

chancy - I know - taking it to Him this way

the lashing wroth, however is absent in evidence.

Death emits a low chuckle, like James Earl Jones

        "Ti hee hee, hooo!"

- Nah nah nah! More like -

        "Ahh ha ha haah. Listen, young Baaaasss….."

I sense Hemingway rolling in his grave

        "I've got a job to do, just like you."

a coffee-coloured hand tosses coins

- mostly gold -

sending them scattering across the bartop

it's the best tip I've had all night

death winks: the soulless fires of decrepitude

inside his skull briefly dim.

He takes the drink, turns and strides away

melting into the melee of zoo-animals

James Earl Jones laughter follows his bescythed figure

leaving a lurid trail of vapours;

African musk

top-shelf scotch

& a faint whiff of brimstone.

Collingwood

2010-01-25T08:09:00.000-08:00

Monday morning fails to rise & shine

small business shopfronts crouch dismally

signs in darkened windows

threaten to remain closed all day

perhaps never to open again

the air reeks of impermanence

while the urban sprawl carries on regardless

in Johnston St Collingwood.

People watching is a parochial pastime

old fat bastards scratch their dicks

dreadlocks spill from crocheted caps

arseholes fall out of raggedy trousers

matrons clutch shopping bags of fresh produce

seedy eyes fall out of heads on street corners

& there isn't a pub open yet

in downtown Collingwood.

Rubbish litters & chokes the gutters

flies through the air at four hundred feet

in a high wind above the city

spills from overstuffed bins

food wrapping & newspapers

torn up bus & gambling tickets

a falafel half-eaten waits for the tram

no one goes hungry today

in good old Collingwood.

Collingwood street names are chosen at random

by hordes of feral birds

who steal scrabble pieces from balconies

in the housing commission towers

& thrive in uncountable numbers

they earn money by recycling syringes

& making questions for

"Who Wanks 2B a Zillionaire?"

There are street fulls of mental pygmies

looting factory outlets for all they're worth

gorging on last season's fashion

like bulimic clotheshorses

running last in the unlosable race of humanity

with disposable incomes or Daddy's credit card

cash registers charge up like accelerators

in Smith St Collingwood.

The echoes of late night street fights

gather & disperse in the light of day

car windows smashed in undiscovered

shopfront vandalism cleanup

the Truth newspaper strewn with naked girls

read by wagging schoolboys & discarded

to the wind page by sordid page

detritus of blood & spew & broken glass

piles up in unnamed Collingwood alleys.

Black eyes of forty thousand housewives

hidden behind makeup & dark sunglasses

scurry down aisles in Safeway

gazes averted from the newspaper headline

MAGPIES LOSE AGAIN

Collingwood has me by the balls

I am Collingwood's worst poet

Collingwood isn't through with me yet

I am Collingwood's prophet of wishful thinking

Collingwood is my mail-order bride

I am Collingwood's gigolo fantasy

Collingwood makes me smile wryly

I am allergic to Collingwood

Collingwood is a free-for-all

I am in Collingwood limbo

Collingwood roads are diverted from Rome

I am going to be a Collingwood bus-driver

Collingwood has thirty-two flavours

& they all taste like roasted magpie!

Old mate Miles

2010-01-25T07:08:00.000-08:00

Old mate Miles loved Sunday arvos

rain hail or shine

at Fisherman's Wharf

beer on the boardwalk

where the locals hung out

to bask in jugs of sunshine

Old mate Miles loved 80's cock rock

Barnsie & Farnsie even in the 90's

belting out over the broadwater

as the shirtless surfies

threw tinnies & curses

at the boats brimful with revellers

Old mate Miles loved mosh-pits

but not when the bouncers brawled

with our sun-bleached mates

leaving the glassies to clean up

the blood & spew

where a stagediver crashed

in a fleeting brush with fame

Old mate Miles loved XXXX bitter

the eight-deep crowded line-ups

with harassed bartenders

going like the clappers

where Cupid took aim

& Miles was game

for the suggestive vertical smile

of a moonlight frolic in the sand

Old mate Miles loved beer & girls

he liked wolf-whistling

drinking with his mates

every Sunday arvo

at Fishies

& when we said

"Corr there goes old mate Miles

with that sheila the lucky bastard!"

we didn't really think it through

'Cos the truth is folks

what happened to old mate Miles

robs me of all rhyme & cliché

you see old mate Miles

didn't get lucky

he got knifed in the back

& his girly

didn't get what she was asking for

she didn't get what she was asking for

but that was years ago

now Miles has more mates than ever

Fisherman's Wharf has been redeveloped

& his family

run a traffic light charity

for the protection

of Gold Coast beaches

now he's got a boardwalk

that stretches……

…….& stretches

'cos old mate Miles

had a lot of mates after that

St Jude's Communion

2010-01-25T06:47:00.000-08:00

The snap-shot flash of over-head tram-wires

catches a dark silhouette in the swinging door

of any-pub Melbourne.

A bartender perches on a backless stool

cuffs turned, lightly starched, slightly stained

his palms laid flat on the cool bar top

as he examines the cartography of scars.

"So, what'll it be?"

"Bacardi, with fresh lime & please,

spare me the glib advertising anecdotes."

Bar-tender meets bar-tender,

as is bound to occur sooner or later,

with round the clock alcohol servants

plying a once-honourable trade

in a society of haves & have-nots.

The service is swift, brimful rock-glass

replete & sparkling:

ice, post-mix, garnish & 27mls of white rum

made to look like a generous over-pour.

A 10% tip later, with the unspoken exchange of respect

the tired barman settles in for the lonely hour.

In the inner city bar, the wall-flowers

take our hero's attention by storm

a summer's fashions: scarlet letters

paint the tongue with witticisms unyielding

Décor is going retro in the trendy inner-city urban gin-joint.

Industrial floors with designer scuff marks are in:

foul-smelling, beer-rotten oiled woodwork is definitely out.

The beer-wars linger like neon-coloured ink-stains

on contemporary culture

a hang-over of sport, politics & parochialism.

A new breed of advertising splashes sexy slogans,

images of stark clarity promoting youth

& ever-lasting beauty in a scene of seediness.

The cocktail lounge reigns supreme

in a splurge of colourful mayhem,

a gentle sobriquet of culture grasping at sophistication,

yet coming up with an ashtray full

of designer cigarette butts.

Artwork adorns the walls

reflecting pop-culture in a post-modern irrelevance,

catching the passing eye & fleeting thoughts are unspoken,

unwritten, as though graffiti has become passé.

The off-duty juice-jockey

treads the fine-line of crowded solitude,

whether lost in the ambiguities of modern life,

or floating at the bottom of his last drink.

He will endure the night, inuring himself against

the drunken banter, engaging a cowboy attitude,

as though the saloon is gonna bust up

in a hail of bottles, stools & arrogance.

It's a subtle kind of romance, bitter-sweet,

yet without the ineptitude of unrequited love.

just a small hope for an upturn of fortunes,

none-too-futile offerings to the patron-saint

of scoundrels, vigilantes, star-struck fools

& bar-tenders everywhere.

Cold Ghost

2010-01-25T06:24:00.000-08:00

I can feel your cold heart

pulsing with tourist town greed

beating me down into dark submission

surfers paradise: you rock me hard

cock rock blaring in stereo sin

submerge my soul into your six-star

self-consciousness

time passes in polaroid snapshots

emulsions in my retina

become washed out in your tidal erosion

diary entries mean nothing here

just a dusty collection of faded reminiscences

phallic towers overhead

soar like babylon's brothel

sufferers paralysed

your thoroughfares go only one way

cattle in a labyrinth

bolting from the Minotaur

a mad cow jangles her udders

dancing down the main-drag

unmindful of the malevolence

wolves slink down alleys

smoking discarded butts

pilfering garbage bags

marking their territory

shopping for sheep's clothing

the rambling cattle drive

thunders along one-way streets

aaaahowl._____________.

wolves are hunting

mmmmaaaaaahhhhh

angry bull blares

sheep line footpaths

goaded by the little

green & red men

I search for a princess

in your sink-hole of iniquity

but she has diamonds in her eyes

& sand in her g-string

oh cold ghost are you my mother?

does that make me

your long-lost orphan

or a whore-son bastard?

What Pop Caught

2010-01-25T06:01:00.000-08:00

The average annual rainfall for the month of May

back home in Tourist Town

came down in twenty minutes

one afternoon at three

in a sub-tropical thunderstorm

from beneath the shelter of the tilt-a-door

me & Pop watched the deluge

deciding to conduct a science experiment

He reckoned that if you walked in the rain

you'd get less wet than if you ran like buggery

I thought he was full of it

so I bolted out to the letterbox

& came back soaked to the skin

Pop took his time

singing a tune & swinging his arms

but he hurried back inside

when Grandma busted us

howling out of the kitchen screaming

        "You'll catch your death!"

She attacked me with a rough towel

rubbing scalp & skin raw

as she vigorously dried from top to toe

Pop's language became very colourful

when she took the towel up to him

Pop caught his death sooner

than we could have imagined

crabs of cancer gutted him like a fish

the next time I saw him

tubes & stitches & bandages

were all that held him together

& a bleeping contraption

chimed the faltering rhythm of his heart

like a second-hand answering machine

It wasn't raining at all the day death caught Pop

my uncle, the doctor in the family

said that

        "When your oesophagus comes adrift

        of your windpipe & starts pouring acid

        all over your vital organs

        you're a dead duck."

My ten-year-old mind eased

for I knew that Grandma's doom-saying

couldn't possibly be the true diagnosis

because hardly any of those raindrops

ever got any where near my Pop

A Tear for Regret

2010-01-25T05:21:00.000-08:00

You made us share bunk beds

bubble-baths back-seat car-rides

& every second weekend.

At the footy, you made us share the esky

for a foothold to see over the heads on the hill

bought us salt‘n’vinegar samboys

- when my favourite flavour was BBQ -

& a single can of home-brand soft drink

that Mick always backwashed in.

He was the son of your body

I was the son of your woman

& you couldn’t even share her.

Oh, it wasn’t like Oedipus

when I slew you each night in my dreams,

but the vengeance of Zeus against his false father

Cronos, who ate babies

as they birthed from the Mother’s womb.

You said they were dead

stillborn brothers & sisters

but when I kicked you in the guts

out they spewed perfect & pink

covered in your gall.

I killed you a thousand times

after the backhanders you dealt

& the poisoned scorn of your tirades

I vowed a thousand more bloody deaths

for the tears of my mother.

You taught me to share

but you shared nothing

not a hug nor kind word.

When I listened to your beer-soaked

good-nights as you tucked in your son

I pretended to sleep when you bade me terse dismissal.

Table manners were a sham for you shunned the table

said we disgusted you

I wished for an edge to my butterknife

& pissed on your toothbrush before bedtime.

Your harsh words in raised voice

echoed through my childhood

& if I fought back feeble words & blows

raised only your scorn & more pulled backhanders.

Did you but love me as well as you despised

we’d have grown old together

telling stories of tribulation

training wheels & tying shoelaces.

My first day at school

you barely slowed the car

depositing me alone without backward glance

the tears of classmates seemed too pitiful to shed.

You taught me some useful things

like lifting the toilet seat & putting it back down

& always turning out the light

& reading your mind

& sharing everything with your son.

You taught me to hate & it was one thing

- in your eyes - I did well.

Some day, old cunt

I’ll teach you to share too

when I visit your grave & take a long, warm piss

for you to share with the worms

spit bile on your headstone

& the only tear will be for regret

that 2000 wishes didn’t kill you sooner.

Mother’s Justice

2010-01-25T04:45:00.000-08:00

1.

Well, it’s done now

the eggs have been cracked

whisked vigorously

& dumped in the pan

there’s nothing for it

2.

She used to come at us

brandishing a wooden spoon

maniacal grin stuck to her chops

screaming invective like a lorikeet

as we ran for our lives

bubbles of hot toffee laughter

stuck in our lungs

Round the house we’d go

yelling taunts over our shoulders

nah, nah, ni, nah nah

you can’t catch me.

       “Come ere, ya little shits

        I’m gonna flog yaz

        Beat ya to a pulp

        Smack tha livin daylights out of ya

        Smash ya to smithereens!”

Then she’d catch us

great gulps of giggles

bursting from tortured lungs

& wooden spoon splinters

would fly into broken shards

across our smart arses

then she’d tickle us until we wet our pants

then tickle some more

until we’d all forgotten

what we were fighting about

in the first place.

3.

        “We’re leavin!”

We are?

        “Yep.”

Where we goin?

        “Grandma & Pop’s.”

We taking the cat?

        “Bastard’ll probly euthanize it.”

What’s that?

        “Put her to sleep.”

We’re takin the cat!

        “Yeah,

we’re takin the cat!”