Monday, December 29, 2008

Cat.

There's an old
one eyed
cat
next to me
purring
as he looks
at me
expectantly
waiting I guess
for a touch
a scratch
some food
or for me
to open
the door
and leave him
here
alone
as I go
about my
business
at the dead end
of a long
year.

But
you see,
Cat,
once I walk
out and close
that door
on you
there's no
eyes
on me
waiting
to see
what I will
do
no one
is purring
or staring
at me
with expectation
no one
is looking
at me
with Hope
that I can
change
their entire
world
with a single
touch
out there in the world
Cat.

So
let's leave the
front door
closed,
Cat,
and we'll go out
the back instead
and I'll have a
smoke
The King
while
you lay at my
feet
The Lover
and
we'll be
beholden
to no one
in This
a
world
of
our
very
own.

Wednesday, December 24, 2008

Yuul.

What do you believe?

What is that
nothing
inside you
where there should
be
something?

I mean
shouldn't there?

Are you a cynic
a cad
a scrooge
a cool hipster
too now
for World Wide Love
too anti this
for
this?

what?

you got
too much
disbelief
too much sight
that's it
you can see
everything
for
what
it
is
can't you?

So what is it?

This day...

what is it?

Is it a lonely
sentimental
dream
is it tomorrow
and what it brings
is it momma
is it pain
is it holding hands
with a girlfriend
is it cars rushing
in the stress
constant drinking
constant texts
a barrage of love
for one day only
I wanted to tell you
I love you
today
because today
it's ok
today is
The Love Day
isn't it?

What do you believe in?

I splash cold water
on my face before
I answer the question
to silence the
morning voices.

I believe
I say to myself
behind bleary eyes
under weasel red hair
in a child's voice

I say

I believe
that
one day
our
Hope
will become
Truth.

Maybe today for you
maybe tomorrow for me.

The kettle boils.

Merry Xmas.

Monday, December 22, 2008

Pot Black.

I started whistling
on the day you died
to drown out
the barking of the black
dog inside.

The problem was
I couldn't whistle
tunes, just one note
high and a bit spitty
with last night's hangover
as the rage and sadness
bubbled inside me.

But

it doesn't mean
anything, you know.

I just wanted to tell
you

that you made me
walk along the streets
like a sad, rusted
old kettle

because

I think we both
would have laughed
at that

over our afternoon
cuppa.

Saturday, December 20, 2008

Tug.

Some days
I don't masturbate
in the morning
because I want
to carry that edge
all through the day,
he says to his friend.

I take a drink.

Edge, his friend says,
it gives you an edge?

Yeah,
like,
I'm faster,
he says,
like I've got purpose
you know
if I catch a beat
in the morning
then it's like I'm
already satisified
with the day
like I dont need
to do anything else
I'm like a lizard in the sun
baby,
but if I keep it pinched in
if it stays inside me
then I'm a fucking dynamo
I want the world
I want money
I want power
I want women.

He takes a drink
and slams down the empty glass
as if to show his friend
that his virility levels
are currently
at an "edgy" state
as he asks
what about you?

His friend
seems more philosophical.

I dont know, man
I just do it 'cause it
feels good. I don't really
think about it after that.

I smile and
notice my friend arrive
and walk over to the grass.

We wave to each other.

It's a fine day.

Thursday, December 18, 2008

Air.

There are spirits you know,
he said to me,
in the trees
which make the leaves
dance
and I smiled
and stared upward
and replied,
I can see them!

We were walking
in a magic place
welcomed by
the gentle upward
slope of the earth
our feet in the mud
my scarf protecting me
as the devilish wind spirit
dashed excitedly around us.

From time to time
the sun would cut through
the canopy
and the path would be lighted
gold and in those minutes
the wind would silence
as if telling me to pay attention
to the importance of this
one moment.

I could hear rushing water
and I giggled as I asked,
is there a river spirit too?

He just smiled.

We walked and I breathed
and the cool air stayed inside me
forever
protecting my memories
in a soft mist of melancholy
hope.

And I turned to face him
but he was gone
faded now
my imaginary mentor
the Spirit
of my future self
yet I was not afraid
not here
in this oh so real
dream
of the past.

I kept walking
toward the water
fed from the mountains
and we
both
ran
free.

Wednesday, December 17, 2008

Looks like rain.

I don't know whether
I am nervous
about seeing my father
who I have not seen for
twenty years or more
(do I shake his hand?
he's crying - it's awkward)
or frightened
of standing again
amongst the graves
opening that same
old wound
or worse
the secret voice
that only I can hear
no feelings at all
I'm here with the dead
with people I don't know
and
I feel
nothing
at
all.

I wonder where I can smoke,
I'll think
as I stare up at the clouds
waiting for the inevitable
downpour.

Monday, December 15, 2008

Sight.

The time that
happiness comes
for me
is always when
I don't care
if I find it
or not.

Did you know
that
I can be black
in my joy
or smile
in a fit of
depression
knowing it
is enough
just
to
feel
taste and
smell
my own
life?

Saturday, December 13, 2008

Sweat.

Slim legged cobblestones
and cool blue
whispers and dirty
alleyways as I walk
unseen in cigarette fire
an incinerated doll - long
stretched and greaser
skin, ripped red, the crabs
in their eyes
tooth and claw
and red light carpets
well worn sweaty backs
a scrapping salivating
blistering boiling fire
a hold on tight
a haunted hotel
rapid conversation
stripped wood and
whiskey fog and blurred
visions, The Past
a haunted nest of dreams
crawling with spiders
a hypnotic rhythm
a disguise, a forgotten future
the cracked green
and filthy glass
knives on our fingers
old wooden stairs
painting and crying
the whole scene is blue
I'm caked in lust
when
all I see is you.

Tuesday, December 9, 2008

Give.

I walked to the shop
I'm pretty blue
no work at the moment
christmas looking grim
nothing new
I walked to the shop
and bought my medicine
answered the questions
of the nice lady pharmacist
and as I was leaving
the Greenpeace hands
were grabbing at me
and their mouths
were moving fast
and I'd just woken up
from a deep, deep
sleep
and the violent colours
of my dreams still
stood threatening
hulking in the dark corners
just behind my eyes
but at the front of my mind
and I wasn't prepared yet
to save the whales
the trees
the ice monkeys
or
just
no
I'm sorry
I can't
I really must go
I'm sorry
I mumbled
or actually mismumbled
in more of a
sorry-go-got-now
as I broke free
of their kelp
breaking the glass surface
and up, up
out into the sun
scraping the caked
yellow dust 
from my eyes
one - two - three
breathe
and walk
past this house
and that
and in this one a cat
not one, but two
actually three
thin, starving cats
sitting under a porch
of a derelict house
calling suspiciously
to me
a sound which I know
too well
please feed me
please feed me
please feed me
so I turn around
determined now
or maybe fuelled
by the guilt
whatever
I march with my head
held high
thrum pa pum pum
straight back toward the shop
thrum pa pum pum
and as the sliding doors open
the Greenpeace people stand
(are they saluting?)
to the sound of strings
the supermarket band
it's Christmas
a time to give
and they smile
at me
and I can smell them
thinking
we did it!
we're all going to change!
together we can do this!
hands across the world!
and I just stand in the door
beside the Vietnamese Bakery
and bask in the glow
of their smiles
for just a moment
let the music peak
BA BAPPA BA BUM
hold my breath
I want to enjoy this
so I walk
toward
them
and they prepare
pamphlets
and clip boards
and smiles
and I notice
how white
their teeth are
and how Green
their t-shirts
and how booming their
voices - they say
"He's back!"
as I walk straight past
them into the supermarket
and pick up a can of cat food
and I don't hide my eyes from them
as I stand in the queue
though I can see them confused now
unsure
of my intentions
and they try to approach others
in the meantime
but no one cares
not here
not in this tiny
tiny
shopping centre
who the fuck is going
to change the world
here
the pensioner and her walking frame
the butcher who cannot speak English
no
it is me
and only me
they want
the guy who looks like he likes music
fanaticism for fanaticism
and it's almost true
what they're thinking
I do like nature
I like it more than people
I cannot connect to people
the same way I can stand
in a forest
before a mountain
and listen and comprehend
just close my eyes and be at peace
I've never found that I could do that
with people
especially
those who are trying to help
the ice monkeys
by jumping out at me 
at shopping centres
anyway
I walk past them
and note the disappointment
in their eyes
I think -
jesus, kid, you're in the back of the line
and it's a fucking long line
but anyway I hold my can of cat food
out to them
and just tap it a little
tap tap tap
and they don't understand
and Hell, either do I
but I walk back to the house
with the dying cats
under the rotten wooden porch
and I open the can and lay it
on a clean piece of grass
for them
and I call to them
knowing full well
they're not going to come eat it
until well
after
I am gone
and I know too
that I can't afford to feed them
tomorrow
and the way they look
they might not even make it that far
so here
kitty cats
have a last little meal
eat it up good and forget
while you do
that tomorrow
you'll say
a goodbye to this
fucking world
of violent dreams
of consumer greed
of packaged charity
and medicine
and the sad plight
of distant
exotic animals
like
ice monkeys.

Monday, December 8, 2008

Right.

I wanted to be a writer
until I read all these books
and began to look down
on all the words
I'd written
ashamed
of my own ineptitude
and sticky
with low self esteem.

I thought
I had a story to tell
and I wrote
75,839 words
of it
before reading it back
and despising
every choice I made
and the dishonesty
in the painting
of it.

The fiction of it.
I hated that.

I wanted to be a writer
but lost my love of it
in my desire for it
like so many things
I had lost before
too hungry
to taste
too eager to swallow
choking
on my own
impatience
and
too depressed
to fight for it.

I wanted to be a story teller
but I didn't know
who I was
to tell you a story.

A sheep to trends
a dag with a tale
that dropped off
just
shit
with
no angle.

I wanted to sing you a song
but
I know
all these musicians
and my notes
seem predictable
and G to C
seems twee
and the anger
and sorrow
in my heart
seems

unoriginal.

I wanted to believe
in myself
but I always proved
myself wrong.

Now
I just want to feel
that being me
is
okay
to
me.

That when I tell myself
I want to be a writer
I want to sing a song
I can crash
through
the walls of cynicism
that I have built up
around myself
and let go
let
go

let
go.

I wanted to be a writer
so I thought I'd write
about
that.

Nest.

I hold
the calligrapher's pen
over the blank
sheet
of paper.

Nothing comes.

Which makes
me smile
the only smile
I have at the moment.

It is not bitter
or sad

I don't know
what it is

but it is no longer
a whole smile.

Nonetheless
I use it
as I gently
dip the pen
into the ink
and write:

What I'm trying to do
is unlearn
everything I know
in order
to become
a new beginning.

Then I take the paper
and hang it up to dry
and another day comes.

Maybe today
my whole smile
will return.

Saturday, December 6, 2008

Wish.

I thought
when I was
young

I thought,

I'm going to be a star.

There I was
on the banks
of the Yarra River
a family barbeque
a few families anyway
tandem bikes
and plastic cups
filled with cola
and after lunch
I started shouting
at the other kids
to organise themselves
into a cast
so that I could direct
the afternoon's entertainment
some sort of panto,
impro
who knows.

I was a famous director
ten years old
flustered at the blonde
haired son of someone 
or other
who was more interested in 
the cricket bat
and wasn't paying attention
to the script.

God Damn!
I cried
forget about the bloody
bat
I need you to show
some emotion!

And

Why are you all so STUPID?

And my sigh 
was world weary
and 
held the frustrations
of a veteran Hollywood
Director
and god,
the empathy
and god
the path which 
lay before me...

That night
I lay in bed and 
let the dictionary
teach me a new word
which the blonde's
father had muttered at me
under his breath;

obnoxious.

I came to know the word well.

Time walked
slowly by.

I was going to be a star

on stage
with a hand 
bleeding from a wound
of love
suffered the night before the show
plasmatic branches
clawing down my arms
and over the guitar
and sweat and roll
and jump
yell here
forget about tone
who needs fucking tone
when 
you 
have GUT
the music had gut

but we didn't

we had the same 
as you
or him
or her
just a life

just an ordinary life
with bills
and broken hearts
and moving house
and I never spoke to him/her/them
again
I wonder how they are.

I was going to be a star.

I didn't think that
but I did
it's hard to explain
it wasn't so much a star
so much
as I just felt
so FULL
of (shit, you say, haha
haha)
so full of something
that fucking needed to be released 
and it wasn't work
and it wasn't fucking
and it wasn't running
it was something that needed
to be made
and it ate me up
ate me all up
and licked the bowl until
everything passed me by
and everyone else rode the wave
and left me straddled and cold
as the sun sank
and the sharks came out to feed
their hunger
my blind ambition
the words right there
hope which hindered my sight
a star
a star
I was 
a fucking star
guess what Jack
you'll never fucking
believe it
it's me
Mathew
and ha
fucking ha
I became a fucking star

except

it's not what I thought

you know

I didn't mean it like that

it's cold Jack
bloody cold

and I'm

billions
of light years
from anywhere

alone 
and blinking

in the dark
vicious

night.

Shit

I'm
a
star.

One little voice
burned into
humility

a wee
struggle
invisible
amongst
a billion
billion billion
other stars.

A tiny
tear
fallen
into a river.

A single
grain
of
dream
upon a 
desert
built of wishes.

A nobody

just like you.

I am a star.

Tuesday, December 2, 2008

Glass House.

Columns 
used
to
support
great
works
of
beauty
architecture
and
wonder.

Now
they
are 
places
where
a
person
tells
us
all
about 
what
they
are 
wearing
and 
how
that
relates
to
every
day
life
in
a
"humourous"
way.


I
wonder
how
we
are
going
to
fuck
up
Arches.

Song.

Heaven's gone
lost all of its meaning.

The devil's been dancing
but I have been leading.

The demons grow bold
with the smile they've been sold
Hell might be burning
but Heaven's grown cold.

And Oh Lord
won't you tell me
if you can

just what is the plan
for a half broken man
like me.

And Oh Lord
won't you share it
with me

just how I can stand
this black hearted man
called me.

********

My heart's a wound
that never stops bleeding.

The ghosts have been callin'
but I don't believe them.

A pain that won't die
two tears in my eye
if Hell's really burnin'
then I'm going to fry.

And Oh Lord
won't you tell me
if you can

just what is your plan
for a half broken man
like me.

And Oh Lord
won't you share it
with me

just how you can stand
a black hearted man
like me.

********

Lately I've been thinkin' 
about leaving.

Taking some pills
and leaving you weepin'.

I'll follow the trend
go chasing The End

Goodbye o' Lord now
The Devil's my friend.

Yeah.

And Oh Lord
won't you tell me
if you can

just what was your plan
for a half broken man
like me.

And Oh Lord
I wished you'd shared it
with me

just how you could stand
a black hearted man
like me.

I wish I'd known
the plan
for this half broken man
called

me.

Monday, December 1, 2008

Driftwood.

I dreamed
that I was driftwood
thinking,
I can live like this
every night
a different tide
takes me to a different shore
and
I'll roll in the waves
and
I'll lie face up
on a silent sea
lit blue 
by the laughing face
of the moon.

I can live like this,
the me that was the driftwood
thought.

I'll never sink, see?

The sea 
saw.

No weight is the way
and sometimes, I say
to the muted tides,
I'll spin
a glass angel
on the marbled surface
of the ocean
this is the method
that I will use
to discover what
lies
over my own horizons
I'll be free
I'll relax every muscle
and you - the tides, still, listening -
will take me there
you will be my engine room
my navigator.

Yeah,
I was thinking that
you know -
high as the tide
with no worries inside
a pack on my back 
maybe one big thick coat
maybe a tree
out somewhere pretty
you know,
for when it rains
a retro
vision
of what it would be like
to walk

just walk.

I could live like this,
I thought 
that day.

Homeless
but dry
and happy 
inside
with a
humble
little
dream
to be
forever free...

Yep.

[I roll a smoke here 
and 
maybe 
take my shoes off.]

I thought that
that day.

but 
it 
just 
wasn't 



me.








Colours.

It's not an original thought
that knock knock knocking
on the door 
inside my head.

Not for me,
anyway.

It's an old thought
hot air and gas
and rings of cold rock
which have turned 
ice
in the waiting.

It's not a new thought
I find
on my step
not a new feat
nor cathartic breath
or a single 
chime
on a silent night...

a silver note
which echoes

a white blossom
dying 
upon the branch.

But I hope 
this thought
which carried upon
a whisper
might one day
reach land.

Knock knock knock
I hear it
as cowering 
behind the door
I panic and close my lips
tie my hands behind my back
and bruise my eyes closed
in spots of coloured dream

tomorrow 
tomorrow
tomorrow

Boom boom boom
the urgent fist
upon the wood
splintering what little chance
I have of invisibility
as the cracks
begin to show
behind the curtains
of my own
personal
comedy.

And 
the 
key 
turns

and 
the 
light
burns

and in it comes
uninvited
but not
unexpected.

It is not an original thought..

well,
not
to me anyway;

that I have lost all wisdom 
amongst the see 
through folly
a stuffed stocking
of sheer nonsense
and regret
that any lesson
I may have learned
or taught
or suffered for
or laughed at
or spat in the face of
or drank in spite of
or listened with passion to
or sang in the rain of
or smiled in the pain of
has
long
since left
me
a blank canvas
leaned
against
a wall
forgotten 
by the inner artist
who may or may not
rediscover me
covered in dust
and in old age
begin again
to paint me
a master's
piece.



Thursday, November 20, 2008

"When did I break up with Tallulah?"
"When," he says, "and how."
He's trying to look interested, this one. I'll give him that much. It's getting so I don't even fucking know these guys anymore. Every day another fucking guy. And when I fill up that guy, they send in another and another and fuck, how many years have I been telling this story now? Maybe five years? Or maybe I'm dead and I've been telling it over and over and over for all time. Maybe that's my Hell. To tell it to these guys who don't even care. Who have no notion of personal service. Don't these guys even care about personal service?
At least this guy tries to look interested.
"I don't know when I broke up with her man. May I have a cigarette? I can tell you how though. It was always the same man. Always the same. They'd ask me something like, what are you looking for, man? And I'd stare out the window and I'd think, I don't know, and I'd say, I don't know. And I'd smoke then like I'm smoking now, you get it?"
He nods and I blow in his face.
"Sometimes I'd say, you're fucking perfect, baby. And then I'd watch as they laid out their imperfections, list all the things that were wrong with themselves, how they'd fucking tear their skin off and expose their bleeding fucking heart just to be as fucking messed up as they saw that I was, to tell me that the whole human race was flawed, that everyone was fucked, that no one was perfect. Then I'd smoke again, see. And I'd say, well maybe that's it. Maybe I'm looking for perfection, baby, and maybe this ain't it. And I'd smoke and then I'd blow in their face and then I'd walk out and I'd never look back."
And get this. The guy in the fucking suit in the tiny white room sitting opposite me - you know what he does then?
He fucking smiles at me. We have a fucking moment, I swear to fucking God.
I see a doorway. A doorway far away, maybe over a desert on top of a cliff, over a lake of fire filled with the teeth and claws of an unknown terror - but I see a fucking doorway nonetheless, and I've got the time, nothing to do but talk, so I start walking.
"Oh man, but Tallulah, you want to hear about Tallulah?"
I ask him in a whisper, soft and secret, and the way I say it, I know he wants to. His little fucking eyes go narrow and wet while the pupils inside grow wide - just like Tallulah used to, I think. I'm real fucking funny to myself sometimes.
"I don't know man, you know what they do to me in here if I talk about fuc-"
He clicks off the recording machine. This guy is fantastic. This guy is my white fucking knight asleep on his steed while the horse blindly storms this castle I'm imprisoned in. He even leans back on his chair. Tilts it, you know? So I give it to him.
"She used to let me slap her. I don't mean all the time. I mean when we were fucking, she fucking loved it."
That's got to get him hard. Stupid fuck.
"Yeah man, I'd grab her by the fucking throat and I'd pound my cock into that bitch and slap her face and she'd be screaming, do it again, do it again, man she fucking loved it."
The guy actually clears his throat here.
I want to laugh but this is important.
"You know what she used to say...?" I could be reading from a fucking Playboy for all this guy cares. "She used to say, please may I worship your cock, Master."
"Oh yeah. And I wouldn't ask her to take her clothes off, man, I wouldn't fuck tell her, I'd fucking order her to take her clothes off. Oh god, Tallulah. You would've fucking shat, Man."
I smoke here. Slow and deliberate.
"Those fucking legs, long and white and slender and honey and they tasted like teenage dreams, baby, and they felt like the most dangerous promise, man, and she'd be laying there, squirming and aching and I'd just stare at those legs for days, for weeks, and fucking time never mattered, man, it was her fucking wet and how long I could hold it, you know? And I'd slide my hand over her knees and she'd reach for me but I'd stay just so far away and I'd push her back down if she tried to rise and I'd use my nails so gently on the smooth moon of her thighs and she'd cry and I'd sigh and lift her legs oh so high to show her behind. Before I spread her wide and slid my fingers inside and she'd die the tiny death over and over and over before I'd even taken my fucking clothes off, man."
And it's time, here, now, with his eyes glazed over as he leans over the desk and I sense the spectre of his fucking hard-on in the room with us.
"And when I let her come for my cock, oh god she used to - hey man, you got any more smokes, man? I need another smoke, man."
He looks confused. "Uh, sorry?"
"Another smoke, chief? I get to talking, you know, I get to talking, I need a fucking cigarette, helps me talk, you know?"
He's hilarious. He's squashing the empty packet and looking under his files and tapping his pockets and he says, be right back, and stands up and I almost get poked in the eye with the tent that he's pitchin' but he doesn't even know, he just opens the door and runs down the corridor towards - I don't know. Towards somewhere. Towards somewhere that is not here.
And the door slowly, slowly closes.
Almost.
And I stand there with my foot holding it open and I can feel a happening here, baby. I can feel a happening.
The door has never been open. The door is open.
I look around and there are no guards, no signs, no demons nor devils, no flames or wires or guns or tridents. Nothing. Just a corridor with a door at both ends.
I think about the poor sucker and start to laugh as I see a newspaper with the headline - Stupid Man Defeated by Dick.
And I laugh
and laugh and laugh
and laugh and laugh and run
and run and run and run and run
out the doors one by one out the doors
one by one out the doors into the fucking sun.

Wednesday, November 19, 2008

"Alison Carr never let me say what was on my mind. She was always first to speak and last to shut the fuck up. It used to drive me crazy. I'd wait for a gap in her trap tappity tap ribbon of dribble to appear, but it never would. So I'd just zone out and stare at her and hate her stinking fucking guts. I guess that's why I killed her. Fucking cunt. I can still hear her voice at night sometimes when I'm awake. Wa wa wa wah. Tap tappity tap. I'm thinking about digging her up and breaking her jaw in half. Dropping one half of it into the ocean somewhere. Somewhere deep. But you know what? I don't think that would shut her up. I think she's going to haunt me as long as I live.
Yeah well, her and all my other friends.
I fucking hate them.
Greg Stoneham, yeah, I can almost handle him sometimes. Because he's quiet, you know? He likes driving, like I do, just sitting and holding the car in your hands and getting out, getting out, and if we talk it's like, pointing at a mountain, or laughing about what it would be like to be chased. And it wouldn't matter to us because at least, I don't know, at least we'd be in control.
I reckon I'd be pretty good in a car chase. I reckon I'd be pretty good in a lot of situations.
Anyway the only thing I fucking hate about Greg fucking Stoneham is that he's always burping and farting and blowing his nose. And you know what, when you're taking a drive out to the beach and you're looking for some piece and quiet and some fresh air, and you want to get away from the voices of all your friends that ring constantly in your fucken head then the last fucking thing you fucking want is some fucking retard who constantly fucking stinks up your fucking car with a crap load of fucking nose juju and stink and I just want to grab him by the fucking hair and smash his stupid face into the dashboard and kick him out the fucking door.
Greg Stoneham. I guess he's one of the better ones. I don't know anymore."
I light up a smoke and look at the doctor's stupid face. He looks exactly like Greg Stoneham.
Boy that makes me laugh. I fucking laugh and laugh and laugh and he just sits there staring at me and sweating and writing some shit about me and he thinks I'm fucking crazy but he doesn't see.
I'm the one that's free.
I'm the one that's free.
I'm the one that's free.

Tuesday, November 18, 2008

"There's a beautiful war going on up there", he says.
And I say "Yeah", because I want to ignore him but I still turn to face the sky and together we watch as great grey cavalries of clouds gallop fast across the emptiness above as beneath it all I sit and smoke and pretend to be cold, and heartless and tough. As though the death of the sun means nothing to me. As though I don't want to grow wings and join her up there, to die beside her with honour. As though I can't see the black battalions looming on the horizon, rotten reinforcements ready to roll, to move in, to occupy the night after her death. And when they do, to hurl their rain as a dead army upon me, the lost brothers of my tears returning home as they spin an erratic dance, falling to earth and collapsing on the road in sad, silver pools.
So I sit and smoke and pretend to feel nothing.
"The darkness always wins," he says.
I can tell he didn't think when he said it. I can tell he threw those words away. More waste to sit upon, more junk to pass the time. That's all this is, isn't it? To him, to them, to you? More fucking junk, a bottle, a paper, a word, a feeling hurled as venom or spat as spite. I smoke. My stomach starts to roar and when it does I smoke to keep sane, to feed fire to the demons which scratch within, to keep my hands busy so they won't do what I am afraid of them doing. And in the meantime I watch the crimson courage of the sun fail, and the beauty of her death, and feel her warmth leave us behind, to be reborn in another, better place, and I listen to his drivel and for a brief moment I believe him, the darkness always wins. I believe him and that's what hurts the most, or does it, or will it, or god the stomach pains have started, which means, I'm confused - and you're in danger. The darkness always wins? 
I decide to clench my fists. The darkness always wins? 
I'm shaking as I take the last few drags from my dying cigarette.
Dying, dying, dying sun, dying smoke, dying boy, dying day, dying hair, dying, frying this fucking lying prick who sits beside me. THE DARKNESS ALWAYS WINS? 
What are you trying to tell me here, that I am naught, that we have no Hope? That all this light is for nothing?I look around for a stick but I can't see one. I look at my hands, and they still haven't healed, but I don't care anymore, because, what is it you said? The darkness always wins? No redemption? No matter where I turn - no matter what - I lose, you lose, we all lose? Is that what you meant with your pathetic throwaway one line wrap up of fucking life? Your one fucking sentence, you fucking cunt, you fucking want the fucking darkness to win? 
I feel my eyes go white. And I can feel him turn toward me and I don't want that just yet. I want to begin with a little light. My idea of a joke see? Why I think I'm funny. A little light amongst the dark to make the point - you see?  
"Look!" I say, and I flick my cigarette.
He watches the sparks tumble down the hill in cartwheel celebration and he sees the light and as he does I turn and punch his fucking face over and over and over. He cries in shock as I punch him again and again and again. And there's a light, alright, there's a light tonight that'll frighten you bright, and it's funny I think as I kneel over him now, on the grass, beside the sea, my knees on his elbows, keeping him down where he belongs and I'm punching that fucking ugly fucking face in for all he's fucking made me do, and all the times he's complained, and all the times he's been weak, my pussy fucking friend, who has nothing to say but, the darkness always wins? And I scream, I'll fucking show you, you cunt, and each time I hit him I notice his blood dances and leaps and sings around us, it's fucking musical man, it's beautiful man, your fucking blood is a fucking musical man, and I try to hit harder, in time, a rhythm, don't you see, to jump higher to the song that I hear, you'd like it if you could see it from this angle, I'm sure. I wish I could show you, you know? I mean, I'm not crazy, I just want this moment, this golden tune, this perfect musical now, I want it, I want to hold it, to cherish it, to kiss it, to fuck it, to marry it, to smell it, I want to UNDERSTAND IT, shut up, no I don't, YES I DO, I want to know why it's silver, why is it silver? Are we in heaven, have I risen above this never ending Hell, are we in a cloud, my angel, are we singing a song on silver harps with notes that land as drums beside us?No, wait, it's the rain falling around us. The curtain, the end, oh god no, I'm sorry, it's me, isn't it? 
My fault and the rain to show me. 
A weak, snivelling sky, emptying itself of its remorse, as my violence does, so I scream goodbye as I beat him one more time.
I want to punch your fucking face, I want to punch your fucking face.
He's crying of course.
So am I, of course.
I want to punch your fucking face.
I want to punch my fucking face.
So I can find my fucking way.
The rain falls heavier. It beats upon my back with no thought of me.
I hold my hand to my face and feel the blood and cracked bone.
I roll over and onto the grass.
I fall asleep and do not dream.

I never, ever, dream.

Friday, November 14, 2008

Yagyu.

Reptilian melodramas
come thick and low
across the dust and fire floor
of the cold furnace
caves
here in
Hell.

Selfish salamanders
that try to tell a man to
strive to build a life
to
grab on for dear life
to
roll over
roll over
down the steep slopes
until all scale is lost
little lizard
all scale is lost
as you roll over
gather speed
and forget
that the drama
was in fact a melanoma
a piece of arse
on your nose
a fucking consience built
cavern
no beatles
just a ring
to box yourself
within.

Oh
it was bad
alright.

Coming from behind
your neck is whistling
steel tunes which hum
tiny light slithers of danger
notes of caution
upon which to meditate
until it was time
and you remember the lessons
learned in the watercolour mountains of Iga.

Each cloud which hung with purpose

to allow the space in between

the fog

to breathe

a void empty breath.







Then

Draw and cut, the head in front, now turn to slice the belly beside and then the master stroke behind to catch the danger unawares, to spill his blood, as your concern, survey the room, assess the damage, let every sensation come

and pass.

Then clean the blade and seat yourself.

Return to the void and empty breath.

Always ready.

Ready for Death.

So life can live.

Little lizard.

Thursday, November 13, 2008

The beginning has begun to begin.

Out at sea
creak and sway
a little further
every day
to sight a land
long lost to me
a place where eye
have never been
feet on earth
but
no dirt
on me.

********

Awareness without action is an unforgiveable crime. Being smart enough to act stupid enough to hide the smart enough is a shot in the vein of pity's deadly charm. And you don't know where or who to turn to, because you no longer trust yourself enough that you can talk without causing more sadness. More sadness.

Jesus, this Hell has been a self fulfilling tragedy. Beyond the comic, no longer a tonic, merely a notepad, filled with the gothic masturbation of an emotional and social retard.

But I'm not here to hide. I'm here to stand and face the enemy. The inner child who has lied to himself for all these years to try to avoid the trouble that the lies themself create.

Oh god. Awkward.

Yesterday I sat with a friend and brother who listed the people who have invested in me and continue to do so. And blood was shed as a family wine, drunk deep in the summer sweat, and bonded beneath patchwork memories where golden hearts light the darkness that you may see in the deepest trenches of the night. And if those hearts are stars, then my night is a glittering outback glowing with distant dreams that I might navigate a way from loss to leadership.

In the cold, I don't light a fire. I rub the earth upon my skin and feel the warmth of it and hope to Hell it sinks in between the pours, another yes another, beneath the poor, I'm working but stranded as always, as always, beneath the pores, beside the bones, to grow a thicker skin, built of the Earth, and as patient, caring, understanding and wise as the old skin always promised to be, but was never able to deliver.

Do as your closest tell you to do. Focus only upon yourself. Fix thyself, jester boy. Fix thyself that you might return the favour one day, however far that day might be.

Shed the snake. Become the goat.

And when you do that, the mountain seems a challenge, not a threat.

Wednesday, November 12, 2008

Today.

Truth is, after years of threatening to, last week I finally cracked. Everything broke inside and everything caught up and it was all I could do to just stand there, wide eyed and smashed, and wonder if this was it, this was how it ends. Oh, I was working long hard days, djing four nights in a row, but it wasn't an exhaustion thing. It was just, The End.
So there was an escape route, and I jumped on it. A brief moment of another life where I could find a centre, breathe, do the thing that people do, get up off the canvas, make a list, be like the squirrel.

The ghosts came too.

They came with me, round the corners, up the roads, chewy and bitey and remindey and guilty, guilty, guilty, you don't deserve this, you don't deserve a god damn thing. That's what it said, where ever I went. That I don't deserve a god damn thing.

How do you answer that? To yourself, I mean. How do you answer that when you say to yourself, you're right. I don't.

You don't. You just keep moving. And be grateful of that.

Anyway, today's the first day. Today comes after last week, when I killed myself in the hope of rebirth. Today comes in a mosquito heat with an unforgiving sun which punishes me like I want it to.

Thankyou, master.

But rebirth is a falsehood. I came back the same person, down below the same mountain, with the same fucking heart and the same feet which ache to touch the earth but always seem to hang dangerously over the edge of a precipitous calamity.

I came back more lost than ever.

Was I ever found? Do you remember a time that I was ever found?

So here's the thing. You wake up in a forest. It's dark but you can see the light of the moon. So which way do you go?

I always thought up.

But thinking's the trouble.

Don't think.

Just walk.

And your feet say down. Down towards water, water towards the sea, the sea towards the horizon, the horizon brings tomorrow, tomorrow brings hope.

And hope brings happiness.

I hope.

I'm sorry. I'm sorry to everyone. But there's a time when sorry dies and what's left is either regret or determination. And today I've got to find the latter, the ladder, which will help me find the answers, the grey ghosts which bound through the forest of my own making.

I don't know what's going to happen now.

I don't know what's going to happen now.

I don't know what's going to happen now.

Tuesday, November 11, 2008

And all the ghosts came running.

You are moving fast. 
You are
in the woods
yes
the woods
the American woods
not the Australian forest
maybe even
the Bavarian woods
yes, that's it
colder
foreign
and yet
god
so familiar.

You are in the woods.
And you are moving fast
and there are things ahead
but that's not it
oh no
it's not the ahead the fire in your feet
it's the behind
the behind
the 
run, matty, run
it's dropping silver crumbs
which leap from your heart
and pour from your eyes
unbidden and unwanted 
this trail left behind 
betraying your position
so
run, matty, run
I'm tired
don't stop 
run
SNAP
run
MEMORY
run
GUILT
RUN
FEAR
RUN
FUCKING
RUN
WHAT
RUN
THE
RUN
FUCK?

[it all 
goes
dark]


Friday, October 24, 2008

Trinity.

Sit.

Light.

Breathe it in.

Get back to what we know.

********
Soundtrack: The Make Up / Gospel 2000

I could feel myself stretching thin. I'd nailed corners of myself down all over town. A debt here, a friend there, a relentless job that won't let up, that I won't let break me, though it shakes me, but baby it won't take me, not even in a sixteen hour day as the sun comes and goes and I never even knew.

But I still need a drink. A drink to take the ache away or ache the take away, it doesn't matter anymore, not when I can just sit and let someone else do the talking as I stare at the legs of every girl that walks past, thinking,

nothing.

There's nothing in me.

All of that is dead.

At least

until it's not.

I touch the spot in my heart where the shadow lived or maybe it was my lung - it doesn't matter I'll still smoke in my room on mornings like this - anyway I touch my soul that lives behind the ribs and up some, and I can hear it faint, a ripple of memory which one day might reach you as a tidal tomorrow. Boom boom boompity boom. It's still there. There is today.

********
Soundtrack: Fleet Foxes / Mykonos

I spent my last $1.40 on two packets of rolling papers. One for an old lady who asked me for some. They cost seventy cents each. I bought two and gave her one and then I started walking. And it's funny, if you're wearing a new jumper that you bought to hide the smell of sleeping on a couch, and you've got a song in your heart that drowns out the machine world then the people that you stride past look at you as though you haven't a care in the world. You've got an aura today, mister, who is that, and I can skip over the gutters and hip shimmy by the couples and leave them with a scent of break up and doubt and I'll sing out loud with my headphones on as I'm waiting for the lights to change and the man in his tie in his mortgaged car will look at me from inside his traffic and only one of us will be free. And it'll be me, with cigarettes and an empty stomach and a thirst to tear this whole world down and me with it. And I'll keep walking, always walking because you never know who is around the corner, might just be a someone with a twenty or a beer or an invite to eat, hey matty, you're worth it, you piss me off, always working but always broke, how is that? I don't know, I'll say, I just don't like money, I don't like needing it and I'm a stubborn bastard who won't let the fucking world dictate what I do.

Pay day comes. I pay the last rent before I move. Pay day goes. I ask someone to buy me a shot.

They always do.

I keep walking. I keep wondering how a boy like me can make it, if I'll ever make it, if the book will ever be finished, if the Hope that people give me when they need me is real or if it's just another lost soul knowing that I'm the go to guy when you're in need of finding the truth that lies beneath the face of a cold, empty universe.

Truth is, it's fucking beautiful being broke and free and wild and loose and bipolar and frustrating and impossible to grasp and the breadcrumbs behind you aren't breadcrumbs at all, but tiny drops of blood from torn apart hearts. Your own included. My own included.

No wonder everyone wants to "connect".

Mathew is

painting a picture of his lie.

Waiting for the hug that will wash the canvas clean.

And I keep walking.

*********
Soundtrack: Ravel / Bolero

The underneath, the true self, the perception, the good soul, the loving man, the ice cold lover, the drunken master, the conceited writer, the Long Distance Dedication, the hard worker, the sad, lonely son, the mother fucking Icarus, burning in a cage, lighted in prison for it could never reach the sun, so voosh here it goes, here it comes, the blinding light of undirected passion, the magnesium spark which leaves naught but a single feather to drift between the bars and out to freedom in the hope that one day that wind might return and gently blow upon it a kiss which helps it rise back, that gives it wings to believe, if only it could believe, if only I could believe.

But instead, I'll be leaving.

Walking
always walking
instead of all this bloody
talking.

Monday, October 20, 2008

Spider.

There are spider fang bites on my wrist so every night I sleep on the couch, I'm terrified of the thought of the legs which crawl over during the night, a nice analogy really, a real karma baby, calmer than what you were anyway, those nights in the dark, terrified of it in your mouth, as you lay asleep and the drums, boom boom, in the night, well I heard them anyway, and no fucking spider had the guts, not when I was beside her, inside her, a calm protecting presence, a baby boy acting as the man he wished to be, and breathing slowly, up -

down -

to show that I was in control, that I was centred, that I was

sexy

or maybe that I was a fake, even in those moments. But I was faking it so that she might feel safe.

I guess intention is the worst lie of all.

Best to hide it.

Invite only.

Fuck that.

My t-shirt said, I am not Beck, and the best part was, it was covered in blood and my intention was clear, it was,

I don't know if I care.

(not NOT care - but not like you care, I don't think I care, the way that you care, but it doesn't mean I don't care...)

Anyway -

you might think that you know,

but you might not understand the will it takes a loser to laugh as he shows his empty hand, out on the deck, how much he eights clubs, how much he eights hearts, how much he just wants to call a spade a spade, when all you ever wanted was a handful of diamonds and all I ever wanted was to play poker.

Oh butt fuck there's fun to be had, if you can call it fun - and I can. I can call it loose, a truce between me and the rest of the world, a way to let my heart burn the cold response I get from fucking anyone who thinks their shit is worth the worry, or the sorry they want when my words push past them and burn the fucking Indiana Jones bridge I stand vicariously upon.

Yeah, it's loose tonight.

I guess all it is, is -

Love isn't just my lie.

Love is all of you people,

lying

but too fucking afraid.

(fuck, especially to actually admit that you're afraid - who would do that?)

So I'll lie back down with my invisible spider who might bite me in the night, and the cancer in my lung, and the love of so many strangers, and the callous fucking words, and the flower in your door, and the thought of something more, but my Hope is just a war that I will always lose, but never surrender to, just shift the lines, hide in the trenches, believe a little one day, and when belief fails, as it must, I might send myself out, a dangerous troop in an unknown land, scouting for adventure, speaking with tongues, being the enemy, with a sneer and a hey, and god, make this day, please, never stop, or more importantly, don't take away my stubborn for if you do I may drown in the questioning sea which rises and falls with the tides of my mood.

There's a hidden spider in my room.
I can see the people respond to the notes you leave that I can't read.

Maybe that bites me in the night.

Or maybe they aren't fangs at all -

maybe it's the light.

Tuesday, October 14, 2008

Flies.

Hey, it's you.

It's me.

It's the distant us.

It's the long, sad days that leave us at once
glad to be free
and distraught that it's me
not you
that's left here to write
a single thought
about how life should be different
if everyone just forgot
or remembered
that...

wait

my voice has long since lost its wisdom

murdered by actions
that a good man would shun

I'm a tsk

a sigh

a fucking goodbye
then years from now you might wonder why,
you thought -
he's worth a tear, I'll sit and I'll cry
before coming
to the conclusion that I ain't but a sty
with a pig for a heart
and the talent
to fly
but a soul that won't
try
and will most likely die

thinking of you.

********

And there's always more.

Friday, October 10, 2008

Pub.

How many days have come and gone, matty, in the light or behind the shades, drowning in the golden goblet of right now, the bottom of this drink, the reflection of yourself in the glasses of your friends, the sun leaving, apologetic and you're sad to see her go until the night appears, the troublemaker, with a twinkle in its eye.

And yes it's about the booze, and sure I'll have one if you're having one, but it's not, it's about us, all of us just filling the gaps, that hunger eternal in ourselves, just for a day, just for today, we're all in this together, I love you, god, tell that story again, I never tire of it, and we laughed didn't we, hey it's, and that's guy's pants and you know I'm always here, and let's never end, let the day never come let's all run, around the world, with the spin, ahead of tomorrow, today today today, god, please, as though we all go home together, as family, as though you won't walk away from me as the doors close as though as the taxis flee and the wind drops rubbish at my feet and the only thing left is either sex or violence and it's a cold, sad world again and I'll do anything to not be striding in the shadows, wondering why, thoughts as flies, or maggots and lies, a dirty disguise on the long walk home

alone.

So pour me another.

Pour me one for my brothers and one for lost lovers, my beaten dead mother could do with another and all of our troubles can go and get smothered in whisky and music and death cigarettes, my soul is a shadow, but why I forget, you have a new man, new car, new life, troubles with money, in love with your wife? Come dance the taps with men just like me, who'll drink you an ear that will not close 'til 3 and we'll pretend that the murmur of the drunks is the sea

and you can believe

that your true hope is me.

Wednesday, October 8, 2008

Moment. #2

Ok, only because it's been so depressing for so long...

CONVERSATION SATURDAY MORNING:

Bre**: How you going there, Mattyb?

Me: Look. I've had way too much coke in the last 24 hours. And I can't believe I just had a motherfucking bong. Not only do I feel like a lost little man whore on the road to Juvey, I think I may also be about to throw up. What I think I need to do is lie on your bed just for a tiny moment. I'm just going to get a little horizontal, close my eyes, and then I'll be right, and then I'll go home. So here we go...just lying down on the 'ole bed....just ah....pillow...just going to tuck my 'lil hands under the pillow and WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS THING UNDER THE PILLOW IT'S A GIANT FUCKING PURPLE DILDO THE SIZE OF MY TORSO WHY IS IT UNDER THE PILLOW WRAPPED IN A PLASTIC BAG OH MY GOD I TOUCHED IT OH FUCK SHIT THIS IS THE PART WHERE I RUN SCREAMING DOWN THE CORRIDOR AM I LAUGHING OR VOMITING OR CRYING OR ALL THREE AT ONCE?

[I fall over in the corridor trying to escape]

[I am chased by a grey haired man who thinks it is funny to use a giant purple dildo as a Gonzo style nose - I think I actuallly make claw marks on the floor boards with my nails I am trying to move so fast]

Bre**: (Waving Football Oval sized dildo at me) C'mon mate, it's only Doctor Johnson!

[I lock myself in the toilet. I consider my lifestyle choices. I cry and dream of a house overlooking the sea. Far from this place. Find a happy place. Find a happy place.]


*******


Four days later the sun is waving at me through my bedroom window as I drink tea to the blissful sounds of next door's domestic violence dispute. It seems the speed addict lady has lost their crack pipe. Oh god. Awkward. I dream of France. Toulouse. Further south. A cheap shack in a small town with fresh bread (non dildo shaped) and a stripey top. I wonder if I'll see you there. I wonder if this blackness in my chest is cancer. I wonder how long we all have.

A bird sings.

I love you. I love everyone.

Nothing else matters.

Tuesday, October 7, 2008

Act One.

I wrote this poem, it had all these bits to it, but probably said too much without saying anything.

So, I hope you heard too.
Good luck.
Focus.

I'm thinking of you with all my powers.

That's all.

Thursday, October 2, 2008

Mermaid.

There's a glass jar
on my verandah
and in it -
all these rocks
that we found that day
in Mallacoota.

Oh god,
I was so excited
when I saw the dolphins
swimming off the shore
I ran so fast
a little goat
over the rocks
screaming,
DOLPHINS! DOLPHINS OH MY GOD DOLPHINS!

And there was a thunderstorm
out past the heads

I guess
there always was, wasn't there?

Dark clouds as thoughts
which hung above us
and grumbled every time
we forgot
to be sad
and it was so easy
out there
you and me
by the sea
wondering
if that was some sort of sacred
rock formation
and let's climb here
walk there
do nothing
let's do nothing
and yes, I want to kiss you
but shall we get fish n' chips first?

and I was so
old man
as I watched you
jump the waves
telling you not to go in too deep
it's a dangerous rip here
miss
please stay close
you ran
please don't go too far
I was afraid
you might get taken away
I shouted
"you might get taken away into the sea."

And you laughed at me
as you lifted your shirt
over your head.

Who cares! You cried.

I belong in the sea!

That's what you said,
you pointed out to her
and spun and cried out -

I belong IN THE SEA!

And God
it's so true.

You really bloody do.

You really do.

Tuesday, September 30, 2008

Curve.

Soundtrack: Eric B. & Rakim / Follow the Leader

The hardest thing about getting back on your feet is your own weight that tries to drag you down. For me it's the voices which constantly remind me of the need to feel crap. That I don't deserve to face the day as a happy man. That I should stare at the floor. That I can't look you in the eye.
It's because I don't want to be the sort of person who doesn't think like that. I don't want to make mistakes and move on, wipe them clean in my memory, think, c'est la vie and oh noes and well, dust it off, cowboy. I think I want the dust to stick but I can't tell if that makes me a better person or just a guilt ridden sucker.
Sure, there's a fine line. It's always easy for people to tell you there's a fine line.
Mine's a fucking tightrope. And when I fall, it's a long way down between these two poles. When I fall I grab the line and it pulls the whole tent down with me.
Christ, all I did was throw a tiny fucking snowball down the side of the mountain.
But that's not all you did.
But it was all I did.
No it's not.
Yes it is.
And so on.
It rolled further.
And so on.
It grew.
And so on.
It took the whole fucking joint with it.
Ba-boom.

So

I guess if eyes are the window to the soul, then words are the key to unlock the front door.
A way to explore the rooms inside. But you can be a guest. Or you can crash in uninvited. Words can do that. I need to learn to keep my words secured safely to my belt. Far from the greedy hands of those imprisoned souls who reach from behind the bars in Hope of an escape.

I was never here to set anyone free.
I was always just walking these corridors.
As much a prisoner as anyone else.
That's why the words that came at me were just as much a torture as any I had shot.
Straight from the rack, both balls, top pocket, try angle that one, far cue, you made this happen, you wrote those names on the board with your small chalk and then you rubbed them off.
But it was a game I didn't even know I was playing.
Too late now, the white ball is stuck.
Game over - the metaphor is dead, off to green velvet La La Land.

That's what the empty soul does at the end of the night. Walks with its collar up back down familiar streets past the same old windows which have cursed it year after year of fucking menial - man, you are still fucking here? And there's a new supermarket and that old bar has changed hands and changed legs probably too and have you heard the new joint, it'll be like old times, those savvy operators, moving back, just up the road, let's all meet there and wonder at who is still here.
That's the worst part. To me we were Hope of somewhere far away. But I was too slow, too the same, too day by day, too opposite every part of your fantasy, for I was tied by a rope which anchored me to reality, and god I wished we could have met somewhere in between. It would have been right where the water met the earth. Where we were always at our happiest.
Wishin's not for me though, is it? Wishin's for you. Slow circles of time is more my gas. Way out there in the cold heart of space, where it takes seven years even to reach me, let alone understand what lies beneath my ice cold facade. That's-a-turn no one's been willing to make yet. Not with all the dangers involved in gettting there. No one except you. But your mission was doomed from the start.
I wish I was any other planet. I really do.
Still what happens now is tomorrow comes, it always does whether I'm here or not. Tomorrow comes and the part of everyone that holds the future expands with new possibility as the part that holds the past contracts. This is the law of gravity, and we're all suckers for it, just like the rest of the universe. We all spin in orbit around each other and sometimes things just crash into us and sometimes we just implode. You know that, don't you? That we are all the universe. I know you know that. We are the universe and we just keep on repeating bigger and bigger and smaller and smaller and it's dizzying the way it's all laid out, so beautiful and chaotic and daring and right. So beautiful. But we never said it was a forgiving universe. It's just the universe. Fucking crazy.

I wonder what it'll look like tomorrow.

Monday, September 29, 2008

...

I was wondering if you'd mind
if we could still meet in a dream
and smile
a forget
and hold hands
a tomorrow
and I don't want to push my luck
but I just thought
maybe I could just wear some shorts
or even a tracksuit
just something comfortable and daggy
so that on the clouds
I could fall asleep again
a dream within a dream
of falling asleep with you.

So Lah.

The scientist asks me -
Did you know the sun
actually
sings?

I shake my head.

I didn't know that.

It's true, he says
for billions of years the song of the sun
has gradually grown louder
and higher in pitch
as the pressure of its core expands
until eventually
- death, even for the sun -
where it fades to a tiny star
no bigger than the earth.

It doesn't explode?
I ask.

No, the scientist replies
our little star is too small
to explode
to go supernova
it merely incinerates Mercury,
Venus
and possibly Earth
before the gentle breath of its goodnight
subdued by Time
billions of years in the making.

I look at him staring at the night sky.

And for a moment I forget

my tiny life

as I listen for the song of the sun.

Sunday, September 28, 2008

Hell.

My sins are lust and theft
stealing the idea of Hope
from those lost souls
who place it at my feet
in soft fragile surrender
as the tornado
of me
lifts the earth
beneath their feet
and we all go spinning
into the air
without a thought
of where we might land.

But you had the words
they'll say
that promised so much
yet words are but an empty shelter
the smoke of a fire long since deserted
the maudlin ghost of an empty bed
the education of a broken heart
the self deluding lie
carved into the past
to become a nightmare
which you will wake from
but I will be forever trapped within.

And if only God were here
he might shake his head
in solemn disappointment
as the last remaining parent
sending their son
to his doom
in order to preside over the final lesson
and say,
there is nothing more I can do
you told the world you would go to Hell
and you did, you fell
into the bleak flagellation
of your own ambition.

And
my Hell is a torrent of blood
so I'll drown
in the thick red rain
which pours from all those open wounds
trying to hold on
for dear life
to the part of me
which honestly
is distraught
with sorrow
and haunted
by the shadows
of what I have done.

A Dry Dream of Me.

I'm in the desert and my arm is under a rock and I have a knife and I know if I don't do something I'll die - but the way it is now, I can't do it, I can't do it, I mean is it mad, is it insane to press my lips to the salt of the rock and say, you've really got a hold on me rock, and I must admit it only hurts when I start to wriggle, when I change position, so well hey, I guess out here is as good a place as any, and the sand starts to boil beneath me and my skin sticks to the rock and we become one, the Rock and...

No, that's not it.

It's -

just before I die, my eyes locked upon it, the rock rolls away, and I am too weak now to follow it.

So I die alone in the desert, looking at myself reflected, in the clean blade of the knife.

Thursday, September 25, 2008

Mono.

God
I was scared to let go
of your hand
as we walked
I mean it was cold
and I was easily lost
spinning
beneath
the tall grey strangers
which cast their charcoal moods
upon me
and I watched
my memory of the light
shrink to the size
of the dot
in my i

But there is no eye
in
a man bereft of hope
who blinded
does not see
the way forward
but I do
and I did
those mammaries
golden and joyous
which hid
never from sight
a delight to behold
to massage back
until the windows
to happiness were many
as art
on a gallery wall.

And yes
there are shadows
in front
and behind
but a shadow is merely
what light
tries to find.

Tuesday, September 23, 2008

Addiction.

Cold empty days as today
waiting for pay
when
my poverty lounges upon my shoulders
in conceited repose
a half sucked and damp cigarette
in its mouth
reminding me of the glorious day
when I saw beneath a table outside a cafe
at lunch
a tailor made
teasing me to take it
come get me big boy
it crooned
as the wind rocked it gently
to and fro
its hypnotic dance
a seductive show
for me to prove oh just how low
a man might stoop
or in my mind
another voice still
casts away mere opinion of them
for survival of my want
(more than need)
anyway I nant I weed that cigarette
it's lunch
and the white beach carrion
- buoys in the water and gulls leaning and preening -
spread rubbish across the sand and tables
and everyone is blinded but I can see it
an empty pack upon the table
and this treasure which has spilled unseen
and come to rest beneath an empty chair
now
will I sit
there and extend the act
perhaps I could use my nonchalance as feat achieved
I think no one noticed
so I'll take my leave
or
better faster sleight o' hand
without thinking
is what I'll do
I can
and I did
I walked straight past
I leaned down I grabbed it
Dunhill I noticed that
keep walking
someone saw
it's okay
I'm gone now
out of their life
a tiny instant thought
that man
he picked up
that cigarette
how disgusting
yes
there
are
voices
that
register
their
disgust
of
me
in
me
so I wait at least a block or two
in fact
I walk to outside my work
so that my colleagues
can see how well to do I am
with my fancy tailored cigarette
the golden bands and elegant font
which midas like turn my
fingers and teeth
to Gold.

Monday, September 22, 2008

Familiar.

There is always a stone
in the pocket
of my jeans.

It changes each day
depending on what I want.

Some days
I wear my skinny jeans
and I search my room
for the black black rock
that I know lives somewhere
close by
and when I find it
I squeeze it tight
no
tighter
no
tighter
yes
like that
so it hurts
and my hair falls
over my face
as I slide it
deep
into the pouch
so it can come
with me
all day long.

Some days
I need the tear catcher
which was given to me
by a girl who had it made
special
special for me and all my tears.

It's aboriginal dreaming rock
painted and everything.

She went up north
and brought it back to me
just before she left me
which you know
I can see the kindness in
I guess
and the funny thing is
the rock split in two
when I filled it with tears
and I wonder if that meant
I was over her
or if the rock
committed
suicide
rather than have to keep
listening to my crap.

Anyway I still carry that rock
when I'm sad.
At least it knows me.

The third thing I carry
isn't a rock
it's an acorn.

Mornings when I reach for the acorn
I'm either hopeful
or desperate
but I'm not saying
"Hey Acorn
sort this shit out"
I wouldn't ever ask that of the acorn.

It's more a case of
the acorn
reminding me
that Hope and Desperation
belong in the dirt
together

the bullshit that feeds
the real push up
into the light.

That's right
little acorn,
I say.

And I slip
all that potential
into my pocket
as I walk out into the day.

Falling Water.



This is where I meet myself.
Safe in the smell of the wet forest and cold stream melodies.
We can relax here.
We can open up.
Under falling water.
We light the fire.

"Drink?
Please.
"Whisky? Wine?
I think a red.
"Red it is.

You can see what it looks like can't you. Here by the fire.

The leather chairs by the slate fire place and the shag rug and the room is dimmed so the light of the fire dances voodoo on the walls around us and shadows jump and dash as they follow the tone of our conversation.

Red light danger /
white light belief /
no light as we kick ourselves in the guts, and tell each other we're out of Hope.

But there's a big log by the fire.

And Hell, it's gonna burn all night long.

"Someone gets angry at you, they think they have a right to cut you out cut you all the way down.

Maybe they do. Don't they?

"Yeah, maybe.

Everyone has a fucking right to not get hurt.

"Which means I do too

Yeah. Which means I do too.

I take a sip.

"What you think it's really about, as in, underneath? Those stupid messages?

I don't know. Reassurance. Fear. Something weak like that. Nothing that sounds good when you write about it.

"You like to write a drama, huh?

I guess. Long time since I've been funny. Maybe I wrote myself into it.

"And what about all the pretty?

Pretty? What makes you say pretty?

"I don't know. You're almost terrified of it. You almost hate it.

I think about that.

Pretty's a dream just before you wake up.
Pretty's dreaming of three impossible things you want to do before noon.
Pretty's a lie too you know.
But it's pretty.

"So you don't believe in it?

I don't know.
I wanted to.
But I'm at my prettiest
when I don't.

I think about that too.

I miss the pretty. All of it.

The fire, the fire, the fire.

We sit and stare at it. I let it burn the sentimentality from my heart. I let it burn my heart. But I don't feel a thing. I just lie back in the leather and stare bemused at the flames which leap from my chest. There are burning photos in my shirt pocket. I see the faces on fire as the edges curl and bring them closer to themselves. People always seem to get closer to themselves. As though I am an example. A dead end street which they laugh about later on their journey, once they're back on the road, marked on the map.

Although, there are other things I know too.

"You don't know what to believe, do you?

No.

No, I don't.

I know the wrongs and I know the misunderstood rights.
I know I will accept the self flagellation to a degree that I deserve it -
but I know other things too.
Double standards
held high by princes
riding black ponies
as they watch the fray
from the side of the field.
Reasons to do this
so close to the escape hatch
just trying to find the trigger
the switch
here
you left it here
in the trash
must be you're an evil bastard
must be you're a cunt
(God, I wanted this way out - I wanted to look for it - I needed to hate you)

You needed to hate me?

Yeah maybe.

Who's to say what is right anymore.
The loudest prettiest voice sets the level of hurt, seems anyway.
I'm sure there's a raft of words floating down that river which leads to a brighter tomorrow.

At least I try to say the right things about people.
When they're not around.

"You think that's gonna get you into Heaven?

Doubt it. Not in these shoes.

"I had something for you, anyway. Have something. It's here, beneath my fingers. I'm scared it's a tombstone now. A marker. A memorial to the void.

That was part of it, you know. Empty messages sent to empty nights to fill an empty frightened soul.

That's the part I thought you understood.
As the fire dies. And casts me into the shadow of the past.

"I'm losing you..."

No.

I'm losing you.

But I can hear the sound of falling water as I fade into sleep.

And when the time comes

I will stand tall

again.

Saturday, September 20, 2008

Extended Intermission.



I don't know where to start.
Here is the rain.
May it wash our tears away.

Friday, September 19, 2008

Empty.

I want to keep
the shape of you
on my pillow
to remind myself
that you were here.

To punish myself
that I
was
not

and in Hope
that we might still
dream
together.

Tuesday, September 16, 2008

Blog.

And the last part, the tragic half or the bitter ice cold masochistic laugh, is me left alone in the house with words for company and a fever the reward.

What a ridiculous sight loss makes, as draped in the clash of tracksuit and pyjamas it sits alone on a porch with a cigarette for company and a tall glass of lemonade in hand. Trying to find the center, trying to understand what it was and what it has become. Desperate now, to get to the source.

There is music skipping down the street from a neighbour's party. A gentle despair vibrates in my hands. The cigarettes do their damage. A mysterious pain reminds me to breathe as I remember the way she walked. Grace Kelly. A feminine promise. An appropriate dress. A pair of shoes. The day beginning in the afternoon. The whole world a fantasy - if you believe.

First, I think, you've got to believe in yourself. Starting here. Alone on the porch.

A laughing couple walk by. I lean further back into the shadows. I watch them pass and I suck the last life out of the cancer I hold in my hand. Then I wipe my nose, my eyes, my chin. And I walk back inside.

Siglo. (2)

And there's more
in the night
when the wind
sets
the house
creaking
(the rope
you think
I swing
by
which I don't
I only hang
pitiful
and blue
rocking back and forth
with the wood
for company
and naught else)
and
there's more
as the man and I
sit bare to the wind
and care unspoken for each other
taking solace
in a piece of cheese
by a window
both wrapped
in the absence of them
a tiny touch
beneath the table
which I was once
able
to do
without hesitation
(it may never happen again
so
please pour another
for a poor rotten lover)
and so
(soshite)
(dakara)
(shigata ga nai)
tonight
I simply toast
this fine wine
bled
by a fine man.

I simply toast:

(Hey friend, I'm here for you.
I wish I was true.
But I'm here for you.)

"If my adventure scots to be ending
well may yours continue
my fine stand up friend."

So we drink
on the roof
too old to cry

in public at least.

And the wind
makes me remember
how cold
I
truly
am.

Arachnid. (1)

It feels like home, this place.

As though the rope of failure
has pulled tight and burned against the skin
to scar tomorrow
with the friction of yesterday's inaction.

I wanted to make some money.

I wanted to be loved.

I wanted to feel as though
these lies were the tooth
that was pulled by white skirts
and doctor's brow
a serious conversation
held with a mouthful of fear
and cottoned on
only by the eyes
(and in mine
the surprise)
that you might forgive
and understand
the hand the led the
ass
astray.

A red carrot in a foul mouth.

A candle by light
the delight
I took
in the look
you gave
when you caved
(finally)
after days
and the waves
meant the sea had returned
and so had I
but you didn't know that
or did not believe
you only saw
the wool and the weave
stuck to your eyes
as panic
as web
as loss
so you struggled
and I played the spider
(inside her?
beside her?
you fucking cunt
wider)
Yes
I was the spider

more afraid of you
than you ever were
of it

well hung
in a dark corner
catching flies
to survive
the night.

Waiting to be crushed
later
by the giant feet
of a real man.

That's the hole
beside my bed
that haunts
my dreams.

It's been there for years.

I cover it with paper
I cover it with
anything
I can find

but it never goes away

it remains
by
my

side.

Monday, September 15, 2008

Run.

There was a time when I was prepared to write the brutal truth. When the world had ended [moved on without me - the whole fucking world] and I felt as though I could write my way out of it. I thought that was what I did. But really, all I did was write a new world, a fictional world, one that I could watch objectively, one where I would never get hurt, one where the hurts I caused would not scar, or bite back, or bleed, no blood, never any blood. I made the world around me with callous disregard. I lied to the sky to create the rain. I charged over the horizon before the horizon had time to create another. I stood in the vacuum of my own ambition. I drank. I drugged. I lost my belief in people. I became so numb, my kindness had teeth, and my love brought sadness and my hope was escape, a promise I'd borrowed from a lifetime of fantasy. 
All I wanted to do, was regret what I hadn't done.
All I wanted to do, was not look at myself, but run.
When I was in the country, I said, g'day mate.
When I was in a club, I said, let's get on it.
When I was holding hands, I said, god your eyes look beautiful.
When I was staring at the mirror, I 
turned away quickly
not knowing what to say
or what I would hear
or what I would see in these eyes
I don't know what is in these eyes
sometimes I think I try
and other days
I die
inside
knowing that I could be better
if I wasn't my own bitter
enemy.

Run, rabbit.

Run.

Empty.

I guess it's just us now, kid.

Wednesday, September 10, 2008

Hot.

Conversation:

Nick: Mangarook.

Me: Mangarook.

(this is a normal conversation at my house)

Me: So how was your day off?

Nick: Actually, I had to work.

Me: Oh. Bugger.

Nick: Yeah. And I burned my hand.

Me: Oh. Bugger.

Nick: Yeah. I burned my hand on a printer.

Me: On a printer? How do that for?

Nick: Well, it's like a Fax Machine. It's on all the time. And I was printing something.

Me: Yes. Go on. (Shit, I ate all the tim tams last night)

Nick: I was printing something and the printer said - cartridge empty, so I stuck my hand in to see if I could feel the cartridge.

Me: Must be some sort of chocolate here somewhere.

Nick: And I was feeling around for the cartridge and then all of a sudden, ow, it was hot.

Me: Maybe I'll just make a muffin. Do we have any vegemite?

Nick: Yeah it really burned. I wonder what was so hot in there. Guess it was the cartridge. Anyway, now I know how those Bali Bombing Victims must have felt.

Me: Sorry, what?

Nick: I said, I can really empathise with those Bali Bombing Victims now.

Me:...

[looks to camera]

Monday, September 8, 2008

Ballad.

So

hard
to think
to know
that all I right
is boring now
not even real
I've bored until
I no longer feel for
anything more
than
a blanket
of those nights
when I leave the window wide
in case the hurt crawls back
inside
or comes
perched upon my window sill
and sings to me a melody
of sorrowful change
or
in sodden distress
a memory breathes upon the cold glass
that I might press my finger
gently upon it
and draw in the mist
the jewels of last night
and yesterday
which cling with graphic desperation
outside this haven
or Hell
whichever you may think it be
the truth you see
is barely there
a ghost which flees
a haunted man
a heart which is
just home to me
and a sea
in which
I swim alone
until upon the site
of sure
I land
and grasp
in Hope
your open
hand.

Thursday, September 4, 2008

Monday, September 1, 2008

A Poet.

A rather poetic
looking poet
stands beneath a tree
on a winter day
and I stop and listen to him
as he recites his work.

His poetic jeans are rusted
grey from black
thoughts which he has held
since childhood
pulled high under
his jumper's
afraid weave
not hung
on every one
of his poetic words.

He says -

"I am
standing on the side
of the stream
conscious of the cold
change.

"I can see the rocks
in the water
that split
the currents
and retard the flow.

"I can hear
the voices
that rush from
the white peaks
and bubble
trouble
in wild waves and whispers
of what lies further
downstream.

"I can feel green
in the air
dark
with worried leaves
that leap from their elegant homes
sailing
a slow pendulum
in a sorrowful sigh.

"I can taste the sour
memories and bitter doubts
and Heaven knows
I try
to spit the seeds
that feed
the delicate insecure skin.

"But the birds sing here
in my would eye
my good eye
so
shall I
just jump in
and let the water
take me away?"

"Will I float
upon this reflection
of my self?"

The poet asks
above
and turns his face
to the sky
which cries
and I wonder
as I run to
shelter
if the rain
was the answer
he was looking for
or the push that he needed
to stop looking to the Heavens
for an answer that lies somewhere
here on Earth.

Tuesday, August 26, 2008

Pretzel.

Sometimes I think
when I think something
that I should say it
and that way
it would be easier to think it
I think
but I think saying it
only makes it
worse
the thinking of the thing
I thought
is softer than
the saying of the thing I think
Anyway
I think
this thought
needs a saying
like
don't say
the first thought
that you think
or think
before you say
what you think
but
I think
it's all been said
already
by
someone more
thoughtful
than I.

Monday, August 25, 2008

Milton.

Soundtrack: Midlake / Roscoe

Milton stood on the bridge
over the highway
shone chrome
in the rain
and when he closed his eyes
the slip of the cars
was the sound of a river
and he was drowned
and so was the ache which brought him here
the dirty black dog which made him
lean forward
his arms outstretched
daring gravity
to take the lead and topple him over
in with the silver fishes
which fled in a blind dash
between the lines upstream
toward tomorrow.

This was how he liked to listen
to music.

Feet hooked beneath the bars of the guard rail
with the rain in his face
and the wind man yeah
and no one to hear him scream
the alien lyrics
he didn't understand
but howled as loud
as he could into the storm
oh fuck.

And he could cry
here
as everyone drove home
and he could laugh at himself
and he could say
I miss you
oh fuck
and it didn't fucking hurt
not here
not with the headphones on
it never hurt with the headphones on
but he sobbed all the same
the notes of his past and haunted melodies
of where it was leading
would spring from his eyes
and there was nothing he could do
but sing
and play the same song over and over and over and he hated that word
feeling his heart collapse and fold far out
"over" the world
when the guitar struck that bar
down stroke and nothing mattered

just the feeling

that's all he was
a feeling
as he sang over the semi trailers with a quaver
and quivering tongue.

And when from time to time
someone would walk behind him over the bridge
he would see them coming
place his hands in his pockets
and pretend to be staring quietly
over the edge
and they may or may not
exchange glances
in the dark
until he was left alone
again
wondering why he was
ashamed to be seen singing
and thinking
I should have the fucking courage
to believe that what I am doing
is the true thing
the right thing
to smile
as I stand
and drown in the band
I want the surprise
in the eyes
of a stranger
I want them to see
the fragile soul
that lives inside
but I don't
I won't have the courage
I'll just hide
here
in the words
of the song
and the guitar
will be the lion
the roar which echoes
in my heart
that no one can hear
but me.

And the rain beat on.

Tuesday, August 19, 2008

War.

Used to be
there was so much pain
out there
Jack said.

Used to be filled
with damns
and bloody
hills
and
mother fuckings
and god almighty
himself
feared to walk across
the dust and savaged
terrain
for fear of losing his way.

I look out
over where he's pointing
and then turn
to see him
wipe his eyes
with his sleeve.

His skin
the elephant
seems to follow
a second behind his words
a surf of cracked leather
waving goodbye
to the tears
that fall as
lost brothers.

Now

he says

now there's just
a dull acre
of
dry dirt
a distant thunder of doubt
that feeds
the weeds
of tomorrow.

His eyes are yellow.

But they can still
sense the gangrenous
guns
threatening
from his
past.

I cannot
understand
how he fields
the questions
from his family
who stand tugging
at his medals
and glancing
at their watches
ready to march
quick time
away from him
the pest
lest he forget
that they have
lives now
too.

So I
drink a beer
beside him
in silence

and remember.

Sunday, August 10, 2008

Ladder.

I had a house I used to run to.

A long time ago now.

Be about fifteen years since I was there.

It sat on the side of a mountain.

From the house you couldn't always see the peak.

In winter anyway.

Just an upward slope.

Coverered in trees.

Leading into the clouds which hung low and thick.

The first time I went to that house I figured that must've been the way to Heaven.

One winter I woke up and the whole place was covered in snow.

I stood on the front step and smiled and laughed.

I didn't notice that my feet were wet and numb.

The sky was blue.

I'm always confused by that.

The snow sitting happily under the sun.

It must sneak in at night while everyone's asleep.

I had a motorbike there.

It was just a postie's bike.

125cc.

But it could run the bush tracks that ran from the edge of the back paddock up the side of the mountain.

I had a gun there too.

A .303.

The .303 was an infantry rifle from Vietnam.

I would sling it over my shoulder and ride up the mountain.

Then I would sit there.

Watching the bush.

Sometimes I shot a tree that looked dangerous.

I'd sit up there for hours.

Listening, thinking, being.

Just before it got dark I'd head back.

I'd navigate home using the lights of the house as stars.

It felt like when the sun went to sleep, the house would come alive.

The chimney would be smoking.

There would be music.

A couple of cars.

Smells of roast potato and fire and cigarettes.

Sometimes people would smoke joints and tell the same stories they told yesterday.

It didn't matter.

The best was when the fire was outside.

Everyone sat around in thick jumpers with cold beers.

We'd get a good one burning and then what we'd do is throw copper on it.

And the copper would burn all sorts of colours.

Orange sunsets and bruised purples and the green was life in that fire, and the fire was life in us, and we would sit all night, under the stars and sometimes, you know, I'm afraid of the darkness that lives in between them, but up there on that mountain, up there the whole damn sky was a diamond and I was never afraid, not once.

They sold that house.

Now someone else owns that mountain.

Sometimes I think I'd like to go back there.

Knock on the door and ask if I can't walk up the back paddock one more time.

But I don't.

Besides,

I figure there's more than one way to get to Heaven.