Wednesday, April 23, 2008

The Red Pill.

You'd drink too.

Drink to quiet the violent voices.
Drink to dull the damned and dead
and dying to drink to punish the
failures and feeble floozies who
push their way in before recoiling
in tarnished terror before the
spittle and spectres of horror and
hurt.

You'd drink too.

Drink to fuck the judgmental jurors
who point and pant and cry crocodilian
creeks down false flats of scabbed skin,
and cheeks blushed with rotten rouge,
the colors which stink of subjective untruths
oh me, oh mine, oh you, oh you
let us in, let us in, let us out, let me out.

Maybe you wouldn't.
Maybe you would.
Maybe you're Atlas,
and maybe I should
be, but I'm not.
And I can hear the knockers,
wanting to be kept abreast
and I can feel The Devil
waking in his nest,
ready to hunt, to stalk, to sin
I wasn't going to let you in.
But maybe I will,
after one
more
drink.

Tuesday, April 22, 2008

Murder.

Simon murdered a guy,
lifetimes ago,
in black and white,
over some heroin
somewhere in Sydney
sometime in the seventies.

He did five years for it
before he was acquitted.
Out of the blue
all charges
were dropped.

Simon's father was
a very wealthy man,
but still
had waited five years
to cover up the kill
to pay a down and out
nobody
to take the fall

Waited five years
so that there would be
a compensation payout.

So that his ledger
would be squared
while his boy was in there.
While his son was in there
rotting and scared.

Profit and Loss,
Boy,
he told Simon
as Simon emerged
back into the light
five years of fight
and hurt
in his heart and
hardened
in his eyes.

Profit and loss,
Dad.

They used the
compensation money
to expand the family business
Simon moved to Melbourne
away from his past
at last
and over the next ten years
(they buried their fears)
the Father & Son
became extremely wealthy men.

Simon was a murderer
when he met Susan,
but he didn't tell her
right away.

First were the flowers
then the dinners
then the cars
then the bedroom
then the animal
then the truth.

But Susan didn't mind.
She needed shelter,
and his Hell kept her warm
and his violence kept her hidden
and her room was painted
black and blue
for
the nights when it happened
and
the sky
when she cried
for her son,
the passenger,
who tugged on her sleeve
and said,
he's not here
can we run now?
Please?

But Simon and Sue
kept dancing their
doom, until
eventually Simon
murdered her too.

Simon was a two time
murderer, and Simon
was my father.

Boy did I run.

Run into the
changing colours
black to white
to anything bright
talk to me blue
hide me red
change me yellow
change me yellow
change me.

And years went by
like that.

Simon was a three time
murderer,
the next time I saw him.

Another wife
in his life
had fallen on her knife.
It happens
I suppose,
and so on
it goes.

And my empty heart and
hollow eyes noticed
the metaphor
when I saw him,
the pane between us,
and thought
I'll use that in a poem later.

She wanted my money Mathew,
that fucking bitch wanted my money,
she fucking took the kids and she fucking wanted my money
I fucking worked my whole life for that fucking money
that's my fucking money my fucking money
my fucking money, you know me,
you know me, you can say I'm not like this
I'm not a bad person Mathew, you know that,
it's just when people fuck me
when they try to fuck me, when they take
when they grab, when they steal
like you Mathew, you stole from me
but I forgive you, I forgive
because that's the sort of guy I am
Mathew,
I forgive you.

I took a cigarette out of my packet
that day,
very slowly

looked at it
looked at the coat of arms
printed on the paper
looked at the gold band
encircling the filter
I noticed that cigarette
was particularly well packed
before I lit it
before I drew back the smoke
before I looked him in the eye
and said,
Goodbye Simon,
Goodbye.
And that night
I cried.
I finally
honestly
cried.

Sunday, April 20, 2008

Bitter suicide note after masturbation.

The only problem with stability, peace and
calm blue seas for me is that shaking,
burning, itchy feeling inside which I hide.
Hide
the one that brings blood to your dreams,
and forms demons beside the bed in the
darkest hours of the night, when outside
the decking creaks and the neighbour's
dog stops barking and just whimpers
ever so quietly and shadows make you
mad with masochistic maudlin and
longing for someone to chase The Devil
from your bed and replace him with
something warmer, something hotter
like when someone bellowed and someone
blew, like you used to do - but instead it's
a womb, your room, the blankets a tomb
and your perfume smells rank
rank and disused, beside the bed,
dead - it's been fed - and rotting
with lies and the tears in my eyes
are your bitter sweet prize so
fuck it
maybe I'll die,
(i'm not that guy)
yeah
maybe I'll die
so that
then you can fly.
.....

Thursday, April 17, 2008

Song sung in the style of Lou Reed.

I'm
just trying to feel
to hold a heart
to finish what I start
just trying to be real

What have I stolen
from your eyes?
Replaced with bitter lies
so when you cry
I might fly
I might fly
I might fly
and dream of
and dream of you

I'm
not my daddy's son
The Devil's number one
Number six six six
Just to get my kicks
Just to get my fix
my one in the gun

You
were the sweetest thing
My hope in Hell
My key to the cell
my beautiful one
but
your love was a bitter prize
because I died
so that you might fly
you might fly
you might fly
and dream of
and dream of me

So hey, I guess
it didn't go our way
the day by day
a matchstick in the hay
a needle in the mud
I buried it good
the love that we should
have planted in the fields
under the sun
out in the open
our chance to grow
our chance to feel
our chance to live
our chance to die
together as one

and
your tears
were a sweet surprise
the day I died
I watched you cry
I watched you fly
The day I died
I dreamed of
I dreamed of you

Monday, April 7, 2008

Enchantment.

When I was young
I was driven to a birthday party,
the birthday party of a young boy
my own age.

This encourages social interaction,
I heard my step father say in the car.
It's good for him, toughen him up,
allow him to make friends,
play sport with fellows his own age,
get a taste of the real world.

He's only five,
my mother said.

From the back seat
I reached over
between the seats and
gently touched her hand.
It's okay, I said.
I'm five and a half now.
I can take care of myself.
And
I was glad that even though
I did not yet consider myself a man,
I was able to reassure
the woman in my life.

She smiled
as we pulled to the kerb
and as I adjusted the crease in my trousers
I was careful to lean out of sight
to receive my goodbye kiss
lest it mark me a scar
for the day's festivities.

When you are five
and you don't know anyone,
it's a lot easier to arrive
and to allow yourself to
be gently
socially
absorbed.

What's he doing here?
I heard the birthday cake shriek.
I hate him.

And the sound of the chair
holding the birthday boy
scraped across the linoleum
and aborted my feeble greetings
and he raced to his room
(I wished for the womb)
as I stood still amongst
the silent stares
of his invited guests
until an adult close by
reluctantly attached
themselves to me,
blushing they were
for fear of
catching
what I had brought
with me.

Loneliness.

Actually,
I had bought a Han Solo Figurine.
Hoth Edition.
I placed it amongst the other presents.

Some time later
when my entrance and attendance
had long since been forgotten,
The Magician arrived

and he said,
let there be quiet
and there was quiet.

I watched him carefully
from my place at the back of the room
observing his tricks,
following the ball,
the ribbon,
the balloons,
the hoops,

observing the squalid sneer
of the petulant prince
who greedily groped
for attention and sat savage
and snide when The Magician
cast him aside
to play with another child
for one moment.

My father paid for you,
I heard him say.

And then it was over
and one by one the other children
left and as I waited for my mother
I just stared at the piano
in the lounge room and
listened to the boy squeal to his father,
Han Solo? I ALREADY HAVE HAN SOLO.
I HATE YOU.

I lifted the lid,
saw the dust settled on
the keys as bones of a forgotten dreamer
and I began to play.

Not to drown out the boy,

but to make magic
all of my own.

The Land That I Forgot.

I'm not really one to use
my imagination,
I say.

I mostly write
from the heart
and try to be
as direct as possible
with my language.

I see,
he says.
Yes.

We're walking along
a winding
stone path
which leads
through the garden
under the canopy
and I can feel
the eyes of the creatures
that live in the jungle
as the face of the moon
blushes behind the clouds
and the sky turns red
and joins the sun
to set the leaves
burning gold
which sets me free
though I am old
to run to jump
to be a child
to love to hunt
back in the wild
here in the land
where no-one smiles
as at a half-wit
and says,
it's all in your mind
it's all in your mind

and I can hear him
saying something
behind me on the path.
something about
truth
reality
perception
deception

and all i can think
as I fly away

is how sad it is for him,
to have to work
on someone else's mind
without ever
being free
within his own.

Sunday, April 6, 2008

Past.

I used to read a lot of books.
History, mostly,
some fantasy,
some serious literature,
but mostly history.
Text books even,
from High School
that I'd found in boxes
in second hand bookshops
or Op Shops,
or fetes.
Fetes are good for
things like that.

Mostly Asian history.
Sengoku Jidai,
the Warring States
of Feudal Japan
and all the way up to
the Meiji Restoration.
Early 20th Century China,
The Long March,
The Empress Dowager,
Chiang Kai Shek
and Mao,
though I was never one
for dogma,
just the history of how it happened,
what had happened
and how it led to this.

I see,
he says.

I don't look at him,
I just lie back and
stare at the ceiling.
It is freshly painted,
as though to cover
the passage of
everyone else's
insanity.

I wonder how the ceiling
must feel,
being stared at all day,
by the insecure,
the confused,
the needy and
the desperate.

So you were escaping
your present
through reading
about the past,
he says.

And as he
murmurs something
and scribbles scratch
with his pencil and pad

I say,

No,

I was just really
interested in History.

This is gonna hurt you more than it's gonna hurt me.

This one is a tough one
for me.

I told my friend
about the money
in the safe.

His eyes lit up
and we talked
about it
that night,
what we could do.

We spent the last of
our money
on a bottle of scotch,
because the decision
was already made,
we'd catch the train
in the morning
and we'd grab the cash
and that would be
that.

Sometimes,
I am terrified
by my lack of morality.

Sometimes
I have to scream
to drown
out the voice of
the Angel
which sits
forgotten
on my shoulder.

This one is
tough
for me,
now.

There are ghosts
in my room
at night,
and in my dreams
the guilt scabs
dark red
over the deep
wounds of my past.

We downed the scotch.
Every last drop.
And I was numb.

Here's where the hurt is.

In the morning
we caught the train
back to the house
with the safe.

Except,
she was there,
she wasn't meant to be there,
so I had to think fast
and I lied
I lied
I said,

there's a fucking big spider in my room
and my friend took her into my room
and together they lifted the sheets and
took the paintings off the wall
and she was saying,
where, where, there's
no spider!

But I was in the other room,
heart drum
and thump
sweat and red face
hot,
reaching behind the dresser
to grab the key
to open the safe
to grab the cash
silent now
the door creaks
have to do it slow
and steady
but there's not much time
the spider web
lie
won't stick for much longer

that's it

it's done.

Two thousand dollars,

we're going to Sydney

me and my friend

away from this house,
where I am afraid to sleep,
where every footstep
is terror
and every word spoken
holds menace like
a mace,
blunt and bludgeoning
and
primitive violence.

So I'm going away,
I'm running
and I won't be haunted by
her face
that little sad face
that came out of my room,
bewildered by the
invisible
spider.

And I won't see
the panic
in her eyes,
and I won't
see how she knows
that something
has happened
and I won't see
how she knows
that she will
receive the
punishment
but will do so
gladly,
to see her
youngest son
run free.

And it will take fifteen years,
for me to wake up crying
and saying,

god, I'm so sorry,

I'm so fucking sorry.

Mum,

I'm so fucking sorry.