only the good.

it was a very poetic moment
as she raised the frying pan
above her head, 
bared her teeth
and swung balletic with 
such momentum
he could swear this time
she would actually, finally
take flight.

it was a familiar dance, 
where he would read
a thousand nightmares
in her eyes while
she spewed profanities
and lashed out at the world, 
a screaming banchee.
in a theatre of war 
she would have been a major general.

the battle, he knew
was inside her head,
private, not for him to fight. 

so he retrieves her
tiny frame from the floor,
plants kisses on her forehead 
and tells her the only war cry he knows.
"only the good die young baby".
and hopes like hell
that it isn't true.

ripped off #10 (crazy - willy nelson)

crazy.

i'm crazy for trying,
trying to negotiate an 
adult relationship
in the face of such
childish behaviour. 
i can take the wandering songs,
but not the molasses.

i'm crazy for trying to
make a connection
that can wrap us in answers
to all the hard questions, 
so that it lasts more than
one month
one week
one night.

i'm crazy for trying to
show you my ever lovin' heart,
to be your rock
when all you wanted
was to roll on down the road
to places and people unknown.

i'm crazy,
crazy for thinking
these blues are gunna lift
when you walk into view,
because the bass beat you carry
has a black dog numbness
about it,
about you,
crazy.

yeah we all felt good.

we all felt good.

following the circus of dirty romance
young, raw and free
we would shoot through highway veins
and live the black tar lifestyle
where far away is never far enough. 

hell bent and holding distance in our hands 
we owned nothing but my harpoon 
and bobby's song.
with nothing left to lose we were doing something,  
we were moving. 
we both played hard till
bobby got the blues so bad
the only way out was to sing it.

we sought the road like drugs,
like bad advice. 
holding hands and killing time
it wasn't til we found a ride
that bobby really shone.
yeah we all felt good when 
bobby sang the blues.

celebrating our victories
at truck stop diners
from st louis to cedar city 
we'd strip our skins in parking lots
beside the road that keeps on glinting. 
then as the skies opened up
we were pushing anything
to bring comfort to the pain.

but i kept getting nasty
as we headed down the line, 
chasing a hit that wasn't there.
we thought we were free, but
we were slaves to each other, 
and love, and the byways. 
then when bobby couldn't take it
the road took bobby away
leaving me chasing the horizon
in a pursuit that never ends. 

still, on cold, wet nights i pull out my bandana,
kiss my harp and call out bobby's name.

yeah, we all felt good when bobby sang the blues.

ripped off #9 (everybody's got something to hide except me & my monkey - the beatles)

everybody's tripping my footsteps,
got something leading to
something slippery, jittery, glittery 
to kill my vibe.
hide me from the darkness 
except when it takes
me out of the chaos
and when that happens 
my suitcase will pack itself and my
monkey and i are out of here.

ripped off #8 (jungle love - steve miller band)

i love you for your crazy love
your mad crazy love
i love you mad crazy 
crazy love crazy love. 
i make you wait to
make you crazy
crazy love. 
peaches and cream your love
with peaches and cream love
love creamandpeacheslove
making you crazy 
pouring with rain
making me wet your love
your love pours
(creamandpeachescrazy)
pouring like your questions
your attention questions
mad with rain and crazy,
crazy love. 

ripped off #7 (monkey in your soul - steely dan)

you'll be back.

i hear you snoring in the next room. 
you love falling asleep on the couch
hate waking with dagger in the neck neck.

you roar even before you open your eyes. 
you love being primal
hate the way your instincts make you feel. 

i hold all the assets.
you love that i'm responsible 
hate that you can't take responsibility.

i see you through the studio window. 
you love when i watch
hate you have to fight for any attention. 

you storm out at the scent of an argument.
you love the crazy in me
hate that you can't control the monkey in my soul. 

ripped off #6 (canary in a coalmine - the police)

i am your canary,
you utter one sentence
and i am caged, ready
to go underground.
you send me deep
into the dark recesses
of your subconscious.

clumsily, carefully i stumble
to the place where you can
talk about the demons,
i am the silent witness

to the storied you tell,
the battles that you fight.
clumsily, carefully you watch my face
to know when you are
digging too deep.

then when we can't hold
our breath any longer
you pull me up,
press your lips to mine
until we can forget the 
subterranean nightmare.
you can't go there unguarded 
so i am your canary.

ripped off #5 (hide your love away - the beatles)

hide. 

out on the tundra 
under pressure,
especially the staring,
daring citizens with
good intentions
mention i should just
"shut the fuck up"
so i keep walking.

from a distance
mist precedes your arrival. 
i dry my face
and trace the path 
to your door.
you say
"shut the fuck up."
and i keep walking.

seems so easy
sleazy people bounce
from room to room
from bed to bed. 
i can't abide
those kinds so i
shut the fuck up
and hide.

ripped off #4 (december - collective soul)

surge.

there's a word for the surge that you give me
when i'm looking for a very mellow drama
while december whispers of treachery.

incantations put us both in jeopardy 
take the curtains from the windows for now
there's a word for the surge that you give me. 

i'm caught in the thrawl of heavy delicacies
don't let the blindfold slip baby
while december whispers of treachery. 

your fingers have their own blessed memory
strip my skin so i can be truly naked
there's a word for the surge that you give me. 

now be bold and prepare the weaponry
a soldier rarely multitasks
while december whispers of treachery.

fear of the future has it's hooks in me
so explode with me while there's still time
there's a word for the surge that you give me
while december whispers of treachery. 

ripped off #3 (i wish i was your mother - mott the hopple)

playtime is over.

pretending the motions
of a happy ending
i come up short.

we can't live on wishes
or second rate love songs,
the rabbit hole calls me.

and it doesn't matter
how many secret altars 
i build
i'll never get far
without crossing a few
thresholds. 

playtime is over,
the drawbridge is up. 

ripped off #2 (badlands - bruce springsteen)

badlands. 

the clay that i am made of
crumbles back into the landscape.
it's gully dry
and sunset will surely catch me,
wrap me in a blanket 
of badlands hospitality.

this mother nature's cradle
is full of nettles and shale
but my boots keep moving,
through the badlands
through the undergrowth 
which is the only growth 
around these parts.

this glorious colour pallette 
ain't gunna save me
when every road i walk on
keeps crumbling into dust.
i blend with the canyons
as distant mesas foreshadow
the way through the badlands
and it ain't no sin to be glad to be alive.

ripped off #1 (film noir - gaslight anthem)

run.

i lit a fire that wouldn't go out
dancing around, a true fool in the night
until it took the walls and roof of this house. 

one note to burn, ripped from my broken heart
i'm leaving and i ain't coming back
cos you lit a fire that wouldn't go out.

i take the burning roadside,
drive circles round the blazing life i had
until it took the walls and roof of this house. 

no one's gunna tell you, no one's gunna say
the bricks you hit will sometimes knock you down
but i lit a fire that wouldn't go out.

and we're all travelling down the same damn line
building from the ashes then sparking the match again
until it takes the walls and roof of your house.

there's a dirty music soundtrack on the long and open road,
it's left me bloody, but i keep on rolling on
cos i lit a fire that wouldn't go out
until it consumed the walls and roof of this house. 

business

(what do you do for money honey? ac/dc tribute gig, 24-11-15)

you see me riding round in cars
and hanging out in bars
i'll sell it wherever there's a dollar.
i dress in leathers red
in the car or on a bed
i'll suck your money clean right off the dresser.
so you can wonder all you like
if it keeps you up all night
i don't care, that's just more chance you'll come find me.

as for my kicks
and my dirty, dirty licks... 
my mother said to get things done
you gotta do business with guys who cum.
my mother said to get things done
you gotta earn your money from guys that cum.

you think i'm at your command
and the deeds that you demand
are taking pieces of my very soul,
but i can tell you honey
once i got your money
everything i touch round here is gold.
so you can wonder all you like
if it keeps you up all night
i don't care, that's just more chance you'll come find me.

as for my kicks
and my dirty, dirty licks... 
my mother said to get things done
you gotta do business with guys who cum.
my mother said to get things done
you gotta earn your money from guys that cum.

there's no mystery to this bitch
i'm gunna strike it rich
from schoolboy punks to beaks with big fat wallets.
from up here the view is fine,
close the doors and pour the wine
i'm the business, the pushing, shoving,
          grabbing, stabbing, kneeling, taking business.

as for my kicks
and my dirty, dirty licks... 
my mother said to get things done
you gotta do business with guys who cum.
my mother said to get things done
you gotta earn your money from guys with cum.

celebrate

the officer said

"you should always try

to celebrate the victories"

we will be the hollow winners

over being stuffed in a car boot

or down a back alley

we will be a walking testimony

through the parks and streets

without it being in memorial

we will be the warrior women

(and the weapons that i carry

make me bold)

and if ever there's a time to hold

our heads high it is now.

nightmare #1

it started in nightmares
there were always crowds
and the crowds were always festive
often there was food involved
long tables lavished with plates
and platters full of every food group
the message seemed to be
nourish the humans
(while there's still time)
sometimes they were outside
in the parklands, where the
melancholic nightbirds and
rustling undergrowth
did not dampen the
celebratory spirit
i clearly remember the feasting
i was gorging with the best of them
the rest of them
until all of them
turned into vampires.
it is a very real fear
in dreams
hot body spasms
and it's not so much 
their vampire teeth
and catacomb breath
as the thrill that shines
from behind their eyes
as they swoop,
and i run.

ode to my gut

in facing the fear 
i find myself wanting 
wanting the paralysis
to stop wracking
my body
wanting to reach out 
for anything with meaning 
wanting, even, to do
penance for my lacking...
it comes from my core
you see 
i let my gut 
control my every move 
it wants nothing 
but attention. 

queen of my nieces

i only have a very short time
to be queen of my nieces,
where i get to blow bubbles
on heir tummies,
whisper christopher robin
in their ears,
tell them stories they don't 
understand yet
but one day will.

it's our time to dress up
in butterflies and gumboots,
tiaras and tulle,
the time to sell mudpies for $500
and for falling over on the grass
cos you've spun too fast in excitement.
it's a time to sit close on the sofa
reading books about bears
and reluctant cats who complain loudly.

already you are changing
as i try to catch your attentions
with treasures from the past,
the art and the music that moved me
as we paste and draw and climb trees
and drink tea made of sand
in the fantasyland
where i'm queen of my nieces.

bill

it's five minutes to midnight

and i'm taking a clown's advice,

it's laced with ennui and cynicism
and dick jokes that

we can both laugh at.

i buy him a meal because

i can see that he has been crying,

and over his black coffee steam 

he tells me to abandon the tightrope

and hitch myself to a carny

cos the best any of us 

can expect is mud.

outside the world remains 

ringleader distant, and it's late but there

is still news to deliver.

i promise to plant mushrooms

on his grave so he can carry on

entertaining the living.

chances are

i've been cleaning the house up slowly, preparing for... armageddon? my doctor says i should view this new development more positively, and despite the obvious paradigm shift i do consider the diagnosis for a moment but then the beat poets whisper in my ear through the aid of modern technology telling me we are all merely mammals, all eat, shit, crave, love, lose. i'd like to think i carry their flame or at least a spark of it but until i stick it under a spoonful of goof ball juice or sleep rough i am just a pretender.

i take my battle to the page where recycled words turn full circle to bite me in the tender parts and i am trampled by my best intentions. but grouping my thoughts does not make them any more palatable so i have to find the freedom in ripping on the page where nothing really matters. we've all cleaned up broken glass before, where temptation sits glinting, asking the question, daring you to answer.

i want to speak secrets locked up in vaults, dry truths that blow dust under closed doors and down cul de sacs. i want to run with the lions in cites dangerous, chew up my shoes in parts unknown. i want to clear out the dander of shelves full of notebooks to find just the right word for every occasion. i want to break free of the place where grieving is a noun and not a verb. i am not grief, i grieve and then i am done.

and although i am often beyond the pale the grip of addiction still splits me with a force as hard as good and evil, as powerful as yes and no. so i'm hanging with the hedonists and too timid to commit to the spirituality of it but behind my eyes and in my synapses there's a crackle with the possibilities of another lifestyle, another talent, another virtue. chances are...

thirty

lou reed is not tom waits.

turns out that morrissey was writing gay love songs.

elvis in leather, oh my.

when it takes longer to listen to a song than write it 

you must have a bustle in your hedgerow.

the verb to use for listening to music through earbuds

is mainlining.

blondie is.

back to the reed/waits thing, they are both actual angels,

it's just...

some songs demand spontaneous dancing, they are your totems.

twenty nine

to talk about adoration
with the moon.

initially i didn't know
the moon,
but she knew me.

now i only know the moon
from a lover's perspective.

what about the moon
of limited pleasure?

sometimes she pulls
back, but only
with a view
to fullness.

to talk with adoration
about the moon.

twenty eight

take me on that tangent

that you go on,

you know,

the one where we mount 

trusted steeds,

ride through the high streets

shouting *fuck the world

and other noble insults

at the gawping mainstream.

take me to that place

where everything is natural.

where we fill up

on the wonder of the stars,

work hard in the sun

and rain serves to cleanse

and nourish

and grow the amazing.

twenty six

the bitch card.

i'd rather sail the void
than swim it,
rather dance with devils
than meet them in the park,
i'd rather walk away from the fight
than bring it,
rather burn from both ends
than live in the dark.

i'd rather plan the revolution 
than use it,
rather play my own game
than sticking to the rules,
i'd rather find a pot of gold
than lose it,
rather burn my bridges
than hang around with fools

i'd rather play the bitch card
than let the fuckers win,
rather take my chances
on one almighty spin,
yes i'm throwing all my chances
on one almighty spin.

i'd rather live a good life
than fake it,
rather have my heart ripped out
than get down on my knees,
i'd rather give you everything
than take it,
i'd like to help you neighbourboy
but you're just so hard to please.

i'd rather play the bitch card
than let the fuckers win,
rather take my chances
on one almighty spin,
yes i'm throwing all my chances
on one almighty spin.

twenty five

as i unbelieve my body

play something sexy and evil,

there's a word for the surge that you give me

while i'm looking for  a very mellow drama,

draw my blood baby.

strip my skin so i can be truly naked,

draw my blood baby

while i'm looking for  a very mellow drama.

there's a word for the surge that you give me

play something sexy and evil

as i unbelieve my body.

twenty four

eating late night bananas and inviting nightmares
i anoint purple as the colour of madness
mediocrity does its best, which is little,
disarm me now.

i anoint purple as the colour of madness
just because it sticks doesn't make it love
disarm me now
prepare for a night full of prizes of mystery.

just because it sticks doesn't make it love
mediocrity does its best, which is little,
prepare for a night full of prizes of mystery
eating late night bananas and inviting nightmares

twenty three

*side effects.

may cause expansion of the heart muscle to actually give a fuck.

caution must be taken with the opposite sex as your hotness may increase dramatically.

may result in your singing voice to improve in tone & pitch.

may cause hair to become long & luscious.

potential to cause elation & charitable thoughts.

always take with chocolate.

for best result take with copious amounts of alcohol.

warning: increased virility.

this drug may give you the ability to *walk a mile in someone else's shoes.

if any of these symptoms persist, stop seeing your doctor because your life is great.

twenty two

"The Katauta form was used for poems addressed to a lover. A single katauta is considered incomplete or a half-poem, however, a pair of katautas using the syllable count of 5,7,7 is called a sedoka."

shined your eyes today

sideways smile and deep blue pools

saw comfort reflected there.

tucked under my arm

my muscle memory flares

teddy love knows no endings.

twenty one

pantoum.

i crave you like oxygen, like evidence
i seek you like drugs, like good advice
dreaming naked and dripping with significance
the cake's on the table and ready to slice.

i seek you like drugs, like good advice
and it's no accident i think of you nightly
the cake's on the table and ready to slice
kissing scarecrows makes them more sprightly.

and it's no accident i think of you nightly
resisting the urge to howl out your name
kissing scarecrows makes them more sprightly
slip on your gas mask and prepare for the game.

resisting the urge to howl out your name
dreaming naked and dripping with significance
slip on your gas mask and prepare for the game
i crave you like oxygen, like evidence.

twenty

i'd rather sail the void
than swim it,
rather dance with devils
than meet them in the park,
i'd rather walk away from the fight
than bring it,
rather burn it from both ends
than live in the dark.
i'd rather play the bitch card
than let the fuckers win,
rather take my chances
on one almighty spin,
yes i'm throwing all my chances
on one almighty spin.

nineteen

around the corner
who knows.
uncle graham is getting older.

the wheels turn
my leg's keep peddling.
uncle graham needs an operation.

distance separates,
but memories connect.
uncle graham's been put on morphine.

the sum of my parts
takes on all comers.
i'm visiting uncle graham next sunday.

eighteen

lucky country blues.

if it wasn't for the fascists

and the spiders 

and the flies,

if it wasn't for the desert

and the floods

and the climate change deniers,

if it wasn't for the borders

and our racists

and the cultural cringe,

if it wasn't for the wholesale

sell off of our natural resources

and the spiders

and the flies

and the fascists

and the destabilisation

of our way of life by

the corporate money whores

that have infected our land

like herpes... 

seventeen.

fan mail for daniel.

if i painted you a picture

i'd use lots of black paint

and red, & brown

because life is shit.

i'd use a fat brush

and lots of strokes

to show i know you are complex,

made up of many parts.

if i sang you a song

i couldn't sing in tune

i wouldn't need to.

i'd just have to yell a lot

with passion, to sound like

that nihilistic shit you listen to.

i have written stories for you

sunk low then lower to impress you, 

tattooed your name on my arse.

- your loyalty drags us all along

you and your crew, we rise and fall together.

you are my brother from another mother,

you are strong like ten men

and stunted like a puppy runt.

you are clever like a dictionary

and feral as a fine porn mag.

zen brother, big brother, drunk brother

you taught me men can 

feel and listen, every day

you help me find

the middle way...

      it's just between fuck up lane

      and fuck you avenue.

it's in our blood brother

to travel on dreams

and trade in the romance

of the road.

sixteen

before sunrise
there is a serenity
and no confusion.
i wake
absorbing the calm,
walk outside where
the nightbirds are losing
their melancholia.

the air 
is harder to breathe
because everything good
must be fought for.
the atmosphere
touches my skin
as the sky lightens
and opens an embrace
to the potential.

fifteen

closing in on paranoia
within this dystopian vista
there must be hope,
or there wouldn't be
anyone left standing.
we all roll the dice
whether we're gamblers
or not and some days
it's a battle to leave
the house,
the room,
your arms.
shadows skew my clothes
tho my outlines are
always flattering.
i could live here.
i'm not sure which way
is healthier, 
but i do know that
without an interconnection,
without the gamble
and the fear
and the hope
then we are all parasites.

fourteen

deciding to embrace mediocrity
as a step out of the void
i write a pome
it will not be full of insight
right now
i am a shallow puddle
place my fantasies
in the hands of strangers
i remain in the cave
i never promised you...
anything.

i do have dreams of my own
diary entries in tattered suitcases
if my life really were
a car accident
then i probably look away
so where do i stand?
or sit?
at your notebooks
a voice whispers
at your notebooks.

thirteen

with a blindfold on 
we can quench our
other senses in 
a sublime cynicism
that will rub you up
the right way and
the wrong way.

the whole darkness has
consumed our electricity
to elevate our 
esoteric activities.

the mercies you seek
must be fought for,
muscles must rip and
beasts must bay at the moon
before this is finished.

there comes a point of 
tipping and i was rapidly
reaching for it, like
i reach for the branches
of really tall trees,
like i reach for the stars.

st. vitus dances
on my spine as our loins
explode with truth serum and
clarity comes in the arms
of the fireworks that extend
into the sky.

twelve

the moon knows my phases

i show her my many faces

and she reads them all.

she is not active like my mother

slow moving through the sky

and i, drinking tea

in the moonlight

rely on both their counsel.

i love her with a varying intensity,

her song has no title and no tune

yet i still find myself writing nightly 

in her glow.

the sun on the other hand

has less compassion and

offers more comfort.

i am here with the ants

jostling for her attention

the way i did with my father

back through the times i'd

rather forget but instead of regret

i channel the energy to

keep the pen moving.

escaping anything in the sunshine

and wishing on the wind.

eleven

female desire drives evolution
but what happens when
animal magnetism becomes 
the scent of despair?

the idea of sainthood
is mysterious, but ultimately
isn't the idea of miraculous
goodness something to 
which we should all aspire?

ten

bukowski was an arsehole.

that's one of the reasons i love him.
if i'd known him in real life 
i would have hated him too
                                                i reckon.

sure, he played it up some days
he was a barfly
                                                of considerable note.

i love his film clips, black and white,
he's driving a beat up bug,
the windscreen is smashed
and the dash is taped together
                                                  with something.

analyse his scars and you will see
that life was not easy but adaptation
and resilience
and art
makes the medicine essential
and the art
                                                    imperative.

nine

the statues that inhabit my dreams
i sometimes see in my waking life.

the bus drivers beep at me
as they sail past the bus stop, 
their honorable time keeping
keeps me alert to its passing.

in nearly diabolical thinking  
on borderline nonsense 
there is a logic to this path
paved with rationalisations.

i find lotion is good for the skin
that keeps on growing, and knowing
the treatment but not seeking 
the cure is half the allure
of social networking sites.

eight

cento.
(A poetic form composed of lines borrowed.)

from bad girls of pulp fiction.

"i'm a working girl" she explained,
"i test mattresses."
but what happens when
the roles are reversed?
i'm not supposed to see
customers outside the club.
still, there were nights
when mary felt lonely.
she told him "but only if
you promise to wear
two of them."
what started as an innocent 
experiment became a life
of fast times with a
dangerous crowd.