Archive for September, 2014

Awful pseudo-disco vibes poison her ears,
She runs her finger over the brown table top.
Her eye is drawn to the little black and white signs with numbers that tell the waitress which table is which.
An ancient Lada sewing machine like grandma used to own sits on a customised desk to her right.
She notes, then passes over the crappy mid-eighties boom-box with a tape drive.
The red vinyl chair covers in the booths look like they have been sliced precisely with a surgical hand to reveal the insides.
She is waiting for her love in the Moon Café.
She orders a double shot flat white in a mug and adjusts her makeup.
Then he is here, he’s hairy and cuddly like a giant teddy bear and he’s wearing a Hawaiian shirt!
She smiles and kisses him on the lips lustfully.

The Bridge

Posted: September 30, 2014 in poetry
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There’s the dead weight of death on my shoulder,
And a rainbow of love in my heart’s secret room.
In between life and death we’re on a bridge passing over in a slow pilgrimage.
Sometimes we step through the rungs of the decrepit bridge and we feel lost in a disastrous fall:
The horrid jaws of degeneracy gape and we feel like we could plummet,
But sometimes we dance across the rungs without regard for falling and miraculously stay upright.
Always we must keep going and never look down into the maw of depravity.
Always trying to avoid becoming obsessed with death.
We must keep our eyes on the other side where eternity is waiting and we will be freed from these putrefying bodies.

I can’t score cocaine in Perth:
I can’t find the neon plastic dancers who appreciate the covert way of the snow white powder.
I can’t do line after line of coke and feel sped up and powerful and chatter extravagant bull-shit to my mates.
I can’t experience the peaks and valleys of a raging rollercoaster cocaine addiction.
I can’t get crack either and I’d love to know why this is so.
I can’t imagine why someone isn’t bringing coke in on a boat or shoving it up their ass.
I can’t understand why organized criminals don’t get their shit together and import the stuff but,
I can’t afford it anyway.
I can score pot in Perth:
I can go to an open house and pick up a gram for thirty bucks.
I can smoke it up with my mates and dream of fields of undulating green covered with mature female mull plants in bud.
I can feel my brain go all fuzzy then begin to recite hallucinatory cabalistic texts.
I can imagine Bogota, Bogota a city of cartels and homicides.
I can imagine this city where cocaine flows through arcane veins.


Posted: September 17, 2014 in poetry
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My self-esteem is wizened by the withering winds of change.
My heart is now corrupted and will never be the same.
The ache of solitude bites my limbs and kicks me in the balls.
Mediocrity is lurking in the corners and the halls.

The town is full of women who will never sleep with me,
The town is full of whispers of corruption and decay,
And in my secret heart’s dreams there is death and treachery.
A conspiracy of loneliness crushes love and blights the day.

The meaning of the meaning is that life is a mountain of pain:
Troubles multiply and poison everything again and again,
Pestilent people try to break into my life through the doors of perception,
Paranoia peaks through the blinds in my arcane brain.

And there is nothing to be done about it, nothing to be said about it.
Life continues in an almost infinite erratic line radiating from the centre of the now,
And every day is littered with the corpses of the past:
Until we are liberated from our festering flesh at last.

Hold me close for I have the fear:
The fear of saying the wrong thing to the wrong woman,
The fear of being the wrong person in the wrong place,
The fear of walking the streets of the city at night with my eyes on the bitumen,
The fear of caving into conformity and buying into a suburban hallucination.

Hold me close for I have the fear:
The fear of embodying mediocrity in my aimless thoughts and actions,
The fear of razor blades stuck to waterslides with gum,
The fear of dying alone in a one bedroom flat,
The fear of rejection again and again and again.

Hold me close for I have the fear:
The fear of disappearing into my own irrelevance,
The fear that I am a very unattractive man,
The fear of writing a cliché,
The fear that this poem sucks.


We travel the narrow and rough road in a decrepit ex-Russian army truck,

Searching for a giant Trout near the lawless Russian border with Mongolia.

Winter lasts six months of the year:

Millions of yaks died in the almost nuclear conditions recently.

The rivers are frozen for that time- this must be a tough fish to survive.

A stinking dead horse by the side of the road is attended by dirty big blowflies, millions of the black and yellow bastards.

All around is the stench and spirit of death gliding over the land, haunting the windswept rolling hills.

No laws in these savage Mongolian lands, brother will strike brother, all for gold.

There are ninjas, as the miners are called, waiting in the hills to shoot us.

The Yak-keeping nomads of the region hear gunfire often.

We are far from any sort of help if anything goes wrong.

Down the freezing Delger-Morǒn River in a rubber boat,

Casting out onto glassy transparent waters for the vicious Hucho Taimen, the world’s largest trout.

The local Tsaatan people call them river wolves and worship them.

Calm waters merge into rapids without warning,

Loose rocks fall from the surrounding granite cliffs.

I go to see a shaman who is a beautiful young woman as women can be shamans among the Tsaatan people of northern Mongolia.

The shaman knows well the water spirit that owns the glorious Hucho Taimen.

She dances in a costume of whirling colours that disguises her totally- she looks more beast than woman.

The shaman is drummed into a trance and becomes a gruff voiced oracle- the voice of a spirit.

The oracle insists that I release the mighty fish unharmed if I catch it.

I offer yak milk to the spirits and the shaman chants.

Then I hunt the Hucho Taimen with a lure fashioned from yaks’ hair:

A massive fish like a trout which can grow to six feet long with a dark-green spotted body, red fins and vicious needle-sharp teeth.

They eat prairie dogs, ducklings and frequently each other,

And sometimes they hunt in packs, which is an alarming image that makes piranhas look like goldfish.

The Hucho Taimen is hiding near sharp rocks in the rapids:

A substantial dark shape rises to the fly on the surface of the water-

It strikes and the rod is bent in two.

I feel myself almost being dragged into the river and losing my footing.

I battle the muscular fish for hours, enduring like a martyr.

Finally the gargantuan trout-monster is in:

Its head is as big as my head, its teeth slope inwardly and it even has teeth on its tongue.

It thrashes against our arm-hold and gapes its abominable mouth.

I take a picture of myself barely holding up the fish with a big grin on my face then I let it go.

Please don’t bring me down:
With your cocaine greed and your suburban sentiments,
With your methane safari lust and your keeping up with the neighbours,
With your Charles Manson smile on your wolf-like teeth,
With your mobile phone calls and your cut-throat razor witticisms,
With your knowledge of suffering and your refusal to act.

Hey, you, I’m talking to you- with your policeman haircut and shiny shoes.
You act like an overlord and boss people around,
You metamorphosize into a photo-gallery of Satan’s faces,
You plunder and rape your way through your pestilent life.
Your eyes are dead until you swallow love, then they are in flame.
You always look good to the outside world, but underneath you are hepatitis-c-filled syringes and used condoms.
Cellophane Worker, Insolent Parasite, Tedious Evil.

The Metal Skull

Posted: September 7, 2014 in poetry
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Dreams of death:
The metal skull is beaten until all the lumps are gone and it shines like a diamond tiara.
The metal skull is beaten until love vanishes and it gleams with apathy.
The metal skull is beaten, forging new nightmare images in its secret brain.
The metal skull is magnetized by random metal thoughts:
Fragments of envy buzz around like flies, attracted magnetically.
Envy is like osteoporosis- it ruins my love and breaks metal bones.
The metal skull is smashed by vile envy.

The broken skull reassembles itself:
Bone joins bone as the skeleton forms and is spray-painted with flesh and skin.
I cannot hate the skull or the body that reassembles around it in my dream when I am conscious-
But when asleep, jealousy boils, envy forms poisonous pustules, love turns green.
Awake there is love, but asleep we are enemies.