The chronic terror of place and power
maybe we are all just planets
orbiting the sun of the ego
seductive trajectory past time and status quo

I was a school boy, I was religion
the Eros of my twenties desperate
not to play it safe
wisdom without hands to mime my journey

The call of the piper’s tune
to sex, to corporate, to buying the red dress
I once saw in a dream where I seduced you
the destructive manufacture of the game too tempting

It’s diabolical
that I could love you after seconds
time freezing like a horror film
What is love if not a human experiment?

A creative evolution
words adapt to the harsh environment
We are not twenty anymore, there is no booze or
equally senseless accident strong enough to unite us

you relapse apparently
losing what is left of your giddy faculties
The brain knows you’ve hopped off your bike
but the heart still sees you as a cyclist, a pacifist

Stroking your ornamental Jesus
you left me
for crown of silk ties and you’re just as silly
as your habit of decaying the obvious
into an elephant carcass, stinking up the lounge room.


The Potter

The Potter
Fingers numb
warmth gone
like love receding
she stands outside the apartment block
drags a bright eye
into her cigarette
her dress
moth wings flirting
about her legs
betraying her figure
with glimmers of silver
he is late again

Parked up the road
he reclines the driver’s seat
two chopstick fingers
flick ash onto the bitumen
and when he drags
he holds it in
a few seconds
before releasing
smoke into the night
watching glints of silver
with a sigh
he forms the words
practises the rhythm
softening the edges
a potter spinning clay.

The Creek

Small and slender as a pencil, the snake coiled itself inside the canoe. I guess I’m not using that today. I take off the olive slip I’m wearing as a dress and edge into the dark water. Thighs, hips waist, breasts, neck. I take a breath and let the water cover my ears. I can hear the clicking of yabbies on the creek floor. My dress sways in the breeze. I swim slowly out to the rock, so as not to disturb the wombat on the creek bank. The breeze gathers momentum. Floating on my back, ears under the water, I hear the faint but distinctive rev of a two stroke motorbike. I dart around the creek bend and into the reeds, hoping my slip blends with the scenery. I wait for the sound to fade before slinking back to the bank. The wombat has retreated to his burrow, the snake has moved on. There is deep tyre mark where the water meets the bank. I creep to the tree that holds my slip.
It is gone.