Down at Bar 52

Down at Bar 52


You don’t want to hear it.

Quaint women’s things

lotioned into the air

vanilla perfume emanating

declaring her woman-ness

god that’s dull

but you’d fuck her in a heartbeat

the moment’s there

Shhh her opinion

Shhh her telephone number

just get down to it, a hate-fuck

pure hate

so much it nearly asphyxiates you

a rock star way to go

and then

that stupid mustache

screaming microphone feedback


is distilled into one sentence

“I didn’t spend $50 on cocktails for a handshake”.



Look up.


Aquarius shrugs

empties his urn of stars.


Take in the dark.


The moon, air in his cheeks

floats to us

lights the kebab Shop tussle

a teen in the gutter

nose bleeding

blooming carnation

gardens, a pergola aglow in the 1am silver of summer

where the homeless stretch out and behind

the Crown bar

blue-lit love is mojitos and One Fifty Lashes.


Keep up girl.


A grimace of police on the train,

interconnecting steel pellets greet the platforms

a diesel hiss, we are shy travelers, Saturday night

on public transport is sketchy for women

in any town, in any dress, there is always that one man (or group)

with the black Adidas bag, slick look, sweat smell

greased and ready

we ignore to avoid violence.

“Oi sluts!”


Stay in your own orbit.


The walk home quickens like breath

over there – with the blue denim cutoffs

house keys between her fingers

she empties her stomach behind the parked car.


Look away.


Women are taught to love and fear dicks

because fear breeds obedience

it is easier to sell Prada to obedient women.


Look up

(you begin to wonder if progress happens)

Andromeda with a bow


Orion’s chalk outline on the interstellar tar.

Chess Players

Losing my footing in front of the chess players belly laughing beside the waist-high chess pieces, a triangle of brick departing from the stairs under the trees of the make-shift mall arena, there were seagulls, I remember, their cry rotates round the head, a brutal halo to a fragile constitution or those sensitive to even the mildest noise pollution. Not the men at the chess board. Their carved lines from 9am to 4pm. Do they bet money? Who can tell, their language is foreign, a man in gruff jeans, stains folded in, disputes the previous move, he’ll dispute your shoes if you get close enough, the chalk-white gulls dive for a cheeseburger crust, the addicted congregate outside the mall entrance. One Thursday the players are gone. The chess board is broken up, yellow vested men with jack hammers shatter the bricks. I wonder where the men went, one Monday out running I see the same stained jeans in a park by the sea playing lawn bowls with a group of men. A beer, a cigarette in the hand, disputing the last throw.