A question I'm not privy to

I'm walking to work and I'm going with the flow of human traffic
all walking as one (almost)

up the terrace

There are two men walking in front of me
they look like they come from the country

(The city I live in is already like living in the country, it's very spread out and has a sparse population, so somebody who stands out as somebody who comes from the country, REALLY comes from the country.)

Anyway, there were too such somebodies directly in front of me and the first somebody, obviously in answer to a question I'm not privy to, most likely made by the second somebody, says:

'' Yeah, well that's what it's like here mate. Everyone's constantly bustling around, you don't have time to look at the scenery, smell the roses, whatever. Everyone's always hurrying on their way from A to B.''

He sounds full of pity for the inhabitants of this city.

All I can think is:

"Could you possibly walk any slower man?''

vague and unconvincing notions (made him feel better)

Mindful of the ephemeral nature of inspiration,
but NO LESS shattered by its current absence in him,
he plugged away trying to produce

art worthy of being called art…
But no matter how far he looked inside him it was nowhere to be found.

He rifled through the mental inventory
of his past efforts at capturing the beauty that hid itself
in distant conversations or close whispers

and tried to express the

vague and unconvincing notions

that huddled in his head

like a room full of socially awkward accountants playing reverse-chicken
with the sausage rolls on the table at the weekly office morning tea

He rifled through sufficiently enough
for him to feel that he had
accomplished something;

artistic fulfilment or successful self-psychoanalysis
it didn’t matter what,
just something.

At 1:50am he found an old photo he had taken on a beach
the name of which escaped him.
It was of a sunset and it mad e him feel better.

Narcissist

A man called me a narcissist on the weekend
I laughed and sneered at him and walked away.

I had mirrors to look at
and

I’m too great a man to have to listen to shit like that.

I'm 100% sure that no one I love will ever die.

Today I went to see my dad.
I like to see him.
I love him.

We sit together and drink wine.

* His beautiful dad
* My beloved grandpa
* My family's own perfect patriarch

Is d*****.


He spent most of World War Two
A prisoner of war

And doesn't hate anyone.

He's got that stiff upper lip
That you rarely see anymore

And he's d****.

I think.

But there's no point in crying

Over milk
That isn't spilt yet.

I write that self-made slogan on a mental post-it note
And staple it to the synapses
In my mind.
.
.
.
I understand we're all d****
Just at different speeds.

My dad's aware of this too
And without a word he agrees.


Then

My dad asks me if I have any weed.

I laugh and look at him like he's my son
And I'm his dad.

I'm just playing though.

It's one of those funny things.

If he's happy
He won't be sad.

A funny sound and sight.
My dad looks like the professorly type.
He lectures me all night.

I listen mostly eagerly
Because I appreciate the advice.

We empty out the ends of cigarettes
Put pot in them
And get high.

He stumbles off to bed
And tells me not to drink too much.

I love him
I think about just how much


And how much I want to become
The successful young adult
Who's done the things
He acts like I've already done.

Uncondition love from a father to his son
with no provisions

My lip stiffens
And more than ever
I resolve to get those things done.

I stay up by myself for a while
And in the warm haze of darkness
I realise

That whether my opinion is

Obscured by black facts
Or white lies

I'm 100% sure that

No one I love will ever die.

Salivation is salvation

Waiting
always waiting
the cigarette burns down to the filter

Trying so hard not to dwell
on whats coming
that everything
But the BIG PICTURE
is rendered sepia

That sensation
of ennui
triggers my
Pre-whatever jitters

Anticipation
stays on the tip of my minds tongue
and salivation
is salvation

And it makes the wait

Bearable

DumbBaby Jukebox

transience

I'm wearing my pheremonial attire
I'm listening to the symphony of silence
A non-existent deaf and dumb choir
Sing songs of vague peace and distinct violence.

Tear drops are parabolic and
Technology is disguised as enthusiasm.
I can only find clarity in the shambolic
And confusion in the most powerful orgasm.

I wish I lived in the future
And my father was the holy spirit
The final cut is nothing but a suture
For transience living as if it were infinite.

A child's schoolbag

At this point theres not much left
to do but release all the words bereft
of any meaning
worth gleaning
from my chest

lest

they go rotten
like fruit forgotten
in a child's schoolbag

A silly sortie
of random rhetoric

Apocryphal primarily
but not entirely
some historic
although all entirely
devoid of logic

Photos by the homeless and free wine

I went to a photo exhibition last night
It was filled with the typical bohemian types

There was the obligatory free wine
Plastic cups of cheap red and white

And plenty of cheeses and crackers
All the runny types that girls like

The gimmick was that all the photos
Were taken by the homeless

A clever concept I think
Philanthropy with free liquor as a bonus : P

To be honest I didn't care for any of them except one
It was a beautiful shot of an old couch
Artfully contrasted and tastefully positioned
Vibrant with the light of the afternoon's dying sun

There was a picture of an aboriginal woman
On the wall posted right next to it

I hope she was the artist and
It would make me so happy
If it was really her couch...

And she really sat on it.

chupachups

I like hugs
I like touching
I like kissing and I like fucking

I like chupachups
I’m forever sucking…

Obviously that’s not really about affection or sex per se
But I really do sometimes eat chupachups all day

I think I developed the habit because somedays I take a lot of painkillers
I have a bad something or other

And I think the meds make me crave sugar?

I don’t know why I phrased that as a question
I think it’s an australian grammatical phenomenon

Although with it I have no problem

Anyway I think those things makes me crave sugar…

I read that somewhere anyway
And it seems to explain why sometimes I suck on chupachups all day.

It doesn’t explain why I like

Hugs
Touching
Kissing
Fucking

But it does explain why sometimes on chupachups I’m forever

sucking.

pulled back the curtain

I’ve been playing hide and seek with my muse.
I counted to a hundred and whilst I was counting
I heard her running away
Excitedly
With that clumsy gait of hers
Looking for somewhere clever to hide.

I finished counting and opened my eyes.

"Are you in your usual spot?"

I asked the seemingly empty room.

Upon opening my medicine chest
And rifling through all the different medications
I found the answer to my question.

Not there.

Next spot to look was the kitchen
On the shelf near the sink
A bottle of red there
And nothing behind it
Not the best hiding place anyway really
A favourite of hers though
But today my muse was

Not there.

So I went to my room
There was a bag filled with something
On the table
And even a pipe to smoke it
But my lovely and elusive muse?

She was not there.

Defeated and depressed
Aching in body and mind I sat
On my bed and cradled my head in my hands
And sighed
And cried.

I went to smoke a cigarette
By the window
Pulled back the curtain
Opened the window

And standing just outside

My gorgeous muse was there.

the grass gets greener

The attractive woman with the deep voice on the tv
says heavy rain is coming.

I hear it splishing and splashing.
All I can think of is my washing.

It remains on the line
like a forgotten telephone banking customer.

Waiting to be seen to
getting thread-bare, washed out and ever mustier.

And the bike I never ride
remains outside, getting rustier

But the grass gets greener
and friends sit closer
appreciating the warmth inside
as outside gets frostier.

what funny old men and women listen to (beauty of the zeitgeist)

funny old hippy man
listens to his beard and
the whispy brown curls
matted with soy curd
and wheatgrass extract
tell him to
make love to the trees
and
make peace with the earth
and
to take off his synthetic shoes
and
wriggle his toes in the dirt

while

funny old yuppie woman
listens to her blackberry and
the smooth shiny square
filled with appointments
and deadlines
tell her to
check the stockmarket
and
monitor her inbox
and
to make sure she leaves work early
and
go and run on the treadmill at the gym

one day they will meet
in a demographic-neutral art gallery
make love
like humans
and have a lovely balanced child
who will be conscientious about the environment
And pursue a job in ethical law
and in his free time
he will maintain his own blog
about the beauty of the zeitgeist
via his laptop
sitting
crosslegged
by a lake