Thursday morning in the garden

Her faux fur drapes across her shoulders
Atop a bra made from dense black lace
Matching her long faded lipstick
Her legs dangle like water droplets
As she sits on his lap
Both of them pinch their wine glasses like tiny teacups
The content spilling as the talk together
A story of misadventure from the night before
They swear in unison
Throwing f’s and c’s
She laughs at the catastrophe
It catches roughly in her throat
She swills her red wine before gulping
Hanging loosely between matchstick fingers
She inhales an overly long menthol cigarette
Something about her eyes seems scared
Something about her pasty white skin seems off
She tries to talk and coughs again
She smokes and drinks to push the words away
She laughs instead
His legs shift beneath her all-bone bottom
She jiggles around
Seemingly unperturbed by the move
Keeping straight back stance
As he adjusts upon the old style garden chair
A hand across her back
Morning sun in his squinty eyes
His dirty hair upon her shoulder
She drinks again
Smacks her lips
And inhales

This Is Your Job

Take your tongue honey
And squash it up
Inside your mouth
Don’t let the words come out.
Just read the script
The way you should
Have those butterflies,
So obvious in your quaking hands,
Suffocate on the dioxide
Because no one has time
For anything else
But your handbagging
Pretty smile
And manicure nails

Know your place sweetheart
And just read the words we wrote
True or not
Say yes

Paint Some Trees

It doesn’t snow here
The ice would marry the red dirt
And the ghost gumtrees
Would become a canvas
For blood red handprints

I see my breath instead
Winter catching in my throat
Like a secret
Cold stuck in my lungs
Like a disease

The icy breeze gets in my knuckles
It swells my bones
And scares my body
From the inside out
Pushing needles through my skin

Fifty years from now
When the cold is too much
And my body old
I will envy the very day
I am living now

Best go paint some trees




My titles

I don’t want to be a rural library

Full of expected titles

Thrillers with predicted deaths

And echoed romances

A hero atrophied by his own ego

Loving a sugary woman with closed lips

Chapters of long gazes and held breaths

A history book finishing at 1984

And incorrect African geography


I want to be the tiny bookstore

With a blue front door

Only found by a strange set of wooden stairs

I want second hand titles

No one has read since 1972

A little slip of paper between pages 48 and 49

A pressed ticket to a Bowie concert

In the front

And a receipt for three months rent

In the back


I want to be a secret