Mad Man

Wednesday, 14th September. 11:44pm

There is a mad man ranting up and down my street, feet
shuffling, muffled curses coming out in shrieks. What
is this ghastly, unspeakable grief? As others pass by, in
surprise, laughter, terrified meekness, what is this freak
of fairness? This anomaly of humanity? What
separates this desperately mad man from me? How
do his terrible, violent cries mean less than a baby's? He
shares a baby's fear, its bewilderment of here. What
makes this man a mockery? What stops us revering the
shock of his state? The dread of his chant? What
matters if this man must live within this rant?

I Draw a Chord

I draw a chord from my
mind -

I form it
into
a lasso -

I wind it high
into the
sky -

and throw it
around you -

around you -

You
who
I need to be
tied
to.

My Nails

my nails move like little
black beetles over the
page

capped, helmutted
creatures with
murderous wills

dark intents

to make a breakfast
of the page's
words

to make the page
make sense

I Wake

I wake semi-naked

slightly sweaty

drink-less dry

wonder where my water
went

wonder why
the window's closed?

I know
I opened it
at dawn
I think

and where is my water?

I need a drink

Nearly-Nervous-Breakdowny Ladies

These
steeled
rich
nearly-nervous-breakdowny
ladies
having
shoes
repaired
doing
errands
soaked
in
perfume
and
anxiety
all
appearance
all
propriety
until
you
say
some
magic
word
and
then
they
fall
apart.

I'm Having a Battle with My Face

I'm having a battle with my face,
because it will not stay in place.

The skin beneath my eyes bags.
The flesh along my jaw sags.

Maybe I should shave my head.
And love my nice smooth scalp instead.

Sober Lunch in the City Before Work

But then today the city seemed obscured by a veneer of meanness.

I couldn't tell if it was my over-
sensitivity, or her over-
cast skies, or an over-
all tiredness on people's faces.

But my place in Melbourne's heart seemed
smaller.

Colder.

Like she was.

Distracted.

By a new love.

Another girl.

Maybe.

Or a hovering sense of
futility.

Like she was giving up on me.

Like she was over what we
have.

Or had.

Like it was different
from before.

Or maybe it was me.

Who didn't.

Love her.

Anymore.

1.30pm

"You look delicate today," she said,
and I thanked her before realising it was
a concern and not a compliment.

Semi-Drunken Walk Home from the Tote

- God! - on that holy
night I had the cold
ecstatic soul of an
old tree - the whole
brilliant dirty city
breathed through me
like a pipe - like a
lung - like the sweeping
swoop of scent reaming
from the sea when its
horizon has been
strung with boats
- God! - the air
was rapture rolling
through my throat - I
thought - Alive! Oh God!
I am alive! - and with
no pen I wrote the lines
in eyeliner on my beating
hand - waving it out
to dry as I walked
the holy land -