Some Loose Change - 29/07/2015

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busker over there is so bad
think he owes me a few dollars out of his hat

last night owes me three hours more sleep
smokers on the lawn here owe me cleaner air
cars owe me a whole lane to myself
plus a few less opened-door fractures on my ribs
X girlfriend owes me like a year and a half back
poetry in Melbourne owes me at least five more
social work another ten on top of that
and a hairline intact
Tony Abbott owes me a whole fucking country
owe my sanity to a bicycle
and myself a bit more self respect
no one is going to collect on those debts

as for that woman coming up to me crying
homeless over my Bento box, well...

‘spose I owed her at least a brief listen to her story
stuck together cluster of excuses that it was
it was also all true, that
you get no centrelink for up to six months
in some cases
and no support without a fixed address to check
doesn't mesh so well with being homeless
these are called poverty traps
amongst fucks to give I know this is all relative

besides buying the odd Big Issue
I don't give money to beggars
any more than I feel the need to feed these birds

but today just this once
reach into my pocket
drop a few gold coins
into her scaly hand

not because anybody is owed anything
just because I think
it's where that money should be
this afternoon


don't care what the fuck she spends it on
'long as it doesn't go to that busker over there



__________________________________________

-Peace





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Rouge Rider - 19/07/2015

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I'm looking out the window at this shiny red woman's bike, locked to a hoop on Sydney road with a matching red helmet. I'm madly in love with this bike and it's imaginary owner.

Really I should go out there and wait next to it with a single red rose, and when she shows up I'll simply explain that I have have a red bike too, and that this makes us soul mates. This will all be very cute, she will not be quite convinced of course, but charmed.

Then I should stammer that my bike isn't actually red, but I've accessorized it that way. Of course she will be impressed with my use of the word 'accessorize' and she will not find any of this creepy. Because I'm not like a creep or nothing, yeah. She'll see through my awkwardness for sincere spirit and strength, and then look at me like a sunrise in the mountains. I will hand her the rose without the slightest shake in my hand.

She will pause a moment, swallow some decision with a shadow across her face, drop her handbag (not red because that would just be silly) into the bike's front basket before kissing me playfully. I kiss her back. Somehow the brims of our hats won't get in the way at all. Onlookers disappear, the traffic is gone, the rain falls silent. Re-materializing in my house we then have a night of passionate loving intense enough to strip religion off church walls.

She will have forgotten all about her bike, just as I forgot about my stuff at the Laundromat. Don't ask me what happened to the rose.

In the morning we will walk back here with dumb looks on our faces, back here to her shiny red bike and unlock it, together...


...or, I'll just sit here instead eating with my mouth open, not noticing that dollop of sauce dropped into my crotch as I was scoffing down these withered lukewarm french fries, with BBQ sauce. Tangy and salty.

An unimaginative choice.




________________________________________

   -Peace





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Still Haven’t Ever Gone Fishing Yet - 03/07/2015

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as a writer
I’m better with prose
than with poetry
though I’m a better poet
than I am a social worker
but a better social worker
than I was last time round

as employee, I’m an honest man
and as an honest man I’m better
... not saying anything else

better with telling the story
rather than listening
wonderful lover, lousy partner
better at making friends
than keeping them
better with burning bridges
than just saying no
better at talking my way in
than talking my way out

never really been good at much
except covering
or compensating for
what I’m not good at

started doing poetry
because I looked around
didn’t see hardly anyone
doing it right

stops writing poetry
every time I look around
and see
the same damn thing

worst thing I can say
about others’ writing
is the same as the best thing
I can say

          ...you fuckers make me want to write

there is great admiration
and pride for the self-contained

it’s a discipline, a strength
that from the minute I discovered
self expression
I’ve never been able to develop

bombs go off inside our brains
all the time
sometimes it’s beautiful
most of the time
it just leaves bodies

the self contained types
bury them
instead I take photos
share a few around
asking if anyone can identify

      the victims

don’t want to die here
alone
in my head
            don’t want to die, period

I will of course
but before I go
I’ll keep trying to do better
with the things I do

because I have to
or else
find more things
to be better at


than writing about it













______________________















  -Peace








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Tom Morello's "Pacific Rim" theme on repeat, since you asked. And no it's not Helping - 01/07/2015

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I don't feel like the whole World's against me

more that the whole World's got it's headphones in
and listens to crap music really loud
while standing close, far too close to me

some days
my own music insufficient to drown it out






_______________________________





-Peace










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