In a Surry Hills apartment
lying naked on the floor
in a puddle of her drying blood
lies a twenty dollar whore
and the last cock that she ever sucked
is walking out the door
saying "man I gotta split this joint,
but first I gotta score."
In a stolen black Monaro
cut the night out of the gloom
head lights bright
he seized the night and
broke the back out fo the Hume
And the sunrise brings
his blood shot eyes
and blood stained hands to rest
a line of speed is all he needs
to still his beating chest
St Kilda smiles and a thousand miles
lie between him and her bed
where she still lies
with dead wide eyes
and a bullet in her head
The Trustees wish to thank JAF for retreiving this ancient parchment from the darkest corners of the ossuary
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Little Boy Lost
A young man's mind turns murdersome
On a night this
When the weight of hate is burdensome
And too great to resist
With the night time's anonymity
And the stark certainty of death
The streets are filled with vengeance
And the remains of those he left
In the porch light's feeble shadow
“Who calls so late at night?”
The fly-screen door
hangs no more
as his cold hands closed so tight
With a vice-like grip
till her quivering lips
turned blue in this light
and he breathed her breath
and tore her dress
in a dance of death's delight
Special thanks to JAF for transcribing and translating this piece.
On a night this
When the weight of hate is burdensome
And too great to resist
With the night time's anonymity
And the stark certainty of death
The streets are filled with vengeance
And the remains of those he left
In the porch light's feeble shadow
“Who calls so late at night?”
The fly-screen door
hangs no more
as his cold hands closed so tight
With a vice-like grip
till her quivering lips
turned blue in this light
and he breathed her breath
and tore her dress
in a dance of death's delight
Special thanks to JAF for transcribing and translating this piece.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Uncle Bob
For instance, after Aunty Janice got sick and they cut off her boobs, uncle Bob married an Asian lady. She was from the Philippines. We called her Polly (you know, like in the nursery rhyme; Polly put the kettle on, kettle on, kettle on). I don’t remember what her real name was. It was hard to pronounce, so everyone just called her Polly, even Janice. Polly was great. My uncle said that Polly did everything around the house: cooked, cleaned, ironed and even mowed the lawn. He trained her to bring him a beer without ever having to ask. Yeah, she was great, but after Uncle Bob sponsored her mother and five brothers to come to Australia and live, she took off, and last we heard she had married one of the brothers. How sick is that!!
Anyway, with the money that was left, my uncle was able to buy a caravan on a permanent site outside Camden. It has a canvas annex and Uncle Bob told me it was like going on a camping holiday every day. I loved to go and stay with him and wear my thongs in the shower. He even has his own key to the amenities block and doesn't have to ask at the office to use the toilet. Uncle Bob's got a new girlfriend now. She’s from Russia. Uncle Bob keeps sending her money for the airfare to come to Australia and marry him, but every time, the money gets stolen by the Russian mafia. Uncle Bob showed me some photos of her on the internet and she must be dead keen to marry him, because no matter how many times she has been robbed, at gun point and everything, she keeps asking my uncle for more money for her air ticket and sends him photographs that I'm not allowed to look at. My Uncle Bob’s a top bloke. He collects guns and used to bread pig dogs, and even though he's on a disability pension and likes playing the pokies, he gave the money from his share of Grandpa’s house to Katarina for her 21st birthday. I reckon he really likes this one.
Uncle Bob used to be in the army before he got injured, but we are not allowed to talk about it, because it is top secret. He was in an undercover unit called the Special Air Land Sea Attack (SALSA) and they killed gorillas in Iraq. I remember when I went to the War Memorial in Canberra in Year 6 the army guy asked us if we had any family in the armed forces and I told him about my uncle. Anyway, when he looked him up on the computer to find out where he had served, they couldn’t find any record of him, and the army guy kind of looked at me funny like he knew the truth, but wasn’t allowed to say, which only goes to show how top secret my uncle was, because even the army guy at the War Memorial wasn’t allowed to talk about him. They must have another, top-secret computer with Uncle Bob's name on it. Probably in America.
But then my uncle got injured being a hero by an IUD and they made him go on the pension. He became a private detective after that, but we weren’t allowed to talk about that either. Mum said if the government found out that he had gone undercover again he might lose his pension. I guess that makes sense. That’s why he had to borrow Uncle Brian’s name for a while. I don’t remember Uncle Brian. He died when I was 5. Uncle Bob said "'Denim and Lace' came in at 16 to 1 and Uncle Brian got as full as a tick and fell out of a red-rattler on the way home from Rose Hill."
When he was a private detective Uncle Brian (who was really Uncle Bob) had to follow people around with a long lens. He had to take photos of them doing adultery. He worked with a lady called Sharon who wore lots of make-up and long boots and smelled like musk sticks. I thought she was French because mum said that she was not Uncle Brian’s (really Uncle Bob's) girlfriend, but she was an “agent provocateur” and she would talk to the men at the Travelodge and they would buy her 'Shirlie Temples' and she would see if they wanted to do adultery so that uncle Brian (Bob) could photograph them doing french with Sharon. Then one day Uncle Brian (you know who I mean) took a photograph of a man who Sharon called ‘The Minister’ and said that they were going to get rich. But then, my uncle got beaten up by a group of anonymous with baseball bats and iron pipes, and he really did have to go on the pension after that. They didn't get rich, him and Sharon. Instead, Sharon got married to a man called Derrek in one of the photographs and Uncle Brian went back to being dead, which was probably for the best, because I still don't remember him.
Uncle Bob took the photographs at Sharon's wedding and dad thought that was real funny. At the reception in Derrek's back yard, dad told Uncle Bob that he wouldn't have minded being photographed with Sharon at the Travelodge. But dad never stayed at the Travelodge. He lives with his girlfriend in Ermington. Dad told Derrek too, but then they had a fight and dad had to leave the party before the cops arrived, and mum was really dirty on him. So was uncle Bob, but he still took great photos of the fight. Dad doesn't go to Derrek and Sharon's anymore, so he doesn't get to swim in the pool on hot days and play Marco Polo or see Sharon's bosoms. I once called Uncle Bob "dad" by mistake, but I wouldn't do it again, because it made him cry.
Anyway, with the money that was left, my uncle was able to buy a caravan on a permanent site outside Camden. It has a canvas annex and Uncle Bob told me it was like going on a camping holiday every day. I loved to go and stay with him and wear my thongs in the shower. He even has his own key to the amenities block and doesn't have to ask at the office to use the toilet. Uncle Bob's got a new girlfriend now. She’s from Russia. Uncle Bob keeps sending her money for the airfare to come to Australia and marry him, but every time, the money gets stolen by the Russian mafia. Uncle Bob showed me some photos of her on the internet and she must be dead keen to marry him, because no matter how many times she has been robbed, at gun point and everything, she keeps asking my uncle for more money for her air ticket and sends him photographs that I'm not allowed to look at. My Uncle Bob’s a top bloke. He collects guns and used to bread pig dogs, and even though he's on a disability pension and likes playing the pokies, he gave the money from his share of Grandpa’s house to Katarina for her 21st birthday. I reckon he really likes this one.
Uncle Bob used to be in the army before he got injured, but we are not allowed to talk about it, because it is top secret. He was in an undercover unit called the Special Air Land Sea Attack (SALSA) and they killed gorillas in Iraq. I remember when I went to the War Memorial in Canberra in Year 6 the army guy asked us if we had any family in the armed forces and I told him about my uncle. Anyway, when he looked him up on the computer to find out where he had served, they couldn’t find any record of him, and the army guy kind of looked at me funny like he knew the truth, but wasn’t allowed to say, which only goes to show how top secret my uncle was, because even the army guy at the War Memorial wasn’t allowed to talk about him. They must have another, top-secret computer with Uncle Bob's name on it. Probably in America.
But then my uncle got injured being a hero by an IUD and they made him go on the pension. He became a private detective after that, but we weren’t allowed to talk about that either. Mum said if the government found out that he had gone undercover again he might lose his pension. I guess that makes sense. That’s why he had to borrow Uncle Brian’s name for a while. I don’t remember Uncle Brian. He died when I was 5. Uncle Bob said "'Denim and Lace' came in at 16 to 1 and Uncle Brian got as full as a tick and fell out of a red-rattler on the way home from Rose Hill."
When he was a private detective Uncle Brian (who was really Uncle Bob) had to follow people around with a long lens. He had to take photos of them doing adultery. He worked with a lady called Sharon who wore lots of make-up and long boots and smelled like musk sticks. I thought she was French because mum said that she was not Uncle Brian’s (really Uncle Bob's) girlfriend, but she was an “agent provocateur” and she would talk to the men at the Travelodge and they would buy her 'Shirlie Temples' and she would see if they wanted to do adultery so that uncle Brian (Bob) could photograph them doing french with Sharon. Then one day Uncle Brian (you know who I mean) took a photograph of a man who Sharon called ‘The Minister’ and said that they were going to get rich. But then, my uncle got beaten up by a group of anonymous with baseball bats and iron pipes, and he really did have to go on the pension after that. They didn't get rich, him and Sharon. Instead, Sharon got married to a man called Derrek in one of the photographs and Uncle Brian went back to being dead, which was probably for the best, because I still don't remember him.
Uncle Bob took the photographs at Sharon's wedding and dad thought that was real funny. At the reception in Derrek's back yard, dad told Uncle Bob that he wouldn't have minded being photographed with Sharon at the Travelodge. But dad never stayed at the Travelodge. He lives with his girlfriend in Ermington. Dad told Derrek too, but then they had a fight and dad had to leave the party before the cops arrived, and mum was really dirty on him. So was uncle Bob, but he still took great photos of the fight. Dad doesn't go to Derrek and Sharon's anymore, so he doesn't get to swim in the pool on hot days and play Marco Polo or see Sharon's bosoms. I once called Uncle Bob "dad" by mistake, but I wouldn't do it again, because it made him cry.
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Fucked
There was not much I could say about her really. I hardly knew her. She was young, she was beautiful, and stood up in bed and took her medicine like a good girl. For all I knew, she may have enjoyed it, but now she was dead.
Unconsciously, I put the milk in the fridge, dumped the papers, full of old news that no one would read, and lit a cigarette. I knew what it looked like. My junk was all over her, and all through the blood stained bed. There was enough evidence to try and convict me even before the cops had been called. I needed to think.
I stubbed my cigarette out on last night’s dinner plate, walked back to the bedroom and leaned my body into the doorframe, as much for my own support as to keep me from entering the room. The wounds were neat, precise and calculated. Almost certainly 9mm, soft tipped, hollow points. The amount of blood in the bed told me without the need to look that the exit wounds would not have been so neat, and were a whole lot bigger. The puff of black powder on her forehead spoke of the point-blank coldness of the hit and the economical pattern of a shot to the head and a shot to the heart was as good as a calling card from an Eastern European military college: "belt and braces Comrade."
Whoever had done this had been in no hurry and did it with a deliberate, steady hand, looking her in the eye as they pulled the trigger. This was not some junky robbery, they knew what they were doing and had done this type of thing before. There would be no fingerprints. There would be no DNA and there would be no ballistics. The gun would have no history and he will have picked up and taken both bullet casings, just as he was trained. To the extent that you can make a living by killing, this guy was a professional.
The three draws of the bedside table were lying upturned on the floor, their former contents looking more violently assaulted than Helena, who despite the carnage around her, lay much as I left her half an hour ago on the bed. An angel on a red cloud. On 'my side', near the window, the late morning sun revealed a similar assault on the top draw and its contents. The second draw ajar, hung like a broken jaw, open only far enough for someone to get out of it what they had been looking for and leave. I knew what they were looking for. I just didn't know why.
Another siren screamed by on the street outside. In a third rate hospital on the other side of town my mother was been eaten alive by cancer. Meanwhile, in a neighbouring state my wife and my creditors were in a race to Court to file their writs; hers for divorce, theirs for bankruptcy, and I was due back in Kazakhstan in less than a week.
Unconsciously, I put the milk in the fridge, dumped the papers, full of old news that no one would read, and lit a cigarette. I knew what it looked like. My junk was all over her, and all through the blood stained bed. There was enough evidence to try and convict me even before the cops had been called. I needed to think.
I stubbed my cigarette out on last night’s dinner plate, walked back to the bedroom and leaned my body into the doorframe, as much for my own support as to keep me from entering the room. The wounds were neat, precise and calculated. Almost certainly 9mm, soft tipped, hollow points. The amount of blood in the bed told me without the need to look that the exit wounds would not have been so neat, and were a whole lot bigger. The puff of black powder on her forehead spoke of the point-blank coldness of the hit and the economical pattern of a shot to the head and a shot to the heart was as good as a calling card from an Eastern European military college: "belt and braces Comrade."
Whoever had done this had been in no hurry and did it with a deliberate, steady hand, looking her in the eye as they pulled the trigger. This was not some junky robbery, they knew what they were doing and had done this type of thing before. There would be no fingerprints. There would be no DNA and there would be no ballistics. The gun would have no history and he will have picked up and taken both bullet casings, just as he was trained. To the extent that you can make a living by killing, this guy was a professional.
The three draws of the bedside table were lying upturned on the floor, their former contents looking more violently assaulted than Helena, who despite the carnage around her, lay much as I left her half an hour ago on the bed. An angel on a red cloud. On 'my side', near the window, the late morning sun revealed a similar assault on the top draw and its contents. The second draw ajar, hung like a broken jaw, open only far enough for someone to get out of it what they had been looking for and leave. I knew what they were looking for. I just didn't know why.
Another siren screamed by on the street outside. In a third rate hospital on the other side of town my mother was been eaten alive by cancer. Meanwhile, in a neighbouring state my wife and my creditors were in a race to Court to file their writs; hers for divorce, theirs for bankruptcy, and I was due back in Kazakhstan in less than a week.
Monday, December 13, 2010
The Gift
I weep for all that I have lost
I drown within my tears
The road is long and dark and cold
The gift is all I fear
I drown within my tears
The road is long and dark and cold
The gift is all I fear
Thursday, December 2, 2010
A Lost Weekend
A dirt road in a hired car
With a lover unfamiliar
A distant light or evening star
A distant light or evening star
It hardly really matters
A pampered bed in paradise
The books of Alexandria
A glass of port and deep remorse
A glass of port and deep remorse
The child we called Amnesia
The scent of roses fill the room
A robe of finest silk
Falls abandoned to the floor
To be walked on in the morning
The chaise lounge,
the wrought iron grill
A promise made and broken
She stabs her teaspoon in my heart
A Curate's egg for breakfast
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Say, hey that you Frank .....?
No I ain’t been round here now in ages
Christ how much this place has changed
But you’re hardly lookin’ older Frank
Maybe just a little grey
Yeah I did five of six in Pentridge
Thou’ they promised me parole
They’d get that look and close the book
Put me back down in the hole
It was a minor complication
I didn’t ask her for her age
She was just 15, it now so seems
So they threw me in the cage
Sure, she was dressed up like a school girl
Christ man!! How was I to know?
With the school books on the side board
Thought it was just part of the show
Now they got me on a register
Shirl’ won’t let me see the kids
Took my taxi drivers licence
Can’t even get a factory gig
So I'm drinkin’ cut price whisky
Can’t afford those single malts
Yeah she looked young in the papers
But it weren’t really my fault
It was dark in there, her golden hair
Pig tails done in plaits
Then the vice came in ‘for we’d done a thing
But the court don’t care for that
And the lesbians at the newsagents
I kind of think they know
Always reading Sunday papers
And looking down their nose
Hey, you going to buy that magazine?
Well what’a you suppose?
You want a tip, buy a bra,
And wear some women’s clothes?
Sure Frank, I remember you
Yeah, you ran the wrecking yard
Sorry to hear about your brother
And what happened with the car
But you haven’t got a dollar, have ya
Like I wouldn’t normally ask
Just my cheque aint cleared
And with the weekend here
I’ll pay you back next time we pass
No, don’t you even think about it
I understand, yeah times are tough
Sure that’s okay, another day
I best be gettin’ off.
Christ how much this place has changed
But you’re hardly lookin’ older Frank
Maybe just a little grey
Yeah I did five of six in Pentridge
Thou’ they promised me parole
They’d get that look and close the book
Put me back down in the hole
It was a minor complication
I didn’t ask her for her age
She was just 15, it now so seems
So they threw me in the cage
Sure, she was dressed up like a school girl
Christ man!! How was I to know?
With the school books on the side board
Thought it was just part of the show
Now they got me on a register
Shirl’ won’t let me see the kids
Took my taxi drivers licence
Can’t even get a factory gig
So I'm drinkin’ cut price whisky
Can’t afford those single malts
Yeah she looked young in the papers
But it weren’t really my fault
It was dark in there, her golden hair
Pig tails done in plaits
Then the vice came in ‘for we’d done a thing
But the court don’t care for that
And the lesbians at the newsagents
I kind of think they know
Always reading Sunday papers
And looking down their nose
Hey, you going to buy that magazine?
Well what’a you suppose?
You want a tip, buy a bra,
And wear some women’s clothes?
Sure Frank, I remember you
Yeah, you ran the wrecking yard
Sorry to hear about your brother
And what happened with the car
But you haven’t got a dollar, have ya
Like I wouldn’t normally ask
Just my cheque aint cleared
And with the weekend here
I’ll pay you back next time we pass
No, don’t you even think about it
I understand, yeah times are tough
Sure that’s okay, another day
I best be gettin’ off.
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