Monthly Archives: May 2010

Bad poetry

Sitting at Dobinsons
and writing bad poetry:
that is what I do
it’s what I enjoy
it’s what I do well.
I wish this could be
my life
but I will never be
good enough
to make a living from it.
And no-one buys poetry
these days anyway.
But I keep plodding along
firing off average words
from my bullet-shaped pen.
And I am happy.


In the nightclub

In the nightclub across the road
on a cool Saturday evening
a jazz band swings along,
the bassist and drummer locked
tightly in a groove that feels like
it could go all night.

The sax player wails and
trades solos with the guy
plunking the keyboards, and
it reminds me of Kerouac’s
tales of travelling from town
to town and listening to jazz.
What a time that must have been!

I admit that I have no real liking
or understanding of the genre
but I do appreciate the craft
of putting it all together and
getting on stage and making
the punters nod and tap and sway.

I don’t recognise the piece
they’re playing but they receive
good applause before launching
in to Caravan.
Now this I do know.

These guys are good,
but it’s the bass
and the drums
that hold it
and drive it
and make it sex
for the ears.

Fuck me, baby. Fuck me.

There’s nothing quite like being in love to make you feel alone

You’re lying on the bed
looking into her eyes and
she asks you what you’re
thinking and you say
‘I love you’.
She says you’re sweet
and leans down, her
hair brushing your
face as she kiss you
once, short and soft.

As she turns back away
you can’t stop that
little voice in your head
that says
It may have been better
if you’d said nothing
at all.

Christmas in July

If there is one thing worse than Christmas, it is Christmas in July.

This particularly loathsome Australian ‘tradition’ involves, obviously, the celebration of Christmas sometime in the month of July. There is no specific date on which this event is celebrated – it depends on who is organising it, whether individuals, corporations or government departments.

So why does it exist? Apparently for no good reason other than the fact that we normally celebrate Christmas in the middle of our Summer rather than the northern hemisphere’s Winter. It’s nonsensical. Just because every bloody Christmas we’re barraged with American Christmas carols and songs, like Bing Crosby’s ‘White Christmas’, until we’re physically ill from listening to them in every damn shopping centre, is that any reason to throw a Christmas party in Winter when we might actually see some snow? No! And let’s face it – not too many Australian cities get any snow in Winter; most of it is falls in the mountain regions. If there has to be a Christmas in July let it be restricted to the ski resorts that like to model themselves on Austrian and Swiss towns.

So, if we had Christmas songs relevant to Australia would that obviate the desire for Christmas in July and put people back in touch with reality, that Christmas for us is a Summer holiday? Unfortunately, it probably wouldn’t. Why? Because every Australian Christmas-themed song seems to involve hooning through the bush in a ute with a case of beer in the back and a dog in the front seat. Talk about cultural embarrassment!

Or there is this number, an ‘Aussie version’ of the 12 Days of Christmas:

On the 12th day of Christmas my true love gave to me,
12 parrots prattling
11 numbats nagging
10 lizards leaping
9 wombats working
8 dingos digging
7 possums playing
6 brolgas dancing
5 kangaroos
4 koalas cuddling
3 kookaburras laughing
2 pink galahs
and an emu up a gum tree.

It sounds like a recipe for a bloody big casserole!

There is, of course, the old Rolf Harris song ‘Six White Boomers’ which is a passable effort involving Santa doing his rounds with the assistance of six kick-ass kangaroos. But still, it doesn’t seem quite right. The problem is, I don’t know what would be right. Anything other than ‘White Christmas’ and its ilk would be a good start.

Where was I? That’s right, Christmas in July. Destroy it! Destroy it now before we’re consumed by more ridiculous holiday concepts!

Amazing Grace

Her soft eyes imploring,
the cold men watching,
she rises and moves with
amazing grace.

A random musing on acorns

As a kid I wondered if acorns were safe to eat. I remember leaving school one afternoon, picking an acorn off the ground and giving it a tentative nibble. I had heard that they might be poisonous so I didn’t want to eat too much (you can’t fault that logic can you – it might be poisonous so I’ll just have a taste). Knowing that if the acorn didn’t kill me my parents probably would if I got sick from eating one, I took only a small piece in my mouth, keeping it close to the front just in case. I remember it being sort of sweet, but it didn’t taste particularly nice so I spat it out. I didn’t get sick or die (obviously) and soon forgot about it.

Walking past the oak trees near my workplace over the last few months, I’ve had cause to again wonder at the edibility of acorns. Well, apparently they are if prepared correctly:


She bends her neck to me,
the skin pale and firm. Her pulse
beats gently, quickly in her veins.
I breathe deeply and inhale her sweet scent, my
eyes closed and lips parted in vampiric
anticipation of her taste as I brush gently
against her throat.
I detach myself from her aura, like waking
from a dream, and I hold her perfume in my lungs
like it was my

Reluctant heartbreaker

I will break your heart. I don’t want to, but it seems inevitable. The strength of my history is against us.

I will try not to. But if I do, it doesn’t mean I don’t love you.

I love either too much or not enough.