Thirty-nine pills

I tip the plastic bottle over.
The pills spill out.
I watch them settling on my desk.
With the shrunken eyes of a dealer.
I count them in multiples of three.
Smooth under my shaking fingers.
I take too many as it is.
And habits are filthy.
I slip the last pill into the bottle.
With the tight relief of an addict.
Thirty-nine in total.
The Vitamin C will last ‘til next month.
My saviour.

Black Saturday

Sunday Morning

The smell of burning,

the flicker and scrawl of news.

A smoky stillness…

Sunday Night

The spit and swallow

of nightmares and leaping flames.

Their faces, blackened.

Monday Morning

Their faces, smiling,

as we all wrap arms and laugh,

eyes a hazy red.

Monday Night

Relief is short-lived,

as the death count climbs higher

under the grey shroud.

Now

Two hundred and eight,

Black Saturday, they call it

Branded by firestorm

The Ceremony

The throb of music,

The spirits gather once more

A smoky stillness…

Written after the Black Saturday bushfires under a red, shrivelled sun.

This Isn't a Boarding House

This isn’t a boarding house;

it’s hell with cubicles.

The carpet is vacuumed daily,

for health and hygiene,

but the smell of tedium never fades.

And lights out is always too early.

The air conditioner hums ceaselessly;

the air chilled to a crisp in summer,

and caked dry in winter.

But hell is always clogged

with clothing and chatter and sickle deodorant.

Some of us try to gloss our kennels

with pretty doonas and posters and ribbons.

Succeeding only in painting everything

another shade of bland.

We graffiti, and mark our place:

“Caz luvs Emi ‘02”

The offenders survived Hell,

but will I?

Written by the green glow of an exit light at 12.30pm, after another long night in the boarding house.

Golden Arches

Golden Arches

They’re there, unmistakable.

Between burning tarmac

and burning sky.

The happy-daffodil yellow

seared into our cities.

Don’t worry, children,

You’ll never have to kill

for your next meal;

we already did it for you.

Though the fluorescents burn harshly,

And the meat burns cruelty,

And we burn our dollars,

For a fast feast

of oils and additives

and slaughtered integrity

to fuel our gorged existence.

And nothing asks why

like those golden arches.

Ignorance and insincerity,

Enshrined.

Maccas made me vegetarian.

Us.

Us.

You.
with your pretty clothes
and your satin faces
and your hair all done up
nicely.

You.
the centre of the universe
shining so desperately
caught up in the
rush.

You.
part of the tribe
out of your minds
always wearing the
war paint.

Us.
the sharp edges
the ones you didn’t want to touch
the ones that don’t need
anyone.

Us.
the ones that never quite fitted
the ones you whispered about
when they left the
room.

Us.
the awkward and the sad
scraping through adolescence
tripping over their own
insecurities.

Us.
we’re very sorry
and very tired
of trying to be like
you.

(Written when I was twelve. I was right.)

Mannequin

Mannequin

You’re beautiful,

they say, but

they’re all lying.

Your soul,

your body—

they’re all buying.

Behind the masks

of guilted shame;

under the knives

that stunt and maim.

Scrape away

cosmetics and

plastic smile,

that slips

when choking

back the bile.

Sobbing out the

strangled fears.

Squirming from

encroaching years.

Searching for praise

in devil leers.

Poor girls,

poor girls,

stick thin, too fat.

Laid bare across

the welcome mat.

Crying—their mascara

runs.

Crying—for a world

undone.

I'm sure everyone has felt this way at least once in their lives.

Like everything's warped and nothing's sincere and the expectations are just too much.

Don't let them win.

Daddy

Daddy

Somewhere somewhere in my mind,
I’m sure, somewhere, I’ve got to find,
Someplace, sometime when you were kind,
A smile,
A word.
Something.

But your smile never reached your eyes,
And all your precious words were lies.
And now, only now, I realise
I wasn’t ever
good enough
for you.

I cried so many tears, unseen
For what never was, what should have been
You never heard me sob and keen
You refused
to even
listen.

You watched me, Daddy, as I bled.
Your eyes like claws inside my head,
And I only wish you’d said;
Please…
Don’t cry,
I love you.

Sportsmanship

Sportsmanship

He takes my hand;

warm and tight.

Meets my gaze,

fair and square.

The ball rolls

next to his foot.

He ignores it.

Then he grins.

“Well done, mate.”

The breeze— playful

ruffles his hair,

ruffles the grass

across the green grass

of the playing field.

I mirror his smile;

bright thoughts,

nice words.

Forgetting that—

just a second ago,

I was ready to rip his head off;

just for that ball.

(Heh. I don't like sport either.

All my poems are snide protests against SOMETHING.

That's just the way things go.)