Here is something I wrote a while ago, while drunk.
You pick me up for our midweek walk
And we drive to the creek,
Meandering past the
Dog-walkers and the sculptures
Holding hands. You note
The unfurling hay-bail
Set in stone and our
Heading back for lunch,
We come to rest in a carpark
On the dark side of a shopping strip
Next to a diabetic centre.
A woman is
Listing on the steps,
Her eyes smudged with crimson –
There is something going on there, you say
Winding the window down, you
Fine-tune the open door for passers-by
Balancing your foot on the white line.
Fanning each word with stale air, you
Tell me all about your history
A half-share in a landscape by Klimt,
Chairs by Hoffman and Loos
Confiscated by the Nazis.
You have an agent scouring Europe
For Klimt’s birches
Your share of the 35 million might be
Dangling from the hook of a
Private museum or
Lying at the
Bottom of a salt mine,
Abandoned by Himmler.
During a childhood spent
Bouncing off secession furniture
Did you feel anything?
You take me to cash converters,
Where your son might have deposited the
Lounge-room in exchange for weekly highs
And point me towards the engagement rings
As a joke.
Number one son is an addict
With pregnant girlfriend,
Son number two is perfect and overseas.
In a Chinese restaurant with lacquered ducks in the window
You regale me with a camping anecdote
Following on from the
Estrangement of your first-born.
Some unwelcome version of
Professional self kicks in,
Alongside the emotion
But the back of my neck is
Taut with sadness.
Before we meet,
Your voice-mail makes me
Weak in the knees, as I hang the
Washing in our concrete courtyard.
You are migrating me
Into the top echelon
Of your little black book, you say
Well ahead of
On Tuesdays you are working at Stiches, Wednesday is for bridge,
Thursday is table tennis, Mondays are for work
The week is crowded
With old-boy networks and errands
My shrink is telling me its your
Pattern, nothing to do with me
And I am not in a hurry.
I have blown your mind, you say
With my over-educated wit
And my penchant for art nouveau.
Yet I am
Relegated to the
North-side fuck on
Sequestered into a
Far away from the Bayside routines
You are waiting for me to get
Fed-up and dump you
Just like all the others
With their blackberries
And middle-class educations
They probably have busy lives,
With no time for poetry,
Or perfectly tuned relationships.
When you see me for the first time, you
Call out from across the road
Remarking on my height and
Using my name like a
I wasn’t walking away from you, I say, but
Waiting for you to follow.
I can barely contain the feelings
Which rise like a king tide.
During lunch, you take a
Particular gesture to its zenith,
Unzipping your jacket with the
Intensity of an actor
Dissipating to sadness.
You pass me your keys for safekeeping,
Grazing my palm with your fingers.
We go for a walk nearby and I sit on the
Park bench while you kick
Autumn leaves. You
Watch me on the swing,
Remarking on the
Unexpected layers which flutter
Under my dress.
At our second meeting
I am reading the paper when you arrive,
As suggested via your text. Folding
The tabloid into a stick, I get
Ready to welcome you
When I am jolted into silence by
The tears in your eyes. I am unsure
Where that is going. Feelings are OK,
Your friends have told you,
Being overwhelmed is human. Later, when I ask
About your fantasies, finally you tell me,
As if a waterfall has broken.
I am testing the boundaries
Asking to come over to your side
And clash the two cultures
Of sex and ordinary life, my
Your boringness. I am such an
Open person you repeat, yet
Its all I can do
To hold onto the sadness.
I want to see your chair, I say
Along with the other remnants
Of empire at the
But you would much rather fashion my ankles
Into your palms
Or smell my nape with the
Show-stopping intake of a
Man who doesn’t know
When he is in love.