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

Perfectly attuned

Stride pattern.


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

Unnumbered others.


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

Dog-walking and





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

Wednesday afternoons,

Sequestered into a

Diary activity

Far away from the Bayside routines

And philanthropy

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.

After lunch

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

Sensibility overhanging

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.



Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s