Furious Verse

sometimes i wanna write beautiful poems on your chest.

2011-06-28T22:55:00.000-07:00

I'm so very very organised and committed to my art these last few months.. its an excellent and exciting space to be in with a LOT of very cool and big projects underway. Anyway, I've also been working on my new website. It's still in its baby stages but its looking ok. Go to www.mandybeaumont.com and sign up to the mailing list...

EWF Digital Project.

2011-06-04T19:16:00.001-07:00

EWF Digital asked me to be apart of this mash up project. Go check it out!

http://luparapublishing.blogspot.com/2011/06/thenailomen-parts-one-to-three-sjx.html

NYC POETS HOUSE SHOWCASE

2011-03-14T22:57:00.000-07:00

If you're in NYC then check this out. I've been asked to be a part of it, which is great! (NYC being my my favourite place in the world and all that!)

Tuesday, June 28–Saturday, July 30
The 19th Annual Poets House Showcase
Members Preview: Tuesday, June 28, 5:00-6:00pm
Opening Reception: Tuesday, June 28, 6:00-8:00pm
On view: through July 30 during regular library hours

And here is the link to the showcase:

http://poetshouse.org/showcase.htm

THE NEW COLLECTION is on its way!

2011-02-15T02:40:00.000-08:00

To pre-order the book send an email to contactmandybeaumont(at)gmail.com. RRP. $5.

PENNY BLACK PROJECT

2011-02-12T01:56:00.000-08:00

Check out this cool art project Im a part of.

http://pennyblackproject.blogspot.com/

WITH A FULL GIN BREATH

2011-01-05T20:45:00.000-08:00

2011-01-05T20:43:00.000-08:00

2011-01-05T20:41:00.000-08:00

2011-01-05T20:38:00.000-08:00

My top 10 reads of this year.

2010-12-28T02:51:00.001-08:00

1. Lovesong - Alex Miller - This is just a glorious book.

2. The Road - Cormac Mcathy. I heard the hype for years, I finally picked it up and thought it was total goodness

3. Andrew McGahan - The White Earth. Yeah he is one of my favs, and this book was as good as anything ive read.

4. The White Tiger - Aravind Adiga. Soooo gooood. Travelling through asia, this was great to read.

5. White Palace - Glenn Savan. The movie is one of my favs of all time. I got the book for 20c at an op shop. The book was AMAZING!!

6. Slaughterhouse 5 - Kurt Vonnegut Jr. Ive always wanted to read this. It took me a bit to get into it, but once i got his rythym it was beautiful

7. The Comfort of Strangers - Ian McKewan. McKewan is the BOMB. This story is fucked up dark goodness. Oh god i LOVE him.

8. A Million Little Pieces - James Frey. My friend Sean who owns bent books told me i would like this, and i totally did. Its just a good easy read. I later found out that there was this big controversy on Oprah that he hadnt really lived it and she was ANGRY. This shit me to tears. I wanted to slap Oprah and say 'for fuck sake love he's a writer. He makes stories.'

9. The Colour Purple - Alice Walker. The language in this was so good and the sadness was strong. Op shop find for $1 in newcastle on the recommendation from my friend Matt Lowe.

10. Totem - Luke Davies. Ok ive read this before this year but I read it again and again. It is the most stunning poem ive ever read. Ever. (Sorry Buk)

HAPPY XMAS! WIN A COPY

2010-12-19T02:53:00.000-08:00

Well it's Xmas and all that, and in the spirit of giving i thought I'd give away one of my books. All you need to do is go to the MANDY BEAUMONT POEMS FACEBOOK group (where you get lovely, well mostly dirty and gloriously sad poems into your inbox when the urge takes me)and then message some kinda xmas message love, or just say hi and i'll randomly select a punter to get this book for Xmas.

MANDY BEAUMONT POEMS FACEBOOK GROUP:

http://www.facebook.com/?tid=1756793201896&sk=messages#!/group.php?gid=14033285627&v=wall

And, if you dont win and still want some poetry love to give to others this Xmas, go to the ETSY shop and see whats on offer:

http://www.etsy.com/shop/MandyBeaumont

2010-12-19T02:49:00.000-08:00

Some Kind Of Tragedy

2010-10-08T01:59:00.000-07:00

A week away with friends
to a blues festival
and we’re all back
smelling of all kinds of sweats
and unclean underwear

We find
the new bar in town
and decide to sit right down
Start ordering some drinks,
put our feet up on the tables
and talk with the owners

And it’s been like that now for weeks
and we all keep dancing
on their concrete floors
and falling into the couches
on Sunday afternoons
to bring in the new week

And the owner starts looking at me
in all kinds of strange ways,
asking me to come back to his house after the doors close
and calling me to see if I’d like to go for dinner
at strange and intimate restaurants
Giving me lines of his
high grade coke in the bathroom
and pouring me expensive wines
So I fuck him
and give in to the fact that
he’s overweight and looks
just slightly like a schoolboy
whose mumma irons his clothes

Who has always jerked off more
over girls like me
than actually gotten a taste
of the way we scream
ever
so
slightly
in men’s ears
/truck driver gutter mouth talk/
when they’re fucking us from behind,
grabbing up
to kiss our wet like cloudburst lips
to hear their panting breath
ready to cum.

And I keep fucking him for weeks
cas’ the coke gets stronger
and dinners in fancy bowls
with sparkling water
are feeding me well

But the sight of him naked and
the way his sweat falls into my face
as he’s grunting like some
oversexed kid
who plays computer games with gusto
/cas’ the only way to let it all out
is shoot that fucker
point blank range hard in the head/
is making me sick

So I tell him not to call any more
Not to send me small messages
when he wakes in the morning
Not to come near me when I’m at his bar
but just to serve me drinks
whiskey straight up
ice to the side

And as I’m
telling him this all calm and soft
he’s trying to convince me to fall in love with him
Offering me all kinds of
promises and hollow whispered heat
talking bout those dark things
and superhero full flight games that get me wild

So I start to hang up,
thinking about the
way that this town
crawls in under my skin
/some small insect that
can’t really be seen by the human eye
but which will kill me with great force and voracity in under the covers/

The way that this town makes me
unable to leave the house for days
for fear of running into men like him
Making small talk about the weather
whilst standing
with black roots in my mane of blonde hair
in a shopping centre car park
Smiling at his conversation
and thinking of the way he first put me
hard up against the hallway wall
and slipped so strongly into me
His stomach slapping against mine
asking me if I could call him Sir as he did it

Standing in the heat
Thinking of the tragedy
of his last love and
the way that when he came
he made me look down on him
Trying to find some emotion in my face
to tell him that this one, this girl he’s found is gonna make it all ok
And I stand and think of
the tragedy that I also own
in standing
in this heat
on the end of this phone
at the foot of your bar
at that midnight meeting
falling into your bed
and your cocaine hazy crush

Some kind of tragedy
that began so very long ago
when I began
to feel numb of it all
began to bruise every boy
who could ever matter
Bruised my scalp into sideboards
and my feet into hospital sheet folds

Some kind of tragedy
that now swells into
me writing poems like this one
and fuckin men like you
Men that I’m never
gonna be able to love.

THIS IS NOT ART - STAPLE MANOR POEM

2010-10-05T05:23:00.000-07:00

2010-10-05T05:21:00.000-07:00

WITH A FULL GIN BREATH

2010-08-30T19:01:00.000-07:00

SPARE PARTS - 12 NOVEMBER at the POWERHOUSE.

2010-08-28T02:21:00.000-07:00

Ive been given a hip for this show to do my thing with. Here is one of the pics Ive produced with the sexy new hip! For more info on the show go to the Powerhouse website at http://www.brisbanepowerhouse.org/events/view/spare-parts/

BLOOD HAIKU - NEW ZINE OUT NOW!

2010-08-28T02:18:00.000-07:00

Once, many years ago, she loved.

2010-08-01T00:01:00.000-07:00

To start beauty
he put colour in her face
felt the smooth of her skin
and spoke of it
as a metaphor for love.

He folded her heart into the
great weight of his arms
full of liquor and sadness
Made that fresh May scream at them both
with desperate heartbreaking love.

The sound of silver
His heavy movements
The padding of his feet late at night,
across every grand hour.

These days were loud for her

To end beauty
his sadness became her
and her fingers went white
and wild trying to keep hold.
Black night poured
into the bruises
she made on his knees.
Knees on which he perched
when trying to capture his guilt,
his past
his every moment knowing
he could never
understand love of such great proportions.
Her cheeks glowing with shame
of the way her heart ached
so soon, so very soon
in knowing him.

And the sound
that makes sound
like isolation
seemed to penetrate
every corner of the room.

These days were quiet and small for her

It has been years now
since beauty began.
Since she sat in her hallway
with the girl that loved her the most,
and cried a thousand lives
for the hardness in which
this breathtaking love left her.

And the memory of him now falls inside the heavy notes of Babylon

that sickly sweet tune that seemed to play
every time you stood in her doorway asking her
to love you for everything that you couldn’t be

And up her main street she still thinks every day she sees you more than once

her stomach drops in these instances
and she says to herself that she needs
to escape to a colder climate

As winter has hit this year
she starts to come out
of her teeth pulling
scar making
anaesthetic
(the quiet and small has lasted since you last touched her, you know?)
Starts to pull away the numb
from the sweet casing that has sat around her.
Starts to pull up the carpets,
sell off her clothes
and go on long runs
in the dusk.

Starts to again feel beautiful

She spoke to him last night
for the first time in months
She told him;

‘I still cry for you now and again you know.
My fingers still go white and wild for you.
My heart still wants the loud.
My heart still wants the fresh and healing properties of your magnificent love’.

2010-04-17T00:45:00.003-07:00

"I turned silences and nights into words. What was unutterable, I wrote down. I made the whirling world stand still." Arthur Rimbaud.

2010-04-17T00:45:00.001-07:00

"I turned silences and nights into words. What was unutterable, I wrote down. I made the whirling world stand still." Arthur Rimbaud.

Of Hunger. Of Sweetness.

2010-03-29T02:30:00.000-07:00

The sweetness
of his heavy chest
swung open
wild and breathtaking

This scent of him,
of his Jasmine and Raspberry
startled her at first
Made her look for wild explosions of fruit
on the grand table
Made her wander the edges of the room,
tracing her fingers over
the full and dull patterns on the walls

In every crease his skin a sonnet
In every whisper the bringing in of a new season,
writing winter love on her arms
as a day of celebration

Late into the evening
she slowly pressed her fingernails
into his skin
and stole herself away to the confines
of the bathroom to sit
Her blue silk undergarments at her feet
letting him into her
breathing hard and quiet as she did

The sensations of wild berries exploding in summer heat
The colours of ripe apples
as her wet skin
The violence of finding all the places in her
that she wanted him to be

Holding him

Later
as they sat under the light of stars
acting as flashbulbs on the skin
he told her she smelt of the sour sweet lollies
he used to save up for and buy as a child
How he used to roll them one by one over his tongue
How he had been searching in small stores and in
his travels ever since
looking for it
/hoping to find the sensations again/
never remembering their sweet name

And as he said this
Justine held his chest against her
A slow splattering of stars from his chest
breathing up against her skin
His mouth as a rich windstorm
His tastebuds as a strong as Kafka’s apple
sitting in between his shoulder blades as infection
His paper thin fingers
grabbing at her face, throat
His devouring of her
Taking in every lip and eyelash
so very near to perfect
and sighing at his mouth
wild and breathtaking

Want poems sent to you?

2010-03-27T17:38:00.000-07:00

If you want poems sent to you and are on facebook, then join the Mandy Beaumont Poems Facebook group

http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=14033285627

I tell her of the beautiful lines in her skin that rip apart my groin.

2010-03-14T21:24:00.000-07:00

2010-03-03T20:27:00.001-08:00

I have a new shop at ETSY. You can buy my books,zines and other fine poetry things on there!!! Check it out:

http://www.etsy.com/shop/MandyBeaumont

NEW WORKS OF EROTICA EXHIBITION - 12 MARCH - FLIPBOOK GALLERY, WEST END

2010-02-22T20:07:00.000-08:00

http://www.flipbookgallery.com/index.html

2010-01-28T02:33:00.000-08:00

Here she is
of delicate beauty
of heat wave love
of heartbreak
as her sweet curse.

She reaches out to some
dirty floor t-shirt
and her last
cigarette
/bedside manner mess/

She’s the woman you would have killed for once

She’s muttering to herself
to the sirens out her window
to the heat that creeps in under the
back door that never locks

She’s opening her mascara soft eyes
to black stars on her pillow
to an ache in her lungs that
feels like fire should

She’s the woman that used to look with childlike wonder
at the curls on the edges of your temples
and think that she could fall hard into it all

She walks to the only mirror in the hall
and looks at herself naked
and pressing down finger blue
onto her heart
She reaches for organs
that she is certain could stop
at any moment

And she writes on hundreds of small pieces of paper:

“It hurts so much without you waking with me, that blood wine bottled heat we shared”

She places them
all folded into the shape of
beautiful 8 starred
mobiles
on silver string

Hangs them
with her
hard heart love madness
into places
where the mirror
grabs hold of the light
and bursts like
young fireworks
in the late afternoon sun

And as she stands amongst them all
grabbing from the ceiling
hundreds
hundreds
of her small
soft gutted moans,
she hears the splitting of noise
of her Takotsbo* heart

Soft gutted
loud
louder

So loud that
after hours
they twist up the heat
high and
into the silver string
and they fall
- blue rue
all over her breaking body death.

*Takotsubo Cardiomyopthy, also called Broken Heart Syndrome. It makes the heart look like a vase on its side. The Japenese say it looks like their octopus traps. Their word for it is Takotsbo

2010-01-19T16:02:00.001-08:00

Perfect and breaking yesterday
the girl looks for
brilliant poetry
under his heart

New repackaged chapbook - 'Many A Broken Hearted Woman. Art by Jonathan McBurnie. Launching soon. Message me for advanced copy.

2010-01-16T14:02:00.001-08:00

She reminded me of heartbreak

2010-01-14T16:53:00.000-08:00

Wrapped in strings
of battle scar marks
and smoked up whiskey love
she breathes,
steal the night away
verse
under a mouthful expanse
of chilli red fairy lights

Men with candle dimmed wine
fall around the edges
and in hushed tones
talk of loving her
Rolling her around their tounges
Sinking stars into her skin

Sinking
into
her
skin

Tonight,
the cold hits her thighs and
circles up to her largest scar
The one that first appeared
after a text book illness
in her youth
The one that
sat small
and just below
her groin
That stayed for all these years
and seemed to hold all the
dreams that got lost along the way

She feels it ever so lightly
brushing up against the
cotton of her dress
The dull ache
folding in between her verse lines
and making a beat
crawl out amongst
the crowd.

She smiles ever so slightly at the young man in the corner

Four hours later
and in the moons light
I catch her
in the kitchen alone,
soothing her scar
with a small cotton towel
and breathing in her silent tears

She reminds me of heartbreak
and I hear
between hard breath
her whisper to the night

“Unless I’ve fucked them – they’ll never see the scars”

2010-01-13T20:00:00.000-08:00

2010-01-13T19:59:00.000-08:00

2010-01-07T18:51:00.000-08:00

We had this
mad dark haired girl living
with us
not that long ago

And she used to watch me as I showered
and take my clothes of the line and
fold them all neatly
and put them at the foot of my door
(but only on Wednesday’s)

She used to tell me
how much she wanted
to be a painter and
paint memories
of everything she’d ever thought

Shortly after she told me this
she moved out

She said she was going to live alone
In the next street to:
“gather all her memories together”

I have a feeling we won’t be seeing her around these parts
for some time

2010-01-04T20:30:00.000-08:00

Last Friday
after full glasses of
rum and laughing
out the back with
Jim and his
dirty little fuck box secrets
the balls of my feet
rolled down one
very long street,
in a very dark hour
and walked into the
doorway home of a group of strange men
playing open hand poker
and smoking strong hash

The oldest one
sporting an armful of army tattoos
met me at the door
with half eaten corn chips
in one hand
and scratching his arse with the other

I pulled out some attitude
like a woman double my age
about noise in my suburban street
and handed him a flash of my
skin
from my upper arm
fell slightly up against
the old doors frame
grabbed the attention of
his mate sucking down
a clear bottle necked beer
and found myself
being asked inside
with his hand on my arse
trying to find the panty line
and the reason I was there

And they sat
in half light and absurd silence
starring at my ankles
above my red high heels
as I turned up a Beatles LP
and put my feet up
on the smokey coffee table

and smoking their smokes
and drinking their wine
and using their bathroom mirror
and falling to sleep
in a ball
with my head in the old man’s lap
an hour out from sunrise

And sometimes
on a Friday night
in my street

this is just
the way it is…

2010-01-04T20:28:00.001-08:00

Girl in a work skirt with a dark skinned friend:

Excuse me do you mind if we sit here?

Girl smoking a cigarette, picking at her yellow skin. Sitting with a group of straw like men:

Daarrrrling. We West End people are very friendly, you’ll get to realise that once you’ve been here for a while. You’re clearly not a local are you? I mean really - look at us. We are friendly aren’t we? Don’t we remind you of a warm condensed milk sitting at the top of your tongue?

2010-01-03T15:18:00.002-08:00

2010-01-03T15:18:00.001-08:00

2010-01-03T15:16:00.000-08:00

2010-01-03T15:14:00.000-08:00

2010-01-02T18:04:00.000-08:00

2009-12-28T03:09:00.000-08:00

She has a preoccupation with his skin
The way it stretches
ever so slightly over
his growling knuckles
The way it falls into two scars
on either side of his
cancer ridden chest
/scars she always touches to try and find some trace of fear in him /
The way it moves all
inwards and soft
at his groin
when she takes him in her wined mouth,
all heated under the
brightness of his
bathroom mirrored fixtures
and ant ridden basin
How his skin
at this height
smell s of strawberries and heat
of stale midnight charcoaled drawings
of passion, not yet full

His skin
as always
slips
perfectly
in the night
into hers

And he faints sweat into her full red lips
collects the smells of his night
with the heaving of his strong chest
and watches her
slowly
as he takes her
up against the bathroom wall

Her heart
beat
fastens

Days later
and as always
the base of her spine aches
and she has imprints of memory
where his eyes fixed on her
and made spider web knots
tight all over her lungs
The wine has settled in her pores now,
with the heat of summer screaming at it
And like each time before
making her heart ache more than it should

Her fawn and translucent lips
roll the relic of this aching pleasure
over and over
in the most intimate of moments
and she thinks of all the poems
he has given her

erotic and sleepless poems

And she lays naked
Strawberry stains on her bed sheets
and smiles at the thought of him
so very far away in thinking that he can give her anything real
Never realising that he’s given
her -
thousands of Coleridge love heart lines
the image of him perfect in climax
the heat of heavens’ wild

And for now
as she tries to make sense of
the way her
heart burning heat ardour for him
crowds her rioting days
his skin
fresh on these nights
and somewhat familiar in
its touch
is enough for her.

*She often wonders if there are charcoal drawings hidden on his walls, of her.

Poetry Badges - $3 each

2009-09-26T19:09:00.000-07:00

2009-09-26T19:06:00.000-07:00

2009-09-13T00:27:00.000-07:00

Sitting on an afternoon
and caught in between the
softness of sleep and the day
she reaches out to some dirty floor t-shirt and her last cigarette

Bedside manner mess

She’s the woman you would have killed for once
She’s muttering to herself
to
the sirens out her window
to
the cold that creeps in under the
back door that never locks

She’s opening her mascara soft
eyes
to
black stars on her pillow
to
an ache in her lungs that
feels like hate should

She’s the woman that used to look with childlike wonder at the curls on the edges of your temples, and think that she could fall hard into it all

She walks to the
only mirror in the hall
and looks at herself
Naked and
pressing down finger blue
onto her heart
She reaches for organs that
she is certain could stop at any moment
from the breaking that she hears
From the noise that started
that first day you said goodbye at her car door

Last week she wrote on a small piece of paper;

“It hurts so much without you waking with me, that blood wine bottled heat we shared. That the breaking that i hear when i walk or talk to shop keepers makes me ashamed. That even now here in my Brisbane summer, i wear large woollen jackets over tight singlets to stop others hearing it too."

She placed it above the mirror in the hall
thinking one day she could tell him
how much he had made her make sound
so loud.

And her fingers today
as they turn
blue
feel at
that large break in her heart
like an antique clock piece
all worn over with years of use
and now missing a beat
and pulling everything out of place.

Today,
the noise is so very loud
and she thinks of which jackets to wear
and how catching the bus
will be better to walking in this heat.

God damn - thank fuck for poetry!!!

2009-09-05T23:20:00.001-07:00

Hi you lot. So a few gigs and the like coming up, so if you are around the traps or in any good bookstore, make sure you come along or pick up a copy of Best Australian Poems 2009!! Here we go!
__________________________________________________________

NATIONAL YOUNG WRITERS FESTIVAL

Are Poets Nice? Panel
Date: Saturday 3 October
Time: 3.30pm - 5
Venue: City Hall 1
Was Shakespeare really in love, or was Gwyneth Paltrow just... hot? When
that poet spilled beer on you at her reading, was it really all just part of
her art? *Are poets nice people to know? *Of our all-poet panel, half say
yes, half say no.

and....

Un-Erotic Erotica, Put Your Hands All Over My XXX
(Reading) Sunday at 10pm in some dodgy bar I suspect (and hope so!!)
_________________________________________________________

THIS IS NOT ART FESTIVAL

Crack Theatre

The idea is we lock writers and actors together in a room for just under 2 hours and they produce work that is performed as part of Playground (Sunday night).

and...

Zine Fair

Yep ill be there, drinking from hot cask wine and eating patty cakes! Oh and selling zines and badges and stuff. Come along! Sunday 4th October. http://www.thisisnotart.org/sunday-zine-fair-oct-4-king-street-carpark/
___________________________________________________________

TINY GOLD

Also check out the pics from the huge TINY GOLD Gallery show last month at - http://tinygold.com/ where i did some large text based gold glittery love in art!
___________________________________________________________

THE BEST AUSTRALIAN POEMS 2009

Also keep an eye out for The Best Australian Poems Anthology (Black Inc) this year, edited by the big time goodness talent of Mr.Robert Adamson! I’m finally in it!! And a tad excited. Available in all good bookshops nationally in Australia and New Zealand. Check it out here - http://www.blackincbooks.com/books/best-australian-poems-2009.
___________________________________________________________

NEW WEBSITE

and last but not least... my new website will be launched in the next few weeks. It looks hot hot hot. The wonderful miss jo coltman is putting it together. You can check out her stuff at http://www.janita.com.au/

___________________________________________________________

NEW BADGES

Oh yeah there are a whole lotta new poetry badges i made up. If you want one chuck me $3 and ill give ya one!!

God damn - thank fuck for poetry!!!
www.mandybeaumont.com

2009-08-22T23:34:00.000-07:00

A week away with friends
to a blues festival
and we’re all back
Smelling of
all kinds of sweats
and unclean underwear

We find
the new bar in town
and decide to sit right down
Start ordering some drinks
put our feet up on the tables
and talk with the owners

And it’s been like that now
for weeks
and we all keep dancing
on their concrete floors
and falling into the couches on
Sunday afternoons
to bring in the new week

And the owner starts looking
at me
in all kinds of strange ways
asking me to come
back to his house after the doors close
and calling me to see
if I’d like to go for dinner
at strange and intimate restaurants
Giving me lines of his
high grade coke in the bathroom
and pouring me expensive wines

So I fuck him
and give in to the fact that
he’s overweight
and looks
just slightly like a schoolboy
who’s mumma irons his clothes

Who’s always jerked off more
over girls like me
than actually gotten a taste
of the way we scream
ever
so
slightly
in men’s ears
/truck driver gutter mouth talk/
when they’re fucking us from behind
grabbing up
to kiss our wet like cloudburst lips
to hear their panting breath
ready to cum.

And I keep fucking him
for weeks
cas’ the coke gets stronger
and dinners in fancy bowls
with sparkling water
are feeding me well

But the sight of him naked and
the way his sweat falls into my face
as he’s grunting like some oversexed kid
who plays computer games with gusto
/cas’ the only way to let it all out
is shoot that fucker
point blank range hard in the head/
is making me sick

So I tell him not to call any more
Not to send me small messages
when he wakes in the morning
Not to come near me when I’m at his bar
but just to serve me drinks
/whiskey
straight
up
ice to the side/

And as I’m
telling him this
all calm and soft
he’s trying
to convince me to fall in love with him
Offering me all kinds of
promises and hollow whispered heat
talking bout those dark things
and superhero
full flight
games
that get me wild

I start to hang up
thinking about the
way that this town
crawls in under my skin
/some small insect that
can’t really be seen by the human eye
but which will kill me with great force and voracity in under the covers/

The way that this town makes me
unable to leave the house for days
for fear of running into men like him
Making small talk
about the weather
whilst standing
with black roots in my mane of blonde hair
in a shopping centre car park
Smiling at his conversation
and thinking of the way
he first put me hard
up against the hallway wall
and slipped so strongly into me
His stomach slapping against mine
asking me if I could call him Sir
as he did it.

Standing in the heat
thinking of the tragedy of his
last love and
the way that when he came
he made me look down on him
trying to find some emotion in my face
to tell him that this one, this girl he’s found
is gonna make it all ok.

And I stand and think of
the tragedy that I also own
in standing
in this heat
on the end of this phone
at the foot of your bar
at that midnight meeting
falling into your bed
and your cocaine
hazy crush

Some kinda tragedy
that began so very long ago
when i began
to feel numb of it all
began to bruise every boy
who could ever matter
bruised my hair into sideboards
and my feet into hospital sheet
folds

Some kinda tragedy
that now swells into
me writing poems
like this one
and fuckin men like you
Men
that im never
gonna be able to love.

2009-07-31T03:05:00.000-07:00

Looking up my street
watching glimpses of myself
in store glass windows
I’m finding some kinda chorus
in the way my hips sway.

And it’s a heat wave kinda day
and people I know
are sitting pouring wines
and rolling cigarettes.
10am early.
Sitting ready.

They're talking about a friend
who’s last night adventure
had him kissing a woman
his mother’s age
in the beanbag safety of the new bar
in our street.

And they start laughing into each other
and waving at me to join them.
Asking how my day is
Showing me last night’s battle scars
Telling me how I should spend time with them

So I do

And it ends up all over
in bars with expensive make overs
with strange new meetings
with hits of acid
with white sprits and a new love affair
with the boy that lives across the street
that I can hardly talk to but
I keep imaging that I will

One day...

And by the end of the night
when all over the street
people with no shoes
are asking me for smokes
or a dollar,
my legs start to chaff with the heat
and my friends
are looking for exists
ways home
and new adventures

And the boy I am wanting to love
is dancing on his own in the corner
and i see his eye’s begin to wet
when the lovelorn chorus of their tune
starts.

His body slows
Whiskey
hits
his lips

And I walk out without a word
smiling at the
men and women meeting for the first time
under the heavy tunes of the night
and stumble up my street
looking up into my own
personal night sky
with thousands of small named stars
looking down on me
kissing my cheeks
and offering me another moment

of poetry …

2009-07-11T19:38:00.000-07:00

She’s been trying to

break away from it

for months now

Keeps coming to my house

and sitting on the mattress in the back room

Telling me how

this ain't the lifestyle she wants to be keeping

and the people she meets

are nothing but the drugs that they take

That she’s afraid of the

way her hair looks dirty to strangers on the street

How she’s really gotta split

break up the scene

study for a degree

play on weekends

outside of this town

Tonight she tells me about her plan

to throw dinner parties where

wine is the greatest deterrent to it all

How she’s no longer going

to answer the 3am calls

from the boys across the street

wanting a cute young thing to do lines with

Where the only sound in the night

are noses

down a run way

with a $50 note.

Tells me she dreams

of the other city calling her

And I sit silently

as I always do with her

knowing that when

the next weekend comes

she’ll be sitting with the boys

in some bar stranger’s back yard

grabbing at anything that’s offered to her

waiting for the

sun come up

Sitting in the lap of

the new young boy

who’s sporting a pocket full

of that white powdered goodness

Where she’ll be straddling him

like a dirty and torn Bukowski novel

Her thighs screaming at the moon

hustling for

that cheap fix

and a taxi ride home.

2009-06-14T23:12:00.000-07:00

Bad poets
want to be all of Bukowski
Fuckingthe living daylights
out of the young girl across the way
Drinking till they
vomit up all the pain
of being misunderstood
Poetic and tragic
Ploughing through tales
you wouldn't wipe your arse on
Screaming strong
at lame poetry readings
deep in the bowels
of open age bars,
where lesbians and bad looking aged men
in rock and roll T-Shirts
smoke cigarettes
in the only place that
makes them feel worthwhile
I say,most of you pricks who give good poets a bad name
tell us Buk was your hero,
taught you everything you know
and showed you that hope rests in poems.
Showed you how to toucha woman's cunt
with gusto and write all night with nothing but a half bar of chocolate
and the smell of the deep frying and sadness
happening up your American street.
But you'll be finding that for all your wishing
and writing on the walls
that
cunts don't want to be touched
by paled hand ended poets
wristed up
from paper- thin poems
They're aching for the good
fisting love /ready to roll around in their lips/of a hard lived man
Waiting to wipe grease up their thigh
spelling out dirty
one syllable words.
For all of you,I'll sit here and keep writing on
stolen sour
coloured thick paper
about all the goodness and glory
that I find in the bottle
and wanting to fuck
all these women up my street
with not an ounce of Bukowski on my mind.
And when you start
writing your
lame arsed poetic verse
about the hero
we could all be
if we wrote like him,
up boils the imageI have of that old bastard
/when once a movie was made/
with him sitting softly under a tree
reading Rimbaud waiting to die with the daisies
and tears
in his Herpe laden eyes.
Thinking about the love he had missed
on the way to his lonely silence filled grave.

2009-06-14T22:56:00.000-07:00

Assume the position
Assume that everyone here wants you
and that the stomach of an angry man is riddled with cancer
Assume that your smoking habits annoy others
Assume that in close encounters, others will notice your flaws
Take night time hours as your own
Assume a safe distance from falling romances
Tell strangers that all public places hold stories
Assume that your childhood memories are your own
and that no one knows how much you hate yourself
See yourself as the only sane person in this room
Assume you can have it all
Tell others that you will
Hold your throat open with metal bands
and swallow the conversations thrown at you
Stick notes with clear tape in busways
to remind others that it is a long way home

Assume the position
Assume that this is
never
gonna
end.

2009-06-14T22:53:00.001-07:00

And you ask me if i like it
when i watch you
your brilliance smashing out
the sounds of street cars
and the great weight of the moon

Here we are
I think
/tonight
in the centre of the universe
beginning

2009-05-26T17:19:00.000-07:00

Where’d you get those bruises from? They look like they’re the shape of your lungs...

Dirty romance on your boots
kicks. at. my. knees.
I.cant.breathe.

2009-05-16T04:15:00.000-07:00

at night with her skin
he starts drawing his demons
one limb at a time

at night with her skin
he grows wild in her
as she lets the folds of her
open to him
stains his lips with her
aching romance

at night with her skin
he asks her quietly
to tell him of poems
small poems of heat
that he can place
in a curve under her breasts

at night with her skin, he feels
the ripping of flesh onto her
/soft and magnificent/

2009-05-12T02:29:00.000-07:00

“The hollow of my hand was still ivory full of Lolita – full of the feel of her
pre-adolescently incurved back…” Lolita – Nabokov

In a moment she stands leaning above me
her lithe skeletal frame exposing the
inward crevasses of her coming years

In the corner of the dark midnight room lay
my scuffed brown moccasins, a silver pipe (a present from the year past)

My lips lacquered with honeydew / hands rested on middle aged knees

I bow forward to smell the sweetness of strawberry lollies and unsettled patience,
Rest my lips on the warm sheet which is her childish chin

[We have silence between these walls]

My Lolita’s straight awkward legs surround me
as I sit in my red silk robe
she is warm, settled
she is mine

An erotic [tragic] scene affronts you, dear reader

2009-04-30T21:35:00.001-07:00

I want inspiration
anticipation
I want hard fucking
blood draining
asphyxiation
Real love smells:
hair bleach
semen
stale beer.

2009-04-20T23:52:00.000-07:00

these things always seem to happen to me
in the front seats of motor vehicles
When heat strangles the air
pushes moments upon my acned skin
and lets manufactured relief rest on feet
that walk abandoned sidewalks at midnight intervals
these are silent moments
when I laugh to myself and say
‘that’s not going to happen,’
but then the gesture opens up-
fragments of sharp light brush my forehead
and the scenery changes
like a good healthy surge of reckless sport
it hits like an arrow that cannot be pulled from the flesh
and I note the red marks on your neck impressed by want
a week after consumption
/back room glass canisters filled with tales of you by my side/
we meet again
You will take note of oncoming traffic and quietly ask me for relief
which will drown out the silence that sits between us
and often gets lost at traffic lights

2009-04-20T23:50:00.000-07:00

I am the long mouthed southern girl
who dreams of Dolly Parton excess
and softly spills dirty wordsl
like –
come down
and tequila breath
and
for money, milk is waiting
down the throats of unsuspecting
beer drinking cowboys.

2009-02-07T01:37:00.000-08:00

She’s sitting on an afternoon
Seeing shadows rolled outside her window,
where cheery bright arsed men in day suits
walk over the dreams and promises left on her cities pavements

She reaches out to some dirty floor t-shirt and her last cigarette
bedside manner mess

-she’s the woman you would have killed for once-

She’s muttering to herself
To
the sirens out her window
To
the cold that creeps in under the
back door that never locks

She’s opening her mascara soft eyes
To
black stars on her pillow
To
an ache in her lungs that
feels like fire should

-she’s the woman that used to look with childlike wonderat the curls on the edges of your temples, and think that she could fall hard into it all-

She walks to the only mirror in the hall
and looks at herself
Naked and pressing down finger blue
onto her heart
She reaches for organs
that she is certain could stop at any moment
from the breaking that she hears in the silence of night

Last week she wrote on a small piece of paper;

“It hurts so much without you waking with me, that blood wine bottled heat we shared”

She placed it above the mirror in the hall
She looks at it every morning
like this
whilst her fingers turn blue.

2008-12-23T00:18:00.000-08:00

You got that…

At 75, I’ve got a fixation for death and how many moments I’ve got left until she comes a’ knocking at my chest. I’ve got a case under my bed stored with my best suit, clean socks and a dirty movie for the man that reads me my last rights.

I’ve got cold night shivers.

Fourteen years of a government hand out and I tell you – this man ain’t leaving you anything but some kin of a lover that you never met and a collection of green bottles in the yard shed next to the radio playing Dixie tunes.

You’ve been thinking that for all these years, while I’ve been giving you hot milk bedtime stories and sending family Christmas cards to your sisters in the States, that I’ve been saving these small cheques, thinking that I’d be the first one to go. That out of these living in fibro units and in places where I move you too, that you’d get some kind of windfall – a jackpot – a shot at a better life with a better man and buy that house boat at the Marina that I promised you for all these years.

But you got it wrong, fucked up your odds, got a bastard that cashed away every god damm cheque for a home visit from Tony’s Whores every time you went away on your girl’s bus trips. And there ain’t a penny left. Just some disease ridden hands on an old man, that have held down the noise of woman half his age in our bedrooms front window for too many years.

You got that…

2008-12-21T18:49:00.001-08:00

She’s been trying to
break away from it for
months now

Keeps coming to my
house and
sitting on the mattress in
the back room
Telling me how
this ain’t the lifestyle she wants to
be keeping
How the people she meets
are nothing
but the drugs that they take
That she’s afraid of the way
her hair looks dirty
to strangers on the street

How she’s really gotta split
break the scene up/
study for a degree/
play on the weekends/
outside of this city

Tonight she tells me about
her plan to
throw dinner parties
where wine is the greatest
deterrent
to it all
How she’s no longer going
to answer the 3am calls
from the boys across the
street,
wanting a cute
young thing to do lines with
when the only sound in the night
are their noses
down a run way with a
dollar note

Tells me she dreams of
the nearest city
calling her

And I sit silently as
I always do with
her
Knowing that
when the next weekend comes
she’ll be sitting with the boys
grabbing at anything
that’s offered to her
and seeing the sun
come up with strangers
in
a West End back yard
where she starts to
hustle for her next cheap fix
and a taxi ride home.

2008-12-21T18:48:00.001-08:00

Crashing into you
is only hours away
Like whiskey hitting my lips
Drugs hitting my blood
Reckless/Sport

2008-11-09T01:05:00.000-08:00

She fell a great distance
for him
Spilt the noise of her
heart on his chest
Left the beating smell
of her sex
on his hands
Flew into
a storm
that left her
wet
with tears
With an ache
so harsh
it made her weight
heavy
drowning
slow.

2008-10-20T02:20:00.001-07:00

Man burning
from view
on my balcony
all of wire and long limbs

Sky so stoned
it relaxes and ends
at my feet
so high

Man burning
from view
and tangled into
an unforgiving crowd

Man standing still
and holding on
to a railing
/to save him/to save him/

Man in front of
faces screaming
All of alcohol
and excess of
lived in dreams

[women,
wonder,
street corner heartbreak,
morning ends]

Of
fearsome loathing
burning flames
into the nights
simple cracks

Man begging for
someone to stop the
heat
that is hitting his heart
so strong

Man standing

Burning for his lover
Burning for his anger
Burning for showing you
He hurts

Man looking at me
on balcony
so high

Mans tears
getting lost

Man falling

2008-10-20T02:00:00.000-07:00

my love...

In moments
when i only had the dark
it was within the line of short love songs
that i found you
Within the warmth of woolen blankets
that I held you

When midnight broke open/
unfolded
it bruised my heart
waiting for you
Made a rash on my stomach that
would itch for days

Now in the dark
your love
cracks over my knees
at night as we lay

It falls into my hands as we sit
Its weight erotic in my palm
Slipping through the
slightly open window
A gentle wind
handling my skin like a lover
and splitting a season

I find brilliant poetry
under your heart
as the heat collects
on your skin
and lays between us forever
in a fiery concentration

my love...

2008-10-10T20:54:00.000-07:00

And the heat
and the beat
roll over your tongue
A rhythm like slow lemonade
falling
where
i want to sit,
soft and still
holding at your edges
for safety

All ageless and warm
and rolled into
every memory
i've ever
had
of
feeling
right

*Inside all of this i have images of beautiful high falling clouds from the sky and a great fear of loss

2008-10-10T20:49:00.000-07:00

She always told him

that her heart

belonged to

Coltrane's notes,

to train station loud

heartbreak held

breath moments

That her heart

only knew

the blues

2008-10-09T02:18:00.000-07:00

I let him slip fingers
into my coin purse
feel around its edges
/a soft butter silk/
find three dollar coins
and a half beer coaster
stained and inked with numbers

I let him slip past with a light hand on my shoulder
take a sharp left into a crowd
stumble over a pair of shoes
fold back his hair

I let the jukebox song of a
73’ romantic rockabilly
crash my boring chitchat with a young girl

I let the stares from and older woman
who has always loved me
be ignored

I sting my throat with
a strong spirit
and I mouth to him from
across the room
that my chest is tight from a fear of being found

2008-10-08T00:29:00.000-07:00

'How to Remember Me or Of Posthumous Proportions'
could be a poem
of great length
in which I number and shape for you
as a gift on your birthday

It could be a poem -
but instead
I fold it
and pack it tightly into my lips
leaving small edits and samples on your brow

2008-10-07T02:07:00.001-07:00

Drinking makes your heart ache more than it should

A young mans heart
drops to the floor
slowly spills out
a pink love
all over his
kitchen rug.

2008-10-05T02:07:00.001-07:00

Justine fell into
the sudden sweetness of his chest
one evening after conversations
around passion and travel and taste

This smell of Jasmine and raspberry startled
her at first
Made her look for others in the room
Made her wander the edges

Late into the evening
she slowly scrapped her fingernails
against his skin over dinner
and stole herself away to the confines
of the bathroom
to sit
with her blue silk undergarments
at her feet
and let him into her
Holding him there
Breathing hard and quiet as she did
The sensations of wild berries exploding in summer heat
finding all the places in her
that she wanted him to be

Later that evening as they sat
under the light of stars acting
as flashbulbs on the skin
he told her she smelt of the
sour sweet lollies
he used to save up for and buy as a child
How he used to roll
them one by one over his
tongue
How he had been searching in small stores
and in his travels ever since
looking for them
/hoping to find the sensations again/
Never remembering their sweet name

And as he said this
Justine held his chest against her warm hands
A slow splattering of stars
on her fingers
touched letters
lightly onto his chest

Justine.

2008-10-04T19:18:00.001-07:00

Heaven's Wild

She often wonders
if heaven’s as wild
as the sky shows it to be
With catalytic storm clouds
cracking of silence,
slicing at the dreams of men

If up there
where she cannot reach
is similar to the emotions
of the want for another
of the addictions that break at her bones
of wanting to cut at her thin skin

She often wonders
if tornadoes
all hued in Wizard of Oz tones
come from that wild heaven
If there is a looping soundtrack
of her voice
sitting within them
when they open the houses
of strangers
And tear at the seems of the earth

If those broken by this wild
hear her voice breaking of sadness
and ripping at the corners of her mouth
shattering every piece of beauty
the world has ever known.