There's a Girl

I never fucked.
a long courtship
of internet dating
amounted to
nineteen
years old
double F memories.
I was thirty
She had a dirty mouth
gave blowjobs
in toilets.
Check three boxes.
My girlfriend
now
gets easily stressed
distracted
requires codiene.
I wait for her
to sleep
then
wank
fuck-fucked
the swinging udders
the christmas ham
the mouth
that swallowed my cum
at first kiss
in the dirty toilets
of a Bimbo Deluxe
with that dirty mouth

premature
aggression
of me
the dirty old man


When all decisions are done
what will-won't I regret
when I cannot suck
so much
as a
straw
anymore
I'll have
double F memories.

Idealism
passes
Promise keeping
passes
my good girlfriend
always
passes.

How to see it.

A few times
not often
the world changes colour.

too often it's
distracted
by footpaths
like cliff-faces.
I must climb
over
you
and all that exists
is up
or death

but sometimes
not often
I am reminded
by
the hidden veil
of diamond dust
feel
the abdominal hearth
and
stand back
linger upon
something youself
with
your will
your kindnesses
your sperm
your conjunctions
your own two eyes
have
created

Eat myself

round the head
of your pets
If you don't
these mindless creatures
unaware of what's good for them
will lick the wound
and lick
and lick
until the stitches are gone
until it bleeds
until it gets infected
until its dead

My flavour of the month
is a psoriasis scab
on my scalp
on my crown
which hasn't healed for
a month

It doesn't flake dandruff
because
I've picked it bloody
no new skin has healed
to produce dried skin
to flake
and rain
like snow
on this human
holocaust

I scratch whenever
wherever
like a dog
I have no shame

The head picking
is new.
My ongoing vice
bad habit
nervous condition
unendearing imperfection
are cuticles

When I was ten
a friend
ate a scab
from a skinned knee
told me to
try
mine

Later
in private
I did

I didn't
right then
because
I was better than him
white trash
never be nothing
loser

Now I'm worse.
I gnaw my
fingers
compulsively
i wear bandaids on all fingers
to stop myself
from chewing
and looking
like
someone
raised wrong
like
I have leprosy

Without the bandaids
to stop me
I'll pry at the skin
with fingernails
pry
until
there's skin to
bite
I'm worse than a maggot
I eat
living
flesh

Before I'm done
my fingers will bleed
it ain't no
summer
of 69

My new crutch
is my crown
there's bandaids on
my fingers
but blood
under
my fingernails

Worse than a maggot
Worse than trash
None of my imperfections
endearing
unless you're reading this
when reading this
has become cool

Then it's OK
because a famous artist
did it
like alcoholism
like imprisonment
like anti socialism
like vomiting in public
like not shaving
not washing
not caring
about the people
in his life
because
selfishness
is common
to all
success

Take a chance, you stupid whore

This is vicarious
Completely.

she been gone
for movements

Add me up
I'm a greater
odd number
but she's been gone
for movements
mine and
hers


she's still
playing at
it
bath water still
too hot
the kitchen
she's alone in
is just right

when i knew her
last
she was dabbling in
starting friends
with toy men
playing with action figures
of
dreamers
anatomically incorrect
retro
plastic
men
with strings
in their backs
that repeated after her
you're so talented
it'll happen
you're so talented

She's no whore
not in any way
That's her problem
and mine
too

Not even friendship?

These days
the lesbians
have haircuts
which say to me
a male
I'm not going to talk to you
not under any circumstances
that you'd be willing
to change

Either you're a girl
or act like one
or we have nothing
in common

When I recognised
this
lesbian porn
lost
allure
and I need
now
to beat extra hard
risk friction sores
to make it
come out

Comedy of Innocence

A dead child in the earth
enriches it none
the approval of others
won't amount to
the approval of none

No!

Venture forth silly boy
so eager to please
astrologise the dreamers
proskynise to the earth
listen to me

Yes! to thine own self be captain
but know,
no shores lie beyond!
your instincts are too young

Many fellowships I am!
Many pockets I have
Follow me
be safe in my wake
reap my surfeit
My eyes keep riches
yours faithfully

As are mine
in yours, my fellow
my father
suckle upon this,
my father
now you are mine

Obama Tee

I'm quite comfortable
for now
at the ultra wank bar
Kent St

At this time of day
weekdays
there's not so many
poseurs
whose fashion
shames mine
thus duly
I utterly despise

Then comes
this african man
muttering to himself
Huxtable mustache

I want to
boast
to him
unbutton my black
shirt
expose my
Obama tee underneath

What a wonderful
five minute friendship
we would have

Assuming
many things

Do Gooder Loser

I'm a good man.
So is everyone else
ask
anyone

Karma is a lie
its because I do good
instead of being good
but doing nothing
good

The saying goes,
judge me by what I do
is bullshit
because to judge
by doing
you must pay attention
to someone other
than yourself
for
longer than a
a television commercial

Say you do good
say it once
say it often
say it well enough
and consensus be
you are good

Actual good people are
not boastful
Those whose hearts
wholly give
to charity
throw whole lives
into doing
good
don't seek congratulations
they just do

And think on
this
random acts of
kindness
are not evidence of
goodness
when was the last
time
someone did something nice
for you
without expectation
because he is
happens to
do good

have you ever
been kind
without care to
explain
why

kindness is
evidence of
mental disease
needy
personality disorder
weak will
your poverty

yes, be kind
do it anonymously
because martyrs
are only
appreciated after they're
dead

and you need
to keep
friends
around
while you're
alive

Bimbo Deluxe

IThe day manager
gives me dirty looks
enroute between bar
and back office

She isn't attractive
or ugly
or anything
really

Remember
I told you
not to
plug in
your
laptop

Her smile like the
oncoming headlights of
a headon bus

I am not human
She has that gift.

One day soon
she'll make good
middle management
and despise
her own children

This bar wants
to be a fashion label
and restrict
the sizes
so ugly fat fucks
like me
aren't seen
uglying up
their good name

I come
for the couches.
For the last time.

the young cluster and huddle
as they do.
within the clump
they compete with
ad nauseam personality advertisement
in sound bites
with jingles

I don't watch TV
for the fucking ads

The hierarchy
mixes and
settles
in sediment layers
of loudness
and how many others
in the clump
agree with
whatever the
whatever

Nobody will ever
frame bad myspace
profiles
hang them on walls
at home
flashing and loud
and ad nauseam
not even as irony

It's a shame
about the couches
And
the pizza here
is good
and cheap

The Same

Strangers meet

You take my oral exam
I take yours
I hope
you hope
we find
a same

deliberately
you have prepared.
you are
your answers

what do you do for a living
where do you live
are you married
what's on for you this weekend

answer
the same
as me
I admire you
and through you
I admire myself

answer
not
the same
and we will
be
polite

you amusing go-lucky child
you with many friends studying
you plumage of suit
you wet wipe husband
you lawn trimmer
you grandfather
you money giver
you go quietly to the nursing home, now


Rebellion happens
briefly

Briefly

the beautiful people
grow up
and won't
be friends
fuck
love
respect
anyone not
the same

Perhaps
I won't
end up
friendless
unfucked
unloved
disrespected
forgotten
and
alone

What I admired about my mother.

The bitch could take a punch.


Better than me.

How to matter.

These kinds of humans matter:
scientists, artists, and parents.
Those who
forever effect future humans

A scientist defines all physical things
directing the artist
The artist defines the purpose
directing the scientist

The pursuit
of permanent science
of permanent art
is noble

The pursuit
of child-making
is noble

if the child
is a scientist
is an artist.
Or a parent
to grandchildren who beget great grandchildren
and one among the great-great-greats
is a scientist
is an artist

But
in the event I die without
anything permanent
of my own
My last refuge will not be
a house in the suburbs

Baseball Cards.

Her neck brace is faux skin
the colour of band aids
same as smiles between strangers

Head trauma has paralysed her right side
She'll be more artistic and less attractive
from now on.

Fake tan fades faster
than betadine stains
I would have thought of fucking her
not now
I don't want a closer look
at the glass chip scars
days she's been crying
knowing that
her pretty face
isn't pretty anymore
and the plan
for a husband
and a house
and beautiful children
all now poorer and uglier

There's a new friend
see through
black chiffon
Tight black bra squeezing
her belly fat
like a fifty something caterpillar
offering coffee and comfort

the importance of ugliness
to make the ordinary
feel beautiful

The new friend she collects
abused and damaged
stupidity addicts
husband loather
the desperately unpregnant

she says
I know...
all day
on the phone
for coffee and comfort
I know...
my husband is wonderful
like that...

She collects these
pitiable women
and pictures in her purse
of children and grandchildren
who visit most Christmases

Don't click.

She lies on her side
drooling onto the pillowcase

it's 3am and not dark
Her sleep face is a hamster. I don't know my sleep face animal.

If love is conditioned, mine is female. My single mother taught me how. Love in my best interests. To appreciate comfortable shoes. Rebecca is quite fashionable.

Rebecca has a degree in interior design. The obviousness of the irony is unworthy of my complications. Three years ago she was ticking down to self destruction. A Cuban con man's stubby Cuban cock gave her her first bright, shiny orgasm. While distracted, the Cuban stole her optimism.

Rebecca needed fixing. Female dereliction is my aphrodisiac. I was also sniffing around Jennifer, my ice addict stripper housemate. Rebecca fucked me first. So I went that way. Both had small tits.

Three years later... The shit I sprinkle feeds with the scientifically correct mineral balance. For Rebecca its springtime. She's budding. Soon she'll be 2-nil up on university degrees. I'll have my shit.

The longer we go, more parasitical tethers hook to more vital systems. I love Rebecca's family. If she dies soon, make it cancer. When the tears have dried, her family adopts me. I stuck until the end. I am noble.

When I masturbate, the big titted girls I've fucked. I cum harder when I'm thinking of big tits.

When I want to write better, I think of Sheridan.

Sheridan ignored me a long time ago. My open offer included no penis. What use a twenty seven year old virgin? She said... nothing. To a dozen pleading text messages. Notes under her door. Messages on MySpace. One day I'll chase her down, force read my second draft. After one gig. She will see.

No she won't.

I won't. Rebecca loves me. Sheridan doesn't. Won't. Not with a love that invites my penis. One day in decades I will wear some small fame. My name will become beauty. Idyll girls reminiscent of Sheridan will roll a joint and invite my penis. Before I cum I'll think of bigger tits, because they aren't her, and I'm not a virgin anymore.

1 minute personality test.

Complete this sentence: Look at the world around and you can't help but ____________________________










An honest, instinctive completion of this simple statement of opinion -- your unique critique -- the words used, the assumptions and determinations, the optimism or pessimism, the elaboration or lack thereof, the passion or lack thereof, is an insight into your own character.

There's as many possible answers as there are types of people. Send the question to your close friends. How close you predict their answers will reveal how well you know them.

I'm not usually predisposed to gimmicks like this. But as a writer I'll know when a character is living and breathing in my imagination when the answer that character gives to this question lives and breathes -- and surprises me. Surprise is important because I guarantee you, as well as you know you friends, an honest answer to that question should never be completely predictable.

False Pride.

I was fired last week. After the soft landing at the usual cafe from my erstwhile employers, I called my girlfriend. Despite I'd just been fucked up a great career leap, she later described my tone as "happy".

I was happy because I hated the job.

It's a commonly ascribed wisdom that nobody should go against their nature. A hetero pretty boy drug addict, sucking cock and bending over to pay for the needle. For six years my bank account has been refilled by going against mine.

I got into sales. There were many good, logical reasons at the time. I was unskilled. On paper, at least.

For the practical reason, sales was one of very few seek.com.au categories I could convince someone to hire me with potential to escalate well above minimum hourly pay. Except there was no pressing practical imperative. My rent in a share house was only $100 a week. The dole was enough. The get a job threats at the usual intervals were easily managed.

But there was another, much more compelling reason. It's galling to admit, my motivation was hardly original. To steal from Chris Rock, it's the same and only reason all men have bothered to leave the cave. I wanted to get laid.

Back then, the line I told myself was: learn how to talk to people. Ten years housebound by morbid obesity had ingrained a million behavioral kinks. Though I'd got down to a number and shape closer to nominal not-fat, social deformities remained. Stuttering, self conscious ticks, conversational sidesteps into bizzaroworld -- I'd become that afraid, weird kid in primary school, walking circuits around the schoolyard at recess, with no friends, withdrawn into a self-made alternate universe.

Sales was the vocation of human relations. Learning sales was learning human relations. Social misfits didn't make good salesman. At best I hoped to learn how fake normalcy. When I started on-the-job sales training, I was awful. I was embarrassing. It wasn't humiliation because to be humiliated, one must possess some remaining pride.

Eventually I learned. I wasn't a natural. I faked everything: the smile, the smalltalk, the charisma, the lot. My acting performance as Well Adjusted Human #1, on stage between the hours of 9am to 5pm, was literally award winning. Confidence begat confidence. People began to respect me. The respect was addictive, and bound to my accomplishments as a salesman.

The satisfaction of making sales diminished when I no longer had anything to prove. I could confidently deal with almost anyone. Even women. When my girlfriend moved in together, the malcontent that once pushed me to go against my nature and make sales, it moved out. My salesmanship had served its purpose.

So this week I'm interviewing for a new job. Somehow, I've got a very good chance to become the editor of an online magazine. The magazine is crap, the subject of the articles the antithesis of anything I respect. So I won't be able to completely respect what I do. I was twenty six years old when I got my first adult job, became a salesman. I'm thirty two, and throughout the last six years I could have completed a writing course a dozen times over. The piece of paper would have got me through the door.

I'm optimistic. Writing this I've got nervous palpitations, on a couch, just thinking about it. When I rehearse the scene when a stranger asks "what do you do?", I'll be able to explain and feel pride. Not the false pride gained from the respect of others -- but the true pride of respect for myself.