Sunday, 30 November 2014

Renée Zellweger stole my face

I don't even have a foot print any more.

I'm so underground the girls can't even find me.

The ones that stumble by don't even notice me. I'm hidden. Hidden by walls and walls of excess fat, grey hair, hair in weird places. It's a balaclava that inspires indifference at best, and slight revulsion at worst. Mainly the former. I blend into the indifference afforded to the middle aged.

When I was young I wished for super powers. Who wouldn't want to be invisible? But then, when you are, you don't know what you want any more.

Imagine waking up one day and seeing your face on the red carpet. A celebrity has "taken it too far" and become a "plastic surgery disaster". Twitter is going bananas. Lines are drawn in the sand over whether its a horrible mistake or simply a bad joke. Yet all you see is your face, paralysed by botox, sitting on someone else's shoulders. How 'ugly' the media cries, how could they 'ruin' their good looks. How could they turn themselves into this monster?

And so here I am now, laying on the floor, with an ego the size of ant sperm, sucking the top of a tipped over wine bottle. What are the chances.

Wednesday, 26 November 2014

Pierce The Balloon


I could go anywhere
It doesn't matter
I won't
I don't
And actually I can't
Because God broke my heart.

What to do when a pedo looks longingly at you

They pick at them like weeds. Wrap them up in their fingers. Twist them and pull them. Remove their snugness with their smugness. 
His sticky tobacco grin flashed black gums and crooked teeth. A chanced glance, that revealed his true intentions. A longing stare that lingered just too long.

On we went without a word, just a weirdness between us.
Discard them and leave them to wither. But those weeds keep growing no matter how you've cut them. 

Tuesday, 25 November 2014

He may have worn the Reebok pumps but I called the shots

"PUMP IT UP!" I cried, for I was their king.

They would come to my kingdom, orphaned daily by their parents, seeking shelter and a home. My mother would feed them, and send them out the backyard to play.

I would command them, boss them, coerce them and manipulate them. They would do my bidding exactly as I asked. I would tell them to jump on the trampoline and count until eleventy-four, and they would jump on the trampoline and count to eleventy-four.

They would ask me for food, and I might give it.

They would ask if they were allowed toilet, and I may grant it.

Or sometimes...

Sometimes I would tell them to sit down and bounce their bum on the ground until the sensation passed. Until they had beat their sphincter into submission.

"Can I please go to the toilet?" they would cry.

I would consider it a second, as if I were being magnanimous. Then I would scream my response at them:


Wednesday, 5 November 2014

Down Kilmore Street

I've got the New Zealand blues
Staring into my dark chocolate stout and thinking of you
I tried to spell your name backwards
Sometimes I get scared that all my friends are just actors
And that even God has no answers
Fear for me is standard
It's 5am back home in Queensland, I think I'll just lie here and listen to the blackbirds
For I've got the New Zealand blues
And they ain't going anywhere fast
The New Zealand blues are here to last
My misery shall forever remain unsurpassed
No matter how often my friends are recast
How can this island feel so small
And yet my emptiness so vast?

Tuesday, 4 November 2014

Love In The Bin

I hope we all die
I don't care how
In the back of a car
Stabbed in the park
The last thing we ever hear... our attacker's laugh
Because really, fuck this life for a lark.