The tendon snaps;
you cry for anyone to come,
yet no one can hear you in dark.
Limping loudly along;
you wish for the comforts of home,
to take back those words you said before.
The trap you found;
you scream knowing no one can hear,
as the light of the moon dims, disappears.
A room sits amongst the trees.
More box, less room; hidden away.
Within the room lives a Hermit
who loves the company of no one,
nothing; only birds, animals, and spirits
give the Hermit joy and sunshine.
A room so big on the inside, and
so small on the outside; a palace.
Around the room, birds flutter and
poop on the skylight. Trees sway to and
fro in time with the seasons, and burrows
hide wombats, possums, plump creatures.
A room sits in amongst the trees.
More palace, less room; hidden away.
Dressing up with friends,
he is Ragnar Lodbrok
the Viking King.
With a helmet from Bunnings,
a shield from the kitchen, and
a vacuum cleaner hose for a sword,
he fights invisible battles.
All fired up he attacks the
harasses the cats,
pretends the lounge is the sea,
and drives Mum up the wall.
The flower asked a bee, “When will the world end?” The bee looked dumbfounded, then buzzed away.
Perplexed, the flower asked a spider: there was only silence.
Then a cat sniffed at her petals. She asked the cat the same question. It seemed to prevaricate any response, then pissed on her stem.
Many books spill over and out into the landscape of my home. Tumbling and falling, they cry out for attention.
They sit and sit, yet some receive nix; others, a cursory glance or an occasional flutter of my fingers.
Many books sit in a crate, ready to be loved by someone.
“It’s a lovely day.”
“So sunny and cool.”
[8 hours pass on the sofa]
“I love how we have all these amazing escapades from the couch, yet we never go outside.”
“It’s not so good for the waistline, though.”
“Yeah. Do you care?”
“Feed me cheese, and-.”
“Keep going! We need to get to England. My wife wants more gold.”
“Bloody hell! Helga is wild. Can’t you give her something else? Maybe if you slept with her once in a whil-“
“She gets plenty of satisfaction! Keep the scull shit going.”
I dreamed of us walking through the Melbourne streets.
The city was dark. All the people walked around with candles of different shapes and sizes.
We shared a candle and watched the way all the candlelight shapes moved on the building walls.
You and I never felt so free in the ambience of no electricity, yet the city never looked so beautiful.
There was no coffee to drink, no sweets to eat, no food to feast, so we stood for a while looking at the Yarra River.
Thousands of people with candles moved along the river, over the bridges, and into the night.
We used our dying phone charge to take photos of this beautiful night.
When we awoke, the photos on our phones were all blank. You couldn’t erase the, “I love you” that escaped your lips.
A crystal chalice is topped up again and again as he ingurgitated many bottles of claret.
In a haze of inebriated numbness, he imagines seeing a nymph stepping on seashells.
When he wakes, he’s lying in the pantry covered in eggshells with the dog licking his face.
‘I love you like I love Pavlova. Will you be my Pavlova?’
‘Do you want me to be fruity and frisky? I’ll give you a double mango and a double strawberry surprise.’
‘First, let me sweep you off your feet.’
‘What!? Don’t you drop me!’
‘Oh no, you’re heavy.’
‘Stopping flapping your legs.’