Winter 2019 at the corner of Collins Street and King Street, Melbourne.
You walked in the busy city, stopping to wait for the right light.
A quick snap below of what’s above, reminds you of Winter’s day.
Looking back, you stare at the image of Melbourne town.
There is a silent way about the grey; a stillness in the sky.
Perhaps you will again see Melbourne moving on a winter’s day.
Living in the middle of nowhere can feel like a lonely place to be.
He sits at the table dreaming of the sea, as odd noises are coming from the upstairs bathroom.
Curious, he runs up to see the bathtub has overflowed seawater onto his favourite tiles.
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.
You wake up in terror as a toilet brush dances around you. For some reason you think the torch beside your bed is a gun and that you can kill it; you cannot kill a plastic brush.
Baffled about your predicament, you decide to pull the covers over your head. You can still hear the bristles, and the handle is knocking against your bed frame.
Unsure what to do, you throw the covers off, jump off the bed, and hide in the corner.
The toilet brush gathers momentum, lunges at your face and you scream profanities as you wonder why the toilet brush is tangerine.
In the distance, you hear, “Anna, Anna, wake up!”
Disoriented and sleepy, you say, “Huh, what the! I was having a- huh?”
You partner looks down at you worried, “You had a bad dream-“
“What is that on the Telly!?”
“Anna, don’t worry. It’s only Donald Trump.”
Through tired sobs you say, “I dreamt he was a toilet brush…”
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.’