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First Dinner after Lockdown
"I heard the QR codes get stored."
"That's not true. The government
has better things to do than to hoard."
"It was the loneliness that I could not stand."
"The soul-crushing realisation that
all of this giant endless thing is unplanned."
Forks and knives clink and clatter against porcelain as a backbeat for the chatter.
"Kevin and I have been bingeing Tiger King
have you seen it? You surely must."
"No, I haven't. I'd rather plunge a dagger
in my heart and die from the rust."
"We had to teach the kids from home."
"I managed to convince a girl to go on a date
no crime committed. She was in my five-kilometer zone."
The conversation was frenzied and merry,
filled with cliches and fear.
Heads. legs and faces all hairy
All of them held the other nine so dear
A blithe toast was raised
A lifetime of friendship praised
Smiles so wide, their cheeks burst
It wasn't their last, but it was a certain kind of first.
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L'eau Catacomb
The wind chills my bones
through the dark, black thick soup
Wading out to the other side.
Gentle, gently, gentler
I let go of our gift.
The long night encloses over me
No more torment, no more loss
except for you, my beau
You will carry this cross
of forgiveness and waste.
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Haiku in B Flat
Wet, swirling, freezing
dark, powerful, inky loch
frosted glaze, choke death.
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Malvern Afternoons
I know your curves
when I think about it
I see you, see you, see you
never to be forgotten
Whenever I feel it coming on
I can feel your chest on mine
Smile versus smile
two-headed doona monster.
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Blackness Poem
Blackness.
I stop hit by the truck of your memory -
A memory no longer, but a feeling of searing light
I feel it and pass it on
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In Spite of All the Danger
"So, what did you think?"
"It's nice to see you too, Paul."
"Oi; respect your elders, Georgie boy, or I'll cripple ya! What did you think of the band?"
"I liked John's sideboards."
Paul locked eyes with George. "I'll murder you, Harrison!" George felt Paul's arm around his neck; adrenaline filled his bloodstream; as quickly as he was wearing his friend's arm, it was gone.
"Careful, Macca, people will think you're from the Dingle" A hand appeared on Paul's shoulder
"And what's wrong with the fine people of the Dingle, Mr. Lennon?"
"They don't produce many rockers, Mr.McCartwheels. Who's this then? Taken up with primary kids, now have we, Paul?"
"Is that meant to be me you're talking about?" George took a step towards John.
"Easy soldier, it was just a joke." John winked.
Paul stuck his head in front of George's.
"This is my friend George that I was telling you about John, love" John sized George up and down like a tailor inspecting a nearly finished creation.
"When you said friend, I thought you meant a fully grown one, Paul; so what did you think of the show, young man."
"I think you need a lead guitarist,"
"He can talk then, Paul?"
"Of course, he can talk!"
Two familiar headlights appeared in a wall of black. Paul flagged the bus driver. The lights disappeared and then reappeared with a flash that brought all three boys' arms to their eyes.
The earth-shattering hiss of a piston squealed through the back of your teeth. The bus's livery green and cream panel door opened.
"Thanks for almost fucking blinding us, driver!"
"What's wrong, John?"
Paul put his hands into John's lower back and pushed him towards the spiral stairwell leading upstairs.
"Three, please" his smile spread across his face until it hurt at the corners of his mouth.
"Get on" The bus driver heaved forward with the bus as if took off; the whoosh of the nematic doors whisked past the seat of George's pants; it felt as his skin-tight drainpipe jeans were rustling like a sheet on a clothesline.
The sound of Chelsea boots clomping on steel stairs could be heard over the engine as the three young boys started to step in unison. They appeared at the top of the stairwell like a three-headed monster. John moved as if the balls in heels had springs that pushed him down the aisle. He turned and fell on the back seat. Paul sat to his right on the second last seat, George to John's left. They all faced each other, like knights at an invisible round table.
John undid his western tie, he imagined he looked like Carl Perkins as he fixed his duck's arse hair in the bus's window, which was moonlighting as a mirror this evening. Paul looked at George, and tilted his head towards John. George's stomach clenched and turned to iron. Paul raised his eyebrows so high they looked as if they were about to take off.
"George wants to play you a song, John."
Paul's words hung in the air. Time and space on the bus seemed to slow down to a standstill.
"Does he? I'm not buying a ticket" John folded his arms across his chest tightly.
"This one will be on the house." Paul looked across the aisle at George. "Go on, George, show him what you can do.” Paul turned to where John's case was and handed it to George.
"Hey, I only just bought that you swine!" John punched Paul’s shoulder.
George sat with the lead singer's guitar in his lap.
Paul leaned forward with his forearms resting on his thighs.
"Go on, George, play."
George flicked open the latches on his guitar case. The thudding clicks filled him with a low hum of excitement. He pushed open the lid like an archaeologist opening a tomb, slowly, expertly. The body lacquered in a dark Cadillac green, with a mother of pearl pickguard that sparkled in the artificial lights of the bus as he pulled the instrument out of its hiding spot.. The guitar's wood and paint made a strangled, muffled sound against the underarm of George's leather jacket. .
John pulled a Woodie out of his pack and lit it. Staring at George through his own personal plume of smoke.
George noticed the air was cold suddenly. The tips of his fingers felt frostbitten. He looked up at Paul, who had a reassuring smile and wink for him. George placed his iced digits on the maple fretboard in a D chord formation and plucked the strings.
His right hand flowed up and down the stings with surgical precision. He closed his eyes, and his hands did the work—downstroke, downstroke, upstroke. The notes flew from the Gallotone Champion and seeped into the brains of the other two boys. Paul sat transfixed, his suede boot-tapping in perfect time. John undid his crossed and arms and leaned forward to see what George was doing with his hands. They moved in ideal symmetry. George finished the song. Silence: George forced his head up. He looked at Paul.
"Well?"
"I've never heard anyone play Raunchy before; how did you learn that?" John lit another Woodie.
"I bought the record and listened to it."
"You can do that, can ya?" John leaned back again, one palm behind his head, his arm forming a perfect triangle.
"I can learn by ear, yeah" George felt the cold drain away from him and his hands. His heart slowed to a 4/4 beat.
John pushed his lower lip out slightly and nodded his head as if he was convinced himself of an argument, he had been having within his own mind.
"Alright, Georgie boy, next show you can fill in."
"OK Great!" George smiled;
Paul shot a look that was more of a warning than a kill shot.
"Or whatever, you know."
"OK, this is me, lads" John grabbed his guitar from George, and strapped it to his back
"Auf wiedersehen, filthy English." John sat on the rail and slid out of view.
"This is going to be great!" Paul was beaming.
"It should be a laugh."
The bus sidles up to its next stop with a jerk.
"See you on Monday, George, my boy."
"See you then."
Paul grabbed his guitar and skipped down the stairs.
The stars seemed to be bright tonight, George thought to himself as the bus pulled away down the road.
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Black Sea
Remember when we first kissed, my love
in a world all our own
The excitement of an adventure beginning
your electricity gathering in your iris
my heartbeats would twirl and flutter
into the ether of a billion gone before
and a billion yet to come
You were called to set sail
That was seven months ago
You were due back in three
Churning of the sea matches
that of the pit of my stomach
mangled with worry, hate, and sorrow
the unyielding blackness of torment
that washes over me
dragging me out to your sea
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Murder on the Chopping Board
Crafted in the irons of a Japanese mountain.
Smooth, steely, and sharp.
It calls to you to have it in your hand.
Hanging from the wall
like a steel giant shark's tooth.
Grinning like the Cheshire cat
glinting light throughout the room
it cuts through orange guts
to make it bloom.
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A Dating Story
Daniel hated internet dating. He had been on five or six different apps for three years and had enough. He was not getting replies. Being stood up. The woman that showed up with no money at all three weeks ago was his favorite. He paid for drinks for most of the night, and then she gave him a lecture about how he was an alcoholic and needed to get his life together. It still made him angry to think about. The gall! Did he want to delete these apps, though? It's not like he was out clubbing anymore at the age of thirty-nine. His best friend had met his wife on Tinder. Tinder! Getting someone to show up to a first date seemed like a bridge too far for Daniel at this point. Daniels's phone vibrated in his hand as he stared at the ceiling of his bedroom. It frightened him. He pulled the screen into his eye line. A new notification on his phone burnt into his retinas. It read next to the Tinder logo; you have a match.
"Great, another opportunity to be disappointed." Thought Daniel.
He sank into his chestnut leather couch. His phone was now in his eye line again. Fingerprint, swipe down, tap, tap again—these muscle memory motions, more depressing than the exhilaration once promised by nerds in mum jeans. Then it was there in front of him. One of the most beautiful faces he had ever seen. Stunning. Daniel was stunned.
He closed the app and reopened it. To make sure he wasn't hallucinating. As he reponed the app, he saw it. Not only was the match still there, but there was also a massage from her. Bianca. Bianca was her name. That seemed like a name Daniel could get used to.
'Daniel and Bianca" he wanted to hear how the names sounded side by side.
The way friends would say their names together.
"Are Bianca and Daniel coming to the dinner party?"
Yeah, it sounded better with Bee's name first. Oh, he would call her Bee. He would be the only person who did.
She would have a great group of friends; that would be a refreshing change from his idiot friends. Daniel loved his friends, but he sometimes craved a more intellectual conversation about the mental decay of society and what was to blame for it. Television? Fast food? Social Media? Social media, that was the root of all of society's problems. Daniel had seen a Netflix documentary about it, so he knew he was right. They would alternate social occasions between his fun friends and Bee's more adult friends. That sounded right to Daniel, perfect even.
Bee will be into movies but not horror movies. Maybe she could like horror movies but not force Daniel to watch them. Bee will into trash films but with a sense of irony, but not go on about it. Like she will suggest that they watch Above the Law with Steven Seagall and make jokes all the way through. Then the next night wants to watch a Fellini film. Bee will get it. Daniel will understand her, he thought. Unless she wants to watch a horror movie, she can do it with his dumb friends, while he goes to an arthouse cinema with her smart ones.
Daniel stopped unpacking the dishwasher. Should he message his mate about what he should write back to her? Nah, he should do it on his own. What would their place be like? Would he move into hers, or would she move into his? He had a three-bedroom house that was suitable for children. She would have a two-bedroom fabulous apartment in Fitzroy. He would probably spend a lot of time there early on in the relationship, and then they could do the seachange when she was ready for kids. Maybe they wouldn't have kids. Perhaps they would work on their individual artistic projects and move to Spain.
Bee will be politically aware but not in people's faces about it. So when it's just the two of us, we will bitch about how terrible the Liberal part is and how the average Australian identifies with Scott Morrison when he is obviously such a fucking moron. In public, however, Bee will identify with people, ask them why they hold their position, and lightly suggest walking in someone else's shoes and then deciding about the future of our society, instead of only thinking about tax.
Sexually: she will be adventurous but monogamous. Bee will talk about inviting a second girl into the bedroom, but it will only ever be pillow talk to get Daniel aroused. She will know that he loves the idea of an open relationship. However, Bee will know that deep down that Daniel is highly jealous and would feel threatened by someone else in the bedroom. So she will have no problem with giving head but doesn't necessarily want to head herself. Maybe on a special occasion like a birthday, she may ask for it.
Bee would ultimately complete Daniel, and Daniel, of course, would meet Bee. Two sides to one coin. A team that was up against the world together. Back to back fighting off the foot clan, like an in love Michaelangelo and Raphael. Daniel would be Raphael. The Lennon-McCartney of couples. The dynamic duo fighting boredom and loneliness side by side, scaling up their batrope of love on the wall of romance. Mick and Keef swaggering their way past other couples. Curling their collective top lip to show the others they could not get this kind of satisfaction—the mega-powers of love, The Hulkster and Macho Man of desire. Daniel could not wait.
Daniel picked up his phone, pressed his fingerprint to the fingerprint pad. There was a message from Bee.
"Sorry I accidentally swiped on you; good luck with your search."
Daniel put down his phone.
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Poppa's House
Poppa's House
I felt you here yesterday, I'm
sure of it, just for a second, The flicker of
you from the corner of my eye, all hulking
body and grey. Your call. "G'day Boy:
rang in my ear. A slight waft of lavender from
Nana's homemade petal bags.
I could taste the salt and vinegar of shared,
secret meals for an instant. I cried as I felt the handle
to your home behind me.
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