Winnfields on the dash
petrol in the tank
a black market
HO Ford
New Extractors
(pacemaker)
Chino's and
Chelsea Boots
Driving with the windows
down on the old Hume
47o with a slight calling
of precipitation
dropped a gear and
left a combi on a grade
2SM on the radio
Bang a fist
"Bloody Oath Mate!"
grin a cocky snarl
rocketing along
the speedo needle
high
Big Set of Boots
biting the road
and miles to go
for Melbourne

...

ECHOES
I am just passing through
places I have been
to play a note or two
for those gentle
and kind souls who
have captured my heart
and soothed my lonely days…
you have heard my music
and know my voice well,
there were so many things
I had to tell.
but I will soon be stilled
leaving only faint echoes
passing in the wind.

FREEDOM
what price freedom?
I know it well.
It is a window in a cell...
with walls to keep obsession out.
Yes, freedom is a lonely place -
and trust (?) It seems I quit that race -
won by those who once had hope,
won by those who compromised
their freedom for a deal.
Walking hand-in-hand with those they chose-
both captive creatures to their vows-
for better or worse - for life or death?
but, I shall never make that deal, for I remain imprisoned here,
surrounded by my walls of fear -

Left.

To see the girl with a
storm in her eye, on
the edge of a cyclonic spiral
which descends on us like
Neptune’s monstrous finger
scooping depths of the ocean
dug and spattered across the land
a whole world held dumb in the calming core
a multitude of weathered men
sheltering beneath the telly
while the torrent lashes outside their door
while a spinning calamity surrounds them

Right.

My eyes will tell no lies.
I'm not the angel you think me to be.
I never mean to disguise
the flaws I wish I could rid of me.

Its just another shame
the secret I won't reveal with words.
The wildness that I can't tame
that turns me into a caged bird.

The demons in my eyes
are born of lust I can't control.
A place where true love dies
and my reality unfolds.

I can smell the teas sweet
bitter scent
hear the spoons touch
on the cups lip
inquisitve face of dog
at her side
the robe tied
the television morning
show blaring
the sunlight falling
in with the summer
swoon of heat
and melodic evening
rains

Third floor windows...shone that brilliant light
nearby was the Bomarc old installation
by the shitty trailer park
the pines were fifteen feet high
..............dressed in our pj's
early
fighting each others egos
and the dynamics of the see
all staff
we took our dispensed meds
..at our night snacks
watched telly
and slid into the lah lah land
of drooling dreams
save night checks
till coffee time at seven

I've seen and heard
the whims of liars in coats,
the grand manipulators
who try to rock the boat,

They prance about on stage,
delivering their promises
and then discard their words.
They snort at a thousand curses.

I witness them, hunting for votes
that fools will give in full support.
Without an eye to see the truth,
their history, a broken record.

The only reason
i'm still here
is for you.

Don't tell me this has been done before
in Shakespeare
in romanticism
in the world
for I would easily tie a rope
around my own neck
not to be here anymore.

You can call that cliche
until you're standing by the grave
of a young man
yet to experience the world
have the audacity to
call it cliche then.

I am fine.

I'm a blue spot on the sky

and the planes

they drag the ocean's salt

a wet mattress

onto the panoramic sand.

It would be deafening

                      if everyone

      spoke to me together.

but then again, how else

do clouds