Monday Night in Melbourne

(A snippet from the poem 'Monday night in Melbourne')

His hands shake but that's just the way they've always been. He drinks too much coffee but that's not why they shake. He likes the warmth of the cup between his hands. He cradles the mug's heat and chews his words. He doesn't like to say much. He prefers passion to burn in the background ...

... When their hands clenched finally those fingers wound around each other and became twisted like wire knots in a cyclone fence. There was force in the tangle of fingers. Those hands gripped and in the grip, words ground against knuckles.

Nothing is said ...

Nothing Much

She's sewing the mooching.
And she's twisting each knot with knuckles that are about to burst.

Her luke warm tea mulls a dry mouth, pastes it back together

and the radio crackles nice and deep into
the fragments that are numbly twisted in.

Risotto on an island of hope.

I wish I could make all the outfits I dream up. I’d be wearing a black pant suit tonight and we would build ice cream towers to reach the sky. You run me over senseless, I’m the white lines and you're swerving like a drunk.

There’s an over flow tonight and she stashed some of hers away. It’s a secret though. Don’t tell. I’m closing shop. We’re making risotto on an island of hope and I’m dancing on fairy floss, kind of fast. I dreamed of bouncing through the clouds, but slower - I’ve seen them from air planes lots.

So she’s killing the dead over and over and she thinks it’s funny and she’s laughing. We know the real story. That girl is crazy as a lark on crack but she sings just like a bird.