She saw my combover, her hourglass body - Milk

It was 12.53am in North Fitzroy. I was at the service station buying my dairy fix. You arrived out of nowhere and parked your little red Honda Civic beside me. You weren't expecting to see anyone out this late. I could tell by the old T-shirt and faded jeans you were wearing. I averted my gaze so you wouldn't be embarrassed. Were you?

You bounced over to the petrol pump and started filling your car. You tucked your brown hair behind your ear and looked over at me standing on the corner with my 4 Litres. I smiled and walked off. It was too late for idle conversation.

Revolver Girl #1

“Show me them”. Lift your shirt, high above you heard. Nipples, here we go… now the whole thing…

I took a hold of you from behind when you were standing at the bar; gin and tonic, from memory. When you turned your breath stung my face, too many caps I’m guessing. After all, it was Revolver, and eight in the morning. Little did I know that I’d be taking off your shirt in the backstreets of Northcote only hours later. Bright, broad daylight, casting evil shadows on my face as I begged for your pants to be removed. Any more will give me away, but I get the feeling that more than a handful of men have played this part on one of your Saturday nights. 

Smith St Girl

Cropped blonde hair, thin Vogue cigarette. The voice of a schoolgirl – one that hasn’t had its sinews broken, yet. A loopy, softly spoken “latte, please”. 

The notes you were taking from a book on Psychology blew to the ground by my feet, and as you stood straight I noticed the breasts that been sucked back into your chest by poor posture. When you left I noticed the torn piece of paper on your saucer, and I was sure the number wasn’t for me.

Bike Girl - Northside

Long limbed, red helmet, tassels on the handlebar. You flew by my window at incredible speed and stopped at a set of lights not far from my doorstep. I gave chase, I saw your cropped hair and yellow jumper closer. When I got back to my room I lit a cigarette, played the first three bars of ‘Blackbird’, the only three bars I know, and looked at the time. 4:45pm, Tuesday.

Next week I will stand out the front of my house from 4:30-5:30pm; I’ll be the flaming cherry hidden in the shadows. If you see me, stop and wave.

Five minutes

There is a five minute window

On waking

Where I find myself losing to the thought of you.

There is a five minute window

When I’m dancing

Where I’m excited by the thought of you.

There is a five minute window

When I’m waiting

That stops me from thinking of you.

 

I should wait more

And wake less

And never mention dancing again.

Once, twice.

I know you won't care, but I still remember. That kiss, that rooftop. It was late. We were drunk. Was there a bear? Yes, a bear. A large bear, covered in green fake grass. You took my hand and led me away from everyone else. You took me behind that large green bear, to where no-one could see. You held a finger to your lips. I nodded. You smiled. We kissed. Your lips were soft. It was a kiss I'd dreamed about once. Ok, twice. It was our secret.

I kissed those lips for the next few weeks. You came to see me at work. We kissed. We went to a Festival together. We spent a whole night dancing, kissing, then spent the morning on a hill, watching the sun rise slowly over the mountains, sitting amongst discarded beer cans. You rested your head on my shoulder and kissed my cheek. Once. Twice.

The next night I came to find you at your tent. You weren't there. It was New Years Eve. We were meant to stand together. Wait, kiss together when the clock struck midnight and the coloured fireworks would burst over our heads. I had dreamed about it once. Twice. I looked for you everywhere. I never found you. You never answered your phone. The New Year came in. I was alone.

I later saw you in photographs from the Festival on the shoulders of some guy.

Was he your New Year's kiss then?

Fig.2

I watch her from a distance, on that swing.

Those smooth slender legs that used to wrap themselves around my waist.
Those arms that used to wrap themselves around my neck.
Those perfect lips that used to wrap themselves around my Own.

Her Summer dress billows in the wind, yellow hair trails behind like a shimmering flag. The pendulum motion has me in a trance. She swings back and forth, back and forth. My heart beats faster. She travels higher. It is like a beautiful song. Silent to all but me. Impulses can no longer to be contained. I stand and walk towards her, caught in my own reverie.

But wait. I know this song. I know what really swings over there. That is nothing more than a bewitching Siren. Alluring and dangerous. A beautiful embodiment of bullshit stories.

I turn and leave.

Was.

I remember you sent me a text, saying that your knees were sore from the shower. I told you I was a writer, but never what sort. I don’t think you ever thought of a journalist, or buddy journalist, as a writer and you made me recite one of ‘my’ poems. I chose a Poe and you bought it. We slept together twice more that night before I left for work.

When I arrived at the café I drank a smoothie and asked my boss some questions about my penis. I’d never slept with a girl before, much less three times without a condom, and it was starting to resemble a purple-dye mushroom. By the time I got home I’d forgotten your name. I think it was Christie. You lived in an apartment near the Yarra, and you still don’t know I was a virgin.

For Mons.

And a feeling of sadness comes over me,
that is not akin to pain.
And resembles sorrow only,
as the mist resembles vain.

Coffee

Strange flourish you have when you pour the milk, like an artist flicking paint on a willing participant. Huge heavy eyelids reveal and hide tiny sultanas intermittently. I can't tell if this is part of the courting, but I gather from the free coffee that you think I am cute. 

I'm assuming you never got the poem I wrote on the napkin either, as you never rang. Perhaps you knew what I'd done in the rear toilet only an hour before, or perhaps you merely thought I was cute; just cute. 

I see you riding your bike from time to time, along the streets by my house. One day i'll buy you a potato cake and a Diet Coke, and we can sit on the swings in the park down the road. If you want I will steal some of my Mum's vodka, and we can make a mixer. I'll tell you stories of my sporting achievements and prowess on a skateboard. You can read me notes jotted down in your workbook when the cafe has a lull, and tell me of lovers past. 

You'll never find out what I really want, as you never rang.

Writing Paper

Noses aren’t just for scratching

Remember when they fell asleep touching

Never waking from my breathing

Only shouts and near screaming.

 

Gas can’t be just for driving -

It helped me light this burning hand. 

Same Circles

He’s perfect for you; you run in parallel circles, so at some house party soon he will no doubt find you. Perhaps you’ll be a little high, or a little drunk, and he’ll say the right thing, and you’ll find his smell and skin colour exotic and you will kiss. The kiss will strike something in you, like it always did when we kissed, and together you will leave. I won’t feel anything on the news of this happening, because in my mind it’s destined to happen.  

Tram Chick

Dark skinned, pierced nose, tapping your feet, probably to The Strokes. You nearly set fire to your cardigan as I watch. I’ve never seen a girl with a Zippo before. Where are you coming from? Probably RMIT University, studying graphic design under the false pretense that you may end up doing album covers, or the packaging for a new tampon brand. Nonetheless, you smell amazing. A mixture of sex, cigarettes and Kate Moss’ scent. I wonder how many times a week you eat at Lentil, and whether you admit to the fact that you once loved Jack Johnson.

You’re the dark skinned girl, with the pierced nose. You smell great, but given the chance, I’d take some of that lighter fluid to your clothes. 

There’s nothing romantic about that.