Glimmer Street

Find that spot smack bang

between numbness and madness.





I never get tired of my hands filling up with wet that I wipe off on my legs in the first few minutes of rendezvous. The way he steps slow at me and our faces light up like Christmas looking so sad and happy at the same time. We both uncurl slow, slow like armadillos in streaks of forest sun filtering through a thick canopy. Every word we speak makes the other soften and ache though we listen patient, listen warm to all the stuff and the fluff from our most broken moments when we were tight up in little balls, him staring at walls hating the way he loved the way the knife always sliced him right up in the quiet. And me writing and drinking and drinkedy drunkedy writing every stupid thought I’d had using a name I’d give him in the times I hated him the most with cigarette ash tumbling over the pages like glitter.

I never get tired of the sicks but then the glads for the yucky ways we’d both always try to keep ourselves warm but did bad at it. The way his face squeezes up sad to meet his nose for my hands that wave around like an opera singer with a machine gun. He keeps his animations and details left packed up in their box for me because he is nice like that and also because he’s not good at saying the words that make him see him from the outside looking in, all the splinters in his scone shining like a high rises windows in the night. He slithers like a lizard, slides to all the nooks of dark to hide with his shivers and endeavours of no one finding him while all the sandwiches get eaten by everyone else. I dance like a bushfire.

We spew the caramel gooeys out when all else is done, all the silly things we’d found that reminded us of us in all the tightened moments and our insides curl and coil like two pythons in spring while we do it. He tells me about logs on the beach how he finds me in them swimming with no clothes on first thing in the morning with the sun shining like nectar. And me, I find him in cous cous it’s why I keep some in a jar.  It always starts so slow and ends so fast and I never get tired of it. It is exactly the way I like to be fucked.

Voyeur’s Voyeur


Between two tables of talkative folk a dark-skinned boy sits with a bowl of hot chips. He takes a chip, dips it in the sauce, pops it in his mouth, chews it down. He looks around as he chews, looks at people, watches people moving around and talking as he dips his chips into sauce. I watch him from behind a haloumi burger, the voyeur of a voyeur between two tables of talkative folk and I smile with sadness for the vulnerability in that mix of his contentedness and his aloneness.

“We are going to have the best holiday ever and Mummy’s gonna plan the whole thing, Daddy’s not going to make a decision at all,” says a lady with a very made up face to a two year old in a pram at one of the talkative tables. The Daddy in question appears to be busy watching a kelpie lick a rock.

“Babe?” She goes loud out her nose. “Harlow wants a babychino.” Daddy becomes startled and digs into his back pocket.

My eyes fall back on the dark-skinned boy, still going at his chips and I take a bite from my burger.