Fastie’s Witches Hats


I found Fastie out the back, he was dragging a piece of chipboard by its corner from the darkness of one of his many sheds exploding with junk. His gut was ripe, the bottom of it dipping down under his shirt misbuttoned from the nipples down. His eel face was drooping underneath hair white like a Maccas cleaners’ mop tendrils with eyes that could set bull ants on fire like evil kids with magnifying glasses. His Subaru was fucked up, the front and sides around the bonnet removed, like a mouth with no teeth and pushed in like a pie, it’s why he’d parked it round the back I guessed.

“You knocked down  one of my witches hats on the driveway,” he said stopping for a breath, then five more and he was really going for it.

“Are you ok?” I asked and he scowled at me like a devil man when I asked him so.

“I don’t know where you’re fucking dumb or just can’t drive,” he spat between heaves.

I stood with a hand to my mouth to compose myself, a giggle wanted to breach it’s trap. Finally I let it. “Like you can talk,” I said, pointing to the Subaru.

I gave him my rent, watched him count it and then walked away quite pleased with myself.


Boy From Townsville Called Blue


Remember climbing trees babe?

Giddy with the flirts

and I needed to do a wee.

We were in Hamilton

where people with too much money live.

Council lights were bleeding orange

and real estate signs wore schizophrenic smiles.

I ran a hot yellow stream into the gutter,

and after you said where’dya go?

You were in up in the tree in the park

and I was lookin up at you.

I said that driveway there

between the boat and the Land Rover

and your cheeks reached your eyes as I pointed

like I was your angel.

And candles coudla melted

without being lit.