it’s the strut, cyber-space attitude
throwing around repetition
letting me know
that you’re so much better
you own the metal
you got the math
[on a calculator]
and you’re so fucking white
from sitting under fluorescent lighting
damn, you’re a hot motherfucker

got this ideal
that drugs and drinking are cool
[hell yeah, I do a slab a night bitch]
that sitting tapping these little keys
somehow makes it all worthwhile
and that bottle of vermouth
or wait, absinthe for the artistically [dis]able[d]
just makes you sexy
with that delightful red bulbous nose,
bloodshot eyes, gut hanging over edge of trousers,
dribble escaping fouled mouth
slipping over edges of chin to stained white bond t-shirt
or no, you’re hardcore, my mistake,
let me go back

slipping over edges of chin to stained black bond t-shirt

and who the hell cares who made the damn thing
you look HOT
and those pathetic ethnic sons-of- snort-fart-burp-slump
just yeah, I’m looking at you bitch
over the cyber network,
I’m gonna fuck you over, I can do what I please
I’m so scary, I’m gonna, I’m gonna

what?

internet looove you, sugar-pea,
you’re my sun, my moon, my stars,
all those insanely natural things
that I haven’t seen in ten years….
the photo you sent of yourself
reminds me of the sky with your blue, blue eyes,
sand like a velvety beach
[I’ve got a postcard somewhere someone sent, some loser]
that glistens like your hair,
and your skin,
like this empty bottle of bourbon
leaves me wanting more
not actually remembering the touch
as it slid down my throat
or rather
as my hands slid over your thighs

memories the size of a megabyte
that last the lifetime of a hard drive

I think, I think, this is real……

oh.

fuck.




‘i was jus playin round wit u’


no wonder I’m not quite right in the head,
not a surprise at all that I’m so damn useless
all these fantasies, magically construed superhumans,
geniuses on hand, on call to satisfy you all,
these cutting razors spurting blood over the screen,
people fucking dead decaying motherfuckers,
screaming abuse from a silent CAPS LOCK zone…

at my place there’s a baby grandfather clock
in the kitchen constantly ticking its addiction,
two dogs outside bark every so often at a few peacocks,
three cats wait to be hugged, kissed and fed,
ten horses chew grass, two horses lick the last of their molasses,
seventy cattle settle down for the night,
the cows picking up their calves from secret spots,
chooks crow to each other and pick trivial fights,
two kookaburras sit outside my window and laugh at my futility,
a willy-wag-tail teases a mouse away from its children,
four families of wallabies graze on lawn
while one lonely, fully-grown but not quite sure woman sits here
and types this, pondering why the hell does she do it,
what can she offer and why is she so angry?

but mostly, why is she alone?
 

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