Join me for the aftermath This after life of cheers Life after Leftovers With no beers I hated them anyway So please stay.
the Fitzroy Flasher
art and ideas: photos and words: mainly and sometimes.
Join me for the aftermath This after life of cheers Life after Leftovers With no beers I hated them anyway So please stay.
Bring back the old days: When we had progress going for us Idealised hope for inclusivity Cos we knew more and thought more And saw the world of difference and embraced it And I was sorely mistaken: I thought you embraced me Yet your arms fell to your side and my body slipped away And I fell …
Sleep-ins foil good intentions As the sun gives rise and servitude to Christmas Day I flick the kettle on and spy The sacrificial honeyed ham In an overloaded fridge That strains to cool the Offerings that hours later Will fill a lace tablecloth And the good plates And the Tupperware And landfill And… My spiral …
How many memories begin with Cicadas, Or dancing Santa’s deflating to bend double, Kissing dirt whilst reindeers staunchly idle, And lawn mowers hit gum nuts that crackle, And the grass smells fresh and sweet. A Christmas cacophony good enough to eat.
Delivered hard, In short words, And long pauses. To my surprise She’s caught me: Full headlights Frayed rope Doe eyes and Misplaced passion. A photogenic instant, Outside of any comfort: My abandoned hope A heated cattle prong A silent fear, this swan song. That I think will end me. I want to hear ‘I love …
Capitalism is a disease A religion A cancer to society A form of…. A lie.
Like mildew on leather
I was musty with trust
That antecedent
Precursive verse –
Of the unknown:
We laughed, I was laughing
Weathering busty stances
A rocking horse
A silhouette
The shadows danced
As shadows do
Must settling
Trust too
Like angel dust
On every surface.
A construct of exchange is in my pocket
They say it burns a hole and so it seems
It scorches the landscape of my fingers
And as I deftly touch count the amount
Of loose change I have for an ‘avo’ on toast’
I come across a scene you couldn’t dream of.
And I realise that I revere this evil curse,
But even worse, that I’ve failed to see,
You cannot return wood to a tree.
A six pack of Canadians
On the side of the road
One can out and open
He gently lays it down
And straightens to walk
With an uneasy swagger
His tobacco red fingers
On tobacco grey beard
And on his face anger
I grudgingly approach
And our eyes meet
So I nod and he smiles
His faint strength shames
Me and my passive evasion.
A dull day afoot on wet gravel,
Tyres whisking shallow puddles,
I feel a teasing warmth,
Beyond thick cloud, and
The crisp of the air –
You are there.
You are there.
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