Cigarette, But.

I had never seen someone eat a cigarette butt before. Much less on a Sunday, in a park, surrounded by nothing except bottle caps and nameless bugs.

“Why am I eating this again?”

“It’ll impress me.”

Without another hesitation the butt disappeared.

There wasn’t much I could do. She had raised the stakes and I had a gag reflex.

I went into a mental spasm, pregnant with anxiety that she may walk away from this deserted park with ‘hand’.

Insert a stick somewhere I shouldn’t? Is foreskin or butt hole more disgusting? Butt hole. But then I could make a joke about her only swallowing a butt whereas I had filled one with something. Something!? A stick. Too sharp. What about a cigarette butt? Too obvious. Too clichéd. How is sticking a cigarette butt up your ass in response to a random girl swallowing a cigarette butt clichéd!?

There wasn’t much I could do except pour a beer on her head and try to decipher what her breath would smell like now.

“I bet your breath is going to stink.” I loosely commented, with immediate regret.

We hadn’t even kissed, though I had seen a hint of breast as she’d bent in half to collect a 6-pack from the cool room. I wasn’t a breast man, well, not by default anyhow.

“I don’t care if my breath smells, do you?” I did, and I believed she didn’t.

“No, of course not, it’s not as if…”

With that, the girl I’d met only two hours earlier leant over and… well, you’ve all seen The Notebook. Fill in the gaps.

iPhone Note - 8/03/11- 55 Tram.

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 where you study graphic design in that hope that one day you'll do album covers for indie bands, or the packaging for a new tampon brand. Nonetheless, you smell amazing. A mixture of sex, cigarettes and Kate Moss’ new fragrance. 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 and strike a very indie match. There’s nothing romantic about that. 

Revolver With Tim Part 2 (Home)

It’s completely unstable, irresponsible, hard-out strange, that you should let him cut his pubic hair in the shower, particularly in this state.

The drain is fully clogged, grime spilling through my legs on its way to find an exit. I remember when we used to shower together; the drain was never clogged and you lathered my back with an unprecedented finesse. But here I am, on acid, trimming my junk with my flatmate’s scissors in preparation for a new body. I wonder if she’ll intuitively know where to touch, or will I have to teach her? Never been much good at teaching. I imagine it's a lack of patience, or empathy for stupidity, or something. Something with a name. Tried to teach Tim how to roll a note last night. I gave up when we starting speeding too fast and had to slow down for the cars. I must be careful not to cut myself. 

When did I become aware of my breathing? Wait. You can’t actually just become aware of something that is happening all the time, I mean, that’s like saying you didn’t know grapes grow on trees, or goats eat cicadas. I wonder if it will be this heavy when I go over to her house? If I stay the night, I am bound to snore. The anxiety is unbearable it’s enough to make anyone lose their train of thought.

I lost it. Lance Armstrong, freedom fighting, wolves, Gaza strip. Arghhh, Gaza stip. Wonder if this new one has one of those? She’s an odd girl, and Mediterranean, I think. Not that I am ignorant to the fact that the Gaza strip is not in the Mediterranean. I am not stupid. Neither is she by all accounts. Mumbled something about writing a thesis on numbers, or rain, or hard-lined ukulele unions. She's a bit nerdy, don't think she'll have a strip. So why I am bothering to...

Holy shit, you have to get out of this shower, get a packet of cigarettes and hope one of them triggers a bowel movement in you. You certainly don’t want to go over to her house fully loaded. No way. Pull yourself together. Right. Can’t handle this shit anymore. I am turning off the tap. Not before you soap. Right, the soap.

The blue Radox shower gel disappears into white foam. How?    

Driving Things.

The thought lost in the eyes of a unicorn

Appears again in a dog’s laugh.

Been cursed with the ability to see you in everything: litter, trees, book spines, stamps, tickets, postcards, quartets, umbrellas, phones, statues, lingerie, waiting room magazines. 

Been cursed with the ability to smell you in: the dampness of rain, florists, dad’s lavender patch, pub toilet soap, old pillows, salt water, seaweed, humidity, boiled rice. 

Been cursed with the ability to feel you in anything from sheets to peaches, velour to fur, water balloons to dewy grass.

I have lost your taste but your voice still echoes on walks home alone.

Reminds me that things aren’t things. Things are vehicles; vehicles for memories that have nothing to do with the things that are driving them. It’s no longer a blessing, it’s a curse.

Revolver with Tim - Part One

“There are Turkish prostitutes everywhere.”

“You’re right, Tim, vicious, evil prostitutes”, I replied, peeling myself from the velour couch. “Must be hot in here, I’m sticking.”

“Can’t feel a thing. Cigarette?”

I nod softly, all too aware that any sudden movements would startle the bouncers into consciousness, alerting them to my incomprehensibly inebriated state.

“Excuse me, can I swap you this packet of cigarettes for two of your real ones?” Tim spoke in the colour blue, like he always did when we were like this. He said I spoke in green, but I doubt if he knew at all.

The girl looked perplexed and I was almost positive that she was wise to us, perhaps even in on the whole act.

“What’s wrong with yours?”

“Cheap Indonesian shit”, Tim gurgled.

Reluctantly, the girl offered her deck in the direction of Tim’s hand and he made the exchange.

“Thankyou”, I said with absolute sincerity, locking eyes. “When all this comes crashing down, I’ll make sure you’re spared.”

Tim looked at me as if I’d made a promise I couldn’t keep, and I realised I had. We only had room for four, and with Elise and Ashley already on board, there’d be no room except on the wing. With Marlboro Light girl on one wing, we’d have to commission another weight for the second to ensure we were balanced in flight. There was no time to find anyone else, so, with an understanding look, I ushered Tim along.

“You know we can’t take her, right?”

“I know, Tim, you’re absolutely right, but she’s so cute.”

“I suppose we could use her, but for all we know, she may have a penis.”

“I never thought of that. This place is a dungeon, it’s more than likely.”

“Turkish prostitutes everywhere. Let’s get out of here.”

On the outside there seemed only one reasonable thing to do.

“It’s been a wild ride, man”, I said, pursing my lips against his contorted cheek.

“Fair thee well."

A girl lingered in my periphery wearing a short skirt and long jacket, just like the Cake song.

“No strings attached”, I whisper.

“What?”

I repeated. “No strings attached”.

“Fuck off! You’re fucked in the head.” I’d heard this before, from better looking girls, too.

“I meant you’ve got no strings attached to you, you’re clean.” 

She was clean; a cold, calculated clean. The type of clean I imagine Hitler commanded from his chambermaid.

A man approaches, looking infuriated and confused. I quickly calculate that it’s her boyfriend. He doesn’t hold my attention.

I wonder if she gets cold legs when she walks, because of that skirt and this weather. Surely she does, but warms them up when she gets home with a blanket and a hot water bottle and warm cocoa, and the breath of her boyfriend against the nape of her neck as he actions his pre-meditated plan to have foul sex in their living room while his parents sleep in the comfort of knowing that he’ll attend university the following year to study law, achieve the highest standard of excellence, perhaps a scholarship, marry a willing participant and move back to Malaysia to become King of his country, country and family. Fuck me, what is he thinking? Run, fucking run.

I push him in front of a car, the bulbar striking his kneecap.

“I’m doing you a favour, man”, I cry insanely, holding his head against the tram track, waiting for the number 16 to fly by and cut his head off. “I’m doing you a favour, man”.

I let him go when I see the fear in his eyes and I realise it’s time for bed. Surely the cops would be on their way too, and after the awful things I’ve done tonight, perhaps it’s not wise to stick around.

“Another day, man. Just don’t let your parents talk you into doing Law, for fuck’s sake. And you!”, I exclaim toward the girl, “when he offers you cocoa it’s only because he wants to have foul sex with you. I’m sorry, I have to go now. Lovely meeting you both. Wave to the dot in the sky. If we had any spare seats I’d offer one to you both. Make sure you wave.”

Butterfly Effect (An oldie)

Her mother’s ruby red lipstick was missing again, but Michelle never strayed far. Like every summer afternoon, Michelle’s slender, tanned calves were propelling her closer to the butterflies leading the garden chase. But she always returned for dinner, seated at the head of the table, leaving red stains on her mother’s good napkins.

Michelle’s habitual acts were her own, but her snippets of knowledge were Jerry’s – the next door neighbour. Six years her elder, Jerry was the burger flipper who liked to smoke his mum’s menthols on the balcony once all bedroom lights had been clapped off. It was Jerry who taught Michelle about mortality.

According to Jerry, Molly, the beloved cat placed in a cattery for two weeks, died from ‘sad head’. The separation led to anxiety and depression and the cat was found dead in its cage by a nice lady named Betsy, who assured Michelle that her cat loved her dearly, and just went to sleep awhile.

‘Sad head’ was not the only morbid thing Michelle learned from her pubescent teacher. One day Michelle announced to Jerry that she was visiting the zoo later that afternoon, and was particularly excited about the butterfly enclosure.

‘Oh cool… but be careful not to touch them! They will die’, Jerry cautioned.

‘From ‘sad head’? Like Molly?’

‘No, no, silly, from 'heavy wings'. When butterflies are touched by humans, it makes their wings heavy. They then get sick in the head and die. Understand?’

Michelle had nodded, understanding very well.

Jerry wasn’t to know, and I’ve told Michelle’s parents this dozens of times. Michelle had been struck down by a sadness which had no fake name. Her tanned calves had been touched by the old and swollen hands of Mr Griffiths and it was weighing her down. Her head must have been too heavy, too, because on that day, when her mother’s lipstick went missing again, her parents found her ruby red lips pursed against the side of the white bathtub.

Unfortunately, unlike butterflies, Michelle’s legs could not take her from harm and away from a fatal human touch. No, Michelle’s parents lost a daughter that day, one who would have grown up to use ellipses at the end of every story…

Don't Explain What Country You're In

A writer in love

Must never portray a writer in love

Just as a foul beast

Should never moonlight as a beauty

Click – the image vignetted and blurred. It has been six days since I’d had a sober hour. Squished behind card tables and the glares of hoarders, the women of the puces smiled a knowing smile. They were the same ones from the brothel, but their clothes had changed and so had their smiles. 


I dropped to the eye level of small children inspecting the bulging pockets of bulging American tourists and decided on one thing; after this final cigarette, and this next liver varnish, and the one that would follow, I would rouse myself from this drunken stupor and begin living again. I had kissed the devil, soaked in his bubbling blood and floated in his charcoal faeces for too long. Seven, ten or one virgin waited for me in Vienna, or another of the other great literary cities. There I’d have the freedom to soak in my own alcoholic, distorted and retorted way. Where I could write a novel no one would read and be content with no one ever reading it. Perhaps seeking no one ever to read it. All the while on the brink of conversation and discussion of things passed without ever mumbling a word.
Sure, it would be an utterly lonely and tiresome existence.