Beautiful World

We live in a beautiful world,

it is a great shame that it will soon be gone.

Air conditioning in summer

and four wheel drives for the school run,

seem like a poor trade

for happily ever after, son.

Tommy Boller

Little Tommy B

had a cock to his knee,

when he took it out tonight

he gave everyone a fright,

then he dropped it and took a pee,

and two small dogs drowned.

Satan

Vladimir Putin is Satan,

he bans everything gay, while he is fucking Russia up the arse.

He's given it over to the orthodox church.

Have you seen those shots with him relaxing with his body guard? 

Gay gay gay gay gay.

A Sick Mind

A sick mind, is a good thing, it will think of interesting things, it will make the world have greater spin, it will make beige look even more beige than it did before, when you compare it with sick thing law. 

A sick mind is never bad, or even sad, but it could indeed be plaid. It is creativity had. It is black, yes it is, funny to its life enhancing knees, serious enough to make you say gee, turning convention on its ears, just for the colour and the cheers, making life more interesting by half, even providing a laugh.

And it makes the conservatives shit their pants, which can only be a good thing, watch them dance, at all the things that they can’t chance, what’s against their sentimental epitaph, looking forward, not looking back, which makes the conservatives quack, quack, quack.

Then we can laugh and laugh and laugh, as progressive thoughts flood the world, making life better for all concerned, interesting things, things of beauty, and things to learn, and the world is free of all that negative churn, and we all move forward, kicking off the faux shackles of conservative concern.

A sick mind makes us laugh, makes us suck in breath and makes us think, gives us beautiful things, writes us stories that makes us glow, paints us pictures that light up the world, and poetry that makes our hearts explode.

Conservative thinking only ever says no.

Unless it is some aspirational idea of wealth 

Never for society’s health

Or some other way of getting ahead, 

bugger you Jack you bought poverty on yourself,

nothing to do with my privileged place in this,

then they say yes.

1DA McG1da

Ida McGida, my lovely old aunt

she liked the girls, she liked their curves

she liked what they had under their skirts

she only ever had lady friends, after her husband died.

I'm sure she loved him, I'm sure she cried,

but after he'd gone only the girls she spied.

That wasn’t talked about of course, it was a different world way back then, but even my mother thought it was true, and that isn’t something she would normally do.

My lovely great aunt, who adored my mum, and who adore me as well. She was married for 25 years, to a man with whom she very much loved. 

She had a gay best friend, and she had a lot of other buddies who were, let’s say, arty types, and I have photos of all of them, looking very much like more than friends.

My mother told me many years later, that maybe my gayness came from her, down the maternal line, and if it did I’d be very please, I couldn’t think of anything I rather it be.

Ida loved Billy, yes she did, all the years that 

they were wed, 25 during which he was devoted,

spoken about by everyone as a really good bloke,

In the end, when the doctor messed up his pills,

and Billy fell fatally ill, reading quietly in the lounge,

Ida called the doctor and, inconsolably, tore him down.

Belinda, the Cuntless, Houghton

Belinda Houghton has no cunt, she stopped eating and it fell out.
Then it chased her down the street, clacking at her heals, with its big yellow teeth. 

Its red, red gums, swollen like the tyres from a cartoon car's wheels, making her teeth look like the saddest picket fence you ever did see, unevenly spread and wobbling dangerously.

She was like a barbie doll down there, the biggest hole of despair,
bones sticking through her skin, places for disease to get in.
A crunch, crunch here and a clack, clack there, between her legs nothing but air. 

Bones a walking barely holding true, and mouth that never stops talking, not for me, not for you. Yap, yap, yap. Yap, yap, yap, debilitation has not reduced her mastication of hot air.

The DJ Blew My Mind

The DJ blew my mind, dancing under the flashing lights, floating on the good vibes, with sweat dribbling down my leg, my face, the back of my neck. I'm inside my head, the world has disappeared, the beat is fresh, beating in my heart, and my ears, and beating deep down in the depth of my soul. 

My eyes are closed. I'm alone.

I'm in the zone.

Just me... and 100 of my closest friends.

Communing together on the latest tune.

Then another track. I love this song.

So many songs. The beat beats, the vocals soar, "Yeah!"

The DJ blew my mind again.

There we all are right to the end.

Taking a Really Big Dump

Don't you wish, sometimes

when you are sitting on the dish, sometimes

that all that backed up crap

would flow right out of you, just like that,

pull the stopper, let go.

Leaving you feeling free, ho, ho, ho.

Furious

She stepped out of the shop, in her pink dress and her lime green cardigan and her yellow shoes, and stood directly in front of the door like she gave anyone else coming through that door no thought. She dialled a number on her phone, clacking her nail extensions on the screen. She held it to her ear, the palm of her hand gripping the phone, seemingly just by the skin, her claws sticking straight up in the air.

Someone clearly answered. "Oh, I'll ring you later. I'm furious. Can you ring me later… Yes… Furious."

She pushed end on her phone, her fingernail parallel to her phone, just so the pad of her pointer finger made contact with the button.

I wondered how she got anything done with those nail extensions?

She could see it was raining. She reached down into her sky blue bag, sitting on top of her mauve shopping jeep, and got an electric blue umbrella from one of the small compartments with the tips of her fingers.

She undid the strap with the edges of her pointer finger and her thumb. Gave it a shake. She pushed the release button with the pad of her thumb.

The umbrella made a click sound and then a whoosh sound.

She held the umbrella with one hand. She reached into her bag, out of which she pulled a cigarette with the tips of her fingers. She held the cigarette in the corner of her mouth. 

She reached back into her bag and pulled a lighter out with fingers that looked as though they thought they were holding a fine tea cup handle. 

She held the lighter with her fore finger and her thumb, flicking it with the shaft of her thumb. 

When the flame lit, she tilted her head sideways and sucked until her cheeks appeared concave, at which point I noticed her eye lashes were almost as long as her finger nails, also clearly fake. 

She dropped the lighter back in her bag. 

She removed the cigarette from her mouth with the shafts of her pointer and middle fingers. 

She blew the smoke dramatically into the air, her lips puckered like duck bills in a way that I could only think was painful.

She stared at the sky as though she was contemplating how to destroy it.

“They wouldn’t buy my stuff,” she said.

Was she talking to me? I thought. If I looked around, I would be engaging in the conversation we weren’t having, didn’t want to have.

“They didn’t believe me,” she said.

I knew I shouldn’t, but I couldn’t help it, I looked around in her direction.

“They think I nicked the stuff, or something. Nicked the stuff? Seriously.”

She was talking to me. I don’t want to talk to you, I thought.

I could feel my mouth open, almost against my will, I made a satisfactory noise of acknowledgement, sort of an inhale and an ‘ah’ sound all at the same time. “Oh I’m sure…” already more than I wanted to engage with her.

“They said they couldn’t take my stuff without receipts? What do you think that says?”

I didn’t want to say it said anything.

“Who has receipts for things they have had for years?”

“Oh, no,” was all I could manage, all I was willing to manage.

“It was all my dear, late husband’s stuff, may god rest his soul.”

Did my face say I was interested in anything she had to say? I must check it in the mirror to see what it says.

“I just wanted to clear the stuff out and perhaps make a couple of dollars in the process.”

I could feel my eyebrows rise up, I could feel my lips purse, almost despite me.

“Is that so bad?”

“Ah.”

“Who does he think he is…”

Who are we talking about? I could feel my eyes widen.

“It is very upsetting, that’s what it is, upsetting.”

Not unlike this entire conversation, seriously. I wondered if I could just move.

“Very upsetting,” she said. She stepped on her cigarette with one of her yellow shoes.

She reached into her bag and pulled out another cigarette. She lit it again awkwardly with her over sized talons appearing to make handling anything difficult. I wondered what the purpose of them really was? Are they like high heels, supposed to make her look sexier than she otherwise was? She was too old for anyone to find her sexually attractive, I thought. I know, the hair on the backs of post middle-aged necks everywhere just bristled and none of them really know why.

She dragged on that cigarette like every frustration and disappointment was held between her claw like fingers. She exhaled like she was releasing the anguish of entire life time, it was pageantry, it was a performance, known, or not.

Smoke billowed around her head. “I’m guessing you don’t care?”

“I guess he has his rules.”

“What are you some bleeding heart liberal.”

I wasn’t sure what my political leanings had to do with this conversation, but fuck it, I thought. “Yes,” I said.

“Yes?” she repeated.

“I am a bleeding heart liberal.”

“Oh yes, good onya,” she said. “You’re everything that’s wrong with the world today.”

“And what do you believe in?” I ask. “Nothing, like most conservatives?”

“Nothing?” she repeated.

“What do you believe in?” I asked.

She dropped the cigarette to the footpath and ground it out with the sole of her daisy cup shoe.

“Clearly not anti littering,” I said. I looked at the remains of her cigarette ground into the concrete.

“I don’t have to stand here and listen to this,” she said. “I’m not going to be spoken to by the likes of you, and him.” She indicated the guy in Cash Converters with a nod of her head.

“And what is the common denominator in both those conversations?”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean?”

“Oh, a common denominator means a characteristic, or attitude, that is shared by…”

“Don’t be a smart arse.” She took the handle of her mauve shopping jeep with a big hand gesture and stuttered off down Smith Street.

Lola