"aw mate. . .
since I got off the drugs me periods are real regular every month that Tracy
mate she's a real moll when she's got her periods, wasn't at first though,
real shy. I said, I don't wanna fuck ya, just lick ya clit but she gets off
going more I say get that tampon outa ya & we go for it & mate she's hooked.
She likes it up the arse too. First-time I tried she said no then next day
she takes my finger & sticks it in. After she says, I gotta go to the
toilet, and I say fucken right, you were bloody packed tight. Next time I
fuck you up the arse, get yourself empty first, dirty bitch.
I'm not dirty like, I stick some coke up your nose when you're coming but
I'll never cut ya up on a blade. . ."
We are all wattle
beside the Lucky Dragon Loan Office
"I only want to be with you".
Her parents came from
Our train was rattled aluminium,
egg-custard bun plays sad clown.
Sun is our constant
beside multi-storey car parks
at multicultural suburbs.
Speaking as one
in easy-fit denim
beside the Hong Kong Wedding House
watching dealers outside Tang Bou Noodle Shop
we are not interesting
we are wattle.
Decorous in array, barely a mention in singular
we are the light & the allergen
we are thin gold rings
on a shaved ice seafood bed.
We are Shopping Paradise//
Gold Swan two-ply tissues
Amy Chan in concert
specials bin in the John Street Arcade
the glitter in passing hair
track pants & slippers
as explicable as a line of ibis,
their diagonal napkin-fold of sky.
This table display
of pink embroidered bras.
is a greedy lake.
On a carpet
of petty & repetitive sins
beside tea-candles, Light of Wisdom is on special.
Today it's like clouds
are writing letters home. My eyes are a cluster
of green plantains
beside the dead fire of coral trout.
Hymns should be bellowed –
give gods some ears & voice.
They will be the Saigon Blade
or that brave, snide teenage Melanesian lesbian Ocker
in a well-mixed little town.
If she ever picked
or kicked you – you'd learn.
My poem is a comma on the freeway.
I know nothing
empty freight beds alongside the Southern Line.
at the end of ordinary
where colours cannot blend.