Sun’s up this morning. Bright Been listening to the radio all night Guess I’d better get dressed and go outside. It’s time Fitzroy street is empty as the chemist lights come on the other girls will emerge shortly from the alleys and the back doors pull on their coats and try to stay warm until the next suit comes along the guys from last night have all gone home to their wives and the promises like bottles, all smashed up in the trash it’s just you and the pavement for the next little while But it won’t be long Until …
I love this seaside town. The moody beaches. The moody barman. Where an insult feels like an embrace. When he asks me what’s happening and pours me a whiskey for free. That he knows more about my life than any friend. That he knows my mid life crisis will involve me wearing dresses. That he doesn’t believe I own any already and scoffs at the thought. That I can stumble home in a warm booze buzz and know that tomorrow I can walk in and be smiled at.
Cigarettes are great when you’re down and out; a loyal but deadly friend. You may have nothing but you have cigarettes. I will be truly down and out when I have no cigarettes and just this black dog 2/10/18
I took my wallet with me. And my cigarettes. In case I ran into you and you said, lets have a beer. Even though I haven’t run into you once in the two years since you moved here. 2/10/18
I wait for you by this red door Bricks fallen away, stickers peeling off creating a canvas for words left for lovers Dirty pipes covered with dust and speed and spit Homage to tits to life lost or meaningless Songs seep under and tell tales of feelings lost and born Tales of waiting, of agitating, cause and effect
The city is quiet except for a pair of sparrows fighting over a cigarette butt on the ground Construction site locked up Overflowing garbage bins and crates of empty bottles line the alley beside the bars and cafes that have all closed for the year The odd taxi slowly drives by staring at me across the passenger seat as if i might need a ride The sun slowly setting, casting shadows on the streets and on the walls of tall buildings Look up. Christ, look up
Footage filmed during the recording of ‘Wash His Bones’ by Dead River.
Her body broken, like a hundred masts on the sea. Smashed down, floating for all to see. While men, like tall buildings, encircle and frown, look down. Giant claws dig through rubble, uncover what’s been covered up. White birds, eye witness, whisper and repeat what they heard. Back in the alley. Back pocket shields shiny silver hate. Swelling urge. Stab and scrape. In his wake, hearts ripped wide apart. Like legs, like mouth. Her wounds his parts.
I got off the tram, I was off my face. The man lay there, dead still. Still dead. Lethal dose. Blue and white tape sectioned off the stairs where he lived. Where he died. Sirens and cars and men in warm coats descended upon the scene at night. Neon flashing from over the road projected signs of hunger and who can’t afford to eat. His friends had long left, chasing the dragon. Bereft. Now who should know about this scene but those who were there, stealing glances obscene. No channel 9 news. No vans with long aerials. No news to no-one. No story to tell. Media: a medium between …