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Lady Gaga pours herself another glass of Daddy’s girl, the house wine in Cafe Riche. On a wall there’s a pink hearted Romeo and a bitch is a bitch. I’m an anonymous poet, famous in heaven, dripping in serenity when I sit in the park. Lady Gaga might be a singer with a ring on her finger but all I ever learnt about love is it brings you to your knees. How many songs does a singer have in their head, how many poems does a poet keep in his heart? Lady Gaga hid behind a thousand masks. Behind a Steinway and Sons piano, she was like a deer in the headlights. I could never get close to the truth, I needed a doctor, I got Doc Marten boots. Now she’s all in leather on the New York streets and the statue of serendipity welcomes her. I had to protect my heart because all the love I’ve ever known is a one way Street. There was no respect for me as an artist. Let her live in her doll house and sing for her dollars while I cry on Gods shoulder. I guess I couldn’t tell the difference between being inspired by someone and desiring someone. She’s a mixture of good music and bad dreams. She sings, I sway, strumming my guitar like the body of a woman in my arms. She’s like a best kept secret, like a sweetheart, like a silhouette and a streetlight. Who is the minister of mayhem that I saw on a kid’s drawing, what inspired her latest album? The lessons of a famous woman. Princess Diana was kind and you can’t kill kindness. There was light at the end of that tunnel in Paris.

Homeless messiah who gets so high he thinks he’s in heaven, on the hard streets, under a soft sky, the bruised clouds, the empty hours. Take shelter under a random smile. It’s gold rush city and history spits in the streets. The homeless, the suffering artists, the shat on statues, the coins in a hat. The system is broken, wisdom is just a token offering. Someone yells, take a shower brother or I’ll throw you in the river Yarra.

You follow someone, and they end up leaving you hollow. The people you thought would be supportive end up being abortive, The New York bar where it all started for Lady Gaga are like the bars I frequent in Melbourne, notebook in hand. Fuck the facade, fuck the fear

On a journey to Queensland in the symbolic journeys spiritual shop I opened a book to read, poets are damned but they’re not blind, they see with the eyes of angels. I never called myself a Christian yet I believe in the power of the lord, when I stopped handing every spare dollar to the homeless, when I embraced the devilish nature of myself, when I got more insight from the autistic mystic than I ever did from church ,that’s when I knew I was in the matrix, a Madonna magazine writer who also says outrageous things about Madonna

You don’t have to dress up for Halloween Madonna, one look at you and I’m scared.

I’m not welcome in Trump’s America

Look at me, I’ve got a warm bed every night, then look at the homeless man living on the edge of the city. The salute I learnt in the Airforce is longest way up, shortest way down. I spent the weekend taking the homeless man for drinks in the park. I’m not physically able to solve his problems, and he can’t solve mine. Instead we sat at a picnic table by the river. Oh, the riddles of life.

During the day he sits on the street between the pub and the supermarket, a fallen life waiting for falling coins. I buy him a sandwich sometimes and I feel like a king then, doing the lord’s work. But giving money all the time to the homeless beggar just begs the question who’s helping me. The ex boxer turned butcher walks past and says God bless, lives in excess are in the windows of the hotel drinking pints of liquid gold. The homeless man smokes butts he picks up off the street. Cut throat citizens walk past and give him nothing.

Do what’s in your heart, said my neighbour, kindness is not a curse. He labours all day, sitting on the street like the suffering Buddha in a hoodie

We were like a couple of suckling puppies. My hand was on his crotch that was hard, I was on a mission to Mars.

Lounge lizards in heaven are watching the news unfold, a world racing towards annihilation, but I’m a poet in the centre of a lotus flower, in isolation.

Happy hour still happens even for a sober man. I was struck by lightning, inspired to write, addiction makes a great story. Through adversity, seeing angels. I saw jesus, I saw Jack kerouacs Doctor Sax.