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A smiling clown’s face is shining in the sky and I drink my coffee among pot bellied poets and pigs that fly. There’s a chalk outline around my dream of New York. I listen to the small talk. True love waits for me A New York doll who yells at the traffic, goes left if you say go right. She fell in love with this poet whose heart is a paperweight on an unpublished manuscript. Raindrops in the puddles, kissing and cuddling in the mad huddle. I found out you can take the girl out of New York but you can’t take New York out of the girl, whether she’s putting on her make-up or ordering takeaway, she’s a Cinderella in stilettos. New York in the winter is the big apple the snow white country took a bite out of. New York is not America said David Bowie once At night I shed my clothes, full of deciduous desire, moonlight bride shines through the windows ,sometimes with my poetry I feel like that boy selling frozen lemonade in a truck in New York in the summer who says this job fucking sucks.

A quiet night. The starlight poets are at work with a mixture of burning words the emit light. Poets and ghosts haunt the night. I drank beer until bed and the woke and stared at the walls. The words crawled from my pen to this paper. The world ends. Brittle happiness and the little moments when I held your hand are gone. I am alone. I have always been alone. The poem says so.

Sirens in the night, the city vampires bite. I drink alone, waiting for the dawn to dethrone me. Sometimes I’ve watched them, juggling sobriety in the circus called society. My hope rises like hot air balloons in the morning when I go to an A.A meeting and share my story.

My friend works as a barmaid and is studying to be a teacher, and drives a valient and rides a motorbike. She knows all about women in rock, my bandbuddy. She suffered sexual abuse and still gets sexual harassment. Now I’m hearing Lady Gagas song, it ends and the rain rings out on a tin roof. A songwriter in the wilderness, a deer in the headlights. I have followed these divas, and tried to find reasons. There’s a song for all seasons.

I ended it with a New York doll because I’m creative, what Stefanie, you think I’m going to lick the confetti from off the floor

I’m through with the lady, she can play for 2.5 million people she can’t even play for one sorry customer.

People were yelling, one man was barely standing and looked like he was about to drop dead. It was like the tram was riding to hell and I just wanted to get off, only this wasn’t hell this was Melbourne. People seemed like zombies, some had just finished shopping. A lady with dolls, wearing voodoo mascara was playing at happy families, I looked in the pram at her lifeless baby.

Don’t tease me Lady Gaga about an old lady who gives me Valentine’s day gifts because I never teased you about Tony. I’m a Jesus freak and jazz fanatic. I might have to go into the Upper Manhattan chrysalis, the lives of the rich and famous. The days when we wrote our songs on cocktail napkins and no one knew our name are long gone, abracadabra it’s the magic of the creative process

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.