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My friend works as a barmaid and is studying to be a teacher and drives a valiant and rides a motorbike. She knows all about women in rock, my bandbuddy. She suffered sexual abuse and still gets sexual harassment. In late seventies England as a child they dressed me as a punk, that was before I ever heard the Eurythmics Sweet dreams. A blindfolded Annie holding out a heart, a blindfolded justice. Now Lady Gaga is the goose that lay the golden egg, and big hearts like mine are beating as I’m hearing her 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, tried to find reasons, there’s a song for all seasons.

Happy birthday Lady Gaga and I’ll say it in a poem, ugly ducklings who follow the white Swan and you say it in a song. 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. Sitting inside this Melbourne apartment where I did all my drinking, it’s hard to think of anything else. Famous lives like yours and tameless addictions like mine. A brown eyed lad in a lady’s eyes.

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

Is that what it’s like in your world Lady Gaga? A little girl screams and it absolutely splits my ear drums. All in leather on the New York streets and the statue of serendipity welcomes me. I had to protect my heart because all the love I’ve ever known is a one way street. Woo her with words, there’s a whole world out there and the fantasy I built came crashing down. Let her live in her doll house and sing for her dollars, I’ll just 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.

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.