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Mirror Mirror on the wall, who’s the fairest of them all, well it’s not you is it Madonna because none of this feels fair. I think I’ll write my own fairytale

A relevant question to ask lady gaga is how many brain cells did she kill writing the song stupid love, I think it was a lot, a toast to the piano gods. There’s a space to fill on the top ten. Tonight it’s just me and heaven’s janitor. A pocket whisky in the park. The courage to ask a pretty girl out, illuminate her dark side. Sooner or later love comes and patience may be a virtue and pride may be a sin but if it hurts you it’s probably love

This drunk has turned into a monk. I’m sitting in the park on a hot summer day under the shade of a friendly tree. The homeless man is rugged up in a thick coat because to him the city is cold. Australia has the highest rates of drinking after Russia. The Buddha suffered to achieve his enlightenment. Whether the glass be half full or half empty or god’s wine is the lord’s blood, alcohol has served it’s purpose from the moment I ran away to join the circus. Holding hands with a jack Daniels Or a Johnnie walker, soon comes twilight, an inch of whisky in the sky.

The clouds are like shallow breaths and the sun rises in the east, I stayed up all night listening to jazz on the radio. I won’t go chasing history. On take-off and landing, leaving Queensland, I sat in between two men reading like I was the story and they were my bookends, some people make the most of long weekends. Onto the baked streets of the city in summer and the sand on the feet of beach fairys, I cool off in a melting ice popsicle tram. In a tin hat and corrugated iron skirt the city flirted

writing poems around in circles I go. Tonight I talked to the lady chooks, there’s no one to take the drink out of my hand. I watch sunset in the jacaranda tree. There was a man on the train with a ring on his left hand, there was a woman with flowers on her lap, they were probably going home to someone, but me I’m a lonely drunk.

dreams, themes and schemes, that’s what the psychic told me was in my head, the unread poet. It’s another cosmopolitan day in Melbourne, Neapolitan icecream skies. There’s bait at the end of a line of poetry to catch the wishes in your heart.

like a bull rushes at a matador, a poet rushes at his metaphors, it’s between man and beast, the crimson beats of a poet, with dust at his feet. Animal instinct, talent is extinct.

I put all my heart and soul into becoming a man who loves women, but there’s always some genius and his law of bisexuality

last night’s drug dealer on the street corner had something that would knock my socks off and the further I walked away from him the lower the price became. With the glint of foil came the spoils of the underworld. He was just another fallen angel selling danger. I’ve already been down the rabbit hole and I don’t plan on going down it again.