Words that I saw written on an actual door.

The man made of clay,
and an armature skeleton,

whose arm fell off,

and a ramshackle of drunk
Laurel n’ Hardys
scramble
on the floor.

They say he’s Irish,
talks about Ireland.
Either Ireland or “an island” –

drinks like an unfamiliar dog.

A well-thumbed Bible,
thrown against the wall,

frantic and important,
the most often stolen book.

Said Matthew,
“why you keep dragging me out
on walks?
My life like a pancake…”

Sad Matthew,
“I don’t care

how many
flowers, birds and animals,
which road sign brings good luck.”

The dragonflies
he imagined
gave his dislodged hand
a clover.

Traditional Ballad - Dying Slowly by Tindersticks, from the album “Can Our Love…” (2001, Beggars Banquet.) Video - Cosgrove Hall Animation Studios

The flittering wings
from the butterfly
sends little shock waves
over the wires
to your mental gymnastic routine.

Its colors are bold, bright
shimmering against
inspiration found through
other people’s eyes.

On occasion it comes

to rest on my finger

yours,

hers,

his.

Never gave much thought
to the little winged thing

floating in the wind.

Kinda took it for granted…

But damn if I notice

when it doesn’t come

around to give its greeting

on my finger,

yours,

hers,

his.

Oi! Every bloody night with your rattling of chains and banging on lids of boxes as if it was drumming. You are not young people anymore! This is an empty lot not a bloody nightclub. Go away! ROSE! I told you to tell these people one rule of awakening. Hah! The function of ghosts is to scare. Where is Screaming Jay Hawkins.

Note received from the neighbours Nov 17, 1983. 13 Grace Street. Paddington.

Not sure what to do now. Do I put my left foot in front of my right or should I crawl upon the floor? My primal instincts want to kick in and fight and flee. It’s scary to not know….to not care what others think. For myself there is almost no boundary between my sensitivity to the mystery of life and my phobic terror of it. The moment in which I decide to no longer care what others think is a moment of exhilarated liberation for me. But shortly there after, as I proceed to write myself into this role of independence and autonomy- I grow terrified and phobic. My hands tingle, my legs grow heavy, heart races and I begin to dissociate from reality. I begin to wonder if my choices may not be putting my life into jeopardy and I feel the fear that creeps up the back of my spine and makes me want to crawl back into the cupboard of conformity.

To say I’ve changed
is an understatement
When one goes from Point A
to Point B
but not in the direct fashion
one will arrive
a little worse for wear
a little more jaded
(if that’s even a remote
possibility)
maybe even a little more
heart smart.

Trying to maintain
the “image”
my “rock-star” status,
well folks, the time
has come for me to say
“I could give
a fuck less”

I’m still me,
I still burn inside
turned the flame
down a little,
bear with me.
Something will light
me up again.

Can’t make promises though.
I’ve broke too many
to honestly hold myself
accountable for future
plans.

Yea, tell me about
that cop-out please.
Tell me I’m better
than that.
Though you know,
I already know that.
It just feels good
to hear it from
someone else
every once in awhile.

On second thought,
I’ve learned some things
from the Masters
(ie: Ginberg, Bukowski, etc.)
it shouldn’t matter
what the masses
think, cause when
that happens,
you’ve sold your soul
to the lowest bidder.

Rose burst in like a fireball before anyone could write the stage directions. Dressed in a curtain, and not wearing it well, she wailed, and spun her weight.  She pushed Hooks and his borrowed drumkit aside, and it toppled him.

“I HAVE A NAME! BY ANY OTHER NAME!” she screamed. “THE SAME AS A FLOWER! SMELLS QUITE AS…”

Mamu thought of approaching her, but didn’t. Rose paused, stifled a cry, and searched out the world with a vacant longing. For someone else, who was not here and had no name.   

“AS SWEET AS
A SMELL OK? AS BUTTERED POPCORN. I remember that, sure.”

a strange giggle escaped.

Rose - we can’t say that we haven’t, at one time or another, all felt like you. Mamu used to read his kid a book called A Desert Flower and The Bear, and I guess that’s why he didn’t get someone to grab her.  

She’d be the one to tip this whole place to the ground - that is, if it wasn’t her bed, her rock, her entire stone-age. The Orchid Room was where she wanted to start over - right now, like she announced it, with a desperation that rocks the cradle.

She squeaked, now, barely audibly:
“fattning for the heart I know”

And quieter still, like she out-quietened the silence:
“when i say i’m in love you best believe i’m in love, l.u.v”

I assume that after Rose had said her piece, she left on her own. I don’t know for sure, my eyes were on Altman.

“…story of my life”, he said.
“What is?”
“nothin’”

Closingtime, Seb said - “What’s up with you tonight, Mamu? That’s not a doorman’s face.”

Mamu grunted.

rattles of insects and goings on, Rose, is it rats stirring around the corpses under floor boards, or just the shuttling of roaches, something is astir, you will find me in the downstairs, there is a dripdrop pinebox there, cold but comfy, if you should choose to wake me, do it naked,

the tiniest sound makes her turn.  For a second he looks truly scared and Luce poises herself to run but he steps back an inch, looks away to the street and experience tells her he’s here on business.  Fly has melded into shadow, always one step ahead.  Luce spins on her heel and heads to the water tank.  Under her coat the bread is cooling, it’s yeasty scent filling the chilled air.

she pulls herself  ivy-clear through the heavy window frame.  A starling that was perched on the door frame alights in fright, flurrying to the sky-light in fear and knocking against the glass.

Luce freezes, listens to the blood echo in her ears, listens to the air shifting.  Acrid burnt-paper scents filter behind the old coat cupboard that blocks most of the doorway leading to the stairs.  She hears everynight sounds outside, the beep of a phone, a door banging.  She feels magic.  Luce silently glides forward -

is warm enough, for now.  Matai from La Buca lets her sit and smoke on the bins by the hot air vent.  Sometimes he gives her breadsticks, olives, two meatballs in a saucer. Tonight it was just bread. She could probably exchange sex for a roof over her head, but Luce has learned the hard way. 
Now it’s just her and Fly. They even sleep away from the others now, preferring the low ceilinged loft to the echoing rooms downstairs.  Fly can easily jump from the water tank to the sash window.  She has to share all her food, but the company, the protection is priceless, and he keeps her memories safe in the dark.  She has a full pouch of baccy and even a dry pack of Rizlas today, also Matai left the door open a little too long after dumping a load of tins in the bin, and old habits die hard.  The warm stolen loaf bulges under her coat, infact even the prospect of another night on the old club floor can’t stop her whistling. Fly smiles back at her, tail sweeping through the goose grass.  They can sit in the dark while she smokes and picks the velcro seed-beads from his tail-hair.  They can gorge on bread. 
As they get closer to the building, she notices a smashed ground-floor window.  A reedy smoke froil wisps from the pitch black opening. 

Luce tenses. 

It’s been a long time since he was in these parts and her sharp mind starts racing.

“yeah, it’s me, Rose, old doubledouble. So much for my toil and trouble. Move over, share that fire with me, you old bastard. Maybe we should just burn this place down?”

“They’d have our heads on pikes, but they’d feed us and keep us warm until they did.”

“I could almost go for that.”

“Still havin’ your fits, darlin’?”

“Sometimes, yeah. Sometimes I’m okay, sometimes not. I start throwing things and shit. People scream at me and run away. The cops come. I can’t remember anything. I wake up shivering. They took me to that place again, last time. The one I told you about. Did I tell you? You tramps all start to look the same.”

“The place with the hooks and sideburns? Yeah, that was me. Sideburns was some guy, right? And hooks…?”

“Hooks was the other guy, the dark one.”