We had a vote on marriage equality
But the Christians couldn’t just stand there quietly
They had to have their share of attention
So, they made up religious freedom
So, they didn’t feel left out.
Poor Christians pout
It always has to be about them.
Claiming, more people want religious freedom
Than those who voted for equality.
Of course, they did,
(roll of the eyes) We all said.
The sun shines.
Golden,
Long afternoon,
Stretches toward tomorrow.
The melancholy of it going
Takes our sorrow
And prepares us
For another day.
Life is,
Fresh butter,
And fresh honey,
On fresh bread.
Holding hands.
Sun on your face,
Your toes in the sand.
Cold water on your skin,
Your lovers grin.
Sometimes,
We overthink this thing.
Mid nineties disco was hot,
boom dahdi boom, dahdi boom, boom, boom.
Deep House,
doompa, dar doom, dar doom, doom, doom.
The sun shone down
and the sky was blue
doompa, dar doom, doom, doom, doom, doom
As we left the club
our eyes we'd rub.
Fuck me!
I cannot see.
We'd stumble and fall
I remember it all.
Monday morning
sunglasses and yawning
Stretching our threads
and scratching our heads
the world spun around us
with fairy dust and lust.
Then the 9 to 5 peak,
would come into view, eek!
Monday morning spew
sometimes, it is better for you
And then we'd laugh
and point and gnaff
and thank the universe again
that we weren't one of them.
We were invisible
our dancing treats made us invincible
freaks at the freak show
having just been let out.
They looked at us
as if we were going to hell,
Ah, I remember it well,
we thought they were unwell.
Doomp, doomp, doomp, doomp, doomp,
still thumping in our brains
and we had enough in our veins,
to remain under the witches’ call.
We'd tumble into a taxi,
the suits were our patsy,
laughing and pointing again
we had no shame.
When people pass me in the street,
I always imagine they just vaporise
when they get somewhere behind me,
I’ve thought that for the longest time.
Will I remember these days,
walking into the shimmering haze,
sun on my face,
happiness in my heart?
Spring.
Space.
Fresh air in my hair,
cool on my skin.
Perfume in the air,
not a care.
Blue skies.
Shadows dapple on the ground.
Everything is new again,
with a cool breeze
on a spring day.
Collective outrage
has replaced action.
Thoughts and prayers
are another excuse
for doing nothing.
Sign a petition,
preferably online,
you don't even have to leave your house.
And our conscious is clear.
You make a big deal about woman breastfeeding.
It is inappropriate, it is disgusting, it is rude!
Your barely concealed dirty secrets swirling in full view.
It’s a problem!
But really, that problem is you.
Mummy be nice to me, mummy feed me, mummy make me feel good.
Sucking a woman’s titties freaks you, and takes you away.
Admit it mate, you want to jerk off when you see a woman’s breasts on displayed.
What else can it be?
I just can’t see?
I wish I could?
Peripatetic heart,
I like it like that,
people are dark.
You know, if you
never stop moving,
you never get hurt.
It is only
when you settle
that you get torn apart.
We’ve all become such collective snowflakes,
there are trigger warnings now on information.
We’re happier with news that is fake,
if that’s what it takes,
to get us through.
Self focus is so intense.
Every CD has a language warning,
isn’t that a problem in itself?
And everything in the end
gets a positive spin
just in case there is money to be made.
The religious types
feel free to criticise,
anyone they like
because belief in god
gives them that right.
But if they are criticised,
in return,
they call it bullying
and their outrage burns,
for eternity, one would assume,
isn’t that the way they say
it goes?
It always seemed too late
to make a difference in my life,
I never really knew why.
I wanted to play piano
and sing into a mic.
I was six when I was told
I was too old for the keys,
my mum didn’t know
that wasn’t the case.
I was thirteen when
I stopped singing,
my voice having broke,
never to hold a tune again.
I was twenty when I got a guitar,
I taught myself in my room.
Not long after my housemate
smashed it, being dramatic,
and then it was too late.
But, I wrote it down from an early age,
that much I could save.
When I was six
I was told I couldn’t play the piano,
at that age, I was too old,
my mother wasn’t to know.
When I was thirteen,
my singing career came to a stop,
my voice broke,
I never sang another note.
When I was in year 12,
I was told, I couldn’t design buildings,
“You’re a business student." Shake of the head.
And I went to one of the best schools there is.
When I was twenty, I got a guitar,
I taught myself in my room.
Not long after my housemate
smashed it, being dramatic, and cute.
And, once again, it was too late.
But, I wrote it down from an early age,
that much I could save.
The birds chirp in the trees,
outside.
My partner plays a game at my knee,
click, click.
The dog sniffs and shifts about between us,
pant, pant.
My laptop warms my legs,
coffee still tastes on my lips.
Sunday begins.
I miss you,
or at least, I think I do,
and I say I do,
as I try to convince myself
that I know what that means,
because I know I should,
know.
