At the sound of the pigeons scratching in the gutters, we both looked up;
your eyes the size of noodle bowls,
my stomach aflutter.
When the first big drops fell, the pigeons took flight,
you wrapped your arms around my legs,
and I bent down to hold you tight.
The front door sheet metal canopy was soon spattering its own language,
but you seemed to understand;
you told me to bolt the lock,
took me by the hand, and showed me the way to the miscellaneous drawer,
Get some candles, you said; your words not yet cold
when the weather took our electricity.
A delightful giggle escaped your mouth as I struck the last soggy match;
you sang Happy Birthday to me!
while the fifth candle was hissing to life.
I burnt my fingers, and a rogue gust of wind took all the flames;
I saw you in a different light
while darkness was juggling with my sight:
that angelic face hovering in front of my eyes,
only for an instant before being painted over,
layered in the colours of all life’s essentials,
which will eventually shape you, some – along the way – break you,
no more could I see your beautiful smile;
a toothless old woman was staring back at me.

Daddy, you whispered with honest concern in your voice,
Is that you? You look so old, Daddy?

I didn’t answer. I couldn't.

A storm was brewing.

In my chest.

Through a haze that was part breath, part exhaust fumes,
he peered up through the holes in the corrugated iron bus stop canopy,
and imagined—in the swirl of yet another motor-oil morning sky—
the rise and fall of green hills,
the aroma of fresh soil released from within the essence of decomposing leaves,
exhaled only by the breaths of creatures that roam the depths of the earth.

He picked at the dead skin under his wrist watch,
and decided that was exactly where he should be heading—to the hills,
or the depths of the earth, perhaps—whichever came first on the path
he’d been struggling to find for so long.

Rainbow dirt-puddles rippled to the drone of his approaching seven O’clock bus;
he zipped up his top, adjusted his goggles, and lit the fuse.

Dusk’s last breath puff up the curtains
in a flash of the post traumatic kind.
A crocheted-cliché, peach-purple duvet
drape the mountains in war paint;
redwood generals’ shadows on attention,
disorderly pine infantrymen struggle
against the wind,
some broken,
most wounded,
shattered limbs on display.

The war hero sighs into the bowels
of an instant noodles cup; dumplings shiver
((uncooked liver)) when he whistle-whispers
untold stories of courage,
guts served on blood-soaked battlegrounds;
no-one listens,
save spiders
with hairy legs
that hang on his every word.

The Devil popped ‘round for a visit last night;
the donkey he came in on was undersized,
and Nick’s heels (bleeding and cracked to the bone)
were scraping over the burnt rice stubble
in such a way that my beard itched.

His banjo growled unearthly melodies;
he chipped a nail while strumming those rusty strings,
and his eyes (never did they make contact)
were examining the core of my soul
in such a way that my heart bled.

I pulled away and opened a window,
felt hesitation rippling through her body
as she let out a sigh that warmed my back.
The bed draped in a blanket of silence;
I’d seen the Devil in her eyes.

I should’ve worn the other dress,
the red one with the ****** zip;
he’s not looking at my brooch,
Christ,
his gaze is disappearing into my cleavage—
Cleavage.
What … distasteful language,
as if God had picked up an axe
and struck me right between the ****.

She placed her fork on the plate,
picked up the menu once again,
and pretended to study the desserts.

I should’ve worn my glasses;
these contacts are killing me.
Has a piece of broccoli just—?
****!
She must think I’m staring at her *******.
I’m not.
I swear on my mother’s grave
a piece of broccoli’s just dropped down—
Ooh. That’s a stunning piece of jewelry.*

He took a sip of Sauvignon blanc,
studied the restaurant logo on the menu in front of him,
and ordered another bottle of wine.

On the first day I learned how to spell my name,
‘h’ included,
Daddy knocked on my bedroom door and let himself in—
I was six
when he planted the evil seed inside of me.
It’s been growing ever since.

Mommy told me to go to sleep with the Bible
under my pillow,
dabbing at her swollen face, pink paisley hanky in hand.
Uncomfortable
(the Bible-pillow, that is; after a while I couldn’t care less
about Mommy’s bleeding nose).

She said Jesus listened to everyone’s sorrows,
children’s first,
that there was no need to tell anyone— He could read thoughts.
Impressive,
I thought, for a guy who’d been through a helluva lot himself,
being crucified and all that.

Daddy told Mommy not to make up ******* fairytales,
that there’s no way
Jesus remained on the cross for as long as he did,
Pah! he said,
they didn’t have superglue in those days, you dumb *****!
Mommy said Yes-Yes, and shut her trap.

Mommy traded in her sanity for the bottle
Daddy fed her.
I stole Daddy’s shotgun and walked over to the Owens’,
where I threatened
to shoot little Jason, then aged five, if he didn’t lick me
up and down in front of his mother.

I’ve come a long way, and rumor has it there’s a price
on my little head,
that they had found Daddy’s ***** bones in the well
twelve years to the day—
but I’ve come to realize that this heart was made to ****;
I’ll polish my shotgun and wait.