It doesn't matter how you hold it
or choose to show it
or how you know it

that Old Familiar
has a way of saying what you cannot say
of pushing you through every day
and being the rock in the path that won't wash away

no matter how hard it rains
that Old Familiar leaves it's stains
It's aches and pains
And far-reaching scars that threaten sane

And sunny days that still have those
Dark clouds tucked away
Just in the case
You should forget your place
On a better day

That Old Familiar
Plants its roots
In the soles of boots
that cannot step away

Perth,
where Heath Ledger came from,
was where she was from
and she was explaining to me
what Marmite was
and the other guy in the room
just kept playing his guitar
and singing
louder and louder
for an audience of
white bricks
that made up the walls
because jealously makes
you see eyes in
everything
and you don't know
if the performance will
be your last

Traffic jam
City limits putting limits on me
As traveling long these streets
And from far as eyes can see,
A crowd of people piling one on top another
As I travel these *****, dusty city beat.

Sirens blow their same refrain
As it wails and wails like an old song
Beating, beating across my brain
Not softly but continuously wrong
As I travel these *****, dusty city beat.

Urban renewal still old
Never changing, maintaining by leaps and bounds
Never changing, still maintaining so I am told
And all hear are the sounds
Of these *****, dusty city beat.

Smog clutters the brain
As I deal with these so-called problems
And walking the streets making me so insane
Trying to find work in hopes the solution to solve them.

The suits are telling me economics is fine
But if it's fine why the hell I am here?
Feels like I am running out of time
As time runs me down and it's not clear.

Cursed by lost time
As I walk these *****, dusty streets
And the world ain't kind
While I walk these city's beat
Now I sit waiting on my time
My time to shine onward and beyond...
                                     Nov.2005

Cutting through the crust
moving dirt, the dust is
in my face,
reminds me of the film
'Holes'
I read the book at school
a million years ago.

No point to it
just a jumble
eat and ****
and dig the holes.

building character they said
as I dug holes out from the bed
where clay as hard as any rock
bled me dry.

Nobody ever met me in a bar
There’s not enough room in there
Where do I put my childhood
All the friends I’ve known
All the times I've been alone
I wonder if anybody would care

I wonder if I’ve had my finest hour
Maybe I could ask my daughter
I think it was when she was a baby
But only I remember those times
Only I remember those rhymes
And not the baby held by her father

I’m not hard to get to know
The book is always open
But there aren’t any pictures
You’re gonna’ have to read it on your own

I left myself behind in the car
I just don’t want to talk about it
Being a stranger is easier
Just someone for you to walk by
Just someone who won’t make you cry
You’ll never know that I’m worth it

I’m not hard to get to know
Sometimes the book is out on loan
But I’ll be back on the shelf soon
I know there's a lot of pages to turn

you are not the roar
you are the whimpers
the crook necked panting
your skin melding with other skins
learning new ways of exalting
(holiness or blasphemy-- i don’t know.)

you are not the water
you are not the water
you are not the water
you are the wine
a drink,
half served,
half severed.

you are not the tired reminder
you are the action the moment meant to be remembered.

i think it only makes sense that i give up
and kiss away the last memory
of being human.

I didnt realise that
I wasnt cool enough
To carry myself with eyes
Wide open,
Like some enigmatic beauty
With no interior design,
Someone gazes at clouds making
Shapes,
People look at the man
With a pen and tiny pad,

Their thougts like dandruff
On the black polo
You bought to impress
Her father,
Self aware and glare at the living,
Painting the swindled
Version of the real things,
Wiping away the tears
Of this mornings' spilled coffee,
The 29 year old beggar looks pridedul
Enough to know you burn
Inside and out comes the
Weasal,

I couldnt truly see that I wrote
In the most sensible way,
A poet defines a classic sight
Timeless, wondering
When the pièce will be done
So he can write about beggar.

A poet is not slave to the mind,
And the mind is not a terrible
Thing, only when the door closes
And last light curls the spectrum,
The poet lays the earth in symphonie, afraid that he cannot hear the music,
Desparate and hungry
For the life he writes.