Sunday, June 19, 2011


So it is, the loner sits
at bottoms of empty stairs
waiting for someone to run
up or down
or have bottles broken to bits

Or maybe a gorgeous girl to come by
to pay for entry
at the loner's frown

while the bartender mixes and shakes his drinks
all to a tango red twirl

Friday, June 10, 2011

The magic box on level four

I recently handed in the last assignment of my first semester at Curtin University. It was quite a thrilling moment; walking up the stairs (the flight after the elevator that only goes to level three), stapling the cover sheet and pages together, and finally dropping it all into the little opening labelled ASSIGNMENT DROPBOX in the Media, Culture and Creative Arts offices. I felt accomplished, complete and fully deserving of a Twix. Which was when the sensation hit me; even though I could physically see the pile of papers inside the mail box that I know are collected at 4 pm every day, I still couldn't help but imagine what a magical thing that drop box might be. There is the obvious fact of it only being reached by means of stairs that follow an elevator only going to level three. So that's exhibit A. Very Isla de Muerta from Pirates of the Caribbean, if you ask me ("It's an island that cannot be found except by those who already know where it is" - cue eerie, dark music). And then there's that feeling that once you drop your pages and allow them to hit the other pile below, they are somehow teleported to a different place. Like you let go of your words - the ones you were in control of just a moment ago - and send them flying out into the universe at rocket speed to some great abyss of the unknown. Images of offices filled with coffee-drinking, glass-wearing, somewhat insane professors all marking papers in a haste flashed across my mind. And that's when I began to realise that the only really magical thing about that drop box is that it gets filled by us crazy students in the first place.

Saturday, June 4, 2011

Saturday Night Fever

Wake up, says the teacher
as the classroom is dismissed
by a new flow of insta-lows
to a life that don't exist

with the dreams and hookers and those strips
of cocaine gist
dies another failing year
that wouldn't seem to bare
the absolute rejection of the after-midnight list.

Wake up, says the doorman
as the final beats die out
to a freshly ground, street-like sound
pumping all about

in cities of dreams that crash down at dawn
and whither in the hands of those with clout -
waits the restless, spiked-as-fuck souls
all made up of doubt