doris delay
Bluelighter
1.at night.
You’re a real fast bastard
Brilliant behind the bar,
with your sleeves rolled up
and the whisky hanging off your eyes.
‘I’m not a bourbon and coke kind of girl’, I laugh,
legs stretched out, pink and nostalgic.
I’m so hopelessly urgent on my chair.
‘A walking fault line,’ you say,
with the colours on your forehead
and a black jack smile.
I want to see L.A. a warm little tragedy in a
Coupe de Ville
and excerpts from ‘Women’ on the way.
I’m blue lipped numb, you know
that voice I get
after a couple of drinks
“Don’t get me wrong, honey,
I love Bukowski,
but I’d have to kick his arse.”
all people here turn into monsters
at this time of night, with the cool
metal echo and the station down the street.
2.
he stands near the sink. You know that
4 am voice; sleepless approval and
a white cross toothache in a dark room. 10 years
cavity damage, like a jacked up Bobby Peru. A real nice boy with good hair
and good hands/a scar on his finger from touching the stove in one particular romantic instant.
He’s bad brains, color blind
Fruity disco coma
Perfect height, screws like a prophet,
Chk-chk bimbo deluxe and
a voice like a dial tone against my neck.
“If you wanna get holy, you’ve gotta fuck a saint,” he whispers down supermarket isles,
pulling on my hands
Black and gold tuna grin and two dollar
fitpacks next door. I go warm for boys like you,
with your broken nose and narcotic love.
3.Christmas Eve.
I sink in the couch, home for Christmas
these corridors are endless in the A.M
Someone’s awake upstairs,
bathroom lights still on
and I know how taking a breath sounds
at four, when you’re waiting for a signal
or someone to tell you what to do
with a New Years smile,
“why are you awake?”
Why are you?
I had a dream
I went down on Ted Bundy, I don’t say,
another spoonful of potato salad
in my dumb gaping mouth.
Outside a car door slams,
Emma’s back from England with her
new boyfriend and his optimistic six pack
he revs the engine,
probably calls her baby.
downstairs I feel for the light switch,
wet faced, toes in the carpet.
I don’t remember this room
or how to love you
I’m so awkward in December
with my mother and her new haircut
very Vidal Sassoon, very Polanksi.
4.Melbourne
we dress quickly,
your Tommy shirt
feels crisp and foreign on my skin
(far too pale for gold)
downstairs I’m defenseless
in my new shoes,
reaching out for strangers
and railings.
‘Song To The Siren
has never made me cry,’ I say,
tying up my hair.
The only love I believe in
is my own.
You’re a real fast bastard
Brilliant behind the bar,
with your sleeves rolled up
and the whisky hanging off your eyes.
‘I’m not a bourbon and coke kind of girl’, I laugh,
legs stretched out, pink and nostalgic.
I’m so hopelessly urgent on my chair.
‘A walking fault line,’ you say,
with the colours on your forehead
and a black jack smile.
I want to see L.A. a warm little tragedy in a
Coupe de Ville
and excerpts from ‘Women’ on the way.
I’m blue lipped numb, you know
that voice I get
after a couple of drinks
“Don’t get me wrong, honey,
I love Bukowski,
but I’d have to kick his arse.”
all people here turn into monsters
at this time of night, with the cool
metal echo and the station down the street.
2.
he stands near the sink. You know that
4 am voice; sleepless approval and
a white cross toothache in a dark room. 10 years
cavity damage, like a jacked up Bobby Peru. A real nice boy with good hair
and good hands/a scar on his finger from touching the stove in one particular romantic instant.
He’s bad brains, color blind
Fruity disco coma
Perfect height, screws like a prophet,
Chk-chk bimbo deluxe and
a voice like a dial tone against my neck.
“If you wanna get holy, you’ve gotta fuck a saint,” he whispers down supermarket isles,
pulling on my hands
Black and gold tuna grin and two dollar
fitpacks next door. I go warm for boys like you,
with your broken nose and narcotic love.
3.Christmas Eve.
I sink in the couch, home for Christmas
these corridors are endless in the A.M
Someone’s awake upstairs,
bathroom lights still on
and I know how taking a breath sounds
at four, when you’re waiting for a signal
or someone to tell you what to do
with a New Years smile,
“why are you awake?”
Why are you?
I had a dream
I went down on Ted Bundy, I don’t say,
another spoonful of potato salad
in my dumb gaping mouth.
Outside a car door slams,
Emma’s back from England with her
new boyfriend and his optimistic six pack
he revs the engine,
probably calls her baby.
downstairs I feel for the light switch,
wet faced, toes in the carpet.
I don’t remember this room
or how to love you
I’m so awkward in December
with my mother and her new haircut
very Vidal Sassoon, very Polanksi.
4.Melbourne
we dress quickly,
your Tommy shirt
feels crisp and foreign on my skin
(far too pale for gold)
downstairs I’m defenseless
in my new shoes,
reaching out for strangers
and railings.
‘Song To The Siren
has never made me cry,’ I say,
tying up my hair.
The only love I believe in
is my own.
