Richmond Crescent

Richmond crescent is a place I’ve made up
Imagined
Stolen
Remembered by accident
Stumbled over in quiet thought
What brought this name to me?
Richmond crescent
It sounds right
I will die here
This is where my wife and I will live
Maybe I’ll change my name to Kyle Richmond
Later in life to hide from stalkers
They’ll name the street after me
For my contributions to the community
Fundraisers and potlucks and backyard barbeques
Secret suburban parties where we put our keys in the bowl
I get to take my neighbour’s wife for a go
Watching mine being unlocked with the keys to our house
Then I take the husband for a round
I’ll never live here though
Instead I will exist as tarmac and weatherboard houses
Children on bicycles
Children selling pinecones for two dollars a bag
On the sidewalk
One will ask the other why they call this place
Richmond crescent
Another will put on his best Jamaican accent
‘Coz they Rich mon!’
They laugh how children do
You don’t understand their humour
You just want pinecones
To support young entrepreneurs
With bicycles and skinned knees and snotty faces
Remember I don’t live here
This place doesn’t exist
I will die with Richmond Crescent

Pocket Book

I’ve adopted the habit of judging my books
On how well they fit my coats inside pocket
The cover is only important in it’s proportions
Relative to a fabric square
Certain brands have become safe
Staple choices by virtue of there perfect uniformity
Moulding to my breast
I always need a book with me
This pocket lays over my heart
It will protect me from crazed handgun assaults
On these gentrified streets filled with dissatisfied bores
With useless degrees and coffee stained teeth
The bullet reads till page 289 before thinking
‘This particular translation of Proust staggers on uncomfortably’
It stops its death path of burning paper & melting ink
To find Proust prose it can truly bury itself in
I tell the bullet that ‘Murakami and Mitchell have melted holes through my wallet
Perhaps you will find solace at the end of a smoke trail there’
I then complain that this book was borrowed from the library
I’d have to pay the damages fine
I’d also only read to page 79
‘You don’t miss much’ the bullet replies
‘Imagine if Da Vinci had painted the Mona Lisa surrounded by crowds of faces
Telling you, “Pay attention only to that woman, the others are not important”‘
The bullet shifts uncomfortably inside my chest
‘I do not know where to read nothing is left between the lines.
This book is described with distraction, and I now search to reclaim lost time’
I do not listen to the bullet
Refusing myself to see the flaws of this translation
Blinded as I am by the quiet satisfaction of its binding sliding
With pure unadulterated bareback entry
Into my inside breast pocket
The air escaping from about it
My pleasure sigh eruption
The only other copy I find is too large
Though written with vastly superior prose
My pocket will not take it though
I must move on to find another soft rectangle comforter for my heart
To beat against as I move about town hoping to appear sophisticated
Hoping to not be shot

Falling For Fiction

If you’ve been on your own for over a year
You’ll know what it’s like to fall in love
Every week with a different he or she
When it’s especially bad
It’s twice a week
Including faces on the TV and character descriptions in fiction
You hunt through for sex scenes and symbols to vicariously exist in
On the edges of madness
Stir crazy threatening mutiny
Your sanity and friends having deserted you
The only crew you have left are
Crew cut t-shirts and crew cut hair-styles
And you don’t really know what crew cut means
But the shirt fits
The hair is tidy
There’s no one to dress up for
The mirror agrees
You don’t like it when the mirror talks back though
You’d prefer another face to appear over your shoulder to straighten your collar
Leaving a lip graze on your necklace
You’ll constantly check over that shoulder waiting for a face to materialise
Waiting for somebody else to watch your back for you
Hello?
You’ll whisper and silence
I don’t know any more you’ll say
Tripping from craning your neck
To see your shoulder blades
Tight from slumping over the desk
You imagine writing letters
Romantic letters
Not just letters but words
Poetry
Time immortal
Immortal beloveds
Ink is not so precious now you’ll think
Because I only need to write
I
Not we nor us nor you nor ours
Postage is cheap
Supplies are scarcely needed
You fall in love twice a week with your TV
With an imaginary life-sized life
We will have two dogs
A paddock to lay picnics out
Under the willow
They’ll laugh and brush away leaves from your lap rustled from the tree
You feign to pull away mocking indignation at being mothered
Don’t smother me you’ll say
Then realise you’re sat inside your head eye delusions
Grandeur
Wanting to swallow poison
Bury your head inside of books in place of the oven
Drown in pages instead of the bathtub
Slash your expectations and decapitate the monster of self-fulfilment
To die for love is not romantic
Love is romantic
Life is lonely