Untitled

The blood black ink
Of the pen you gave me
Will soon be dispersed
Across the full moon emptiness
Of my paper.

Its shades of grief
Will cast long strong shadows
Deep into the image
Of moonshine that I created,
For you.

The whisper of that ink
Is as sure as sunrise.
The insolence of youth;
Craving a perfect expanse
Of whiteness.




Parkstreet 

And The Orange Was Made Of Orange

In the good old days
A man took a big block of ice,
Shaved shards into a glass,
Poured cordial
Your favourite flavour
On top.

And the strawberry cordial was made of strawberry
And the orange was made of orange.

In the good old days
There was a riddle,
A man hanging
Above a puddle,
But today no one
Has seen a block of ice
Large enough
For a man
To kill himself
Slowly,
Whimsically,
Using one of the makings
Of an innocent treat.
This hasty,
Throwaway generation
Leaves only an overturned,
Kicked away,
Flatpack
Chair.

And the strawberry cordial was made of strawberry
And the orange was made of orange.




Parkstreet

Ko-Fi

Passing

Denim shorts clinging, pony tail swinging, firm thighed stride of youth and purpose, pert breasted optimism, new, unbroken, passing me by leaving the scent of memory, lost opportunity, the one that got away, denim shorts clinging, pony tail swinging.




Parkstreet

Sing To Your Babies, Sing

Sing to your babies, sing
Of the times to come.
So when the times come,
Your babies will smile,
And sing.




Parkstreet

Burn Your Books

Burn your books
For fuel,
When you are cold.


Burn
Your paintings,
Burn
Your antiques,
Burn
Anything that will burn,
To give you heat,
And light,
For another day.





Parkstreet

When She Turns

When she turns,
He is there.
She wishes
He weren’t. 

He sees her as she wishes she could see herself.

No one
Can live
With that.

When she turns,
He is gone.






Parkstreet

One Hundred Books

One Hundred Books
You must read
Before
You die.

One Hundred Books,
But you must
Die
Anyway.



Parkstreet

Information

Elderly lady,
Confusing a bank teller
With talk of where the money came from,
Instead of where
She wants
To send it.

The money came
From her son’s estate
And she has to
Tell
Someone.





Parkstreet 

Flower, song lyrics

Lyrics from a song for Jacqueline, who left us too soon.

Flower

Like a flower
She bloomed in the springtime.
She never made it
Through the summer.
Spared the chill of autumn,
The changing colours of her life,
But how am I going to make it
Through the winter?

The memory of a flower
Is not a real flower
A picture of a flower
Just reminds me
That the flower is gone.




Parkstreet

Ko-Fi

The Book Of St. Kilda

For us St. Kilda was like like one of those children's pop up picture books. You know the ones, you turn a page and the enchanted paper forest lifts up, then folds neatly away as you turn the page to reveal the next scene. Our pop up book was called St.Kilda, Architecture, 1850 to 1970, and we were the children.

Jack was a local, the genuine St. Kilda article, a Princess of Princes St. She'd owned the book since she was five and was happy to share hers with me.  

We'd walk the streets late at night holding hands. She'd show me all her old favourites, mansions hidden by orange brick apartment blocks, worker's cottages with histories from dock worker to artist to pot dealer's shop front. We'd open dusty old pages she'd nearly forgotten and sometimes discover new treasures for the revised edition we were writing together. 

It was like those buildings didn't exist unless we were looking at them. 

We'd exchange extravagant gifts of real estate. I'd offer her a grand Victorian mansion, she'd present me with an Art Deco apartment. We'd make foolish plans, balls in the ballrooms, breakfasts in the ingles, cocktail parties in Port Phillip Bay windows. We were the most benevolent of landlords, allowing all to live on our vast estate free of charge from us.

We'd walk the streets late at night, holding hands, the poorest of property tycoons, the silliest of children, then up the stairs to the rented apartment that was really ours, a cup of tea and a cigarette on large cushions on the floor, close the book, a kiss, and so to bed.

For Jacqueline.




Parkstreet

Ko-Fi

She Knows

Sun rises here
Before there.
When she wakes
She knows
He’s already
Thought of her.





Parkstreet

He’s Drunk

He's drunk.
He's as drunk as a working class bear on the first pay day of Spring.
Drunker than a sailor who just found out that hooker was a man. 
Drunkest of all the drunk, the mayor of drunk town, the heavy weight champion of the world of drunk.

He is drunk.
He is sitting beside me,
On this tram,
And he wants to chat.





Parkstreet

Today’s News

A page from a newspaper, its neat middle crease still intact, is being blown by a winter wind down the tram tracks on Fitzroy Street. When it lands it creates a different wind resistance each time, sometimes wide open and immediately blown on again, other times folded, static until the wind changes direction slightly, catches a corner, sends it on its way.

I wonder if the paper feels it is standing its ground, cursing its inability to adapt to the changing wind and hold on, or if it feels it is flying towards a wondrous future, cursing its inability to adapt to the changing wind and fly faster?

And that's today's news.

Parkstreet

Please Please Please Please (song lyrics)

Part of the art of songwriting is the ability to place oneself in another's reality. For this song I had to imagine myself in the mind of a sad, middle aged man with a sex life so disastrous that he has resorted to asking nicely for it. Of course this was a long stretch for me. I'm told that when I perform this song I appear tragic and desperate but that's only because I'm a brilliant, brilliant actor. 

The song is performed with a jaunty ska feel so it isn't as sad as it looks in print.


Please Please Please Please.

Please, please please please sleep with me.
Won't you please, darling sleep with me?

I'll buy you a drink and I'll score you a smoke,
You'll be in the mood once you've had a toke, 
If you need some coke well I know this bloke,
Yeah whatever it takes to give your engine a stoke.

Won't you please, please please please sleep with me?
Please, baby sleep with me.

Believe that I'm cute or do it out of pity,
Will it help if I tell you that you're pretty?
I'll use all my best lines, my charm and my witty,
'Cos I'm so alone in this hot cold city.

So please, please please please sleep with me.
Won't you please, darling sleep with me?

I don't expect no Karma Sutra atheletics,
No pornographic calisthenics.
No silly rock star twelve hour tantrics,
Just a sweet tune, old fiddle, old dog, old tricks.

Please, please please please sleep with me.
Please, won't you sleep with me?

You're here alone.
I'm here alone.
Come on baby baby throw this old dog a bone.
Please.

I've got my own hair.
I've got my own teeth.
Will it help if I say I'll wear a sheath?
Please.

Please won't you let me take you to bed?
Or you can take me 'cos I'm easily lead.
Together we can ride in the two person sled.
You bring the tail, I'll bring the head.

So please, please please please sleep with me.
Won't you please, darling sleep with me?

Parkstreet.

God’s Nightlight

Night after night Krimba the tree frog shivered in terror, hiding silently on an upper branch, ever watchful for nocturnal predators, ever ready to flee. Krimba was tired. A frog needs some sleep.

One night, whilst fleeing frantically through the forest, he stumbled upon a colony of glow worms, and noticed the predators of the night refused to approach their soft light. An idea came to Krimba, like the switching on of a glow worm. 

One day he employed his nimble fingers at the task of constructing a small cage out of twigs from his tree. At dusk he ventured to the glow worm colony, collected a handful of the docile creatures, took them back to his tree where they kept the predators at bay all night. 

After two nights the glow worms faded, so Krimba ate them and captured some more. Within a year all the other tree frogs had followed his idea, another year later the glow worms were being bred for both protection and food. The predators dwindled, starved of their favourite prey, the tree frogs thrived, well slept and energetic. 

Thousands of years later the tree frogs, evolved to enormous size and brilliant intelligence, remembered their illustrious ancestor, honored him as a god, Lord Krimba. His image was in every home, with his most famous words inscribed below, "Let there be light".

Parkstreet

Ko-Fi

Illustration by Jen

Park Street Lament

It's a lament, but not for lost love.

I'm sitting with my back against the wall, sitting on the faded, weary, orange brown carpet of a rented apartment. It's an empty apartment. I've let myself in with a key I’ll leave behind when I’ve gathered the last of my possessions.

It's a lament,

But not for lost love, rather for the thrilling sweetness of new love that too quickly becomes faded, weary, like the orange brown carpet of a rented apartment.

It's a lament.

Parkstreet

Ko-Fi

The Song Of Travel And Redemption (The Josie Song)

I've scattered all my childhood ashes,
And buttoned up my love lined coat, and I've,
Updated in my silent fashion,
Launched my little sailing boat, and I've,

Been singing a travelling song,
Now I'm singing a loving song,
And I won't leave again,
Unless she comes along.
Unless she comes along with me.

I've written my last will and playbook,
And straightened up my fearless tie, and I've,
Hung my soul out on a fish hook,
I've puckered up and I've kissed the sky, and I've,

Been singing a travelling song,
Now I'm singing a loving song,
And I won't leave again,
Unless she comes along.
Unless she comes along with me.

Come along with me, you and me, we could sail away together.

I've swum up from the darkest places,
Eaten from the street of life, and I've,
Looked in the eyes of all my faces,
I'm gonna' make that girl my wife, and I've,

Been singing a travelling song,
Now I'm singing her a loving song,
And I won't leave again,
Unless she comes along.

Unless she comes along with me.

Come along with me, you and me, we could sail away together, or we could just stay home, come along with me, come along with me.



Parkstreet 

Bedsit

Three bar orange glow

Corn chip crumbs in white sour cream

Bedsit lonely night

Parkstreet

3 Beats, 2 Hearts - Song Lyrics

A friend of mine says he believes firmly in the institution of marriage, because he gets high paying gigs out of it. On the whole I agree with him, and having played at enough weddings I find the entire fiasco disturbing more often than not. The one moment that always makes me happy is the waltz, when the couple dances in front of the crowd, then are slowly joined by family, then friends. Symbolic and beautiful. I always imagine that men and women approach that dance from very different places.

This song is, of course, a waltz. When I record it I'll start it mellow, guitar and voice, gradually bring in the full skiffle band, double bass, stand up drum kit, fiddle, piano accordion, trumpet, until it is wailing, a triumphant declaration of eternal love.

3 Beats, 2 Hearts

He never danced a waltz in his life,
He has to tonight now he's taken a wife.
The people are watching,
The couple who're waltzing,
Dancing for the first time as husband and wife.

She's only waltzed with girlfriends for laughs,
Been saving this dance for her other half.
The people are watching,
The couple who're waltzing,
Dancing for the first time as husband and wife.

Every year on this night,
Like this moment sublime,
They'll hold each other tight,
And dance in three four time.

Dance in three four time together.

She glows like a bride, his chest fills with pride,
Three beats, two hearts, 'til death do them part.
The people are watching,
The couple who're waltzing,
They're dancing for the first time as husband and wife.

Every year on this night,
A moment sublime,
They'll hold each other tight,
And dance in three four time.

The people are watching,
The couple who're waltzing,
Dancing for the first time as husband and wife.
So get up and join them all you family and friends,
For this is the dance that never ends.

Every year on this night,
As this moment sublime,
They'll hold each other tight,
And dance dance dance.

Ad lib.
They'll dance in three four time,
Dance in three four time together.
'Cos it's a wedding dance, an anniversary dance,
A dance of friendship, so get up on the dance floor all you people.
It's a dance of life, a dance of love.
And it goes one two three, one two three,
Yeah, that's how it goes.




Parkstreet

Terrace, Song Lyrics

Terrace

In my Fitzroy terrace the floorboards creak,

In the kitchen the lean-to leaks,

It's been raining for a week,

You're not here to make my floorboards creak.

I'm staring out at the Melbourne rain,

Will I see you again?

Staring out at the Melbourne rain,

Will I see you?

The bed where we have lain,

The mirror where you were vain,

Beside the door a leadlight pane,

But all that knocks is the Melbourne rain.

So I'm staring out at the Melbourne rain, 

Will I see you again?

Staring out at the Melbourne rain,

Will I see you?

(chorus)

It was your house then I moved in.

We lived together in joyous sin.

Your stuff's still here, it all looks the same,

But the rooms ring empty when I scream . . . your name.

Pull on my old woollen beanie,

Catch a tram into Pellegrini's.

Strong hot coffee and I talk with strangers.

I feel better, but nothing changes.

Just staring out at Bourke Street at the pouring rain,

Will I see you again?

Staring out at the Melbourne rain,

Will I see you?

Parkstreet

Ko-Fi

The Ghost Of Richard Brautigan

(Not poetry, but here it is anyway.)

Last night the American Gothic cathedral that is Richard Brautigan visited me in my sleep. With the enchantment of his words he turned me into a watermelon and floated me across the Pacific Ocean. 

Together we walked around the Haight Ashbury. Well, I walked, he floated. We both tried our darndest to love the tourist trash that now own that sacred ground. He took me back in time, showed me his apartment, where he worked, where he refused to do anything but what his talent demanded. I understood.

We walked and floated in silence, the silence of ourselves. At first I was a little disappointed, being in the company of the great writer I was expecting to see words glistening in the California sun like trout in a stream, occasionally leaping into the air for the sheer delight of jumping. I would have been happy if he'd just shown me a sign, the words "trout stream this way". I guess I was hoping to impress him, surface like a whale and blow him away with a salty spout of cleverness, but I felt that no words was part of the lesson.

He showed me a woman so beautiful that she caused traffic accidents wherever she went. I understood.

As morning approached his words turned my blood into wine, he carried me home in a holy grail. I awoke with the taste of wine on my lips, and the only words that he spoke all night in my mind.

"Kent Parkstreet, you are loved."

I understood. Trout stream this way.





Parkstreet

Bigger Than Lincoln’s

O Captain!

Not my Captain!

There’s static

On the wheelhouse radio,

All the old man hears 

Is threats.

He pulls his whistle madly,

O the piteous tweets,

And swears he’ll crash

The ship of state 

Unless we all agree

His shores a-crowding

Are bigger

Than Lincoln’s.

Parkstreet

A Brief History Of Time

Big Bang
Toast or cereal?
Heat death





Parkstreet

Ko-Fi

Transient

Escalator

From underground platform

To daylight.

Pretty girl smiles,

Passing,

From daylight

To underground platform.

A marriage,

‘til death do us part.

Transient love.

Parkstreet

Just To See What Happens

Anaesthetised

With booze brewed

In a cell toilet.

Tattooed

With ink

Made from a melted plastic Coca Cola bottle.

Punched in with a paper clip,

By an artist inspired by hate.

Paid for with cigarettes

Or blow jobs.

His face 

And head

A miniature canvass

Of banal black blotches.

The birth marks

Of an alcoholic womb,

The scar tissue

Of prison rape.

He took his prison bars with him,

On his face and head,

And sat them opposite me

On this inner city tram,

Smelling like an all night ashtray

That a drunk has spewed in,

And hate.

I want to sit quietly

Avoid notice,

Alight when the time is right,

But part of me

Wants a ticket inspector

To set fire 

To the hate fuse,

The personal prison riot,

Bureaucracy and the beast,

Just to see what happens.

Fear kills empathy.

Parkstreet