ha ha ha crime always pays

yeah, mayb get a life, if not yrs, sumone elses huh? learn to write, swallow subjectivity, learn i dont care what you say bcoz you're no-one to me, livin in yr bedroom postin blogs bout writers & reviewers & dodgy crime books & thinkin ure sumthing big wen ure you're really small, infinite, a nematode, a toad, a thing my intestines process - you are a fool, a bigtime fool, megafool, so keep on writin behind those drawn curtains bcoz no-one really gives a flying crap babee!

TED & JEZZ

to really get a head,
i need a volkswagon beetle
my arm in a plaster cast,
a sailboat (imaginary)
a ballpein hammer,
plastic ties
the ability to lie cherubically,
i need to be charismatic
approachable, respectable,
i need a politician's smile,
a tradesman's guile
no remorse,
cold blood & a hunter's patience.

to really get some heads
i need a hand saw,
my own apartment close by
a fish tank: a reliable deep freeze
50 rolls of clingwrap
i need to learn home lobotomy,
a little extra-curricular activity,
to dry-root this monotony
i need to locate one night stands
who give good head,
but who also, don't object,
to losing theirs, immediately
thereafter.

SERIALLY YOURS

suck on this . . .
X will mark your wet spot
maybe chalk, maybe lavae,
everything is on the operating table,
when i see you
walking your dog
i think about
amputation without anaesthetic
dont speak when i'm speaking
i have a staple gun,
industrial strength duct tape,
a hood with no slits at all,
i work by feel alone – holistically
that highpitched squeal of yours,
at friday night confession,
drives me insane, skitzo-frenetic
why do you think cordless power tools were invented?
open wide & say aghhhhhh . . .
see this cross i've made?
in my basement
why not let me nail you to it, say next sunday?
it's a guaranteed weight loss program, no shit,
i kid you not, would i lie?
say you love me baby, one last time . . .
before you have to go . . . to the crawlspace,
i know
i know . . .

All The Nice Girls (& Even Some Who Ain't) Love A Salty Doll

I have had occasion recently, to hike out to the Pavilion at Wayville land, to watch the Adelaide roller derby in action. It was the notion of chicks on rollers indulging in hand-to-hand combat that interested me, being, as I am, a girl of simple tastes.
Though, to be honest, there is not much simple about roller derby. To the virgin spectator, it looks like a mad melee (on wheels), of rough house chicks, going around and around, with absolutely no point to it whatsoever other than voyeurism, which, in fact, is a point, I immediately realize. They draw a fair crowd, an assembly of wayward types: hardcore lesbians, lesbians-in-waiting, boys who like lesbians, and lesbians who like other lesbians, if you get my drift. All-in-all, it is my kind of place. I like the American-esque atmosphere, the razzmatazz, the over-dry hot dogs and the cheap wine in plastic glasses. It is all very trailer park, what with the half-time skateboarding, the hot wheels line-up, getting down and grubby with a fistful of Dolls, Dies, or Roadtrainers in the crap house. Girl sweat is kinda pheromonal.
Obviously, my redhead has to go for a different team, why, I have no idea. She is into the asthetic, the grace, the physicality, and thus, she errs toward Pistola Balboa and those argy-bargy Mile Die girls, whereas I, taking the femme role some divine diety earmarked me for, naturally lean toward the floatilla of sailer girls in cute blue cheerleader skirts with a more graceful style. Of course, as soon as I start to follow a team, they go to pieces. I am yet to see my Dolls win a catfight, despite their most valiant efforts, but, this lady is not for turning. Normally, I miss the first half anyhow, stranded as I am in the food queue, nonetheless, the whole night is definitely one for the girls, and that, in a town woefully short on contact sport spectacles for certain kinds of broads, is the crux of my point. Oh, and by the way, you can arm-wrestle the roller chicks post game, and, mingle with them at the after party, if that is, you don't mind a sideswipe or two trying to get to the bar! As expected, I am still in the bloody hot dog queue - writing this piece!

Redheads @ 8 O'Clock!

I knew writing that Batwoman piece was tempting queer karma, double drat! the old adage of one redhead to a bed, came back to tramp stamp me on the arse. My times, they are a changin', and, as per, I'm wrassling fate and that slippery bitch is winning. Still, life goes on, and on, and on: city landmark hotel, busy friday night, rather balmy for the time of year, we are outside, laughing, drinking, unwinding – no, winding up, which is about where I come in, or, to be precise, where my guttersnipe mouth comes in. There is something 'Barassi' about what follows next.
What did I say? Nah, can't quite get it, but whatever it was, it brought her to a crescendo of red-headed temper; there were, were you understand, six empties on our table, and then, there weren't. They went in one foul swoop, or should I say, one clean sweep. All over the road, made a great sound actually, a shattering which momentarily, rendered all the other outdoor patrons, silent in reverence. I saw her tush vanishing fast into the funk, those cute little boot heels stamping bitumen, that mane of shaggy red stuff, swaying to and fro in anger nee frustration. I sat there, noticed that miracle of miracles, thanks to the smiling grace of St Pinot Noir, I still had a glass with at least one decent swig left in it – waste not want not, I say.
I could hear everyone else talking about dyke fights and red-misted redheads and I calmy supped up, then, casual as you like, alighted the hostelry with a dignified panache. Sweet Jesus, I thought to myself, what in the name of clearskins have you gotten yourself into now? That whispy thought pretty soon evaporated however, as I made haste to a re-union (hoped for reunion) two blocks away. I sucked the blood from her finger, why the hell not, we are going pagan anyhow . . . it was a whole new ballgame, and, for once, I was on the receiving end of what I usually dole out as the Primo Drama Queen. It's always odd being on the other side, even odder being verbally accosted by a woman with more spunk than you've got, but hell, what's a girl to do? Thus, I did what any redhead worth her vegetable salt would do; I hit the sack and acquiesced.

Lucky I've Got A Good Sense Of Humus

Quite why I'm outside at six in the morning, a cold morning, holding an empty jam jar into which the redhead is spooning humus, I'm unsure. There is something hedonistic about the whole thing, or, there is something queer about it. I turn to go inside anyway, leaving her to the pre-dawn delights of standing on her head for an hour someplace, as I mull over more sleep and why my nipples resemble the pillars of Hercules, when she yells: hey gorgeous, want some of these chick pea fritters too, they're bloody great?
I go back to the back of the car, and tell her, quietly, that she sounds like one of those Greek caterer's down at the Glendi festival, and to keep her voice down goddamnit. Why? She asks, just as inquisitively as George Donikian himself. Why? I say to her, because it's six in the morning that's why and this whole caper would look pretty fishy to a passing neighbour for sure.
Not fishy, she says to me, vegetabally! And besides, smell these fritters huh?
Yeah, they smell great, like the morning after.
After what?
After they've been deep fried.
Oh dear God, in this still, frigid, morning air, my whole street reeks of humus. I need that damned lid. This is not the kind of street, be it a city one or not, where it's commonplace to see two redheads looking definitely like they've had a night of rumpy, exchanging Greek foodstuffs. And why does she have a bootfull of Greek food anyhow? Does she have a Grecian bit on the side? No, she's not one for hirsuteness, decaying vegetable matter yes, but not decaying humans. She's a dancer after all, spry on her feet, even at this murderously early slit of a day. Frankly, I wouldn't mind the chick pea fritters, I guess, so she bungs me a half-dozen in quick succession which I have to snatch out of the air like a skip-diver's companion. These are strange days, not as strange as ancient Greece perhaps, but as close as it gets. I watch her drive off, the smell of the Mediterranean wafting from her car. It is all to do with Paul Theroux, I'm sure of it. I should never have left that book on her bedside table. Note to self: do not eat cold chick pea fritters and humus for breakfast!