lovecanbereal Poetry (146)

A mind's reflection casts a thought out wide
Something wherein the ego breaks its banks
Like a river in a flood or swelling tide
(As for that we do for love and not for thanks)
Forgetting P (my mentor), I went outside
On transports of delight - which now outranks
Any former feeling, that once I knew;-
Though I had a lot of growing up to do.

And so it was, I walked home in the sun
Feeling the kiss, Apollo's gentle rays
Wherein my mind all fancies newly ran
And my imagination did cascade.
The light of afternoon becoming wan
Ripples of thought now waves the mind has made
Exaggerating some, depressing others;-
Waves dash to the shore and wetness smothers.

Relishing at first this new sensation
Which opened up interesting new worlds
Subtle thought now held up for introspection
As fancy upon fancy now unfolds
I took the course for home (or rough direction)
The sun had now dipped low, and gilded golds
Sparkled in the soft whispering of trees
Phoebus' rays now dying with the breeze.

At Wentworth Falls* I now approached the station
For I had to go to Lawson* on the train
Though time had lengthened somehow in duration
The dying afternoon and it's refrain
Now sitting on a seat, my observation
Became acute - (though harder to explain)
And almost when I thought that time would stop
The train I waited for, at last, showed up.

I saw the sun's last rays were dying now
And mirrored in that thinnest sheet of gold
The windows of the train reflects its glow
A transport for the passage of my soul
Something that time much later would avow
When I could bring back reason to its fold;-
The train now creaked, and made a lurching sound;-
With carriages in twilight girdled round.

I found a seat on that conveyance and
Thus seated, tried then, to my thoughts, to follow;-
Like the hourglass with its tiny grains of sand
That trickle down through time to find their hollow
In that inverted vessel, wherein they land
And with their neighbors countless now do wallow
Marking mounds of time on shifting hills;-
Heaped and sliding down those little rills.

My train of thought was a train off the rails
(Something I thought I could at first contain)
To smoke this dr*g, and all that that entails
No longer I a virgin could remain;-
Like a plane in flight - its white contrails
Unfold now in the vortex of my brain;-
I felt like an explorer - such as Mawson
When off that train I did alight at Lawson.



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I sought to find, I sought to find - and found,
Lost innocence, that was newly shattered;-
When, now that I had seen Old Sydney Town,
In her cloak of darkness, nothing mattered.
When all I wanted, was to find my own
Identity; my senses now were scattered,
Into the stars; now down in Old Kings Cross,
(My memory now grows a verdant moss).

So young, (they say), so young for a "street kid",
(Well this is what it makes you - if you stay);
Something to shock the Ego, and the Id;
To shock your very soul into dismay;
Where in this shady place, in corners hid,
Were ev'ry type of vice, and wicked way;
There's things you shouldn't see when your fifteen;-
Things that are a nightmare's waking dream.

So now up gaudy William Street, I walked,
Past glitzy showrooms of luxury cars,
Past girls on corners (before whom I balked);
And by each corner, with their lonely bars;
Past the trannies*, whom their wares they hawked;
(For a Mountains Boy, this may as well be Mars);
Past the Coke Sign**, and into her den of vice;
And anything you want - if you have the price.

Bright lights, big city, (so they say) - it's true;
Many moths to a flame, many moths destroyed;
And once it's seen, there's none forget the view;
(Even if thereafter, they then, the place, avoid).
Here's another street fight, here's another blue;***
And before too long, here's police deploy'd;
A gangster's paradise - men like Neddy Smith;-****
Now all these years later, we have Neddy's myth.

I'm on Darlo Road^, (I'm in the "Cross proper);
Past strip shows, f*ck shows, nightclubs, and such things;
With drug dealers paying off the bent coppers;^^
And all is well, and good - till someone "sings";
Then you'll see "what gives" - when they "come a cropper";^^^
(Their blood on the street - is what this brings);
They're called a "dog"^^^^; and bashed there in the street;
And afterwards; their face is like minced meat!

Still there's virtue, in the worst of us;
When the tattoo'd arms, of some criminal,
Would pull me back from the danger, and the fuss;
Away from things which scarred the mind subliminal;
And swimming in societies' worst pus;
With prostitutes strutting in their clothes minimal;
And most of them off their heads on smack;
Which was guaranteed to keep them coming back.

Though in this place, there was a kind of beauty;
Sometimes mix'd in, with the vice, and dross;
At fifteen, I was innocent, as could be
Expected; when I first saw old Kings Cross;
Still things run deep, and deep runs the cruel sea;
And many things must die, to pay the cost.
Some things, which died, inside me, at this time;
Now form the very subject of this rhyme.

So at fifteen, (and also still a virgin);
A young kid's eyes are opened to the world;
My education, somehow, had to begin;-
And so it did - in this underworld.
Drinking underage - most pubs let me in;
(My young mind swimming in the alcohol);
Of course these places also paid police;-
To operate in this place of vice.

So there you have it all;- "it takes all kinds";
And of this saying's truth - I have no doubt;
At my young age then, I missed the land mines;
By keeping quiet - a whisper was a shout;-
(Or could become one - in some other's mind);
It took so little for a fight to break out;-
Which could then cascade into a mighty brawl;
That was "all in" - a violent free for all.

Now the 'Cross is nothing like it used to be;
(Though some things do not change up there - I'm sure);
And She's expensive - in her gentility;
(No longer will you find the dozy whore).
With a veneer of respectability;-
And a little more regard for the Law;-
Pubs close early - with Lockout Laws in place;^^^^
And less young kids there, getting off their face.



© lovecanbereal
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I start the year now nineteen eighty three,
In verse now strictly chronological,
If you want to know the plot just read and see,
In my life story, you will have it all.
I''ll try to tell of my strange destiny;
And hopefully my words will now enthrall;-
Poets must, (at least try), to be honest: -
To this I hope my verse will now attest.

T'was year nine, in school, (a long time back there);
A fourteen year old boy - quite innocent,
In this year of study some demands were,
Placed upon myself, who trusting went,
To the library to read with pleasure,
All things on the shelves, which were sent,
For our instruction (surely were intended);-
The world's wisdom - fully recommended.

Curiosity, (they say), it killed the cat,
(Well, in my case, I'm not entirely sure);-
Inquisitive, I was - and all of that;-
Though something else, I wanted - not censure.
Still in the library, reading, there I sat;-
An interested boy though still wants more;-
It is natural, in our adolescence,
To want the world, and it's experience.

Perfectly, I sat there uncorrupted**,
Young minds, they grow at such a rapid rate;
Teachers pleased? that I am now instructed,
To repeat such things, that I here relate,
And so I was by little now inducted,
As such it was, I tell you now my fate,
At fourteen and a half years of age;
P.N, a friend and I had Mary Jane.

We always want what we have never got,
This is true from man unto the infant,
Our human envy, that's our human lot;-
It seems this way since Adam first there went,
Into that sacred garden, and forgot,
What was at first a laudable intent;-***
Sometimes, it seems, that somethings never change;-
Only time, places, people re-arrange.

Carl Jung once said we have Collective Soul;
In this, I think, he wasn't far from wrong;
And in and age of Sex, Drugs Rock n Roll,
What was in books is now found in a song;
Such aural things do most of us enthrall;-
As teenagers - we must at first belong;-
Indeed before we do at first rebel;
We need our friends, who will do this as well.

P.N, P.N^ - Your'e so intelligent;
Of this I'm sure - (and could you tell me now);
Have you been living off the Government?
(I tell this story, as best as I know how);
The world's against us as an adolescent;
(I was not at that age holier than thou);
One thing I know is I will tell my story;
Not fearing now embarassment, or glory.

Where was I now my much detested Son?
(Though not that I do bear now any grudge);
The war that we were fighting could not be won
Though smoking grass at school was quite a bludge;^^
Now at fifteen years old in year nine;
We try a little worldliness to fudge;
Though truth be told - surely I must be joking;
(We were as green as the grass we were smoking!).

PN's place, 'twas when Spring was now through half;
We'd managed to find our selves a stick of pot,
Of course we'd only smoked it for a laugh;
And between ourselves, we soon had smoked the lot!
Although, (I thought), I might have had enough;
I was inclined to just that bit more scoff;-
For a while, (at first), nothing really happened;
Then all of a sudden the floodgates opened.

Where at this age, more innocent, I was;-
Although (it seems) not innocent enough;
Curious (more so) - and now because;
It seemed the going was now becoming rough;
Senses once dormant - now became aroused;-
To do with sex, and drugs, and all that stuff;
At Sixteen, I found my fist lay, in the Cross,
As they say, a rolling stone has no moss.^^^



© lovecanbereal
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It is very sad that my first love's dance
Should have happened down in old Kings Cross*
Where amid this sordid circumstance
There was something more than just innocence lost.
Wrap it up and put it in - where was romance?
(The girl's heart covered by a cold hard frost).
I was her last trick of the night - and then?
Well after this - all she wants is h*roin.

Glittering old tart - the Cross - debauched and stupid; -
Where some find pleasure - and others find great pain.
Destroying innocence - you'll find not Cupid -
Drenched in sin and soaking in the rain.
I speak of her in memories quite lucid; -
(At other times she shames and fogs my brain).
This is a place where truly nothings free -
And if you ever went there you would see.

So going back now thirty years in time; -
With gangsters' molls, whores, and drugs aplenty; -
Ev'ry violence - ev'ry type of crime -
Well, so it was - back there in the eighties.
Though in this wildlife something sublime; -
A merging of the Tigress and Euphrates.**
Awash with drugs and every type of sin -
Hookers off their faces on cheap h*roin.

That was where I was - down in old Kings Cross
Losing at sixteen my sweet virginity; -
And sleeping (as I did) with life's worst dross -
Saw this den of vice and inequality.
(Though half of Sydney would be at a loss
If this old dame were ever closed you see).
Here vice has value - something like a treasure -
Where we "sin in haste - and repent at leisure".

The 'Cross of old: - well that was how it was; -
Like a jail (co-educational) with lights.
And why you ask? Why? - just well - just because -
(How else can you explain all those street fights?)
I tell of times long gone back in "the "Cross" -
(Destroying the young as they found their delights).
"Drunks, (and) junkies and busted up old sluts"^; -
Well, they say us Aussies were "as rough as guts".

There were a few good people - the odd saint
As diamonds in the rough - (as you might say)
Though not for me because saint I ain't
And I was young and in my "salad days".
Well this is the picture that I paint
(For saints you'd best look in another place)
Except of course for Father Chris O'Rielleys'
Youth Off the Streets virtuous charities.***

No time now; to return to memories; -
No time - to come - and settle - those old scores.
She's tame and I'll not make new enemies; -
All's gone quiet with these our "lockout laws".****
Hard to find a foe or even frenemies; -
The spark is gone and now she only bores; -
Kicked out of the 'Cross at 1 am
The clubs are closed like jails - inmates in them.




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Damned by alcohol, our convict forebears;
Put a pub on ev'ry corner of old Newtown,
A night in Newtown - nothing compares -
(This suburb by its pubs, still has renown);-
Places for daydreams, and for quick affairs -
They are not formal - you don't need a ballgown;-
I can count at least five, or six, or seven;-
For drinkers, this is a kind of "God sent" heaven*.

This night a young man finds himself adrift,
In a big city - Sydney (to be exact);-
And from his mountain home - there is a rift;-
From what's familiar - he can't re-enact.
His former life - how reality does shift!,
Place and Time, and Time and Place react;-
So as to produce a strange perplexity;-
City life in all of its complexity.

A young man finds himself, at age eighteen,
In Newtown, in the dirty inner city.
A strange place, where things aren't as they seem;
(For a country lad, much more's the pity;-
In some ways knowing - although far too naive);-
So I must continue my poetic ditty,-
(By a ditty - I only mean these stanzas;-
Not the whole of life's extravaganzas).

My Newtown, (jaded Newtown) - an old whore;-
A faded jaded lady, down at heel,**
What you first see, you see, then so much more;
(Tonight reveals the bums, and the genteel);
Where students, derelicts, and junkies score;-
(She cloaks herself in night - so to reveal);-
Innocents find a fantasmagoria;-
If she had a ladies name - it be Gloria.

King Street winds, in serpentine complexity;
Like a river, down into St Peters;
Here you find every type of humanity,
From the wealthy, down to the Metho drinkers;***
Dulls the senses, of the night's black vanity;
A brilliant jewel, is to what this verse refers;
Australians, and other Nationalities,-
Into this melting pot now find finality?

The Beatles, and of Lucy's Sky with Diamonds;-
And how, at times, things seem like plasticine,
Trees, and palm trees, with their dark black fronds;
Lurched up before us like figures of glacine;
And paraded on the streets - the demimonde;
To Erskineville, we walked a dark ravine;
Through night's brocade - in all its strange regalia;-
To the bosom of the Rose of Australia.

Still, things seemed like an oddity we dreamed,
In this hotel Steve^, and I bought schooners,*****
The trip had not worn off (or so it seemed);
Overhead the full moon, white and lunar;
Silvery moonlight down upon us streamed;
I then wished I had finished my beer sooner;
As all about me patron's skeletons;
Were seen bereft of their clothe's curtains.******

It's not surprising, then, we fled the hotel,
And walked along the molten plastic streets;
Through Alexandria^^ - factories, and hovels;
Then, suddenly, the rain fell down in sheets;-
Before subsiding to a gentle drizzle;
Then we found ourselves on Boundary Street;
I said to Steve "I need to take a piss"
Beneath a street light - diamonds from my d*ck!

In this strange way, our trip came to an end;
(I think we walked back, but I can't recall);
"All's well, that ends well" ^^^- I can recommend;
You take a trip, or take one not at all;
Please yourself; although never do pretend;
That you have seen what I have seen - don't enthrall;-
Or guild your memories, with pretense false;-
Be honest now, and honest with your self.



© lovecanbereal
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A speck of flysh*t floating in Infinity,
What are we more; (from a cosmological point of view)?

A question no one knows,
Though some will say.

In this amazing world,
Theories, they abound,
And beliefs are many.

Yet no one knows an
Atom of the truth.

Quantum fields collapsing
In Deep Cosmic Time.

Photons of light,
Billions of years old.

Light years into the void,
And into Infinity.

Although, (Unlikely);
There is a chance,
That we may be the only life out there.

So why don't we,
Look after it all,
A little bit better?



© lovecanbereal
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For seven years I've longed for your love,
That's deep and blue as the ocean's bliss -
As winged she flies - a lonely dove -
Through the storm's eye in search of your kiss;-
No longer I'll watch the empty cove,
And dying waves that beg for a tryst -
For times tide has washed away
Each lonely year and empty day.

Till what we have now - a ghost of the past-
Though it still proves that we can hold
A sweet memory that will always last
Against these years a love untold.
I give the spring flowers a final blast -
To thaw the ice of my heart so cold;-
But the loneliness grows - a velveteen moss -
To patina the years that we both have lost.

Still my soul's tempest will not subside
An hour with you and I'd feel whole again
Loneliness drowns in the ebb of your tide
When love's quick fire burns in my veins; -
From my heart's longing I never can hide-
Though the years apart have bound us like chains;-
Where once we loved with hearts that were true -
Now loves faded rose cannot bloom anew.


© lovecanbereal
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My 100th poem - and my last billet doux,*
(And please don't take my writing for granted);-
There's more I could tell you - and some that is new;-
(Though lust over love has been oft been supplanted).
Where poesy (it seems) appeals to the few;-
(There's a lot to say about things that I once did);-
And never has there been a much truer word,
Than what I've writ now in front of the World.

Though how can I say it's my last billet doux;-
What hope have I got,- when such are my failings?
Thus under my pen, my verse blooms anew;-
To describe my young self in emotional railings.
Well it's true (as a young man) I did go askew,
And my life was far; - far from plain sailing;-
So then, please excuse this my biopic;-
In which I write on various topics.

So I find it can't be my last billet doux,
(Merely a break, or a quiet hiatus);-
Should I go and hide from the World, and it's view;-
Or write and describe some more of my coitus?
It's hard to believe it would cause much ado,
In this graphic life, where half the World hates us;-
When really I write of the "damage done";-
And the abuse that made me an "orphan."

It's not that I here write with self-pity,
It's more that I say here God "please explain"
Or maybe a tale of "sin and the city",
And human potential that's gone down the drain.
I write not to seem too clever, nor witty,
(In fact behind lies emotional pain)
Of a type that's quite hard to comprehend;-
So I think that it's Karma, and death's not the End.

So what must I do to repay the sins,
That were likely acquired in many past lives?
When life's credits roll up,- will it say "fin";-
Or at this juncture, does my energy survive?
Well, I must go on;- and to live is to win,
To spite them, and say:- "hey I'm still alive";-
And like the Phoenix, fly above the Narcissist,-
Who can't triumph, in all his cruel self-interest.


© lovecanbereal
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Love's food tonight? - the substance of your caress; -
If substance abuse, - then guilty - I confess!
Not much that I can say - so please take heed -
Your female essence - is the substance of my need.

I sometimes kiss when to a kiss responded
(Not that we much before long corresponded)
In the old days - when meeting at a pub
Then mutual trust was considered good enough.

What can I say? At twenty and at thirty
Natural introduction wasn't dirty.
A tavern with a few drinks was affection -
(This is true to the best of my recollection).

That is foreplay with alcohol I must say
Potent deceiver and giver of dismay; -
Although by chance on destiny's right path
A few drinks were considered good enough.

Not too much - and certainly - not too little
Girls want confidence - her man not belittle
At first herself, she wants confidence from him
And to know she's loved - and most of all by him.

The chaos and the turmoil of our world -
Where people sell for money their own soul; -
Though not for me approaches such as these
Tonight I'll give you girl your trembling knees.

A stranger's heart that sweetest mystery -
I'll spend my last dollar with you to be free; -
Your place or mine and not to be particular
Horizontal now in bed - not perpendicular.

Women know when they are loved its true -
I'm hard sometimes - though tender now with you.
Sweetest girl - I lap now all your honey; -
Affection's gift; - worth much more than money.

The honey of your love is sweet affection; -
Giving me esteem; - and self-direction.
And in the morning - if I have met your needs; -
I'll treasure that one night - in memories.




© lovecanbereal
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When I was young; - though no longer a youth,
At twenty nine, where does this scene find me?
Well, I'll tell you, and I will speak my truth;
T'was Banksia*, near Rockdale*, near the sea;
And this stories true; - you'll have it's proof:
(T'is as sure as I write this verse for thee);
Her name was Kirsten (that was her working name);
And I'll write my truth, without fear, or shame.

Why in this age, do we still make our art?
When, probably, robots could do it better;**
As ghosts quite old, and shackled in the past,
Now raise up, and demand a fiery letter;-
And conquests (if you call them that) are cast,
Into stark relief, as they're unfettered;
Secrets, intimate, about which poets rave;-
Well, it's either this, or I take them to my grave.

Working on the railway, at Wolli Creek*,
Building a tunnel, for the trains to go;
Working hard, and working six days a week,
In the middle of a Winter, long ago.
When fixing steel for concrete earned my keep,
Where first the days, and then the nights, were slow;
It was hard work, at strange unwelcome hours,
Though through this work, my story now bears flowers.

So, in mid-Winter, Nineteen Ninety Eight;
(The twenty first of June, to be precise;
After having worked, from morning, until late,
(I'd got good pay, and so I had love's price).
A change of clothes; the pub that night my fate;
A few beers later, I had the taste for vice;
Before (and since) I had done much worse then,
When I came, saw, and conquered lovely Kirsten.

A nearby brothel, nothing quite so flash;
(I won't say where, but nearby is enough);
And luckily for me, I had the cash;
(For I was desperate, for a bit of muff).
So, on a cold Winter's evening, h*rny, rash,
I did now, set sail, for my bit of rough.
Soon, reception, and now the old Madam;
I paid the price; she said: "choose and have 'em".

Now five girls appeared in the reception,
The Madam; she told me to choose my girl;
Five dolled up ladies, now for my inspection,
(I saw a blonde one standing near the hall);
I asked her name, the Madam told me "Kirsten"
"Then she's for you, and may, she you, enthrall",
I chose her then, (as custom then would have it);
Another girl;- another costly habit.

So in a clap-board room, I turned the dimmer,
Of the light, on the ceiling, down a shade;
Our bodies, in soft shadow, now did shimmer,
And made our troubles seem to shy and fade.
Two figures, in half light, did softly glimmer,
(Like Venus and Adonis in a glade).
Then going down, into her secret place;
And all because she had a pretty face.

And moaning now, she parts her legs so softly;
She offers now her self,- there is no shame;
I kiss her mount of Venus - then so quickly,
Feel my passion rise and rise, as if aflame.
I'm on my back; she straddles me then slowly;
Rhythm builds, - me and my girl whose on the game;
And still now, I remember how she trembled;
As climax shook us both; on sheets we tumbled.

Afterwards, we had a shower together,
And water flowed upon us hotly, how;
She told me that I'd be one she'd remember;
(As I wonder to myself,- where is she now?).
This year's near gone, and soon, will be November;
So, I must write, while time, it does allow.
I tell of this, reader, need you ask why?
T'is been my life; that,- and tonnes of ennui.

So, now you've had it all; - I've set the scene,
The time and tide of passion - it is true;
And like a torrent onward, young love's dream,
Is but a bend in a river flowing through.
Where in my life, it's been a common theme;
More memories, which none can now undo;
I weave these stories, through my posy's bars;-
Such as they are;- beneath the fateful stars.



© lovecanbereal
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Why does it seem students are always poor?
Studying (as I was) both science and maths
And like some kind of universal law
Scholars walk on impecunious paths;-
Correctly - poverty - we should abhor-
So I turn my verse (instead) to other stuff:-
Having got - that night - enough drinking money
T'was time to go out then - in search of honey.

Out (that night) at Rockdale* - Spanky's Nightclub
And once again I thought I'd try my luck;-
Another year - almost gone - and here's the rub:
T'was about a year since I'd had a f*ck.
With no wish to stay at home in my suburb
(I thought it overdue to break my duck)
Being young at the time (twenty or so)
And at that age were always on the go.

So to the point: I came upon the tavern -
As Titan's rays were fading in the sky
When affections young its often craven
(Though in my case - because I am quite shy)
Summer heat hung ominous that eve'ning
(I crossed into the pub then anyway)
Stepping into said - (from its threshold)
Therein - a raucous view - I did behold.

Typical Aussie pub Saturday night -
After a beer (or six) I felt relaxed;
And being more inclined to f*ck than fight-
Surveyed the scene for a likely prospect,-
There in the corner (much to my delight)
A lady larger - than I might expect -
I admit the circumstance was not refined -
And neither were (perhaps) my pick-up lines.

After some small talk (that's the hardest part)
Fumbling our way through the introductions
We need to find a time then to depart:-
(Timings all important in seductions -
And leaving at the right time is an art).
She told me her name was Robyn (and that's when)
I hoped that I had made my feelings plain; -
She said I had - and that she lived in Engadine.**

Friends of hers (a couple) did the driving
So south we traveled - I was innocent
Of what this trio may have been contriving
Group situations? - (not expecting this intent)
Here I'd better continue my explaining
Of how the rest of this (a hot night) went:-
Suffice to say a good time was had by all -
One couple per bed (I add now) and withal.

My self at twenty - Robyn ten years older
And a notch on the belt: - experience!
Then I felt fantastic - and grew bolder
(Though at the time a loss of common sense).
Thus lover-bards throughout their lives must soldier
Not declining or refusing any wench; -
And in this age of overt (and crude) pornography -
Be grateful: - you have my cultured poetry.




© lovecanbereal
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The Robot wrote a poem - and got it wrong;-
(There was no feeling) - the algorithm,
The verse, and the meter (like a bad song)
Rang rough on the inner ear - unholy schism!
(T'was meant to tell how human hearts belong).
There was no passion; - music less its rhythm;-
Like Frankenstein; - Poetry without a Soul,-
Could not the inner light of people fool.

The boffins programmed a chip of silicone,
With fuzzy logic, and with mathematics;-
(And it's verse rang on the senses; - a weight of stone).
"Hooray" the scientists cried (in tones ecstatic)
"Now those who read this will feel less alone.
Who needs poets? - they're known to be erratic;-
We've got this thing down pat; - the Robot taught;-
And reduced all human love to ones and naughts."



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