I am feeling, today, less than enthusiastic about everything. Well …. more or less.

You know how, on most days, you just think that life is absolutely meaningless? But on others you are sure of it? Today fits into the second category. And tomorrow. And the one after that. In fact, I feel so confident in my conviction that life is some sort of cosmic joke without a punch line that I’m fairly certain that every day will be this way from now on. I will plan for that, anyway.

It’s good to have a plan.

So, in the spirit of sharing, I thought I might try to drag everyone else down too, with a dull little poem.

But don’t worry.

It’s nothing, really.


Another dawn. Another day

A sun will never rise

A fog, a coat to keep me warm

And smoke within my eyes

To see today what wont be seen

To hear what won’t be heard

To speak what won’t be spoken

A death in every word

Beyond the fog, the grey abyss

The future cold and black

One step into the vortex

Brother, hold me back

One step into the nothingness

I hear the sirens call

One foot before another

Sister, watch me fall





I was browsing through here yesterday and noticed Promote Yourself Monday. It’s a fairly regular event, coming around, unsurprisingly, about once a week.

It’s not really a concept that I’m comfortable with. The whole idea of self-promotion tends to be frowned upon here in Australia. It’s something that ‘you just don’t do’. I know that seems bizarre to other cultures, Americans in particular, who might argue, ‘if you can’t speak highly of yourself, then why would you expect anyone else to?’

And they may have a point. But down here ‘the tall poppy syndrome’ and ‘the cultural cringe’ rule, and so self-depreciation is valued more highly than self-promotion.

Nevertheless, I was taken by the idea of promoting myself …. to the rank of, say, General, or Rear-Admiral (do they have a Front-Admiral?)

And then the vision came to me of some old drunk staggering in and out of bars late at night dressed in a tatty old uniform, telling fabricated war stories and hoping that somebody might buy him a drink.

(such is a far more likely outcome for me than actually being ‘promoted’)

This is what I said.



Promote yourself! It’s Monday!

A super, number one way

Of advancement in this picky

Tricky, cliquey world of words

Alas, I am no poet

And most already know it

For my poems are just

Poorly polished turds

But I’ve suddenly a notion

To award myself promotion

And get myself a uniform

With stars

It will be such a hoot

To have you all salute

And buy me drinks each night

In seedy bars


Just a Quickie

When I was very young I had the attention span of a goldfish. School reports frequently said something to the effect of, ‘shows promise but little focus’ or ‘could do better with the application of effort’. And then, miraculously, I went through a period of some productivity in my early middle age. I think that things started to go downhill again at about the age of 35.

And now, as I stumble into senility, I can’t really concentrate on anything for more than about 5 minutes anymore- hence my spasmodic postings on this site. I was determined to do just something …. anything …. this morning, and looked toward one of my trusted muses, Cyranny, and found this here, concerning the word ‘scarlet’.

I devoted about 2 minutes to the project before losing interest and direction.

I offer it, nonetheless, in unedited, uncensored and unfinished form, as an indication of both how my mind works and how it doesn’t.

Please be patient with an old man.


Just let me be

Your bitch. Not your wife

I’ve a taste for your money

For your rich waste of life

I’d much rather feel

Like a whore than a bore

She’s your toast, I’m your honey

You could not ask for more

I’m Scarlet the Harlot

What do you think?

I’m a dream, I’m a starlet

Won’t you buy me a drink?



And Here’s Another One

The NYC Flash Fiction thing is running again. As usual, all contestants get 2 shots in round 1.

I was assigned Ghost Story/ A Boulangerie/ An Ice Tray …. Don’t worry, I didn’t know what a boulangerie was either. It turns out to be a French Bakery focused almost entirely on the making of bread

I had some good ideas. The original version featured weird tribal religious ceremonies, lurid sex scenes and lots of blood. Once I cut it down to the required size (1000 words) there was nothing left.

Except this











The Baker’s Dozen









DESERTING a short, disastrous marriage after the summer of 1968, I boarded a ship bound for Tahiti and within weeks of arrival had sunk what little remained of my savings into the purchase of La Marquisienne. The decaying boulangerie stood in the marketplace of Papeete and looked out over an ocean that would forever separate me from my former life. It was a romantic gesture, I suppose, for I imagined that the humble act of breadmaking might atone for former sins.

It was necessary, of course, to learn the basics of baking, and I advertised for an experienced tutor in the art.  An eccentric Frenchman tapped upon the shop door two evenings later.

“I am here to teach,” he informed me, “and you will listen very carefully, for I have precious little time.”

He was formally dressed; he wore a beret and gloves, but his clothing was torn and stained with flour and salt. He reminded me of a dead seagull that had washed ashore and then miraculously sprung to life.

“First we need wine,” he ordered, “and we need ice.”

He saw my look of puzzlement and reassured me with a grin, “The ice is for the dough. The dough must be kept cool. The wine is for the baker. Same reason.”

 “Are you sure that is wise?” Alcohol had seen my undoing before.

“Making bread is an act of love,” he insisted, “and no act of love is complete without wine.”

And so began the breadmaking lesson. He touched nothing himself but instructed me on every step. The salt was to be separated from the yeast until both had blended with the flour. The dough itself was always to be covered. Every thirty minutes I emptied the ice tray into a slurry of water, into which the rolling pin was dipped fastidiously. And every thirty minutes, together, we emptied a bottle of wine.

Always thirteen to the dozen,” he told me, importantly, “for no matter how hard you try, no matter the love that you put into each caress of the dough, there is always one that doesn’t turn out.”

We drank and I baked.  He removed his tattered jacket and rolled up his sleeves. His arms were decorated with a mass of fading tattoos. Recognising my surprise at the sight he smiled.

“On these islands a male is tattooed upon entering manhood. A woman will not be with any male without tattooed skin, for he is not yet a man. This is where the tradition of tattooed sailors began. It is painful, but it is worth it.”

This formed the introduction to the story of his extensive love life. He told me of his practise of making love to thirteen different women each year, “One for every month.”

“But there are 12 months in a year.”

“For a woman, thirteen”, he laughed, “and besides, there’s always one that doesn’t turn out.”

The more wine we drank the more vivid became his descriptions.  He detailed them all intimately, the colour of their skin, the shapes their bodies, the sounds of their pleasure. Clearly, he adored them all. But at the end of each month, he would discard them.

“No trouble with jealous boyfriends?” I enquired.

“Here it is easy. If she wears a flower behind her left ear she is spoken for. Behind the right ear she is available. So, no trouble. Until the last one.”

“Wrong ear?”

“A flower behind each ear – the most dangerous of women. And she was a Chieftain’s wife.”

“You were caught? What happened?”

“Well,” he said quite matter-of-factly, “they burnt her at the stake, of course. For me, the punishment was less immediate, but no less severe.”

I had believed him up until then. But the story had become preposterous. Yet he continued.

“They scrubbed my hands with the skin of the tempest-fish, the poison of which imbeds itself permanently into the bones, and renders the surrounding flesh unimaginably sensitive to heat. One cannot touch anything hotter than the air itself without experiencing excruciating pain. One can no longer bare to touch even the warm skin of a woman. They forced my fingers into the smouldering ashes of her remains, as a reminder.”

It was then, no doubt due to the wine, that I slipped, and dropped a newly baked loaf. He lunged forward and caught it before it touched the earthen floor. No sooner had he lovingly placed it on the cooling tray than he began screaming in agony. He ran to the slurry of ice, removed his gloves, and emersed his hands into the freezing cold.

When, at last, he regained composure, he stood and replaced his gloves cautiously over hideously deformed hands. “I have spoken long enough.”

He turned away and was gone.



THE STORY was an elaborate fabrication, of course, and I could dismiss the whole encounter likewise, but for the fact that I had been, on that night, magically transformed into a master bread maker. My humble business flourished.



AN ELDERLY WOMAN came into the shop on an afternoon twenty-five years later, and picked up the final loaf of the day, the last of thirteen. She sniffed at the bread, and I caught her admiring my tattoos, which now adorned each arm. “It is as though you were inspired by Louis Stohrer, himself,” she murmured.

The name meant nothing to me.

“The original owner of this shop. Reputedly his bread was to die for.”

“I think I may have met him,” I whispered, “he wore a shabby suit.”

“Impossible. He arrived with the missionaries over two centuries ago, and his attire was always impeccable.”

“What became of him?”

“One night he emerged screaming from this very boulangerie. He had burned his hands in the oven, apparently, and he ran towards the water to cool them. He had been drinking and he fell into the ocean. The sharks devoured him.”

It was only as she turned to leave that I noticed a flower behind each of her ears.