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All the Girls

Caged –
the little bird has a big song
and if he holds her throat for too long
he might just set her free.

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Melbourne Sunrise in July

Predawn: the early risers amplify the darkness with noisy combustion.  Cheerful magpies greet the morning with surrounding warble; momentarily silenced by faraway cockatoos screaming expletives.  My breath, not unlike the slow-moving fog beneath the darkened trees, rolls before me in tendrils. A fresh, hot, milky coffee warms my winter-weathered hands. Blackened windows of nearby houses randomly spark alight with morning activity. Each waking home ushers a deep thrum followed by a slow-stirring hiss as heated water collects and flows like warm lifeblood through the pipe work. I sit, westerly, watching as the sun begins to illuminate colour into the world from behind me. The cloud-blanketed sky is heavy overhead, appearing still and unmoving. Wet leaf-litter, sodden with the night’s rainstorm, has collected around me in a carpet of muted yellows and washed-out browns.  Now, later-rising native bird life, each unmistakably different, pepper the world in lively chorus. I wriggle my toes in my old but delightfully warm moccasins. My coffee, now too cold, offers my hands no reprieve from their winter-weatheredness and so I keep them tucked tightly in my lap. It is a white world, this late July morning; with its slow-rolling grey clouds in sun-dappled, radiant silver. It is here, in this crisp new day surfacing, I close my eyes to better-listen. It is meditative, the sounds of Winter, and I am reminded as I quite often am at the sun’s rise, just how glorious it is to be alive.

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Ghost

You’re a fucking fool, girl
Oh how they like to play you, girl
You give it all without reservation
And they take, take, take,
Without hesitation
‘Til there’s nothing left of you, girl
Except a should-know-better fucking fool girl.

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