scenes at Green Refectory, 22.08.2026

mother sits baby on the table.

boy in beanie plays with spoon with glass half listening to young Uma Thurman. 

man in sportswear hunches over laptop. he is writing an assignment about the murder of Kumanjayi Walker.

couple sits at bench at window watching moving traffic. buses replacing trams on Sydney Rd. they laugh and listen to a voicenote together, leaning into one of their phones. 

man in green cap swirls the dregs of his mug nodding along to girl in black cap. she stands to leave first. he offers to carry her bag. they leave behind a clear view of the notice board.

'a new way to learn Spanish has arrived'. 'Spanish vibes 2.0'. 'rent me and explore Victoria'. 'titani-accs'. 'gender drugs and rock and roll'.

baby laughs with mother.

waitress scrapes chairs back into place. she picks a pillow from the floor.

man with beard talks about money and job prospects. patient lady with a fringe drinks purple something from a glass and feeds him chocolate cake.

lady in back scribes pen into a notebook.

plastic bottle. double heart. giraffes and geese and flowers. mother eats a biscuit. baby drinks the milk.

the gold

and I worry about ending something good with my own hands, spoiling what I dream of with the fear of that same loss. the gold is fragile. feel it ripple gently in the cups made with my fingers. mesmerising enough to never want to look away. intoxicating sunshine through the skin. I know the before: a steady rhythmic pulse through cool tones tasks and screen time. there is laughter and music, though it never lasts half as long as the boulders in between. the liminal is cold. I much prefer our hologram.

preempting the end I flounder in the well and nearly spill the gold. you're somewhere playing dress-up making other people laugh. I think about your eyes and I don't want to know the after.

salvation over coffee

a breath in a break from myself and other places too much time is spent. I spy young Christians scrawling scripture on the avenue in chalk through early afternoon sun. free drinks enticing passers by to stop. many indulge in exchange for a taste of momentary evangelisation. salvation sounds good over coffee. south lawn is plagued with pagans in dire need of liberation from their phones. ‘he actually lived a pretty normal life’. we’re all willed to life without a say and every story ends the same. how many of us get the chance to live again? 

forgetting how to talk

at the cinema we forget how to talk to each other. I try to remind myself that we are relative strangers, despite the sounds and colours underscoring this brief intersection of orbits. the movie doesn't really matter, though we'd both hoped for a little more from the vouching of our friends. you eat the biscuits I've baked from your favourites. I relish your proximity. it feels wasted somewhere I can't see or hold you. I wish we were alone.

credits roll offscreen with our plans. things feel strange and you need to get home. you board the next bus when it comes. I wander the gardens round the dome I've told you I want to climb. I wonder if you've had enough. you didn't take the biscuits with you. at least I got to hold your hand.

my subconscious takes me shopping

whilst I sleep my subconscious takes me shopping. at the supermarket I search for my breakfast cereal but the aisles all seem a little confused. no shelves carry any kind of order, though they're all overflowing from the ceiling to the floor. some passages and aisles seem to fade in and out of render with my approach. each door is flagged by staff waving giant blue hands. they all wear vacant smiles with teeth. I don't quite understand this simulation. unable to find anything I need I can't help feeling like a misplaced child and far too scared to ask for help. arriving at the checkout empty-handed I want to leave although I came in for a reason. if only I remembered.

I wake to the sound of a new day a little too loud on the phone by the bed. the sun waits behind the blind in a line on the floor.

fear and dreaming

my brother calls me from his evening. I ride my Monday morning to the sound of his answers to my questions about the future. he is scared and uncertain and the first blossoms of Spring hang a little early under vacant street lamps. we talk about maybe living together again. everything is far from certain but I miss him and wish we could know some things for sure. I think about sharing solitude with him, how long it's been since last we shared a home in each other's heads. when we are together dread and disappointment matter less. when he hangs up they return like neglectful friends overcompensating for an absence they want me to forget.

I fear the rug being pulled with the curtain, being exposed for what I am and left in the dark with other toys you've had enough of. I fear the space between knowing I am worth what I hoped or felt I had been for a moment in your eyes. I fear this fear and his tentacles, a self obsession that dwarfs the heart that pulsed for something more. the world doesn't stop burning for my sulking into myself. that I think about being forgotten more than the rivers of blood on my phone is the greatest nightmare I have willed to life. I fear forgetting myself and what I taught him to stand for. I fear the day I choose my petty tears.

but there is fear and there are dreams. no matter where I am there are never more than hours between dread and falling into lifetimes I don't understand. each breath is one breath closer to letting go. tonight I dream and leave myself. tomorrow when I wake I only wait a little while to do the same again.

pigeons over Sydney Rd

you are water

anything but still

translucent and futile

and how I want to drown

you are the flock of pigeons dancing over tram wires under overcast Fridays

effervescent

forging scenes I’d only dream in echoes of the silver screen

I am a child in the pram

who hears the roar but cannot see the traffic

facing the sky

watching you shift shapes like clouds

cheering in my head

without the words to tell you how it makes me feel

laughing til it rains and you are gone

you’re making jokes for strangers out of oceans and the gospels

I know about the Bible

tell me more about the fish that live forever.