Posts Tagged ‘Brenton Booth’


UNTITLED

If

love

didn’t

exist

we’d

find

something

else

to

fuck

our

lives

up

with.

NIGHT AND DAY

I dropped her off at

6AM 2 streets away

from her home. She

told me her husband

and kids would still

be asleep. She’d just

get a shower and

change her clothes

and panties and

everything would

be good. ‘ Do you

love him?’ I said.

‘ I will give you a

call tonight,’ she

said. And I watched

her beautiful ass

disappear into the

harsh morning light.

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HEARING HER

She mistook me for

Van Gogh and told

me

I was the only man

she enjoyed having

sex with at work

and

the reason she never

called me was her

phone was lost

it was lucky I came

back

or she would have

never seen me

again

and she would like

to see me again

next weekend would

be good

she said

that would be unreal

I said

and left the brothel

with both ears still

intact.


 

 

MEAN STREETS by Brenton Booth

 

 

Alcohol pulsed like heartbeat drowning fear. The two of us, still teenagers, far

 

from men, downing straight whiskey from the bottle and seeing who could curse

 

the best, and fill the school football field with the most piss. It didn’t actually

 

matter anymore—the act itself was now satisfying enough for both of us.

 

Trapped in single parent families in a small worthless broke suburb in Sydney,

 

neither of us hiding our disgust very well tonight.

 

We finished the bottle. I hurled it at the grandstand hoping for an explosion—

 

though was slightly satisfied with the mess it created.

 

“ I’m going home,” I said.

 

“ I’m going for a walk. I don’t want to go home. I would never go there again if it

 

wasn’t for my little sister. I have to look after her—save her from them,” said

 

Tom.

 

I stumbled home leaving him in the shadows, hoping I’d see him again, those

 

streets really weren’t safe to walk, but we both knew that worse things existed.


SUICIDE ANGELS

she has carefully styled blonde hair

a beautiful body

and a face that wouldn’t look out of

place in a fashion magazine

and for the past month

i have seen her working the strip

her stunning blue eyes slightly

glazed from drugs though she’s

so new to it all she still looks good—

she actually looks better than good;

and she is,

though after living in kings cross for

ten years now i have seen it all before,

they come along young and beautiful

and still in control of their lives,

though time passes quickly and soon

enough their faces are grey and hard

and their bodies look like starved twigs

and minds no longer think of anything

but scoring:

their brains completely fried

so that any request, even from the most

hideous men

no longer offends;

their shame and feelings of self preservation

having died long ago with all those brain

cells:

anything now to score—

and feel good again.