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Sirens wail beyond my window, the red and blue lights slipping in the rain. I'll go walking soon, because my nights are  sleepless, and I have energy to burn. The streets where I lay my tread must be chosen carefully. I may wander by your house.

Like one of the local crazies, Julia, you may catch me cupping my hands for the rain. Worse still, I may pick a flower from your garden and you will see me do that, then you will scowl at me, saying, ' I saw what you did and you didn't give it a gracious death. '

The sirens are diminished.

Soon a train will rattle by, click-clack-clank, and I wish I could go with it, although wishes are for children. Instead, I'll remain dreaming in its wake.

I have to go for this walk, when the bars are all closed. That's how I begin my mischief.

The taxi drivers will be at the rank, puffing cigarettes, slurping stale coffee, and shaking old news from newspapers. Some I know by name, but my name is a mystery to men like that, and their God fearing women.

Rain has absolutely infinite beauty in it, giving the street lamps, traffic lights, and neon of the main drag an ambience that could have lovers entwined on spur of the moment.

You said to me, ' You're allowed to dream, just don't dream all the time, because dreams can become dangerous, and you know you'll hurt someone. You shine like the glaze on a poison apple. '

Julia, at the table, down view from me, smiling like a deadly court jester. There's things you know about me, far too much, what I do in the shadows, how I stargaze amongst the natives, at other tables, in distant rooms, reminding each other of how many times we've blown our brains out.

In days to come, I'll parade like a funky Jesuit preparing for exorcism, and all because I think I have you right where I want you.

Julia, with your lips poised for this kiss, but I'll miss, be vacant behind my eyes, and you will get by, so sophisticated, while I become a wisp of second hand to a daisy like you.

Julia, at the table, it's hard to stare off, your eyelashes flutter, like butterfly wings. You make me self concious, but I'll shrug it away, because you look at me the very same. We've both been to therapy and you had me admit, ' I want to kill people. '

I need to tell you something beautiful, ' Be wary of the side effects. '

Confessed within this letter that with you around my pulse returns and your name is whispered in the gentle swish between the beats of my cold heart.

I love you to death, Julia.



BIO: I live in Orange, New South Wales, Australia. I have one child -a daughter. I was born in 1977. My poetry has appeared in anthologies worldwide and my short stories have appeared in men's magazines. I cite James Herbert, Tales from the Crypt, vintage Penny Dreadfuls, and Ripley's Believe It, or Not as an influence.


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