In my dream you were that short Italian man you like to call Rat Boy. His hair thin but bravely kept upon his head – contrary to the other Italian men.
Zero balls of skin striding through old city streets.
I had been speaking relentless Italian with a lady all crop top and curls about Capitalism. She laughed about renting out every room in Lucca. Many beds. You had taken drugs on her roof and subsequently turned into Rat Boy – kissing every Italian girl.
With dirt in the corners of your mouth. (Like you had had a visual meltdown when faced with a girl next to a pot plant.)
I remembered my friend telling me (with much regret for the man) that Rat Boy was too short to win the love of a woman.
And even though I knew you were really a tall lady inside a Rat Boy with thin hair and a teenage hairy lip, I still loved you for the rat you were but had to walk away.
As heavy as a washing machine, towards my ancient future.
Magica Melissa, (fortune teller with swollen red fish lips and funeral slut clothes) sitting alone in studio with disco balls talking to dead people, a power-point presentation of people's pets, Romanian karaoke enthusiasts taking home viewer requests, a school boy smashing a grapefruit on a map of Australia - right on Darwin actually.
the ladies of LIDL (ALDI'S shabby cousin) live among the most depressed ladies i am yet to see; except for my mum's friend Margaret Thatcher. they're less fortunate than the ladies of Red Rooster handing over soggy corn in the thick chicken air of no hope. they're as cut up as that discounted jigsaw will do when it gets home, as limp as that peruvian asparagus rolling many miles from home down the long black conveyor belt of shit. they drown in unattended floating glass shards in tomato preserve that we footprint through their aisle with our heads buzzing in the fluro silence. a constant ending party. and when that old man died outside the LIDL window in clear view of their registers the ladies of LIDL simply registered his life passing and continued to let their own pass them by in the form of cheese that smells like crayons, biscuits you mightn't feed a dog, and an alright pair of slippers.
Took me years to realise you weren't Tina Arena (two "tarts" on Rage singing about bodies that my mother often thought were one and the same and incidentally killed the TV in her own form of rage). Just another bizarre mistake cultivated in the burbs.