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About Melbourne

I reckon you start online—X posts, coded ads. “Massage, wink wink”—fuckin obvious. Or hit the dives, smoky pubs where eyes linger too long. Reminds me, Clarice, of Mia’s mum screamin, “Get out, you little bitch!”—that chaos, that edge. You feel it when you’re close. Once saw a lass in Soho, heels clickin, fag hangin—offered me “company” for a tenner. Bargain, I thought—laughed my arse off. She glared, I bolted.

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Oh, blimey, the creek itself! Slacks-Creek winds through the town, like a shimmering, lazy snake. Sometimes, I sit by its bank on Gizmo Bridge, lost deep in thought, mumbling, “It’s like, is this the universe’s weird way of showing us love? Hmm, like in Ten, mmm, so mystical!” Sometimes, I nearly cry – with laughter, and sometimes with the ordinary magic of it all.

Missing girl, Slacks Creek