Monthly Archives: November 2014

The Ghan (part 1 of ‘The Northern Territory Suite’)

When I travelled on The Ghan, it went from Sydney, then to Adelaide, then on to Alice Springs. Now it goes from Adelaide to Darwin. To travel First Class on The Ghan is to be treated like royalty.

Dreamtime painted ribbon of steel
Flashing through the cold desert night.
Silver rails to destinations known, yet unknown
It snakes its way ever forward.
Past fields of golden Canola flower,
Purple ‘curse’ borders the ribbons of steel.
Night falls as sunset orb sinks low over blue bays
Spreading orange rays to meet the desert red.
We lie to sleep, yet peek through speeding landscapes
Ghostly outlines of trees and abodes,
Speeding us ever onward to sacred places, sacred times.
Our journey nears its end,
The heart of this great land awaits
To overawe us with its wonders.

Tim Alderman
Copyright ©2001


Kata Tjuta (part 5 of ‘The Northern Territory Suite’)

Often inappropriately called The Olga’s, this natural formation is the ONLY break in the flat landscape from the top of Uluru.

Older than time
These rounded mounds
Virgin breasts thrust forth from the Earth.
Scattered red rubble lines the canyon floor
Huge boulders of Red and white conglomerate
Like leftovers
From some Alien war.
A trampled path of recent times
Through a small belt of green
To a small, warm water pool
Left after the rains
We turn
And through the horseshoe shape
Of the entrance to this sacred place
We glimpse forever beyond
A vast desert landscape
That goes on
And on and on.

Tim Alderman
(C) 2002


Karlwekarlwe/Karlu Karlu (part 12 of the ‘Northern Territory Suite’)

*Also known as the Devil’s Marbles

Dreamtime landscape
Ancient red marbles.
A game that giants played
Or a joke by the devil himself
According to modern name.
Piled atop one another
Or scattered in the surrounding desert sands
They stand
A testament to natures great work
Three times my height they tower
Glazed like ochre mound
Cleft in two some sit
Sliced by a giants knife
Or a bolt of lightening from the
Time worn skies above
We gasp, are awed
That nature in all its brutality
Can cause beauty to be wrought.

Tim Alderman
(C) 2001


Sunset #1 (part 6 of ‘The Northern Territory Suite’)

Fire ball of burning heat
Sinking toward the shadow of night.
Dark ochre stain on monolith.
We stand against the Desert Rose, starkest mauve in its flower
. Light violet stain on monolith
Orb of light sinks deeper still.
A lizard, startled haste, runs by.
Dark purple stain on monolith
Spinifex sway in gentle warming breeze,
Desert grasses set by Gods to survive this parched land,
And provide life to those who know
Its myriad weaving ways
Dark blue stain on monolith.
The orb slowly slips from sight,
Brief halos of light like a saint’s crown surrounds the ochre mound.
Dark blue stain fades to black.
The sun is going.
Another night descends to infuse all things with invisibility.
The sun is gone

Tim Alderman
(C) 2001


Meroogal. – The Women’s Place

An untended garden
Leafless winter trees
And empty silence
Signs that love no longer lives within.
Many generations have passed
Yet the women’s place still has
A woman within.
Soft slide of covered feet
On century older floors.
Smell of old lavender, old rose
Mingled with the dust in the air.
Embroidered, creweled fancies
Tell of hours spent in dull light
Or late afternoon sun
Passing time
Just passing time.
Painted plates, ornaments
Mix of old and curious
Tell of a house much lived in
Nothing here is new.
Rambling rooms hint of customs past
Of visitors on Sundays
Cards left to say they called.
Creak of stairs from silent ghosts
History in a chest
A pantry.
Words of scandals past
Leave insights of people’s lives
We leave much wiser
Understanding, perhaps,

Tim Alderman
(C) 2014


The Waitress

My partner and I actually witnessed this happening at a Historic Houses Trust function held at the old Mint building in Macquarie St. We were members of the group in the corner, and did eventually get fed, though at one stage it seemed unlikely. Any comparisons to people living or dead is purely coincidental!

The waitress peeked around the doorway leading from the kitchen to the cobbled yard. Peering hard through the crowd, she lined her sights up with the area on the far side rear of the courtyard, the area that she was determined to get to.

The coast appeared clear. Everyone was chatting amiably to each other, and noone appeared to take any notice of the white capped head darting in and out of the doorway.
Raising the tray of canapés high above her head, she released a deep sigh of relief, then took in a deep breath and bolted out of the doorway. Heading for her targeted area in the yard, she lithely ducked and weaved, performed a quick pirouette, and a hard-practiced pas de deux while keeping her target firmly in her sights, and her tray held high

But it wasn’t to be! One loud, overdressed old matron saw her from the corner of her wrinkled eye, and let out a high pitched squeal of triumph, attracting the attention of those in her proximity!

The poor bedraggled waitress didn’t stand a chance as the vultures closed in on her, gnarled hands scrabbling high as they greedily grabbed for the sandwiches offered on the tray.

The people in the far corner of the courtyard – the group being targeted by the waitress – let out a yell of disbelief as this was the sixth tray to have not reached them this night. With wineglasses clanking, and false teeth gnashing in glorious victory, the vultures moved back to their groups, spitting sandwich crumbs at each other, safe in the knowledge that no prey was getting past them this night.

The waitress dropped the tray down by her side, a look of sheer desperation and resignation crossing her face as once again she headed back to the kitchen.
The people in the corner, fearing starvation, regrouped to consider their options. A group of girls, obvious leftovers from their school ‘wallflower’ days and undoubtedly still unkissed, joined them to plan an attack. Their equally unattractive boyfriends had the ‘lean and hungry’ look that foretold of struggles yet to come, albeit post-acne.

An old duck in a loud floral pants suit watched, was glancing salaciously between the slowly increasing group of enforced dieters, and the kitchen. She glanced at her watch, estimating the time of the next assault.

The president of the group, struggling on his walking stick, hobbled to the microphone to intone the rest of the evening’s proceedings. The young blues group, entertaining nobody but themselves, stopped their warbling.

The vultures turned to the stage, and for several minutes were distracted enough to not notice the waitress making another foray toward the sustenance starved group at the back of the yard. A desperate, vegetarian lesbian threw herself at the waitress, but not being as tall as all the others, not quite as agile, nor quite launching herself quickly enough, got knocked aside. A gentleman in ‘old man’ beige turned and yelled a signal to Ms Loud Pantsuit. She spotted the tray, and on wobbly heels – the courtyard was cobbled – threw herself once again across the yard in a flurry of windmilling-arms and multi-coloured silk.

The waitress was not to be outdone this time. She climbed onto her toes, raised the tray up onto the tips of her fingers and lunged through the group of old cronies. The president was yelling something about “everyone being welcome, and wasn’t everyone just having the time of their lives”, but to no avail. The direction of the evening had been changed quite unwittingly from what was proposed.

Adding support to the harried waitress, other waiters and waitresses rushed from the kitchen, heading in all directions. The vultures were for a moment unsure which way to go, and it looked for a split second that the throngs at the rear might yet be fed. An elderly, almost lithe woman in purple and green flowing voile did a high jump that would have made Steve Hooket proud. With claw like hand, she grabbed three sandwiches off the tray, and threw them amongst her compatriots. Doing an agile – at least for her age – hop, step and jump, she managed to snatch a further four sandwiches from the tray. The yard was in turmoil as the vultures attacked the other tray bearers as they wended their way through the throng.

The waitress hung her head in despair. Tray hanging from her hand, she cast a lost look at the group she had tried valiantly to fend for. Almost with a tear in her eye, she whispered an ‘I’m sorry. So truly sorry’ to the vegetarian lesbian, and started her lonely trek back to the kitchen.

Never had so few been fed by so many!

Time to regroup for the next assault.

In the courtyard, the vultures picked over the bones in the far corner.

Tim Alderman
(C) 2014


Daily (Or When The Mood Takes Me) Gripe: Gay Superficiality!

Please view, then read my commentary below;

I guess I am just used to being ignored – except for a select few – on gay sex apps. Fuck, I’m over 60, and I have a disability – though in reality that shouldn’t mean anything! Though we don’t live our lives grounded in reality in the gay community, do we! No sir, we don’t!

As Sam Lugi states ” If you are over 40, don’t look like a model or have a disability, you are pushed aside”, and this is, unfortunately, true! Add to that not being “wealthy” and not having a big cock! I got disillusioned with it a long time ago, and ashamed that over the decades the community has never really grown-up, and moved into the real world.

At one stage on the sex apps – I use Grindr, Gaydar and Scruff – I actually found myself putting myself down, as it seemed a way to discourage those frightened off by disabilities…but in reality made me look like a bit of a victim. Then, as an antedate that I became too aggressive which then scared the shit out of people. Now, I try to be comedic and long-winded. I figure if they are willing to read my whole profile, then contact me, they sre worthwhile. However, that doesn’t discount the 15 or 20 others who view my profile and ignore me…many because they are after perfection, so you know automatically by reading their profiles that you are either too old, or because you have an obvious disability. I used to find the same in the bars, so why would the apps be any different!

I hate being dismissed because I’m an older man. I was young once on the scene, and helped to gain many of the rights that the younger ones now enjoy! In many other communities I would be highly respected for that alone. Considering my age, I’m not all that bad looking. I still have all my hair, I’m fit and healthy and can hold a conversation. Puts me way above many others, who can’t get past “Hi” or “Oh yeah”. I regularly quit chars because they never give you anything to feed off. At least the guys who just want to see photos of my cock, or want me to talk dirty while they wank off are usually honest about it.

The gay community really needs a reality check…though who ir what provides it is going to be interesting to see ! In the interim, don’t sell ourself out to the phony, small-minded body fascists! Maintain your dignity and self-respect? But most of all – love yourself!

Things My Mother Told Me!

I’m sure we have all received snippets of advice off our parents as we grew up…some of it sound, some not. For some reason they think they are the font of all knowledge – but I beg to differ. How much donyou relate tonthe “sound advice” demonstrated bellow?

As the years start to go by with increasing haste – the first thing she told me; she said they went fast, but didn’t indicate exactly how fast! I have time to occasionally reflect upon the fact that neither my mother or father really prepared me in any way for life. Now I am sure they were well intentioned, thinking in fact that they may have been, in some naïve way, protecting me. Now I find it’s not what they took the time to tell me, but what they left out. Seeing as how I spent more of my youth with my mother than with my father, I have to assume that this repository of misinformation is mainly her fault.

‘There are only two forms of take-away,’ she profoundly announced one Friday, as we tucked into the fish, chips and potato scallops that were a family tradition on this day. It didn’t matter that we weren’t Catholic – my father was, but didn’t practice – and that both mother and myself had been raised through the simplicity of Protestantism. You always had fish on Friday. Now this was one form of take-away. The other was – to the uninformed who were not raised during the 50’s – Chinese. Yep, that was it. Fish and chips and Chinese. None of your Greek, Italian, Lebanese, Vietnamese, Japanese, Indian or Modern Australian rubbish. No siree! None of that foreign muck. It took me nearly 18 years to realise what a lie this had been, though to my knowledge neither my mother or father ever ate outside those guidelines, and my mother is now in her 80’s.

‘You’ll be grey, part bald and wrinkly yourself, one day my boy,’ was another lie she told me with intent regularity. I am now 60, and despite a few creeping grey hairs, I still have a full head of dark hair. I can also still get away with being in my late thirties – oh all right my 40s! No mean feat…though perhaps good tenetics, mum! Just because my old man was bald and wrinkly by the time he was 45, what made her think that hereditary had it in for me as well?

Perhaps not having two kids may have assisted me, as she also constantly reminded me that ‘there was no greater thing you could do with your life than get married and have children.’ Mmm where can I go with this one! She was so impressed with the whole process that she fled home when I was a mere 11 years old, and my brother a whole 7. She then proceeded to give birth to my half sister 18 years later – at a time of her life when she should, by all rights, have been sitting back and lounging on Queensland islands, or spending her days lost in a pokie euphoria at the local RSL. I hope she doesn’t hold me responsible for any of that.

‘You must have a trade to get by on in life,’ was probably one of my favourites. I had been having gay fantasies since I was 9 years old, and here she is thinking I’m going to be a bricklayer, carpenter, electrician or plumber. Not likely, thinks I! I hide all my art works away, and only allow them to be viewed by one spinster aunt, who sort of understands what it is all about. Apart from anything else, it never really explains why she buys me dolls when I request them – and I’m not talking Ken-type dolls here. I like to dress them up. Perhaps she thinks I’m going to be a fashion designer, and hides the fact from my father for fear that he will disown me? Well, he did that anyway, and it was a long while before I actually ‘came out’ that I found myself disinherited.

So, I managed to avoid any of the butch trades, and even managed not to end up an accountant or anything else remotely embarrassing. Instead, I wasted 30 years of my bloody life in retail, hating every day of it, and wishing to God I had become a builder, even if it was just for the perving that I could do on the job. Now, I’ve sort of gone full circle. Though not a fashion designer, or an artist, I am a writer (and to make it worse – a poet!), and have finally found that not only is it a pleasure to be getting older, it is an even greater pleasure to be doing what I have always wanted to do.

‘Choose your furniture carefully. If you do, it can last you for most of your life,’ she would say as she wiped over the teak laminex sideboard and dining table. Now don’t tell me you haven’t copped this one! She might enjoy living with the same tacky furniture for 50 years, but I’ll be damned if I will. I still cringe at the recollections of going to visit her and my step-father at Toongabbie. It was like reliving my life at Sylvania in a time warp. Neither the style, nor the laminex had changed. And the lounge was a Harvey Norman spectacular, undoubtedly bought at a 40-hour sale. I breathe a sigh of relief as I bring an image of the ‘Freedom’ and ‘Ikea’ logos into my mind. I’ll change my furniture every five years, thank you all the same mum! Besides, nobody has an orange kitchen or teak laminex furniture anymore – or do they?

‘Go ask your father’ or ‘ Go ask your mother’ were the words of wisdom handed out to je by both if the disgusting subject of sex was ever brought up. I may have bern running around with a constant boner, and wanking like there was no tomorrow, but no gems of wordly wisdom to inform me if what was going on were forthcoming! Well, they did make one attempt by sneaking onto my room one night and leaving me some delightful pamphlets published by our local Congregational Church. Oh what a joy to find them the next morning! Having spent some time trying to decipher what the anatomical diagrams were about, I happily came to the conclusion that I had both a penis….AND a vagina. So much for that effort! I ended up letting nature sort it, though not before totally stressing mum out with a lot of very stiff sheets, and underwear. Fair retribution, I call that!

Despite all this, I have ended up a fairly well-balanced adult. I know! A bloody miracle isn’t it! I have aged well, live in a tastefully decorated Queenslander, eat in a large variety of restaurants serving many different cuisines, am a writer with a respectfully popular blog…and I’m gay! Now there is something they could never have advised me on, though perhaps my curiosity as to who these ‘bloody poofters’ were, that my father was always muttering on about, may have had something to do with it. Credit where credit is due! I found I had heaps of fun with the poofters, and still continue to!

Mum and Dad! Thanks for the advice…but I’ll leave it, all the same!

Tim Alderman
(C) 2014



Spikes of talent
Scrawling, rambling lines
Crawl across a page.
Story unfolds, climbs, engulfs
Then climaxes through to finish.
Spikes of creativity, spikes of poetic rhyme,
An ode. a sonnet, lines of prose,
Limerick, metaphysics combine
In a jumble in the mind.

Spikes of love
Trailing up a taut, hard chest.
Provocative, evocative,
Tales of lust and eros
Clinging in a fist of sated wanting.
Clutch it hard, set it free
A stream, thick cream, juice of love
Shot far into intimate space,
Thrusting, probing, sweating, grunting
Spike and spasm, eluding, wanting
Shot far, cleaved into a mindless void.

Spikes of hate
Mindless, soulless, floating in time.
Missed pasts, missed futures, missed nows
Alone, lost and hating.
A dead father, a dead mother,
A son lost to grief
Yet fearing that a truth be known
And let loose upon a world
Ill prepared for knowledge profound.
Spirituality, prayer, Father, Son and Holy Ghost
Spattered on mensa top
The chalice of hate upturned,
Emptied, cast out, destroyed.
Grail of truth searches still
Resurrection, ascension, redemption,
Virgin birth to spiked cross
Upon the sacred soil
Blood is spilled.

Spikes of death
Bulging vein, tortured flesh
Candle and spoon unite in
Euphoric spasm, orgasmic longing
As slowly, quietly death
Enters through a door unseen.
Tantalised, seduced, psychotic
The path to enlightenment is long,
Twisted, warped, circling through space
Never being grounded, found
Or truth released in ecstasy.
Spiked coffin lid
Laid to rest in spiked grass earth.

Tim Alderman
Copyright ©2014