Name: Wayne Scheggia
country : Australia

It was Jack Kerouac’s anniversary – birth or death, I’m not sure – and my best friend said “Write me a poem about the poet”…so I did…and now I can’t stop writing. I write about people and places and emotions and death and coffee and yellow motorcycles. And lots of other stuff.

When the mood takes me, I eat. Then I start writing again.

I spend a lot of time traveling, both domestically and internationally and these experiences are a great source of inspiration

Some of my works have been published by Black Mail Press, The Mozzie and the Kensington & Norwood Writers Group.

Oh, and I go to work to pay the bills and support my writing addiction.

Early Morning Post Modern Expressionism

a red dress paints its way down the pavement
swaying hips splash shades of lust
across the canvass of Lygon street
she is iridescent on the pallet of the night

the Italian boys whistle after her
black leather clad stallions
would be if they could be
but they’re really just prancing ponies

turning on one stiletto
that red dress sings to me
a song you only hear when you’re alone
it makes promises hard to keep

better put down this brush before I paint myself into a corner

Wayne Scheggia
May, 2004

Dry Cleaning

he captured her
with a few scribbled words
and a phone number
on the back of a business card
at 3.00 am
outside Macy’s Night Club
in 1983

he had spilt a glass of beer
on her jacket
while pushing through the crowd
near the bar

she slapped him with her eyes
as he wiped his apology
all over her sleeve
but his clumsiness was endearing
and out of 300 men
he was the one
who asked her to dance

it’s hard to talk
on the dance floor at Macy’s
her friends
trying to move her on
so he pressed his card
into the palm of her hand
as the girls dragged her off
down Toorak Road

she found the card
on Monday morning
at the bottom of her handbag
amongst four shades of lipstick
an eyeliner
and her sunglasses
it read; “you owe me a beer”

so she called him
on her way to the dry cleaners

and they say romance is dead

Wayne Scheggia
May, 2004

Twisted Piece Of Wire

a twisted piece of wire
hangs a fox from the fence post
fly-blown and putrid
just like the dreams he had
for 1,000 acres at Green’s Creek

fat and healthy sheep
worth a mint at the time
the price of wool promised
a fat and healthy cheque
just in time for the mortgage
and the Christmas holidays

but the market doesn’t always keep it’s promises
and dreams mean nothing when God is set against you

after 40 days of plummeting prices
after 40 nights of washed out dreams
after a lifetime of almost making it
he gave the farm back
to a small man
in a grey suit
from which Bank ?

closing the gate for the last time
he took one last look around
he took one last breath of gum and dust
he took the twelve gauge from the ute
and put it to his head

they found him in the morning
next to the fox
by the fence post
beneath the gate
and a twisted piece of wire.

Wayne Scheggia
May, 2004

God’s Words

her soft cheek rests uncomforted
against God’s words
those words
not enough to console or maintain her
for what do babes know of God
how do they know where to go
when He calls them early

she never had time
to read those words to hers
now she fears
her boy is lost forever

so she looks for sign posts
that she can set
a cross
a headstone
a red rose bush
and she reads the words
every night aloud
just in case her boy might hear
as he wanders heavens halls

she falls asleep into her bible
to dream him back to life
but as he runs towards her
she awakens back into the night
and God’s words

Wayne Scheggia
May, 2004


empathy you say
but how could you know

his blue mouth
painted her self-respect
but only when they were alone

his yellow fists
painted her body
hidden by layers and excuses

his red temper
put her life to the flame
she burned away

our white hands
throw ash across ocean
finally she drifts free

and you think you understand

how could anyone truly know
her colors

Wayne Scheggia
May, 2004