I learnt ragu alla Bologna

from a gay guy called Che

round the back of St Mark’s Church, Fitzroy
sharing a house

his real name was Paul Jackson, from Bentleigh

lived there with his aunty, sometimes wore a beret
he was into short haircuts

hot sea baths

and Fairfield Park
I believed in rooting girls

so I barely noticed

except for how well-showered he was
in winter, we read cook books

and wore thick socks

if he was nervy, so was I
working at the Eye and Ear Hospital in theatre

his job was to tip out ampoules left over

brought them home instead
methamphetamine sat on our mantelpiece for a year

playing racing patience one night on the red carpet

we looked up
twelve hours later, snap, snap, snap

we never played that song again

gay guys just walk away when it gets boring
we took the truth drug, sodium amytal

drove up empty Smith St, looking for hot chocolate

nearly ran into a cop car, no sir, we’re not drunk
with mandies we lay on the carpet

like warm wet monkeys, listening to Iggy Pop

velvet undergrounded
we’d go to Le Monde, top of Collins St

to eat Rum Babas, with a heap of cream

one was good, two could make you sick
there was that competition thing to eat three

walking back through Treasury Gardens

talking shit to possums
he played records on Triple R

and worked at Central Station

at the time I was making chicken liver pate
for another guy who was only half gay

once he slapped my face

but I had a habit to maintain
200 dollars a night kept flesh on my bones

to this day I can’t stand the sound of ventilator fans

lots of jobs are stoves and ovens
the house had a glass wall kitchen at the back

Che fried celery, carrots and onion in a cast iron pot

cooked the meat in wine then in milk
to subtle out the sharpness

recipes have secret ingredients like nutmeg and cloves

you look at a person’s face, but what do you know?
my ragu alla Bologna is now like his

been trying for years, don’t know where he is

probably fat, another queen walking down Oxford St
we all go home in the end

I’d like to cook a last meal and touch the feet

of people that I met, under the table