Sunday, 21 August 2011

i heart tom waits

green rhymes & hazy sundances, playing with fire it's only the slow kids who're gunna get damaged. traffic jammed & there could be worse outcomes thanks to tom waits & his alligator voice. i may be slow moving but at least i have him to show me, take me places, drive me to nebraska or wisconsin or palookaville. you know he's one of those people i would follow to the ends of the earth, someone who nourishes me with his tone, nurtures me with  his sad, sad soul. but you get the feeling tom can take it.
things happen in my head when tom's around. fireworks & wet blankets, hallelujah choruses & blistering sunburn. i want to run through countries to be with him - but i cant because he has turned me into a paraplegic for his love. things happen all over my body when tom's around. nipples prickle, muscles melt, beats quicken & skip. synapses snap. things move in strange directions, tangents down dark alleys following a hooker to her next hook up with the hangman. i follow tom willingly because he has diamonds in his mind. 
my fingers stray downwards when that bad cat's in town.
sirens & virtue & letting myself go are all part & parcel to tom being around.
i heart tom waits.

Wednesday, 17 August 2011

easy prey

it doesn't take much
a touch, a tender breath
for the completely inappropriate
not to matter, and for love,
or something like it
to sit on the worn out sofa,
stroke my hair and tell me
that the underside to everything
is easy prey, so we must press
our bellies together,
show our shells to the world
and edgewise find tomorrow.

Friday, 12 August 2011

but this is no ordinary rapture.

meaning spans mystery but
not far enough,
so we are always left
wondering where truth sits,
and where we do.
meanwhile it doesn't go
unnoticed by either of us
that by living the nomadic
lifestyle you never bore
anybody, but then again
where does it end?

layers cannot cover
what is really needed
which is an unfolding,
an opening to the moment.
we try to patch
our ragged bones,
dem jangling bones
and agree
that the minotaurs will
always be hiding,
but as a fear
and not a threat.

when i am with you
we are plunging the divine,
emersing ourselves in
the sheer white light
of our connection.
then when the rapture comes
and it will come
we will drink with
long and gorgeous thirsts,
throw off our burdens
and dance.

Monday, 8 August 2011

holding on

i taste you
the next day
in my mouth,
feel you on my face
memory scratched
skin to skin,
connections formed
in the heat where
science and chemistry
assist in our passion.

my ovaries call
helping me find
the letting go,
the giving in.
i tell you it's the journey
so you show me
that you can hold on,
and you hold onto me.

Saturday, 6 August 2011


there is something hypnotic in having
a fever, and romantic,
where you want to play with pain thresholds
and already pressed buttons,
want to be bold, hold your body
at its word because in reality
you are not really there
to hear it.

you get taken away
in the heat of the moment that radiates
from your pores, and
which he takes to
make a fire storm of your
every nerve ending.
you clutch him
as if he were the edge
of a sheer clifftop,
with you
the only pirate in sight.

its in the edges
of these things where you are
brave enough to ask for a favour
or a fantasy
to be fulfilled,
to give this pain a meaning
and a memory, melt delusion
into truth to fall for
the sheer pleasure
of it all.

Sunday, 31 July 2011

this time

this time depression
dressed in sexy knickers
so he had trouble spotting it.

when he was with her
they laughed till they cried,
then he went home
and cried some more.

he couldn’t tell her,
she might think it was
her fault.
and it wasn’t,
it was definitely not.

so he took his fight
to the canvas
pouring his resources
into his art supplies
and eating at
his parents house.

this time depression
dressed in sexy knickers
and kept him warm at night.

Saturday, 30 July 2011

travelling to noarlunga with secrets

it was a long way
on public transport
stretched with secrets.
they sailed the back of the bus,
she liked what it did to the
bottom half of her body
and he was beyond caring.

he told her where he was going
but not what was happening.
he told her he had
he needed help with.
things he did not like were
making him….what?
don’t dare tell her that.

where were the words for the
woman who rocked him to sleep
with a violent hand, who
haunted his dreams with
her foot on his throat.
it was a long way
on public transport
stretched with secrets.

Thursday, 28 July 2011

fan mail for daniel

if i painted you a picture
i'd use lots of black paint
and red, and brown
because life is shit.
i'd use a fat brush
and lots of strokes
to show i know that you are complex,
made up of many parts.

if i sang you a song
i couldn't sing in tune,
wouldn't need to,
i'd just have to yell a lot
with passion to sound like that
nihilistic shit you listen to.

i have written stories for you,
sunk low then lower to impress you
your loyalty drags us all along -
you and your crew, we rise and fall together.

you are my brother from another mother,
you are strong like ten men
and stunted as a puppy runt,
you are clever like a dictionary
and feral as a fine porn mag.

you taught me men can feel, and listen,
your happy ending gives
me the strength to go on.

the paroxysm editing team - thank god the pretty one's holding the camera

Wednesday, 27 July 2011

there are writers all over the world

there are writers all over the world. there are writers all over the world. there are writers all over the world. there are writers all over the world. there are writers all over the world. there are writers all over the world. there are writers all over the world. the world is round. there are writers all over the world. the world is round. there are writers all over the world. the world is round. sometimes writers slip. there are writers all over the world. the world is round. sometimes writers slip. the world is round. there are writers all over the world. writers slip sometimes. with their words with their feet with their mouths with their tongues. with drugs with booze with self abuse, in shit inside & in their heads. writers slip sometimes. there are writers all over the world.writers slip. with knives with pipes, with fixings. writers slip. with bookies with pokies with loan repayments. the world is round. sometimes writers slip. there are writers all over the world.

Tuesday, 26 July 2011


falling in love
with him and e.e
at the same time.
trouble was e.e
was the only
one cumming.

Monday, 25 July 2011

haiku 3.

on distant nightmares
the sandman changes trousers
and surfs back, dreaming.

haiku 2.

when questions are asked
the chainsaw does not know why
accidents happen.

haiku 1.

around tank blank walls
people paper poetry,
literary fightback.

Sunday, 24 July 2011

good speed son

hanging with elemental boy,
stretch till it hurts
(it always hurts but that's
his lesson to learn).
then he navigates
a different passage
wrangling the unruly stallion
into understanding.

straddled in the middle world
where black and white turn
murky grey while
gazing at the miasma
of adulthood.
he knows there are things
he doesn't want to know
but cant stop wanting them.

he teaches me
my boundaries
and inconsistencies,
reflecting me in a way that
terrifies and amazes. he
amazes me constantly
and we love
the story so far.

Saturday, 23 July 2011

suburbia 7

she has a habit of headbutting her shadow
long enough to remember the amnesia
that put her in these calipers of
self medication and despair.
because unlike the television
where incidents of tragedy lead to
true love and happily ever after,
the only road that she can see is down
and the devil has welcoming eyes.

the moments before

the darkness sets in.
underneath his skin and behind his eyes
lay the truth that no one would ever imagine.
it had clawed at him for years, but on this night, in
this absolute darkness he was
ripped from a dreadful headline -
he could no longer suppress the need. 
cranial fluids
seep from his ears and 
from his tear ducts.
he stared at himself in the puddle
watching, drip. drip. drip and disappear in the oily sludge.
like some lynch movie the fog set in
and insane confusion followed.

Thursday, 21 July 2011

suburbia 4

the man next door has a tic in his eye and a slack jaw
from his constant masturbation and chronic alcoholism'
he knows she knows it.
he pretends to be interested, hides his insecurities
with laughter and likes to scream for no reason.
he fears everything – and brings some sugar.
since anything is better than nothing
disturbing fantasies will follow her for years to come.

Monday, 11 July 2011

the storm before the calm

the thunder is coming so i hunker down to the approaching storm. thoughts trip quickly as the atmosphere thickens with the weight of nothingness and i fear i may have miscarried the lord there is so much blood and so little evidence. so you could be the best abortionist in town, but how do i tell you that your services are no longer required?

fear of exposure and unexplained metaphors. haunted by voices until last monday i nearly gave the whole game away. there is a hunger/not in my guts/but in my soul/and substance abuse/doesn't cut it anymore/and cutting it... so you could be the best psychiatrist in town but how do i tell you i want to be in the front seat when the accident happens?

so with wet expectations i unbelieve my body and focus on the moments when i am perfection in the company of others, slowly learning to seize more moments. and i will make my heart the moon, fill it with dreams of a better life and resolve to trace my pirate roots. so you could be the best meteorologist in town but how can i tell you that it's all just gypsy fortune telling?

Sunday, 10 July 2011

those moments

it's in those moments
when i'm caught
between touching you, and
not touching you
and finding out that the truth
doesn't always move
the narrative along -
that my life takes on the
orchestration of a car accident.

it's in those moments
when i keep finding the wrong
way to express myself
that i get the feeling i'm
a tourist here,
in my own town
in my own home
in my own bed.

its in those moments
when i'm pushing
myself too far, but somehow
it's never far enough,
and the burden of
carrying ugly
is just a knife slice
short of too heavy...

it's in those moments.

Thursday, 7 July 2011

three jars of chocolate sauce

george clooney is not coming to visit me tonite
but i recreate my arrival using a broom, two shopping bags,
a dildo and a large akubra hat.

george clooney is not coming to visit me tonite
so i take down the tinsel and the streamers and
put my nakedness back in the bottom of the wardrobe and
i slip into a kind of nothingness that long ago forgot its name.

george clooney is not coming to visit me tonite
so i argue with myself over the pills or the blade
knowing that i'll wake up in the morning and i go to the kitchen
for a spoon to eat the three jars of chocolate sauce that
i was saving for his penis.

george clooney is not coming to visit me tonite
so i go outside and howl at the moon who is not listening,
and my mind boils like a kettle, and my belly aches with the
longing of the unconceived (the unasked) and i undo the hope
that this could ever end.

george clooney is not coming to visit me tonite.

Wednesday, 6 July 2011

stud boy

what are you playing at stud boy?
looking at me with those small, dark eyes
and that tall, spiky hair of yours.
just what are you getting at?

what's the story, stud boy?
standing there so slick and shiny and
spouting the anarchy that matches
the patches on your army pants.
and what are the studs
about anyway?

okay stud boy
put your ego where your
zip is, and your hand on
this stud, stud boy.

not so brave with the lights out
are you stud boy?
didn't know that your stud cuffs
could cut the skin when they're
tight around the bed post,
did you stud boy?

chin up stud boy.

chin up so I can tighten
your collar.
don't worry, it's real leather,
only the best for you, stud boy.

where did you go stud boy?
now all ive got left is
dud boy.
so long stud boy.

Tuesday, 5 July 2011


he hated generalisations.
he tried so hard to be
a good man,
a kind man,
(keep bad at bay).
all men are bastards”
she would say.
it made him want to be
an arsehole with her.

Monday, 4 July 2011

they played

they played word games
and dice games,
gambled for sex acts
and painted the fridge
in primary colours.

they shared books and beers,
laughed at toilet humour,
hung out of windows and
drank coffee by the bucket
full around the kitchen table.

they told jokes about
serial killers, made
love on the beach,
shopped at markets and
yelled abuse at television
personalities and right wing politians.

they had parties,
ate at friends houses,
kept spare change
in a jar and smoked joints
in the reeds of the cities river.

they caught trains
for no reason,
waited at staitions,
told stories of their pasts
and slowly wove their
futures together.

they had fantasies
to fulfil, but
neither if them
were working to
a timetable.

Sunday, 3 July 2011


in the early days,
the hay days,
the “hey get here and
fuck me” days
when she would
and he would
they felt indestructible
they felt teflon coated
they felt they had
climbed aboard an
invincible narrative
of eternal back rubs
and sex for no reason.
it was the stuff of soap operas
so love was muttered
under the covers then
over breakfast, and
normal was not a word
they thought about
because they were.

Friday, 1 July 2011

you're not the only icon to make this country great

bush man pushing dirty dogs to droving,

cattle on the run in a hard man's land.

red sun keeps setting, bush man keeps betting

the money that he's making will see him through the dry.

so i plucked the fucker from the landscape

and threw his skinny white arse in the nearest billabong.

i think that's where i left him.

muscles meeting meltdown as his axe arcs swiftly,

trees disappearing as his hard hacks hit.

never seeing forward, life turned into floorboards,

destruction can be easy when you’re told what's right.

so i plucked the fucker from the landscape and

catapulted his skinny white arse into some old growth forest.

i think that's where i left him.

cocky is the farmer who surveys his harvest,

tossing up his bales as the stacks rise high.

horizons never ending; but he doesn't do the mending

so the harsh brown land keeps spreading and the salt levels rise.

so i plucked the fucker from the landscape and

strapped his skinny white arse to the top of his tractor

then made crop circles till sunset in his golden fields.

i think that's where i left him.

Monday, 27 June 2011

safe harbour

a tree, far away,
fragile to the forces
of nature
but well grounded.

a lone cannon
but i've never known
you to shoot off
without good reason.

you do not choose
to live in a box
like others
creating mansions
and cascades
and freefalls all
carefully sculpted
in mountains of paper.
we both love living
in those paper mountains.

so alike
but different
in the detail.

or forthright?
who cares?

when it's all
stripped bare
between us
inside those paper
mountains, you mine
for diamonds while
i like to harvest
the shadows.

you are wise
council, when
all around me
is in disarray
you float a boat
on my tears.
you are wise council.

for martin.

Sunday, 26 June 2011

voodoo doll

i do to the voodoo doll.
i do to the voodoo doll who.
i do to the voodoo doll who is you.
i do to the voodoo doll with pins.
i do to the voodoo doll with pliers
i do to the voodoo doll who is you with pins and pliers.

Saturday, 25 June 2011

one hit

you break my heart, and my face,
with one hit, of your fist.
battlefield bed,
homegrown warfare.
terrorism is everywhere.

Friday, 24 June 2011

wallflower, or tightroping on a quiet rage.

fear of chemistry,
best kept at a distance
measured in empty arms.
looks like laughing/
feels like crying.

unprepared for the
impromptu moment,
too rational
or too damaged
to let a little
spirituality in.

for even in the great unfolding
there are still
where someone says
and nothing is
clear anymore.

for you, at two

this is to you my little mirror gnome, strong and mighty,
unburdened now and chasing a life that
excites you and ignites everyone around you.

you are the seed and the farmer,
you are the beautiful flower,
you are wisdom and discovery,
you are history and the future.

you will learn the language of the seasons,
tie them up with your instincts to carry
lightning in your veins.

you will fall in love with the moon nightly,
not to any prescription or code of honour
but from a faith so deep and mysterious it cannot be named.

on some sundays and during thunderstorms you
will struggle with insomnia, and monthly,
always monthly you will be reminded that
life is a struggle but you are strong.

affirm yourself often.
bang your own drum loudly but listen out to other beats,
they will inspire you.

some days you will be singing in rainbows,
others are nothing but the blues.
celebrate both days with grace.

let the sound of distant buses be a dreaming
of possibilities to take you places.

don't fall for the fast laugh or the quick
friendship, worthy people take time and are
the framework on which to build yourself.

be loyal to your sisters, treat yourselves
with respect then everybody else will.

aim always to be better than yesterday.

dream in architecture, dream in riddles,
dream under sunshine and in the halflight,
dream in truths, dream in solutions,
dream for your own amusement then
dream for the entertainment of the world.

i wish you to speak the profound and run
with wild abandon. i want you to be proud, stake your claim,
hold boldness in your heart and in your hands.
when all around you is madness i want you to
come to me and be your own kind of crazy,
i can say ''i understand''
because we are family.


the blackbird of unhappiness
lays dead on my feet,
shot with lithium
and other feelgood drugs.
it’s written like a habit
all over your face.

your tunes ride on
the ties that bind
so inspired by crime that
kylie had to die
for nick to hit the mainstream.
i love you like coffee,
you make me so edgy.

you caught me maintaining
my secrets on a leash,
wearing your songs
like wet socks on a dismal day
(ringo starr in the minor key).
because you can feign sadness,
but you can’t pretend togetherness.

so tell me i’m beautiful again
while i play morrissey music
till there is no tomorrow
just you
and me
and his words
killing me softly with a blunt object.

Thursday, 23 June 2011

did you ever wake up in the middle of a nightmare?

where a man from the 1950’s has just cooked the barbeque in the great outdoors and is walking the tray piled high with hamburgers over to his all american family who are eagerly awaiting the feast at the picnic table and it’s all fresh and healthy and completely normal and even a little bit sweet until i realise that he is on fire, he is literally engulfed in flames. trying to recover from the shock of what i am witnessing i approach from the north to look across to his family who are also ablaze yet behaving in a serene charade of real life. i look down to realise that i too am on fire. it hurts, sort of, but it’s more just cumbersome when you’re in the middle of the inferno, and noisy, so noisy. i contemplate the pain, or lack thereof that anyone is suffering when i look overhead, up into the trees, where against gravity there are people lying face down and horizontal, looking like a troop of ballet extras or circus folk in their green body paint that camouflages them but not quite until i realise that they are all in the throes of grand mal seizures, they are fitting before my very eyes and i just know that television is the devil. they will be there for eternity, an eternity of fitting. it kinda puts my pain in perspective.

immorality now

blow me up and hang me in a gallery
i would be the nude in the ruben's room.
feel my libido being smeared across a
palette of indecencies, make me a
water coloured harlot for dante to admire.
source my oils from exotic places,
paint my peccadillos down to the creases,
stroke, lick, breathe me a heartbeat
in a body that has no boundaries.
drip my desire onto pre raphaelite men
then wipe me clean with a turpentine rag.
decorate your cube with a spattered vulgarity,
it will be worth it.

i am the pouting anti madonna with
forever moist and pouting lips, the nihlistic
exhibitionist, drawn & stretched taunt.
it isn't a matter of distance, or perspective,
on display with the pointed arrow lust of
a thousand horny demons, or my liberty
stained over canvas sheets, it's in the hues
of my contours done justice for flesh junkies
to admire and fingerpaint into wet dreams. it's in the
rampant ambiguity between my legs that makes 
the leap from decorum to depravity, it's in
the subtle shade of knowing that however deep the
dive my eyes will follow.

Wednesday, 22 June 2011


his compliments were addictive.
she tried to pack them into boxes
with her other emotional baggage
but they came too fast,
too thick.
they began to wash up her body,
to lap at places forgotten
or undiscovered,
turning the tide on the fear
that held her tight
to make it exciting.
and when she tried to fight it,
to hold her ghosts close
(and her mind closer)
he pulled her into the open,
out of the tower and into the light
and he may not be the right knight
but at least for one night
she could see herself
though his eyes.

the unsaid

the unsaid – i’m a scene left out of a documentary.

endless sense of deferral – gets inside you, closer than breathing.

decentering – i rationalise in circles in an everyday sabotage.

decentering – remembering a previous dream then…

subverted narrative – smoking like the world’s on fire.

doesn’t suppress or devalue as the linear does – but chaos will be present.

a thought is not an instinct.

pushing back the edges of depression – it’s a quick-sand of insanity and I want to scream out “no!” but quickly the sand fills my mouth and I am drawn down into a deep and genuine paralysis of ennui. a thought is not an instinct.

blind. finding my level like water that creeps up to my nostrils in the night when there’s nobody watching. my other senses are heightened but not high enough for me to climb out of here. a thought is not an instinct.

the angry cello of depression strikes a chord in my gut like a cat climbing the curtains of a burning ship while the orchestra keeps on playing, keeps on playing; the angry cello keeps on playing. a thought is not an instinct.

howl. till I’m tearing up photographs and dancing with the moon. crippled kittens and limp spirits join in wanting excess and everything that goes with it so I lite up a cigarette to shut out the rain. a thought is not an instinct.


lies drip from his eyes to his lips
when the evidence of infidelity is everywhere.
rationalisations thunder above them
in storm clouds and lightning strikes
his veins as he flashbacks the day
she discovered the closed door as a
an instrument of torture,
the moment he poured out his heart
and she called the glass half empty,
the point when he slipped off the
edge of happiness into the lonely
freefall of despair.
now he sits somewhere between
what should be and what is.
(it's very hot, and hard to breathe.)

Tuesday, 21 June 2011

night blind

in the liquid time and space
that it takes to eat an apple
he has made her cum twice.
night blind,
she is learning to resist -
climbing the heights
beneath his mouth
until gravity means nothing.

and then he cums, under
an upside down moon
in a foreign country.
night blind,
his frail male ego
is released into the ether
of inner lives and
secret moments.

waiting for the wild horses
they touch lips and hear a symphony.

falling like bleeding

dangling on a slipknot of desire.
not even the mercy
of hitting rock bottom,
eating alice cookies.

feeding an addiction
to anticipation,
and when the punch comes
i take it like a blast in the ahhhhm.

stumbling is the cripple’s way,
and as i take out the sand paper
to remind myself, sylvia and the moon
watch on with their o-gape of complete despair.

unseen danger don't scare me.
courting death and the rapist
on a nightly basis,
as i smear my scent, like a cat
around my unlocked doors and windows.

falling like bleeding

falling like bleeding

falling like bleeding.

Monday, 20 June 2011


it wasn’t the white flash winter

that we all expected in the 80’s,

or the terrorists as the hot flushes

rip and we’re forced to watch

the apocalyptic film clip

wishing for an alternative ending.

serendipity shuns what it does

not understand with waves

that answer to no one. water

is not life, nature is not my

mother and now they tell me

the earth has shifted.

there’s been a deep rift of spirits,

and everyone’s left with muddy feet

as we gaze into the agonizing chasm,

surrendering to the waves of emptiness,

wishing for an alternative ending.

     why do we tempt the fates then wonder

     what we’ve done to anger the gods?

Sunday, 19 June 2011

one word

one word
cant change
years of emotional abuse,
but when he said
i knew
his struggle for control had started early.

Saturday, 18 June 2011


i fell for his dangerface instantly.

stripping my inhibitions i look sideways,

hitch up my skirt and climb through

the dilated windows of his soul.

i fell for his fresh from treatment face addictively.

the twitches still itching his skin as i watch

him swap one addiction for another,

wishing he’d swap it for me.

i fell for his stubbleface co-dependently.

we clung to each other from the ceiling

then crashed into a crazy love,

hating every minute of it.

i fell for the back of his head gratefully.

we couldn’t remember the words so

the music stopped playing,

and goodbye ran away before i had time to wave.

wild at heart

dismounting the last train
to walk the secret paths of memory
and longing,
turning in circles around
the real issue,
which is forgetting.
you are never coming back -
i know that now,
but your replacements are just pretenders
poor imitators and pointed reminders.
and the moon will supervise the exorcism
as i  laugh with the junkies and cry with the
saints when i know it should
be the other way round,
but it’s like walking up a really steep hill, or a
dingo, all i want is to be wild at heart.

Friday, 17 June 2011

running with knives on a slippery surface

insanity doesn't run in my family,
he walks slowly, and carries a big stick.

he takes me to the park of familiar noises and
spins me too fast on the merry-go-round.
he takes me walking though mine fields in clown shoes
with my little red wagon, collecting victims and empties
and things that go thump in the night.
he takes me stalking the corners of a lifestyle that
no amount of pretending or latex will ever let me join in.
he takes me running with knives on a slippery surface.
he takes me.

he leaves me wrapped up in costumes, too afraid
to get naked.
he leaves me blessed with a vicious beauty, making
me feel more manatee than mermaid.
he leaves me confusing my muse with an addictive personality,
spiting distance from reality but it's all done
with smoke and mirrors.
he leaves me seeing my fears in double vision.
he leaves me.

he drags me along in the hand of illusion, cold hands
for good or evil.
he drags me (kicking and screaming) down the aisle
to my permanent pew in the chapel of unrequited love.
he drags me to the roof and makes me dizzy.
he drags me under the riptide, where it's darker than
a month of new moon midnights, not waving, not drowning,
not even really treading water.
he drags me under.

insanity doesn't run.