Wednesday, 30 April 2014


lou reed is not tom waits.

turns out that morrissey was writing gay love songs.

elvis in leather, oh my.

when it takes longer to listen to a song than write it 
you must have a bustle in your hedgerow.

the verb to use for listening to music through earbuds
is mainlining.

blondie is.

back to the reed/waits thing, they are both actual angels,
it's just...

some songs demand spontaneous dancing, they are your totems.

twenty nine

to talk about adoration
with the moon.

initially i didn't know
the moon,
but she knew me.

now i only know the moon
from a lover's perspective.

what about the moon
of limited pleasure?

sometimes she pulls
back, but only
with a view
to fullness.

to talk with adoration
about the moon.

Monday, 28 April 2014

twenty eight

take me on that tangent
that you go on,
you know,
the one where we mount 
trusted steeds,
ride through the high streets
shouting *fuck the world
and other noble insults
at the gawping mainstream.

take me to that place
where everything is natural.
where we fill up
on the wonder of the stars,
work hard in the sun
and rain serves to cleanse
and nourish
and grow the amazing.

Saturday, 26 April 2014

twenty six

the bitch card.

i'd rather sail the void
than swim it,
rather dance with devils
than meet them in the park,
i'd rather walk away from the fight
than bring it,
rather burn from both ends
than live in the dark.

i'd rather plan the revolution 
than use it,
rather play my own game
than sticking to the rules,
i'd rather find a pot of gold
than lose it,
rather burn my bridges
than hang around with fools

i'd rather play the bitch card
than let the fuckers win,
rather take my chances
on one almighty spin,
yes i'm throwing all my chances
on one almighty spin.

i'd rather live a good life
than fake it,
rather have my heart ripped out
than get down on my knees,
i'd rather give you everything
than take it,
i'd like to help you neighbourboy
but you're just so hard to please.

i'd rather play the bitch card
than let the fuckers win,
rather take my chances
on one almighty spin,
yes i'm throwing all my chances
on one almighty spin.

Thursday, 24 April 2014

twenty five

as i unbelieve my body
play something sexy and evil,
there's a word for the surge that you give me
while i'm looking for  a very mellow drama,
draw my blood baby.
strip my skin so i can be truly naked,
draw my blood baby
while i'm looking for  a very mellow drama.
there's a word for the surge that you give me
play something sexy and evil
as i unbelieve my body.

twenty four

eating late night bananas and inviting nightmares
i anoint purple as the colour of madness
mediocrity does its best, which is little,
disarm me now.

i anoint purple as the colour of madness
just because it sticks doesn't make it love
disarm me now
prepare for a night full of prizes of mystery.

just because it sticks doesn't make it love
mediocrity does its best, which is little,
prepare for a night full of prizes of mystery
eating late night bananas and inviting nightmares

twenty three

*side effects.

may cause expansion of the heart muscle to actually give a fuck.

caution must be taken with the opposite sex as your hotness may increase dramatically.

may result in your singing voice to improve in tone & pitch.

may cause hair to become long & luscious.

potential to cause elation & charitable thoughts.

always take with chocolate.

for best result take with copious amounts of alcohol.

warning: increased virility.

this drug may give you the ability to *walk a mile in someone else's shoes.

if any of these symptoms persist, stop seeing your doctor because your life is great.

Tuesday, 22 April 2014

twenty two

"The Katauta form was used for poems addressed to a lover. A single katauta is considered incomplete or a half-poem, however, a pair of katautas using the syllable count of 5,7,7 is called a sedoka."

shined your eyes today
sideways smile and deep blue pools
saw comfort reflected there.

tucked under my arm
my muscle memory flares
teddy love knows no endings.

Monday, 21 April 2014

twenty one


i crave you like oxygen, like evidence
i seek you like drugs, like good advice
dreaming naked and dripping with significance
the cake's on the table and ready to slice.

i seek you like drugs, like good advice
and it's no accident i think of you nightly
the cake's on the table and ready to slice
kissing scarecrows makes them more sprightly.

and it's no accident i think of you nightly
resisting the urge to howl out your name
kissing scarecrows makes them more sprightly
slip on your gas mask and prepare for the game.

resisting the urge to howl out your name
dreaming naked and dripping with significance
slip on your gas mask and prepare for the game
i crave you like oxygen, like evidence.

Sunday, 20 April 2014


i'd rather sail the void
than swim it,
rather dance with devils
than meet them in the park,
i'd rather walk away from the fight
than bring it,
rather burn it from both ends
than live in the dark.
i'd rather play the bitch card
than let the fuckers win,
rather take my chances
on one almighty spin,
yes i'm throwing all my chances
on one almighty spin.


around the corner
who knows.
uncle graham is getting older.

the wheels turn
my leg's keep peddling.
uncle graham needs an operation.

distance separates,
but memories connect.
uncle graham's been put on morphine.

the sum of my parts
takes on all comers.
i'm visiting uncle graham next sunday.

Thursday, 17 April 2014


lucky country blues.

if it wasn't for the fascists
and the spiders 
and the flies,
if it wasn't for the desert
and the floods
and the climate change deniers,
if it wasn't for the borders
and our racists
and the cultural cringe,
if it wasn't for the wholesale
sell off of our natural resources
and the spiders
and the flies
and the fascists
and the destabilisation
of our way of life by
the corporate money whores
that have infected our land
like herpes... 


fan mail for daniel.

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

if i sang you a song
i couldn't sing in tune
i 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, 
tattooed your name on my arse.
- 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 like a puppy runt.
you are clever like a dictionary
and feral as a fine porn mag.

zen brother, big brother, drunk brother
you taught me men can 
feel and listen, every day
you help me find
the middle way...
      it's just between fuck up lane
      and fuck you avenue.

it's in our blood brother
to travel on dreams
and trade in the romance
of the road.


before sunrise
there is a serenity
and no confusion.
i wake
absorbing the calm,
walk outside where
the nightbirds are losing
their melancholia.

the air 
is harder to breathe
because everything good
must be fought for.
the atmosphere
touches my skin
as the sky lightens
and opens an embrace
to the potential.

Wednesday, 16 April 2014


closing in on paranoia
within this dystopian vista
there must be hope,
or there wouldn't be
anyone left standing.
we all roll the dice
whether we're gamblers
or not and some days
it's a battle to leave
the house,
the room,
your arms.
shadows skew my clothes
tho my outlines are
always flattering.
i could live here.
i'm not sure which way
is healthier, 
but i do know that
without an interconnection,
without the gamble
and the fear
and the hope
then we are all parasites.

Monday, 14 April 2014


deciding to embrace mediocrity
as a step out of the void
i write a pome
it will not be full of insight
right now
i am a shallow puddle
place my fantasies
in the hands of strangers
i remain in the cave
i never promised you...

i do have dreams of my own
diary entries in tattered suitcases
if my life really were
a car accident
then i probably look away
so where do i stand?
or sit?
at your notebooks
a voice whispers
at your notebooks.

Saturday, 12 April 2014


with a blindfold on 
we can quench our
other senses in 
a sublime cynicism
that will rub you up
the right way and
the wrong way.

the whole darkness has
consumed our electricity
to elevate our 
esoteric activities.

the mercies you seek
must be fought for,
muscles must rip and
beasts must bay at the moon
before this is finished.

there comes a point of 
tipping and i was rapidly
reaching for it, like
i reach for the branches
of really tall trees,
like i reach for the stars.

st. vitus dances
on my spine as our loins
explode with truth serum and
clarity comes in the arms
of the fireworks that extend
into the sky.


the moon knows my phases
i show her my many faces
and she reads them all.
she is not active like my mother
slow moving through the sky
and i, drinking tea
in the moonlight
rely on both their counsel.
i love her with a varying intensity,
her song has no title and no tune
yet i still find myself writing nightly 
in her glow.

the sun on the other hand
has less compassion and
offers more comfort.
i am here with the ants
jostling for her attention
the way i did with my father
back through the times i'd
rather forget but instead of regret
i channel the energy to
keep the pen moving.
escaping anything in the sunshine
and wishing on the wind.

Friday, 11 April 2014


female desire drives evolution
but what happens when
animal magnetism becomes 
the scent of despair?

the idea of sainthood
is mysterious, but ultimately
isn't the idea of miraculous
goodness something to 
which we should all aspire?

Thursday, 10 April 2014


bukowski was an arsehole.

that's one of the reasons i love him.
if i'd known him in real life 
i would have hated him too
                                                i reckon.

sure, he played it up some days
he was a barfly
                                                of considerable note.

i love his film clips, black and white,
he's driving a beat up bug,
the windscreen is smashed
and the dash is taped together
                                                  with something.

analyse his scars and you will see
that life was not easy but adaptation
and resilience
and art
makes the medicine essential
and the art

Wednesday, 9 April 2014


the statues that inhabit my dreams
i sometimes see in my waking life.

the bus drivers beep at me
as they sail past the bus stop, 
their honorable time keeping
keeps me alert to its passing.

in nearly diabolical thinking  
on borderline nonsense 
there is a logic to this path
paved with rationalisations.

i find lotion is good for the skin
that keeps on growing, and knowing
the treatment but not seeking 
the cure is half the allure
of social networking sites.

Tuesday, 8 April 2014


(A poetic form composed of lines borrowed.)

from bad girls of pulp fiction.

"i'm a working girl" she explained,
"i test mattresses."
but what happens when
the roles are reversed?
i'm not supposed to see
customers outside the club.
still, there were nights
when mary felt lonely.
she told him "but only if
you promise to wear
two of them."
what started as an innocent 
experiment became a life
of fast times with a
dangerous crowd.

Monday, 7 April 2014


in reflecting (on) this experience
i like to take the easy road
the hardest way possible.
my ipod blares my favourite tunes
and sometimes the lifting comes,
sometimes i'm backstage
at an abba concert
or flying like a glider
without the plane.
sometimes i am wonder woman.

i adopt the mannerisms
of former movie stars
that look more like 
complicated cravings in a
world that has sophisticated
itself up its own arsehole,
confusing the *compelling for

so i look to other conceits
and ways to amaze.
the answer just may come
from the graft, the physical
stretching of the sinews
and tendons producing both
heat AND value.
the shadows are long,
this day has taken its toll.

Sunday, 6 April 2014


i rack my brain
for inspiration
instead of courting
insanity. stars
wink a sardonic
kind of glare and
the pressure is not
exactly helping.

the captain dreams
while the armada
drifts into dangerous 
territory. is it
paralysis that
wracks the ships,
plunging us into
the dark waters?

one day the heavens
will affirm my wishes,
one day the moon
will bring me home.
i reach for the sky
not to surrender
but to contain
the amazing.

Saturday, 5 April 2014


"ahhh bourbon - the coffee of night time."
"ignorance - not even close to bliss...."
"there's NOTHING quite like walking out the door & realising you've dribbled white toothpaste on yr black sequins."

sequins black on your toothpaste
white dribbled
you've realised
door walking
quite nothing
there's bliss
too close
even ignorance
night time coffee. 
ahh bourbon.

Friday, 4 April 2014


are not blackcurrant
thank god.
i eat the red
as a way of seeing
through my heady ego
to feed my body
i know they're both real
like the wolves.
the holy war of depression
has ended
thank god.
and all the saints have
vanished from
the cabinet
so i count my blessings

Thursday, 3 April 2014


manifest destiny

the confrontation,
the silent scream 
sends me reeling
i am the eye witness
to your complete breakdown
feeling like this is all
one big dream.
it isn't.

manifest destiny
i tell myself
to make it easier,
to make it to the car
to make it to the clinic
to believe that detoxing 
will kill the ills that
refuse to be truly

but the drugs make 
judgements of their own,
an axis of evil
where no territory is safe 
and every conversation is
an incendiary device.
i need to fight fire
with fire.

Wednesday, 2 April 2014


the busker.

in a cage of non conformity she sits,
waits for the rain to pass, nods at
those who take the time to flick a smile
or toss a coin at her greasy hat.
she sings her songs to the breath of her roots,
honouring her ancestors by educating
those who changed her country.

there is a history here too deep to fathom
in a glance, but its echos sound
down the colonnade and into laneways
to fill the uninitiated with a yearning,
a dreaming of the old lands and times
when food was caught and eaten as a family
and the only real danger lay in not belonging.

her songs are a cry to the spirits that
inhabit us all, the long notes a thread
of connection to country. they speak to
the trees, to the grasses. to the rivers 
and to the beasts, she sings to the shopgirls
and barboys and business owners,
to her auntys and uncles and brothers
and sisters and most of all
she sings to her mother.


this one
is coming
on, like a good trip
in, like a king tide
back, like a recurring dream.

i'm flying, but i'm not
because i am behind the wheel
of a motor car so
the feeling is the same.

i'm driving, it is an emergency
(it would have to be)
and the traffic is there 
but i am with them,
i am going with the flow.

the flying feeling never leaves me
as with disbelief and lucidity
i drive and survive,
straddle the lanes
to a destination that never happens.