trepidatious

a tribute to reality television. 

is it

though,

is it

the word?

penance.

facing a jury

of previous lovers

i hope they remember

me fondly.

some made me bold,

a few made me scared,

some were only around

for a night 

or a few hours. 

you were all my muses

in your time,

even if i've already

forgotten your name.

your honour i contend

that i am accountable  

only for standing up 

for myself, and that

my kindness serves only

to highlight their

own misconceptions. 

to conclude your honour 

i offer up my sacrifices 

and take penance in your thoughts.

again.

when love is rubbed away

there is a cast of shadows

to greet you.

they inhabit the steam,

singing songs of longing

and insomnia.

what chains must break?

what piece of fate

occurs to make

the light shine?

pulling the moon

into the story

i've been digging holes

and uncovering things,

where the air is pregnant,

and you are born again.

chances.

swallowing  the bitter

with the sweet

i carry matches

for starting fires

and magic tricks.

a stronger fate

awaits the penitent, 

but to fall in love

with a clown

seems my best/worst

chance of finding 

happiness. 

i don't know the magic

spell that well so

don't let the 

blindfold slip, my dear.

bring me the head

of a snake that whispers,

strip yourself naked 

for us all to enjoy.

none of us are afraid

of the dark anymore. 

v.

vicious victorious vandals     

vacate various viaducts.

vixens varigate vistas,

variously viscounts vigorously

vault visible valuables.

viable votes validate

village venerable vices.

friday.

friday isn't always my favourite, 

dark days come sometimes

on a friday, gloom

sets scenes from my dreams

to play out in real time, 

a grotesque theatrical

performance. 

in the north

a storm rages,

king tides of the mind

where more than the body

takes a battering. 

slam dunked in the spume

it's a friday struggle 

to remain

upright.

i take an uncertain lover,

fastidious, anxiety ridden

we ride together 

for a time, until

ultimately i grow weary

of his friday idiosyncrasies. 

i leave him with scratches

but no dents.

when the angels sing

i try to reply

in a language foreign,

a language of hope

and redemption. i tell

them the unexpected, 

that fridays make me 

want to go home, and

if only i could find

the right sequence 

of events i'd find

my peace.

i run through my

safe words to comfort me

monday, tuesday

-watch me drop-

wednesday, thursday

-into the next-

                friday.

atlas.

silence sounds

a lot like screaming 

and by that i mean

your absence

makes a void

so large i have

lost days in it

and by that i mean

i have ghosted

loved ones

in your honour

and by that i mean

i'd pull the burden 

of atlas to lose

sight of you.

ready.

ready to spread

my wings

i am at the

mercy 

of the cat.

will he take 

the higher ground,

content with

unhunted sustenance?

or will my twitch

itch his featherhairs

enough to make me

entrèe?

he crouches lower,

i am a statue.

he makes that

clicking sound,

i am stone.

we share a 

heartbeat

as the sky around us

darkens,

this is it.

and then the

blessing of a

dog barking 

releases me from

a cruel twist

of fate.

sing.

(after dance little baby, traditional nursery rhyme)

sing little baby, sing down low

sing black sabbath, mother won't know.

yell & scream and scream and yell

eat a bat you'll go to hell.

up to the ceiling down to the floor

drugs are a trip, have some more.

sing little baby, make all the bread

you'll need it for living but not when you're dead.

art.

art reflects

but only

if you let it. 

sometimes arid,

like the badlands 

sometimes lush,

like babylon. 

try to stare

unblinking.

tell your art

you will bleed for it

if asked,

chastise your art

like an unruly toddler,

then open your arms

to the unambiguous

love that returns.

promise your art

your first born,

or at least a finger.

rise.

i can't stay around

until you turn

blank eye cold,

i just don't have 

that kind of 

winter covering.

so i will leave now,

whispering

the mantras of strength

and resilience as

my tears shed

more than salt. 

my eyes are not windows

they're oceans, 

watch the tide rise.

okay.

like an heirloom

found in the darkest corner

like a penny dropped

and a dollar found

like the rain

late for the party

like an artwork restored

like the hat pin

as a convenient weapon

like a talisman

worn close to the heart

like a unicorn

calmed by the maiden

like a song 

that takes you over

like a ritual

resurrected by the pagans

like the milk spilt

i will be okay.

icecream.

iridescent in my eyes

can't resist you, ever

everytime you call my name

candour leaves the room.

right on up to pussie's bow

excellent, exotic taste sensation 

anytime, anywhere, anywhy

maybe i'll have a bowl now.

eventually.

autumn falls

at april's hurdle

as summer refuses

to let go.

we have missed

november's

thunderstorms,

leaving us short

on electricity

for future endeavours. 

times change,

so do the seasons

eventually. 

made.

we are not made of stone, 

because every bone

is encircled in

the stars of the ages.

seek relaxation as a way

of maintaining innocence,

seek innocence as a way

of maintaining joy.

seek the ethereal. 

ribbons drip, some light relief, 

some too dark to face,

trust they always

keep coming.

victories collected

place rungs on  

your ladder,

keep climbing jacob,

we're right behind you.

of course.

don't put on a talisman 

then wonder when

the magic happens.

it doesn't matter

how many secret altars

you worship at

you'll never get

redemption 

without crossing

a few thresholds.

philosophy is fine

for the thinkers,

and there's always art

as a chemical imperative, 

but of course

the default 

is panic.

anyway.

inspired by history,

beatings will be

administered daily

to activate lifeforce.

we play wartime orgies

to pretend that we're not

living in endtimes.

"this too will pass" we say

changing the sheets for

the next one.

the rose that is thrown

to the gutter still smells

as sweet and sour

as the lily feigning death,

or the frangipani.

they've cordoned off my

special place in heaven

and hell, judging by

my life so far it could

go either way.

jesus knew that lazarus

would be his undoing, 

but he did it anyway.

lament.

i send my orisons

to the ghosts, those of us

now free of our bones

and our muddy feet.

i pray they are

opaque enough 

to hold my pleas

in their ether as i watch 

them follow convention 

to float close to the scene

of their demise.

i ask for the mudane

i ask for the impossible 

i ask for my friends and relations

i ask simply to watch.

they tell me

"crush your eggshells, 

lest the devil finds you home."

lament.

the craven angels 

send their ferrets

of reconnaissance 

north to sentinel

for content.

satellites are for 

the spying of 

citizens,

their discontent 

rises.

with an early start

the bakers lead

the eat the rich

revolution, who

better to prepare

the feast?

four and twenty 

blackbirds cry sirens,

the dead don't hear

their eulogy. 

ketamine.

i roll my eyes

to raise my suspicions.

to you trust

is a tourist

who has worn

out all welcome.

to me trust

is the moon

who is

sometimes hidden,

always watching.

incantation.

dance like you're an

animated peanuts character 

cry like you're on a

downtown train

laugh like you've been 

released from prison

run like the devil's 

on your tail.

belch like you've 

just had your dinner 

sigh like you're

out in the rain

pray like there's 

nobody listening

ache like he just 

broke your heart again.

in.

in depth, i am 

a shallow puddle

in depth, i am 

a lamb

in depth, i am 

a balloon exploding 

in depth, i am 

the slam.

in depth, i am 

a drop suspended 

in depth, i am 

a lair

in depth, i am 

taste sensation

in depth, i am 

the fair. 

in depth, i am 

a moon horizon

in depth, i am 

a sprite

in depth, i am

a boulder crushing

in depth, i am 

the night.

however.

no memory serves

the exact truth, however

dreams fill in the blanks.

genie.

experiment where

the danger is inherent;

run without shoes,

shout with no chorus,

balance

              anywhere.

the years find

more danger signs to heed,

your instinct is to

question them. but like the

sphinx, they do not

care for trivialities, 

humanities,

fragilities.

paradigms change,

but not without

a battle royale

and a few slip ups,

so beware,

once wished the genie

may cloud your vision.

satisfaction comes

enshadowed, 

for blind eyes

to lead the way.

fictions.

in a suburban vista

there are things only

seen with your eyes shut.

i've looked once before,

standing on the shoulders

of ghosts now free of their 

bones they float past

the scene of the accident.

fly my pretties,

rewrite your fictions

to better suit your narratives.

sirens wail

which upsets the nestlings

and makes them wail too.

eternal.

it may be the sun

who shows us the way,

but when the darkness comes

the truth seekers will see.

inside the oracle (question everything)

there is a blinding light,

a holy light

where jesus knows that lazarus 

will be his undoing

but he digs anyway.

dandy.

abbreviated senses

fall over themselves

to reach tear ducts

inhale/exhale,

stomp as a way of

release.

you are here.

side roadworks 

cause not only

confusion 

just

be grateful 

there's no fatalities

today.

the planets aren't

aligned or even

talking to each other

right now but

there's no trouble

in paradise

unless you send up

the solar flares.

the theatre of war

is only entertaining 

to frankenstein's lover.

you never get

the generals to the front,

oligarchs must remain

ignorant, or at least 

blinkered for us to

remain capitalised.

tears are not

the most valuable liquid,

that's ink

to sign the papers.

alternatively...

crocheted clive.

i begin with the

best intentions,

but the piece

of my brain that

imagines success

has mastered the art 

of misrepresentation. 

the frogs creep in.

the tangles turn

to order, but only

sometimes. wrangle

your materials in an

almost brutal sense. 

you have an audience 

remember shirley,

you'd better sparkle.

punch the needle

pull the chain

you'll be okay

precious artifact,

if only i can...

burns.

 he doesn't burn slowly, 

usefully,  like a candle,

he burns dangerously

like a cigarette 

about to be dropped 

on crusty bedsheets,

he burns like red embers

spat from the fire

onto ancient rugs.

he is a dervish, whirling,

living for this moment 

and this moment,

and this one.

he is a professor

in the science of 

getting nowhere. 

he devours all the flavours, 

he is the rainbow. 

the flags he flies

are not red, they're flaming,

and i am the moth.

apollo.

apollo walked

by moonlight

contemplating entropy.

although a king

of increasing power

the snowball effect

of the melting ice,

the fires that close

the gap on heaven and hell,

the ruptures that 

the earth endures

make him fear the virus

has finally won.

apollo wept

by candlelight 

contemplating entropy.

stairway to the edge. ripped off stairway to heaven-led zepplin.

it’s gentle at first,

but already it’s haunted.

ghosts float in a medieval parade

and i long to join their dance

but it is too soon, they say

too soon.

following the paths of various pipers

i crave a more diabolical dancer,

one who carries a knife and

flattens his hair. but whiskey don’t

make lucky, and even the madonna

is crying when the rain washes 

down the stained glass windows.

the hills get steeper, and louder,

there’s a real build.

the undergrowth makes cover

for the thief, so not everything

can be revealed,

some things must remain hidden

until the arrival of the may queen,

and the drums.

then a passer by asks me “is this 

the way to heaven baby?”

cue the electric.

 no matter the talisman i carry

it’s less of a caffeine high and 

more of a midsommar mania.

the rocks sprout flowers

and the riverbeds flood, a cleansing.

the wonder of it all fills my eyes, as

words that cannot be spoken

must be wept.

things get a little… nonsensical

as the boats dock at the

quarantine island - 

they're throwing a party for our souls!

it’s all strobe lights and amulets

and dancing like the world’s on fire,

because it is.

on the edge of everything

there is a sharpness, where

things are felt more keenly.

and that’s where we gather, watching

our island inch

to the edge

of the sharp, flat earth,

and finally

we find

our lady.

we needed you to go to rehab amy. ripped off rehab-amy winehouse.

developing a habit

as easy as

falling down.

you flirt with 

danger and chemistry

to make a heady cocktail,

staggering from drink

to drink

to drunk

in an extravagant tango

that you call love.

we needed you to go to rehab amy.

you opened your mouth

and from a place divine

you filled the room

with the furniture of your life,

spinning your heartaches

like fine white linen,

dropping rare gems

like ice into bourbon.

moody blues and bloody ballet shoes

we needed you to go to rehab amy.

 you thought that you were

in love with love,

but what you craved was chaos.

sad that the music wasn’t enough,

sad that you failed more times

than you tried - and you did try.

so i get that you’d rather be

drunk than sad but we needed you,

we needed you to go to rehab amy.

now you inhabit

our thin places,

slipping in and out of

our everyday cravings,

singing self destructive anthems

to the loves and losses and alarm bells

that shape us all.

all soul and no body

we needed you to go to rehab amy.

a small sonnet.

we touch lips

and you are ready

my ego slips

but yours is steady.

fingers transferring

your scent to my skin

muscles clenching

deep and within.

hands are claws

and tongues don't care

map my flaws 

so they turn to air.

we come together, simpatico 

on a rolling stone crescendo. 

days.

insomnia carries

its weight through 

my days

dragging my feet 

slowing my heart

heavy on my eyes 

insomnia carries. 

grief weighs

its way through

my days

pricking my nerves

poking at memories

getting my guts

grief weighs.

happiness floats 

over my head through 

my days

out of reach

visibly pretty

achingly far

happiness floats. 

left.

the grimest

of reapers

doesn't want

you dead,

for him the

satisfaction 

lies in your

suffering. 

a cast

of shadows

greets you 

as you run

but you

can't let the 

rapture

catch ya.

aim for the

thin places

the spaces

where the 

air is pregnant

& you are 

born again. 

depleted 

but you 

can't fight

the devil

with willpower 

so acceptance 

is all

that's left.

cheyenne.

sitting in the shadow of the rockies

it's a long way there. 

fog covered mountain, secrets

i'd like to leave behind 

here in the shadows.

hands feel like ice

and ice feels like fire

and it won't feel so cold

if you just keep walking. 

stopping 

lets the chill air catch you

here in the shadows.

keep breathing deeply

the air is much

much thinner here

so catching breath is 

mindfulness, 

not mechanical.

think of the pioneers 

and slip on some sheepskin 

listen to the whispers.

because the mountain

knows them by their names

& by their dreams.

dream of steam trains 

and ski shoes, try to

pioneer your way out

of the past

of my head

it's not quite white yet

not quite hermit time.

storm.

it's deliciously messy 

when cuts cause blood

but not always.

i'll ask you to

send envoys 

from another 

threshold, because 

however harrowing 

the daytime 

there is still 

enormous scope 

for the night.

apparently & differently 

the scariest step

is out.

when the blues

keep banging

in your head 

every step

is pointless, 

like a circle.

this time

the storm

stays silent.

don't

write an anthem

write a prayer

write for the man

who is not there. 

write real fast

but reluctantly 

embrace the rhythm 

that you feel don't see.

don't see colour 

don't see race

don't see the nose

that's on my face

don't see the facts

that surround you now

i dream of better

but i don't know how. 

coffee

i choose coffee

over love.

why not?

my heart already 

ripped dripping

from my chest

that night,

that night of 

a thousand knives.

i choose coffee 

& make it strong. 

make it a liquid

to drip pitch

down my throat. 

make it in shots 

& give me

the bullets 

to load.

i choose coffee, 

because if it's 

hard to sleep

it's hard to dream. 

i choose coffee.

over water, over tea

over land, over sea

over anything else

you want to serve. 

places.

i wake early to watch

the clouds

as if they were 

television.

joined by birds

incredulous 

we sing

& we sing

in a voice not quite

melancholy. 

i like to find

the thin places,

the spaces between

here

& not here.

someday the rapture

will take me

but for now

i settle for

some other damn

paradise.

strips.

it only took

a look

to turn me

into a

somebody 

done

somebody 

wrong song,

leaving me

bleeding roadside

in a sentimental 

way.

we sit

through the

guilty hours

ripping strips  

off a reality

rendered over

and nothing

that you say

can make 

this bitter 

distance

better.

didn't.

i didn't see it coming

when he took my hand

on the corner of

underdog & vine,

heartskip romeo

to sweep me

off the street.

so i didn't see it coming,

drunkdriver fast 

a car

to sweep me 

off the street 

& closer to heaven

than a body should climb. 

i didn't see it coming,

the gravity slap

that the 

the comedown implied. 

i was the prima ballerina 

in the frantic dance

around the inevitable. 

covered.

i'm not in

the habit of

misguided 

infatuation, so

what i like most

is your haunting 

storm damage

and the easy way 

you cover it over 

with sarcasm 

& substance abuse.

but whiskey 

don't make lucky

so i become 

familiar with the 

quick exit of the 

one night stand,

& the cold of the

middle of the

night.

needs.

"i'll be there soon"

he said

a long time ago.

i stayed long enough 

for a spider to spin

a web on me

so that she could

whisper in my ear

"if you need me i'll 

be dancing".

thoughts.

 i'm not in the business 

of giving things away 

but this frown is free,

i made it myself 

from found objects

so you see

it has your name on it.

once,

and later on

the needle scratches 

words of

ambiguous meaning,

another tattoo 

torment.

thoughts, they 

waterfall, & the 

only time

peace finds a

home here

is when elvis

sings the 

blues.

eight

if ever i dreamed
of a bleak city
this is it.

nameless buildings
and strip malls
with too many signs.

the trees are
closing shop for winter
shadows of their
former selves.

sticks and stoned don't
break my bones but
the cold takes
my breath away.

seven

they have closed the coffee shop
whe you committed suicide,
drinking cup after cup after cup
of coffee too strong for
your heart to handle.

i walk past, trying to remember
the good times, the sane times.
i flick my eyes to the skies
because i don't know where else
to look for you.

time does help but cannot hold
my heart the way that you did,
like a badge on your chest.
i still take my coffee strong
as a lesson from the dead.

six

we stay until
our shadows grow
so long
they are almost
out of reach.

you linger,
touch my hand
and say
"there is just
one thing more..."

sound turns hollow
and crickets weep,
but our glory
will live in
the small arrangements.

five

i take my safety for granted,
like i'm a man
or something
tall.
i rationalise it as
calculated risk,
but really
i'm just playing craps
with the fates

janine balding
sally roethe
le ngoc le

walking with a
confidence that
i only have
sometimes
their stories roll
through my head

mary freeman
teah rose
simone fraser

i brace,
form a fist
with my keys

caroline willis
gail winner
ros thompson

because society
ain't gunna
fix this

maria korp
katrina and cynthia miles
jill meagher

but i still hold
my head high

caroline matthews
margaret tobin
rebecca wilde

and keep walking.

four

looking to the hills
we discuss the value
of nature, then
decide to go there.
breathing deeply,
hoping this
moment
is strong enough
to hold us
we fold into
the undergrowth.
with blindfolds on
we can quench
our other senses,
while in between
thunderclaps
my heart has time
to skip a beat.
there is no fruit
left uneaten
until the
pixies sing a
love song that
goes too long
and we know
it is time to get out.

three

dark alley daytime
where deep humans
take refuge from a
world too shallow
to comprehend.
the light doesn't
shine here.
nothing shows
or grows or is
nurtured in
this underbelly,
but comfort can
still be found.

two

we find our happy place
park benching with coffee,
and although i don't expect it
we both start crying.
it's not so much the
words we say
as the deep sense of
hopeful ennui
we both share. 
we feel intrepid,
and although the heart
that you give me is
cracked and bloody
it is whole.

one

like something
left out of
a documentary
i hit the road.
shale shines like
second hand silver
beneath my feet
& with the wind
at my back
there's nothing
but black tar madness
showing me the way.

it's a dusty shuffle,
sometimes clinging
to the earth
for fear that gravity
and memory
will fling me to realms
too sacred for
a waif like me.
birds that are
nameless
call my name,
call me home.

diabolical logic.

it's now, or not now
but not never.
you promised me forever
but then you forgot.
i understand but
i have to think about the burning.
did you ever wake up
in the middle of a nightmare
that started as a love story?
too many bandages
for one person to carry.

the skulls are always smiling,
the boughs of the trees hang low
over the grave that i am
still compelled to visit,
enforced meditation,
not very zen.
driven to sit on the mound
and the cross
think of nothing
think of nothing and bones
think of nothing and his bones.

when we first buried him
my musings were grotesque,
walking corpses in
coffee shops and
everywhere the stench of lillies.
shudders would
rip and claw at my body
and only the sleep of
the dead would
quiet those nightmares.

i lit candles
and said affirmations,
turned to traditional ways.
i let him go, but
not really.
my visits shorten
or lengthen
depending on need.

i come here for the diabolical logic
and when i am done with the
pretty colours i'll move on.

developing.

developing a habit
as easy as
falling down.
so i make my bed and
gnaw the inside of my mouth,
lying you myself
that this will ever end.

between.

between the scrub
and the sea
you'll find me.
i come here for the calm,
the medicinal waves
changing the way that i think
from chaos to
a new kind of archetype.
i come here for the salt,
for when my lungs scream
their questions that only
the sky can answer
the salt air soothes and mends.
i come here to be
aware but not hypervigilant,
sedate but not sedated,
contained but not boxed in.
between the scrub
and the sea
you'll find me.

gone.

it could have been another woman
but it was the wine.
the effect was the same,
he was absent, vacant,
lost to her.
everything they built
deconstructed slowly,
crumbling with every
dreadful headline
until he was
washed away.

pantoum.

you show me how strong you are
and i show you i can take it.
there are flaws in our brushstrokes
but still the magic happens.

and i show you i can take it
beading sweat and clenched teeth
but still the magic happens.
there is power in our fragility.

we don't look too closely because
there are flaws in our brushstrokes.
i show you what soft feels like
you show me how strong you are.

while the moon watches.

the moon looks loosely
through the window
while i flirt with danger,
and the drop.
noise turns hollow
and crickets weep
from the pain
of dawn breaking.
i let the last of the darkness
swallow me
as i contemplate
the necessary evil
of revelling in un-wellness.
i find it serves a higher purpose,
a game to scare the shit
out of myself
and roll over into normal.

my superhero.

i wanna channel jane eyre
with the voice of kathryn hepburn.
i'd ride an invisible steed and
together we would map
the bleak landscape.
so wherever there was
a poor orphan child
or some damn selfish bastard
to rescue
we'd be there.

i wanna pull myself up
by my bootstraps
just like jane eyre.
i would still have my moments,
but once the cape goes on
i am a superhero
like jane eyre.

i wanna rise from the ashes
because of jane eyre.
i don't seek redemption
just a choice.
what would jane eyre do?
stay on the bus sista,
ride your own journey.

every step.

when she's paying attention
she steps on no cracks
and every tread has purpose.
when she is unwell
her footsteps tell
a different story.
they take tangents
and cross wires
because every tread is
black hole madness.
stasis
is useful
only some of the time.
and choice
is a luxury
reserved for others.

heart of the matter.

i have something
caught in my throat.
so i drop into a dreamstate
(because this poem is not about me).
and with my right hand
            reach
                     past
                             my teeth
and over my tongue,
             slip
                   through
                                my gullet
and touch my fingers on
the heart of the matter,
which is that i am lacking.

days.

each day bleeds onto itself
like the day daddy
sent mummy a love letter
in the shape of a crowbar.

every day hurts
like the way the calipers
clamp to my thighs to support
my broken spine legs.

some day this will end.
like an angel calling from
a very dark place i will be gifted
merciful oblivion.

corny point.

the aesthetics of fire,
sharp, and to the point.
the symbiosis of touch,
too much.
the chemistry of music
when it hits my brain.
the omnipotence of nature,
naturally, it soothes me.
the openness of the tribe,
in numbers we are strong.

five points fall into one and if i have to choose
i'd choose forward,
away,
to you.

fragile

they met in a land of missed connections

in the year of bad timing.

he came from the clouds or

the mountains, high on expectations

but jangling with tambourine dreams

and too much energy.

she revealed herself one sentence at a time.

he was never still but very deep,

so deep she stuck to the shallows

for fear of drowning. “i’m not used

to travelling such long distances”

she said, making him ache in places

he had been ignoring for a long time too.

the laws of nature are elusive, so

when they danced, they danced to music

with a strong melody line and an

irregular beat. and when he fell apart

she patched him up, but the pieces were

deeply broken, some left behind with

old friends, in pawn shops and in

cemeteries, so she never really found him.

and when it wasn’t easy she grew hard,

falling again into a well of bad habits. while

he searched in vain for a lifeline all he

found were more needles.

there was some suspicion of a demons plot,

but forgetting the rhetoric she tucked him

under a cautious blanket, on the longest night

and pretending the ease of an opera diva
watched the closing credits roll.