Sunday, May 31, 2009

No Frills

laborious communication
pen on paper text paper text text
text text blog spot text text text
2.13am text missed call text text
blog spot pen on paper pen text
text text text text text text text
text text text text blog spot pen
on paper text text text text text

hardly carbon friendly

in isolation
with imagination

would a conversation
be too much to ask?

Voluptuous lady
73 years
Avail Weds 6 and Thurs 7
May only
9467 0044
Personal Ads
The West Australian May 5 2009

No Frills
59 years
9010 1010
after six


she put her lips
on the silent phone and whispered
oh why don’t you call me?

right then
at that very moment
the phone vibrated in her hand.

Wednesday, May 27, 2009

Climate Change

At bedtime as prescribed
For Vaginal Use Only
I insert
ONE pessary as directed
with the pale blue for boys dispenser
to deliver a hormone concoction
into my cunt

Dissolved at midnight
a flash flood in my bloodstream
Gobi Desert vagina transformed
into Amazonian jungle
swollen river
wet and humid
complete with orchids and snakes

Tuesday, May 26, 2009

Restorative Kiss

Her arms slapped around me
a straight jacket to my pain.
Pulled my head to hers
Here take this it’s unconditional
she said
When push comes to shove
In the stakes of love
I have better luck with girls.

I Wanna Be Mark Atkins Groupie

I wanna be Mark Atkins groupie
I wanna be number one
Although he is loved and adored by millions
I wanna be number one

I wanna be Mark Atkins groupie
I wanna be number one
Although he’s loved and adored
admired and feted
I wanna be number one

Say I can be your groupie
Say I can be the one
I will be your own true groupie
I will be your number one

I wanna be Mark Atkins groupie
I wanna be I wanna be
I wanna be Mark Atkins groupie
Play the didge for me.
(shouts) Love ya 4evr Mark

Monday, May 25, 2009


I have battled the love fairy before
all arrows
baby fat
tiny pink wings
beating at the rate of a racing heart
enveloped in clouds of cumulous
halo of red hearts
and showered in glitter.
You are in my sights.
I am well armed
with warheads of bitterness and spite.
One breast I am built for battle.
I can march for days on water
and little else.
My leather battle dress beats
against my thighs
as hard as trodden earth.
My dogs bay for babies blood.
My sword hungry for baby flesh
Love! Love! Love!
I don’t want anything to do with love.
Cupid you fat little pest
I am drawing a bead on you.

Sunday, May 24, 2009


my tongue will fit in your mouth
your mouth will fit on mine
my breast will fit in your hand

But my love…
will my love fit through your eyes?

They Sent Our Work to China

They sent our work to China cheaper, better, less rejects and that included flying it six billion miles or however far it is. They showed us one of the Chinese boxes, looked like crap we reckoned. Ours were handcrafted from local timbers cut by Len, sanded by Trev, varnished by Brendon, foiled by Kev, drilled assembled and packed by Trish and I. We thought of ourselves as craftsmen even though Trish and I were women.

Brendan was an Irishman, He laughed at everything, eight hours a day. I wondered if laughter overlaid sorrow. Had four daughters. Never drank but was a fierce smoker before he fell off a roof in Ireland and smashed his foot to a limping pulp. Nurofen plus were his lollies he said. Had a strawberry jam sandwich for lunch every day. Wore his work clothes to shreds. As bits of his shirt and shorts fell away he revealed himself to me. Married at eighteen to the same woman, the only one he had ever had. Trish didn’t believe it. I found it hard not to love him; it is widely known that I am partial to the Irish.

Len was the foreman. He rode his bike to work everyday down from the hills. He loved God and his family of boys. He was clean. He ate Trish’s banana one day thinking it was his. We called him Banana Man after that but not to his face. Len’s kids collect rare poultry from the internet. Transylvanian nude necks and bantam pheasants flew in from all over the country. Something was always in the incubator from an outer Brisbane suburb but small gene pools and the air trip affected the hatch rate. They remained ever hopeful. When my son’s friend suicided he gave me a copy of the Watchtower, What to Do When a Sibling Suicides. Don’t blame yourself, it said. Although we weren’t related somehow I took some of the blame.

Kevin was a printer from Manchester. He was still in love with hot metal. Married an Aussie girl, been here for forty years. I told him how I had heard on the radio that printers in the seventeenth century drank beer all day in order to be able to piss on the ink pads. By the end of the day they were drunk and now some of the words of Shakespeare are questionable. When his doctor asked him how much he drank he lied. He learned how to walk the minefield of work place relations in the priters union. He could hold his cards close to his chest.When they executed the Bali bombers he said “They shot those pricks at last.” Kev stuck to his priciples.

Trev was black but he was so pale you couldn’t really tell. Trish was New Zealander, “Yeah I’m Maori,” she said, “but my family don’t go on about it. We work hard, it is our thing and we know how to party.” Trev was an open book, told us everything, who he had fucked, when and how many times. What they had sucked, licked and stroked. He had zero shame. “Dirty bastard,” said Trish, “Do you use condoms? You’ll catch something.” she warned. He gambled on everything dogs, horses, trots, footy. Carried home the off cuts. No one knew what he did with them. He was an artist, he said. He gave me a cracked ceramic pot carved with black swans and a cityscape. I keep it by the front door full of crow’s feathers. Seems fitting. Later I met Trev at the railway station. He was working for a meat processor. The off cuts were better he said.

After Trev, we got Alan. He wise cracked and made anti feminist remarks when we met him. Trish and I sent him to coventry first thing. Didn’t take him long to work it out and mend his ways. Trish didn’t like him, talks too fucking much. But I didn’t mind the stories of his wives, his life, his work, his opinions, his jokes his accountant, his loves, his cars, his ups and downs and his money. I liked that he threw his alarm clock down the back yard when he gave up shift work. I was a mystery to him, a woman of immense bravery because I caught the train and walked home from work through the park alone. “Aren’t you afraid?” he asked.

Chris was crazy. His name was Paul but I believed his real name was Chris. He wanted to kill people. He listed all the people he wanted to bash, shoot or stab. First he wanted to kill his ex Mrs, shooting was preferable, then bash his ex mate who fucked the ex Mrs, then stab the bloke up the road for staring at him, then bash, stab and shoot his neighbors for stealing his stuff, then shoot, although it was probably too good for them, all the fucking scummy junkie cunts. He told us this as he ate his sausage roll and sauce at lunch time. The cops had a bloke in hand cuffs down at the deli. “They should have shot the fucking junkie.” I kept low during these tirades. There had been a fucking junkie in my family until he made his final run to paradise. Trish said, “He is on something or he has an anger problem.” I thought it was both.

Friday, May 22, 2009

The Hammock Swings

The hammock swings -
embryonic red
seeps through shut lids

numb and nascent
I rock
I rock I rock between my mother’s bones

Inner Landscape

I’ve been sent to Fuck Off Land
There to forever dwell
I don’t know where the fuck it is
But it feels like hell
My eyes two salty fountains
Spewing water to the sun
My lips drying deserts
My arms undone
Body lacerated
Feet raw sore
Stones jump up to hit me
My voice cries “More!”
For I’ve been sent to Fuck Off Land
There to forever dwell
I don’t know where the fuck it is
And I feel unwell.

The Writing Moment

The writing moment?
At best a flash flood of words.
Worst, dry mouth can’t spit.

Thursday, May 21, 2009

cyber fuck

infected with loneliness
she fell
into the arms
of the flesh free
no strings attached
cyber fuck

cunt shaved
clit licked
wrists strapped
nipples nipped
bottom slapped
arse whipped
and to the hilt

infected with loneliness
she fell
she fell
she fell
into the arms of the cyber fuck


"True things are too big or too small or in any case the wrong size to fit the template of language."
Lighthouse Keeping, Jeanette Winterson
how do you tell
your child
her lover
is dead?

she took the words from my eyes hands and face breathed them to life with the wail of her breath we slashed our breasts chewed into the earth clumped out our hair salt streamed from our eyes dragged branches behind erased his footstep

That’s how
I told her
her lover was

Tuesday, May 19, 2009

Home Cure For Obsession

I have tried

alcohol gluttony starvation
nicotine sugar chocolate earth tea
herbal pills sleeping waking walking
pacing laughing crying
cognitive therapy
flagellation drugs masturbation
prayer prostration meditation
writing painting screaming ashes
sackcloth self harm
oxygen deprivation
begging sobbing pleading
electric shock isolation
talking listening
Dr Phil
a nice cup of tea

Any suggestions?

Monday, May 18, 2009

Bed clothes hug me warm and orange
The clock found in a disused dairy sixty years ago ticks
My father cleans the mechanism with an oiled feather
The moult occurs with the demise of summer
Autumn leaves are sluggish as they fall
Chinese tea unfurls like flags under water
Daffodils form underground
Pansies spend a short life in meditation
Love is an evolutionary device for species survival
My sanity depends on the efficient function of dopamine receptors
Limerence defeats the ability to live a life of happiness
Heart beats are measured out by God at the time of birth
Death is a release
Trains transport bodies to other places
Use by dates are dishonest
Dying is an evolutionary device for species survival
I murdered the sweetness in my soul
The crumpet rose like a full moon from the toaster
On his death bed I could not say I love you
Memory is an evolutionary device for species survival
A psychological storm is meteorology in the head
Her hands evolved to caress skin
Skin flakes away as human snow
I felt sorrow during my final menstruations
My clothes were discovered piled at the foot of the bed
Her body melted then evaporated
She was no longer the woman she used to be
Did anyone find a mobile on the stair?
She called the puppy with sweetness then hit it with a brick
Personality is an evolutionary device for species survival
The house breathes with the ghosts of the departed
My face is more wrinkled everyday
Legally no laws have been broken
Below the Plimsoll line unnamed fish dart between the weed
Fear is an evolutionary device for species survival
Limerence is a joyful escape from reality
Flying stones will hurt you
Drowning can occur in two centimeters of water
I have no god to pray to
My heart has not stopped
Sometimes it tries to race to the finish line
Snails leave trails to their hiding places
Too much sugar can destroy you
My mother lifts sponge cake from the wood stove oven
Romance is an evolutionary device for species survival
Passion paradox occurs if you love too much
I kicked a man when he was down
As a child she fell in love with the colours of pencils
Drawing is an acquired skill
Once you have it you don’t have to think about it
The cleaner comes at daybreak
She sweeps mourning under the stair
When chains break signposts direct to new expectations
Small change often slipped through her fingers
Change is an evolutionary device for species survival