Monday, December 27, 2010

blood glues the broken

blood glues the broken
to the road
one wing

Wednesday, December 1, 2010

born into country

those delivered on sand are born into country
red dunes drift under the high sun
rust is a slow burn in desert dry air 
night calls of mopokes in praise of dead wood

red dunes drift under the high sun
all of the stories are written in starlight
night calls of mopokes in praise of dead wood
lizards soak long in midday sunbaths

all of the stories are written in starlight
skin and bones worn by bare earth
lizards soak long in midday sunbaths
my blood tie dissolved in deep sea water

skin and bones worn by bare earth
a hoof cracked the crust of old land
my blood tie dissolved in deep sea water
rock pools hold dark water still

a hoof cracked the crust of an old land
pink sky unfolds blue into morning
rock pools hold dark water still
wind torments tree tops new growth

pink sky unfolds blue into morning
lashed with hemp knots I bled into white sand
wind torments tree tops new growth
clawed paws of malu imprinted on claypans

lashed with hemp knots I bled into white sand
rust is a slow burn in desert dry air
clawed paws of malu imprinted on claypans
those delivered on sand are born into country

Monday, November 29, 2010

karl kurla

i was born black
i could call this
my country
i wasn't
i can't
it isn't

Monday, November 22, 2010

take a voyage

take a voyage 
on the rolly polly
honkey nut sea
bougainvillea fills gutters
replaces rain
- a crimson fall

i want to hear if it can be done alone
don’t stand
be aware of emergency exits

things someone said
i can’t
i am sorry
i am sorry
i can’t
things someone else said
you don’t think
i can do this
i don’t think
i can do this
you don’t think

so much empty
so much no meaning
so much not here

it’s about more into less
it’s about nothing i know
it’s about being here before

when clouds part
stars become visible

i am fallen
stones grind my bones
twigs spear my side flesh
blood is silver in the wound

my open mouth fills with moonlight
i swallow
rain begins 

Monday, November 15, 2010

tell it right

when i look up
its only the ginger plant
scratching at the window
but here alone
deep in afternoon
reading your lifes reason
it could be demons
sent to make sure
i tell it right
sent to make sure
i dont forget
the pain the love the pain

Friday, November 12, 2010

dark n'stormy

he drank Dark n’Stormy.
not very subtle
i said
dark and stormy

Wednesday, November 10, 2010


crucified himself in secret
seeker with a  hypodermic
hammered dead to the bed
ran to paradise
separated body and soul
as promised by seventies rock sages
the golden years
bop! bop! bop!
not living to sing the tale.

Thursday, October 21, 2010

Tuesday, October 19, 2010

18 September 2010

Really, the urge to write has gone....

Monday, October 18, 2010

man in the menzies pub

man in the menzies pub
wears minimum dress requirements
orders his drink
then sips
stares at the pressed tin walls
built by someone forgotten
painted too many times to be counted
looks into the bubble patterns in his beer
his fingertips imprint the frost
his dog waits outside
but his woman was long gone
counts the hours by the glass

Sunday, October 17, 2010

Saint Mary MacKillop Muffins

The Miracle of the St Mary MacKillop Muffins:
While talking on the phone to my daughter on her birthday, 13 October 2010, I had a muffin epiphany. A recipe appeared in my mind and I knew I had to bake the muffins on 17 October 2010 to celebrate the canonisation of Sister Mary MacKillop. The dark bitter chocolate symbolises her difficulties with the hierarchy of the church in Australia and the sweet white chocolate the purity and love of God. Brown and white were also the colours of her habit.

Wet Mix
1/4 cup butter
1/2 cup sugar
2 eggs
1 cup milk

Dry Mix
2 1/2 cups self raising flour
100 grams white chocolate
100 grams dark chocolate

Preheat the oven.
Prepare the muffin pans by greasing them well.
Blend thoroughly the butter and the sugar.
Beat in eggs and then milk.
Carefully mix in the flour taking care not to over mix.
Stir in the white and dark chocolate.
Place the mixture in the prepared tins and bake.
Bake 200 degrees for 20 to 25 minutes.

Saint Mary MacKillop Muffins Coral Carter © 2010

Saturday, October 16, 2010

one dollar doesn't buy much heroin

one dollar doesn't buy much heroin
one dollar doesn't buy much
one dollar doesn't buy
one dollar doesn't
one dollar

Monday, October 11, 2010

at the menzies hotel

at the menzies hotel
bikies on the stoop
their black leathers sheen
dulled with road dust
hold empty jerry cans
wait for the bloke
in a strained stained
t shirt
to bring keys
for the pump

inside wearing
minimum dress requirements
the local
into his beer
his luck is out
no gold today
only snakes

Sunday, October 3, 2010


fast food
roadside customers

Friday, October 1, 2010

i wished for this

i wished for this
empty house
empty days
my mouth opens
says nothing
the blank grey
sky presses
on me

i saw him leave
coat drawn
holding scraps
coat drawn
hiding shattered
coat drawn
against cold
against dark
against night

Thursday, September 30, 2010


the bush broods
on the edge of town
woodland dreams of comeback
when the gold is spent

Wednesday, September 29, 2010

outside today

non stop birdsong
which one
is what one
what one
is who?
non stop dog howl
pack animal
cries when left alone
bottle brush blooms red
against the sick green pool
tea bag half sunk
in the milky ocean
i soak and bathe in the sun
heat love bites my neck
warms my sweat made cold feet
cars prowl in the front street
low note growl
menace in the throb
the invisible neighbour
whistles deep in his rusty shed
an ant spell checks my page
cabbage moths
against the smother – me – in – summer blue sky
chart erratic flight paths
outside today

Tuesday, September 28, 2010

the summer sky blues

strikes me eye blue
arch over me blue
smother me blue
stun me blue
always blue
painstaikingly blue
perpetual blue
unrelenting blue
blue blue
blue blue blue
blue blue blue blue
yes mate it's blue
blue again blue
without doubt blue
fuck me blue
don't tell me it's blue
i love a sunburnt country blue
head for the beach blue
run around after balls blue
sunbake until you are red blue
no cloud blue
air con hum blue
beer o'clock blue
swimming pool splash blue
all compass points blue
morning smoko blue
lunch barbie blue
knock off blue
long afternoon with blowflies blue
only crows in the sky at midday blue
snakes out and about blue
when will it end blue
this blue
never ending blue
wake me when it's over blue

Monday, September 27, 2010

today i had the urge two

i had
the urge
to draw squares
and colour them
and black

Friday, September 24, 2010

The Angel Card

I am given the blank angel card.
The begining.
The end.
The circle round.
I am
(say all the signs)
ready to be the one I was born to be.

The blank angel
holds her hands with palms up and open.
(I have everything I need.)
 Her halo is a rising sun.
Wings are aflame.

Thursday, September 23, 2010

today I had the urge

i had
the urge
to draw circles
and colour them
and black

Wednesday, September 22, 2010

Country Viewpoint ABC 2007

I have lived in the city for the last six years but sometimes my senses are tripped by the smell of sheep on a livestock transport, or the sound of crows in a blue sky and I recall the fifty years I spent living in rural and outback Australia.

I still have a house in Merredin, the heart of the Wheatbelt, in Western Australia. It is a manifestation of the hope that one day I will return to live in the country.

I was told by a local history buff that the house was transported from the Eastern Goldfields early last century. It sits with dignity between its distinguished neighbours - the town hall, on one side and the court house on the other. A direct path through the roses and past the date palm leads across the wooden veranda to the front door. The door is decorated with panels of textured green glass- the light from which gives the wide passage a cool underwater feeling.

From here, fung shui principles are thrown to the wind, as the house was designed for the arrival of the summer cool change, the Esperance doctor, the air conditioner of a bygone age. The doctor could flow unimpeded from front door to back, cooling all in its path.

This house has a welcoming and generous feel, felt by all who visit. The ceilings are lofty and changing a light bulb is a serious business. No standing on a handy chair. A ladder must be employed. But it is the walls that make visitors gasp. Four of the main rooms are decorated with pressed tin, a fashion from the 1890’s, and each room has its own design and a contrasting roof. I often wonder about the woman who chose these designs. I know it was a woman as the most beautiful and feminine example is in the main bedroom ceiling. Wreathes of daisies are the last thing you see before you fall asleep.

On a recent trip to make repairs and in between tenants I was able to live in my beautiful house for a short while. I recall sitting on the back veranda trellised with grapes, a mug of strong tea cooling beside me, my thoughts absorbed into the silence of a country town at dusk.

Tuesday, September 21, 2010

ink missing dream

I dream. I am reading poetry, published by bohemian male poets with beards, in an apartment supplied by their rich parents. The room is full of collected treasure. Skins of hunted animals on the floor. Icons glow gold on walls. Glass cornucopias spill tribal jewellery and cut gems. The font of the book I am reading is coloured, Times Roman, with uneven ink pressure as if it had been printed by a typewriter. Some of the letters are not printed at all but are an indentation. The word ‘this’ could read his and ‘here’ could read her.

this his
here her

Awake. I want a type writer to write poetry without a ribbon. Invisible poems. Invisible words. My invisible poetry. Half written. Ink missing. Meaning hidden.

in the mirror
at the foot of the bed
i am a blur

Monday, September 20, 2010


late afternoon
long shadows
bar code the road

Friday, September 17, 2010

less than five seconds ago

less than five seconds ago
the post woman
arrived bearing gifts
(vain hope)
visit the letter box
under a gloomy sky
find bills – advertising
and one from her majesty’s service
less than five seconds ago

Thursday, September 16, 2010


cloud press grey light
still air cold limp
limp cold air still
light grey press cloud

cloudcloud cloudpress cloudgrey cloudlight
cloudstill cloudair cloudcold cloudlimp
limpcloud coldcloud aircloud stillcloud
lightcloud greycloud presscloud cloudcloud

presscloud presspress pressgrey presslight
pressstill pressair presscold presslimp
limppress coldpress airpress stillpress
lightpress greypress presspress cloudpress

greycloud greypress greygrey greylight
greystill greyair greycold greylimp
limpgrey coldgrey airgrey stillgrey
lightgrey greygrey pressgrey cloudgrey

lightcloud lightpress lightgrey lightlight
lightstill lightair lightcold lightlimp
limplight coldlight airlight stilllight
lightlight greylight presslight cloudlight

stillcloud stillpress stillgrey stilllight
stillstill stillair stillcold stilllimp
limpstill coldstill airstill stillstill
lightstill greystill pressstill cloudstill

aircloud airpress airgrey airlight
airstill airair aircold airlimp
limpair coldair airair stillair
lightair greyair pressair cloudair

coldcloud coldpress coldgrey coldlight
coldstill coldair coldcold coldlimp
limpcold coldcold aircold stillcold
lightcold greycold presscold cloudcold

limpcloud limppress limpgrey limplight
limpstill limpair limpcold limplimp
limplimp coldlimp airlimp stilllimp
lightlimp greylimp presslimp cloudlimp

spentcloud spentpress spentgrey spentlight
spentstill spentair spentcold spentlimp
limpspent coldspent airspent stillspent
lightspent greyspent pressspent cloudspent

cloud press grey light
still air cold limp
limp cold air still
light grey press cloud

Wednesday, September 15, 2010

he told me

he told me
his ache was rib caged and pacing
he never found flame - only ash
his pen was inked with dust
something is wrong
something had gone wrong
something was never wrong before
he told me
ache caged
flame ash
pen dust
never wrong
never wrong
never wrong
he told me

Tuesday, September 14, 2010

not there

have i held you
man upon the stair
man who who
who wasn’t there
have i kissed you
man upon the stair
not there not there
what man where
i saw your stare
upon the stair
man not there
not there not there
i saw i saw
a stair stare
a not stair stare
did i see you
on the stair
not there
i saw your stare
upon the not there stair
i love you
stare man
not there man
upon the not stair
i saw i saw i saw
not here
not there
not not not
not on the stair
not anywhere
i held you
long upon the stair
i kissed you
upon the stair
i loved you
upon the stair
not there
not there
not not there
not not not there
man kiss held love
kiss not
held not
love not
there man
not there man
not there
man stair
held him
kiss man

at all

at all

at all

Wednesday, September 1, 2010


Someone fingered my pearls.

Said they were crazy for pearls.

Pearls are for tears I did not say.

Tears and the moon.

Tuesday, August 17, 2010

The Woodwoman

The woodwoman and her helpers stack sawn jarrah sleepers against the back fence. One hundred and twenty dollars for a six by four. They had no change. Our first transaction and I wasn’t feeling generous about a thirty dollar tip. So Macca and Animal sped up the lane, with malice I thought, as the trailer swayed in a spray of stones and dust. Hannah, the woodwoman, stayed and talked about the ugliness of palms. Stupid trees long and naked with no shade potential. The people who planted them didn’t realise what mess makers they were. A hangover from the eighties when everyone was mad for them, but this desert town is no place for a tropical palm. She hoped it didn’t rain as the red mud was ferocious. Glued itself to boots and shoes and didn’t budge except onto any indoor surface. She reckoned her kids believed she was created to clean mud off stuff. She was in a hurry and had to go to work making pizzas for hungry bastards. The men came back from getting the change. Tried to break the land speed record down the back lane.

Someone is drilling.
A kid is in trouble “Morgan!”
My shadow chases my pen.
Cabbage moths love dance across the sky.
Crouching clouds begin to creep.
A leaf hobbles across the pavers.
I prop the gate open.
Look at the new neat woodpile.
The sawn red ends of wood.
I photograph the wood and the stupid palms.
My cup is empty.
Incense burns low.
As I preview the photographs,
I see my reflection in the camera screen.
Wrinkled and white.
That’s me now.
I say to myself.
Get used to it.

Friday, August 13, 2010

I see an older woman

I see an older woman
on the other side
of Graeme Street
older like me
hold me
stop me running
stop me grasping her
stop me hugging her
stop me inviting her
home for a cup of tea
a chat where
steam rises
spoons tink
sugar glints
I tell the dog at number 27
don’t bark
just don’t bark

Wednesday, August 4, 2010

i poke it

something crouches inside
i poke it
something crouches inside
i poke it
to the corner
of my brain
half baked
soft in the centre
not risen yet

Monday, July 19, 2010


If it picks insects from my back lawn, is it mine?

Sunday, July 18, 2010


one wingspan
from tree
to cemetery fence
fence to ground
cocked head
listens for bones

Friday, July 16, 2010


remember when...
you seized my words
stole my tongue?

since then

frozen rain
larva flood crawl
butcher bird
blood love hymn
crows carrion wail
desert winds
casuarinas moan
twenty five
dead moons

for the song
words i can't remember
tongue stolen tongue

Monday, July 5, 2010

if i dump it

if i dump it
blood wet
with pulse
i cant leave it
to bleed
into the page
i must
mop it
clean it
mend it
prop it
i drive
the sharpened
goose quill
into flesh
and wait for

Thursday, July 1, 2010

Woman Overboard!

the green stick it note
from my screen
gusted away
out on high seas
mast gone
absorbing danger
through all pores
anything on the agenda
stupid flag
easily hoisted

Wednesday, June 30, 2010

At Auskick

At Auskick.
On the ground!
…and up doggy!

Mac, the kid I hit in the head with the first footy I kicked in forty years, is being instructed by the coach. Lets go! Mac! Lets go! After the ball hit inattentive Mac he ran to his mother flung himself and clung like the creature in Patricia Piccinini’s The Embrace. Nearby coach told me not to worry. Don’t worry we do it all the time. But I did worry it was a hard direct kick. The kind of kick I had taught myself in games of street footy when wiry boys tried to scare me off by kicking hard. Any tips from my father were casual. I was never going to make the team, never win fairest and best, never play in a premiership side, never be man enough to join the boys’ club.

Mac’s father arrives. He uses man strength to try to detach the child’s limpet grip from the comfort breast. In this tug of war he is loosing. He bares his teeth, snarls and growls. Mother raises her arms, surrenders. He peels the child away. His voice machine gun fire, an axe, an ancient sword recites

The Manifesto.

No sooking.
It is not the way.
Son now clings to him.
It is a shock he didn’t see…
What did I tell you?
To the boy
the weeping boy,
Keep Your Eye On The Ball!
This is how you do it.
When hurt you cry for a bit.
Then say OK.
It hurts but it is over now.
You get on with it.
This is how you be a man.

Message to the Boys
Beat your wife.
Drown your kids.
Kill the cat.
Kick the dog in the soft warm guts.
But don’t cry.

Above us the sun
is veiled in cirrus
but not enough
to stop the sting.
It burns.
Sun burns.
Men don’t cry.
Silent trees crowd in.
A woman crochets in purple.
Complains to herself.
Boys’ voices are still.
Half time oranges.

bucks flat
crow continues the story
men make business with ellipsoids
trees strain forward


i eat stars
my eyes full
of cold
dead light

Tuesday, June 29, 2010

walk without glasses

banana skin
mummified mammal
spine curved
lungs caved in

stump in a lawn
dead cat’s
last crawl

distant workman
with ladder
first alien
invasion fleet

just married
helium balloon
the moon

Monday, June 28, 2010

drive home

woodlands mid winter
low moon, a bent gold coin - breaks
among black branches.

Friday, June 11, 2010

i am my mother

 i am my mother
on hands knees

i use my  body
as machine

smooth polish
into wood

jarrah gleams
blood stain red

narcissus searches
for reflection

Monday, June 7, 2010

Boulder Pioneer Cemetery

She is gone like a flower cut down in full bloom
From the sunshine of the earth to the shade of the tomb
But death cannot break the chain of our love
Or steal the fond hope we shall meet her above

Friday, June 4, 2010


warm day cools
crow calls stop when darkness falls
fire unlit wood uncut

Tuesday, June 1, 2010


silent escape from pond central
onto cave floor sand
spreads to embed rock surfaces
folds through foothills
runs through desert dunes
solidifies in glass
grows in petals
leaves of potted plants
arrives on boot soles
invades kitchens
freezes in ice cream
waves through raspberries
and marble cake
steels into sliced vegetables
knits into patterns
embroiders edges of tea cloths
luxuriates in lace
follows icing fork tines
out into raked paddocks
gathers on winds
surfaces in half ripe wheat
flies through cirrus skies
and ripples across salt lakes.

Monday, May 31, 2010

rapid creek northern territory

while i sleep
fruit bats
scream in
green ants
leaf nests
geckos practice
full blown war
something barks
stars trail
of pale light
across the sky

Friday, May 28, 2010


a page the snake belly writes upon
embraces my naked foot
flows blood hot
travels with the wind
binds the spinifex circle
heart beat red at dawn
sun blanched by noon
silvered red in moonlight
this sand will take me in
this sand will hold me.

Tuesday, May 25, 2010

regatta bistro

in the torrens
a fountain sprays
the waiter cannot explain
the ingredients of the sauce
sparrows bounce bounce
and whirr
in crumb battles
ice water tumbler
with black straw
is still life
my scarf
a pile of woven blue
my phone
connects to the absent
a perfect beer is poured
sediment does the larva lamp float
jet streams make geometry on the sky
sprouted beetroot
sprouted coriander
are heart shapes
in the salad.
last night
i dreamed in poetry
debeaked owls
paper cut out kisses
tea cup storms
lists of the blooded
my name among them
down by the torrens
a fountain sprays
the waiter cannot explain

Tuesday, May 18, 2010

at your house

baked beans on toast
new born song
cups of tea
lovers right
lovers wrong
the dying tree
catching tears
at your house

licorice tea
feta cheese
quince jelly
wild garden
grows green
festival bees
flying dog
forgive me flowers
at your house

under a shedding tree
dry dam
black rock pool
wet sand
duck tracks
brown eggs
roses bloom
at your house

Sunday, May 9, 2010

Thursday, April 29, 2010

Not Intended to Hurt

Another Friday arvo
the sun strikes four.
Small birds
make sharp sounds
as they kill.
I sit in soft light
my back aches
my front aches
tea is beside me.
Traffic streams
not bubble/gurgle
but rain sodden thunder.
Trucks and utes
and buses and bikes
and vans and cars
and twin cabs
and and and...
An orange headed ant
bites my toe
and I let it.
I ask,
Why you are biting me?
It stops.
As the sun falls behind a tree
hits the glass table
shatters light into my eye
sprays warm on my face.
twenty eights yell
across a faded sky,
I talk to myself.
I am loving hating you, I say.
I want to drive us both
over the cliff,
off a bridge,
into a life taking tree.
How would you like that?
I smile.
It is hard
to determine
a response.
No one is here.
No one is there.
No one is anywhere.

Monday, April 26, 2010



Thanks for this Liana,

Invisibility has its consolations
You see, perhaps,
the folding of skin
You do not know
the rich and secret
dolls within
I’m every age I’ve ever been
while you are merely
young and thin

Liana Joy Christensen

Saturday, April 17, 2010


Friday, April 16, 2010

Clare Valley, South Australia

Blenheim morning
magpies territorial battle cries
swallows whistle in the hunt
plump thump of roof dew in downpipes
galahs! galahs galahs!
blue winged parrots argue in squeaky toy voices
distant dogs make no entry statements
suspended water spheres flash blue/green/red/orange
light cipher from the lawn
tall gums rattle leather leaves
leaf free mulberry a grey scribble
wattle birds misbehave
feathers graze air in aerial dog fights
crows deliver caw caw messages to far off relations
where are you bleat of lambs
over here response of ewes
smash of blue sky against green curved horizon
wood smoke scented air
breeze shivers in the agapanthus
moss settles the slate stairs
climbing native and windmill embrace
rose covered brick dunny
sunlight shafts the wood shed
curved stairs beckon beneath the pepper tree
lead to a military march of ants
along the signed back gate

Friday, April 2, 2010


aircon sucks
the curtain
against the window
time on my hands
time in my head
time is lump lead
in these white sheets
patched with cum
white walls
door white
in the mirror
my hair
clouds white
blue curtain sucks
against the window
in the mirror
sucks from
my eyes

Thursday, April 1, 2010

name calling

cunt too powerful
prick does not cut it
weed fits
is a second skin
fits tight
just right
noxious weed

Wednesday, March 31, 2010



its been  
daytime television
washing machine beep
underfoot stair creak
tiled floor cold
for me

but now
at four
friday arvo  
knock off
street roars
hoons are out
& candice
at the inland city
two dollars
to drop
their tits out

Wednesday, March 10, 2010

Beachside Kiosk, Semaphore South

Ham, cheese onion toasted on brown and a weak latte.
"Weak! Weak! There is nothing weak about you Coral."
(A friend of mine who does not know the Truth.)
At the beachside,
"Here's -Your - Sandwich - Love" kiosk,
Semaphore South.
Raw onion is an angry Danny Green in my empty stomach.
Worst sandwich ever. But $4.50. Instant friendly service. Complaint - petty.
Coffee is half latte and half foam. It is not weak.
I go for more milk. The man fills my mug.
"That looks good. I love you now."
I tell him.
Coffee is bitter! Bitter! Bitter!
The other patrons, (should that be matrons), two women talk.
Surf boards in the family room. Territorial dispute.
Garage! Garage! Put it in the garage!
The sandhill is pock marked with footsteps.
Clouds? Yeah, there are clouds.
Isolepis Nodosa do it for me in the wind.
Kids balance in the playground.
A man and his sixties pony tail remnant
brings his Mum.
She holds her cardi against the wind.
They came for ice-cream. The choice is hard.

Tuesday, March 9, 2010


I wake.
Sit on the edge.
Look at my phone.
No messages.
No one loves me.
Pull off my night clothes.
Sit naked.
Massage both breasts.
Round and round.
The little lump is still there.
Find my ungerdungers.
On the floor.
Wearable for another day.
Or until I shower.
Find my T shirt.
Them on.
Scraffle the hair.
Grab a key.
Out the open door.

Monday, March 8, 2010



Be not afeard. The isle is full of noises,
Sounds, and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not.
Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments
Will hum about mine ears, and sometime voices
That, if I then had waked after long sleep
Will make me sleep again; and then in dreaming
The clouds methought would open and show riches
Ready to drop upon me, that when I waked
I cried to dream again.
Shakespeare - The Tempest, Act III

Sunday, March 7, 2010

outside the window VIII

the crowd clamours for truth
she kicks off her yellow spikes
her bow tie hangs red undone 
outside the window
where suns moons planets hurl across the sky clocks strike three five seven messages cut on leaves fall boil to sludge soil quivers cloud banks crash rainbows turn to blood doors bang glass cracks sewn lips tear eyes slam shut ears lock down psychosis breaks out obsessive love tags behind rashes run pus creeps fires burn cold a world spins bottle broken no end to it
the blind

Saturday, March 6, 2010

Thinking About You.

I think of you
as always,
it seems
- lately.
I don’t count years,
                 or beers.
This is the doozy year.
The year of make
burn all bridges
Lets fucking do this…
I’m in.
Count me..
Hand up here!
Note to Reader:
Three people seem to have put their hand up for the self improvement course at the TAFE.
I am not sure which TAFE that is but I can find out and let you know before the interval of twenty minutes.
I am pretty sure that course works. I have seen people go and noted changes.
There are two schools of thought:
It Is Possible To Love Yourself
Don’t Try - It Might Work
School of Philosophy

outside the window VII

the woman in only
a red bow tie
yellow spike heels
drinks tea
eats cake
she has buried the remains
the headstone reads
outside the window
the lawn is wet with autumn
the sky is
sun-yet-to-rise pale green
this colour replenishes your xi
says Zan
a seagulls rasp
rips through birdsong

Friday, March 5, 2010

outside the window VI

the moon falls
a giant pearl
into the ocean
waves slap
sloppy kisses
onto the sand
outside the window
a woman in only
a yellow bow tie
red spiked heels
to scratch
a message in glass

Thursday, March 4, 2010


Do you want me to label each word? This one LOVER, I was giving to Janet or Anne or James, someone else and the one I can't remember. Maybe to them all, I am not sure.
OCEAN was a reference to ablution, absolution. MOON, I actually thought heavenly body as I wrote or do you need further explanation? But I wasn't writing about YOU, someone I know intimately. There are many: YOU. YOU. YOU. PLUS YOU. Which one is YOU? Go ahead point yourself out.

Wednesday, March 3, 2010

outside the window V

i need my lover to be here
the one i dont have
the one denied me
the one who crashed a hole
in my imagination
the one i cant speak
the one i cant touch
the one i cant dream
outside the window
waves flop
fat wet puppies
johnaton livingston seagull
mashes the wet sand
with his pink webbed feet
joins the breakfast flock

Tuesday, March 2, 2010

outside the window IV

pegs bite the clothes line
trees dance
very far
a dog barks
parakeets party
on pine cones
outside the window
in a tree's moon shadow
a man weeps
he has lost his Love
and can't tell

Monday, March 1, 2010

At Writers Week

Oh shit! Oh shit!
I dont fit!
Hair is neither
blonde nor bobbed
straightend or coiffed
my Sydney
designer coat
has a hole
no jewellery
forgot my
sunsmart hat
gold trim sunglasses.
has a share
of lovely lesbians,
there goes one now...
fairy floss pink mohawk
tat on her tit
she might spot me
and fit my empty hand.

Saturday, February 27, 2010

outside the window III

breeze blows
red wine
outside the window
the first leaf
yet to fall
a caul of cloud
the new born moon
on pause
before the dead
discard the shroud
and breathe

Friday, February 26, 2010

outside the window II

At 38,000 feet
Felicitiy's plump
jelly bean
pink lips
Her skin is
cream pale
punctured once
beneath her
bottom lip.
Grey wolf eyes
stare into mine,
Can I help you with anything?
Outside the window
the sky is
slap, bang
in your face
dazzle whiter
washing powder
February ends.
One of us
is in trouble.
I tell it
the only way
I know.
Face autumn with the
Legions of Love
at your shoulder.

Monday, February 22, 2010

Outside the Window

Journal extract
4 February 2005

In Melbourne with nothing to read.

Outside the icons of Melbourne ting! their little bells. Overhead planes are on the business of coming and going. Ting! Daughter Hope snores on. Her phone vibrates.with messages.

After a week in the Fryers Forest community with compost toilets, and minimal water supply I have had my first shower and brushed my hair. It was showing the beginnings of a giant dread lock. I am clean. ting!

There has been a huge storm in Melbourne, the Yarra flooded, a boy swept away, a tree fell on a car and squashed a man, branches fell, electricity failed, ting! banks broke, back yards sank, front rooms filled with water, leaves flailed from branches, ting! trams water bound, cars piling up.

It is chaos, a friend of Stewart’s phoned.
Why would you want to come?
Stay away!
But my brother believes the news makes it sound worse than it is. Ting! Cath wanted us to cancel
Don’t go today. she said. But I wanted to go and now alone in this white modern city accommodation I wonder why I decided to leave their comfy house so early.

We miss the babe and the vibrant boys. We are sad and have to eat ice cream to seduce our loneliness ting! I text them and they respond. “Hazel has been miserable all day and the boys went to bed crying.”

Outside the window is a grey brick wall and flocks of European birds. Starling, lark, dove and sparrow. No more the plover, rosellas, galahs, crows wrens of Stewarts hippy house in the forest. When Hope and I see the feral sparrows we remember the cute Mongol sparrow flocks digging in the snow fluffed and plumped out against the cold. It was only then, seeing the sparrow in its own environment we understood love for the tiny bird and how they were missed by the first colonists.

We are surrounded by apartments but we see no one I watch a window where dishes are stacked. They did not move all day yesterday but this morning different dishes have taken their place and the door onto a balcony is open. I saw the pink outline of a body through the opaque glass. But other than that no sound no sight of human habitation. In Mongolia ting! you only had to look out your window to see the lives of hundreds of people and you could always hear someone shouting, crying, laughing, fighting, working, all night long. From my Ulaan Bataar apartment I could see into dozens of other apartments, people playing cards, cooking, cutting up meat, drinking vodka and tea, watching television. From six stories up I could see them walking below outside warming themselves in the winter sunlight, talking in groups, staggering home drunk. But here in Australia nothing. Roads and homes appear empty. The footpaths are deserted. No one shouts to children playing or greets their neighbours, the milk man does not call “Soo Araa” and no one goes outside with their jugs to be filled for breakfast.

The trams have stopped ting tinging and a crumpet pops in the the toaster. My daughter’s phone clicks and beeps as she messages her friends.
It is nine o’clock.

Tuesday, February 16, 2010


my censored pen leaks
a still born dream
a reptile tailed tooth grin
a gutted insect crawl
connection extinction
drug framed existence
don't search
the black strokes and curves
for meaning
there is no gospel
no testament
no this is your life message
memory raises
pitted bones
under the sun's broken rays

Sunday, February 14, 2010


his cat-o-nine tails
left no mark
he takes aim
at the love filled heart

he whipped mine
whipped mine
till it bled
lashed mine
lashed mine
drained it
of it's red

his cat-o- nine  tails
he takes it
as his leisure
with little understanding
of where i find pleasure

Sunday, February 7, 2010

proof of god

there is a god
he created sunday
put iron man comp
on the tele

Friday, February 5, 2010


This morning
the sun rose
in pink sky.
The moon sank
like the cold
grey stone
it is.
The last full moon of Kay's life
was my thought.

Thursday, February 4, 2010

instead of doing tax

She is polishing instead of doing tax
sweeping instead of doing tax
cleaning instead of doing tax.
That girl is afraid of doing tax.
All those
bits of paper
getting it wrong
loosing stuff
not knowing
where she filed
Accountants with
long noses
look down.
Nose through her
bad filing
see her
Next door
the electricians
use a saw.
She listens
instead of doing tax.
In the kitchen
the kettle boils.
She listens
instead of doing tax.
The clock strikes
She listens
instead of doing tax.
If her lover were here
she would fondle him
instead of doing tax.
If her woman were here
she would lick her
instead of doing tax.
She would even try
to write a poem
instead of doing tax.
She hasn't written 
for forty days
instead of doing tax.

Tuesday, February 2, 2010

This is what cities look like when you burn coal and manufacture everything for the rest of the world.
Lanzhou, Gansu province, China

Friday, January 15, 2010

Friday, January 8, 2010

Dust on the Clothes Line (Agricultural Protection Board house, Southern Cross WA.)

Bare earth is the garden bed.
Birds caged.
Dogs chained.
Trees all dead.
Barbed wire fence.
Concrete path where no leaf falls.
Tap drips dust in a pool of stones.
Only green is painted walls.
Here Dendro Phobic the farmer lives.
He only takes.
Never gives.

Wednesday, January 6, 2010


layers of skin
felt your
rubbed away
swirled away
down the drain