I wrote this today, I think I’ll work on it – but here’s a draft.



Supernova (I have some concerns)

To M, everything I never said at the time.


namely gravity

black hole men skull-fucking the universe

I am careful not to talk too much of stars        (to you)

people always talk too much about stars                   (around you)

but when you talked of being ‘spit-roasted’ on your 25th birthday

I had some concerns


namely the gravity of the situation,

bringing two strangers

the kind who reach up for obligation

nestled between the Weetbix and pasta

on the top shelf of entitlement

not needing a leg up or chair


mainly bring them into the house we shared

at 2am I felt an octopus arm in my bed

“I’m just saying hello”

with slithering fingers

he pulls out         the drawers holding utensils

instruments of force    a ladle to scoop

the threat of violence

down my throat so that I am gagged from screaming

I stand in a galaxy of open kitchen drawers

he was looking for a bottle opener

I dream this

I have some concerns.


Agendas and coke mainly

star matter around your nose         the cheek biting

rapid fire speech about how the moon

controls the waves

which controls our menstrual cycles      controls the vibrations

that twist and turn        into wars    into pregnancies. Everything

could have been solved

by Neil Armstrong

had the space race actually been won.


I have some concerns            but

they turn to stardust in your hands

and the comet trail on the mirror goes on snorting you     bleeding

out your nose     white and red


I have some concerns


your supernova.


Thoughts in Summer/Winter

Thoughts in Summer/Winter

I’ve borrowed a smirk from Tracy Emin. Older now, the summer flowers don’t melt my heart as they did at 27. If you were here I would do things differently.

But don’t we all say that? He crumples my touch, throws it to the corner next to the bin where a condom hangs like a man lynched

even at 7am in Wollongong the heat is a thief’s hand to the mouth. It is summer here, you’ve gone back to Nanjing.

Work is slow and I spent my last $10 on condoms – priorities. I cool myself with the breath of my lover and wonder

if you’re walking in the snow with her, it is winter there. Xiu Ling told me she was pregnant. You’d make a terrible father.

You’d think my smirk was typical white-girl coarseness. Always with the off-hand comments – white women fuck anyone. White women are rough.

That summer I was desperate for love in a yellow dress, blueberry beads, we held hands and hot chips by the lighthouse, at Christmas I wrapped brie in prosciutto

and made you wear that reindeer nose, we swapped presents, I bought you cologne, you bought me a stuffed toy. I was disappointed. I asked too much of you.

I tried to learn Mandarin but gave up. You tried to teach me but asked me to repeat phrases to your friends without telling me what they meant – I didn’t trust you.

Shen Yun said he overheard you with the boys likening my breasts to tofu, imitating the wobble – that was enough.

I hope she finds out you turned up in a taxi, drunk and tearful the night before your 6am flight. When you forced a kiss on me, called me your best girl.

I hope she sees the immaturity. You pose genteel in a too small tux, she’s a slender vision in your engagement photos.

She looks bright and young. She has the smile of a woman who adheres to expectations but maybe that’s the point.





Leslie’s Books and Antiques

Leslie’s Books and Antiques

The Pleasures of the Damned, 1993 was a good year – putting me on like Chapstick. The bookstore doubles as a sex shop –

Leslie’s Books and Antiques – the only ‘antique’ is a stuffed cobra fighting a mongoose sitting in dust on the counter while a floral curtain

the kind you’d find in a 1950’s farmhouse, too orange, too pink, is the only thing that separates the Best of Woman’s Weekly’s winter recipes

from the gang bangs of Bonnie Rotten and her spider web tit tattoos. Leslie looks bored behind the cock rings at the counter. It’s 3pm on a Friday

she reads Black Beauty and if her horse was willing, she’d ride at night – the thrill of fog over the creek, but he’s in Camberwarra at her ex-girlfriend’s house

she’s afraid he’ll be sold, he’s getting past his time. But one can dream – do you read Stephen King? Cujo’s on the top shelf, there’s one left – worth a look

I was in a coma five years ago, two days, as soon as I came to, I read Cujo and realised nothing scared me anymore. I used to be religious – pledged my vagina to God

no men or women for a year – then the coma happened and I realised no one sits on a throne of clouds, no one cares about my vagina

I might as well sex who I want and open a book store with all the essentials, she winks. Sex takes as much imagination as reading. Why not have them together?

Love is Endless Oil

Love is Endless Oil

after John Tranter


Pulled taut, released, eternally splitting amoeba

under the microscope we are watchmakers

ticking away time like stars, gluttons for red enlightenment

blu blasphemy – I’d love them all, forever falling

into the arms of new men, new stories, a sundial splitting

my shadow. Your smiles leave breadcrumbs

hypnotic urgent monsters stir the pot – I’ll fake it

being without body most nights turning and vanishing

like a comet, philosophic and industrious we

put out the siren call for sailors – John Tranter said

love is endless oil and being water there is no hope for us

it’s our nature to want absolutes

to want the purest forms of experience, pushing existence

that patient god, to the brink of sanity. We don’t skydive

or hang ourselves by hooks for the crowds but after so many

stories we’re bent like a sculpture of paralysing and total fatalism.




(It started like this, from a previous post:



Down at Bar 52

Down at Bar 52


You don’t want to hear it.

Quaint women’s things

lotioned into the air

vanilla perfume emanating

declaring her woman-ness

god that’s dull

but you’d fuck her in a heartbeat

the moment’s there

Shhh her opinion

Shhh her telephone number

just get down to it, a hate-fuck

pure hate

so much it nearly asphyxiates you

a rock star way to go

and then

that stupid mustache

screaming microphone feedback


is distilled into one sentence

“I didn’t spend $50 on cocktails for a handshake”.


Lip, bitten and fat
love slides off in hot water, you left
an empty pack of cigarettes
thinking so little
of dreams, plans sketched
out in night ink, the engine
of carelessness idling on
the rain drenched street
there was no room for circled calendars
you left
and I held
the door open for you.

Night’s a suit vest
stained with stars
we eat Thai under the lighthouse
wind chilling the bones
of conversation, an amputation
of true meaning, you push for sex
and I relent – the city lights
eat my heart out as the waves
white-wash noise covers the tell-tale
signs, I’ve a mind to keep you
but I always try to keep your kind
like a stick insect – so magnificent
so still, imitating a leaf.