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”.



Look up.


Aquarius shrugs

empties his urn of stars.


Take in the dark.


The moon, air in his cheeks

floats to us

lights the kebab Shop tussle

a teen in the gutter

nose bleeding

blooming carnation

gardens, a pergola aglow in the 1am silver of summer

where the homeless stretch out and behind

the Crown bar

blue-lit love is mojitos and One Fifty Lashes.


Keep up girl.


A grimace of police on the train,

interconnecting steel pellets greet the platforms

a diesel hiss, we are shy travelers, Saturday night

on public transport is sketchy for women

in any town, in any dress, there is always that one man (or group)

with the black Adidas bag, slick look, sweat smell

greased and ready

we ignore to avoid violence.

“Oi sluts!”


Stay in your own orbit.


The walk home quickens like breath

over there – with the blue denim cutoffs

house keys between her fingers

she empties her stomach behind the parked car.


Look away.


Women are taught to love and fear dicks

because fear breeds obedience

it is easier to sell Prada to obedient women.


Look up

(you begin to wonder if progress happens)

Andromeda with a bow


Orion’s chalk outline on the interstellar tar.


In off-white stained briefs he scratches himself
out the front of the half-way house
as the girls giggle by, stomachs stacked with shots,
he watches them pull up every windscreen wiper
to the sky, leaving all the cars paused in prayer,
their hoods shining in the dewy early hours
One of the girls squats behind a car
rolling up her tight red dress to pee.
The man picks up a ukulele, hisses
“Excuse me, some people are trying to sleep!”
before humming Thunderstruck and plucking
the only remaining string.


Religion and the Pretty C-Bomb

This post will be split into two parts because it deals with two different but loosely connected things.

When I was religious I didn’t swear much. Well I occasionally said ‘shit’ but mostly just stuck to the fat-free cuss words like ‘crap’. I was so strict with myself that if I even thought the word ‘fuck’ I’d feel guilty for hours afterwards (I wish I was kidding). But I certainly didn’t even go near the C-bomb. No way, nuh-ah. Too sinful. All the soap in the world wouldn’t wash out that sucker. So here’s my story…


Upon my conscious bitter as betrayal uncoupling from religion I ended my cuss diet and binged. My brain stuffed as many cuss words into my mouth as possible. I said shit and fuck in every sentence and called people dicks (under my breath) but I never could bring myself to drop the C-bomb. In my mind it was a painful word that I’d first heard used in spite. It was classed as the worst of the worst. To call someone a cunt was to insult them in one of the nastiest ways possible (unless you’re a particularly laid back Australian teenager then it’s what you call your mates, but I didn’t know that yet, I was more sheltered than a wombat in a burrow. Yes, I really just typed that).

But soon I became daring. I’ve been told that I look innocent, so I began to say it for effect. Then I began to think about it. Why is ‘cunt’ such a bad word? Why does a euphemism for vagina have to be classed as the worst of the worst? Why is the worst thing a person can be stand in for a female body part? Now I’m not going to go into the politics of it here, others have done that and a hell of a lot better than I could. I’m just saying that I consciously thought about why it was that I didn’t say ‘cunt’. Then I began to say it in my head to try and get rid of the negative connotations associated with it. I said it under my breath. I thought it about the middle-aged woman talking loudly in the quiet carriage. I sang it in my head to the tune of Diamonds by Rihanna. “Shine bright like a cunt face… shine bright like a cunt face…” Ok, so that last part’s a lie, but it improves the song somewhat, no?

So what do I do about it now? I still only say it for effect. It’s still considered by many as the worst of the worst and despite my protests I still haven’t quite gotten over the way it sounds in my mouth. Perhaps I never will, but I’m trying. For now I engage in crafty slactivism. By which I mean I stitch ‘cunt’ onto fabric and frame it. We all have our small rebellions. I’m changing the face of society, one stitch at a time. I’m sure society’s views on what is deemed offensive will change based on one woman’s Sunday afternoon craft project. Give it time.


Now this wasn’t an isolated binge. After my uncoupling I went through a spiritual crisis (surprise! I’m still there! Woo! Fun times! – that’s a story for another post), in that I no longer felt spiritual at all. I went from deeply religious to believing in nothing. Not even myself. I didn’t feel connected to anything. When I was religious I would go out into nature and feel this deep and profound connection to god and to the earth. It was euphoric, I used to feel almost high on the country air (later I found out that this wasn’t a connection to god, it was a connection to untreated mental illness. Yay! Woo! Fun times!). After I started taking medication, all connection to god left me and I instantly didn’t believe anymore. It hit me like a train. I felt like my upbringing had been a lie. A hurtful scam designed to make me feel less powerful as a woman, guilty about sexuality, and oh I dunno, guilty about everything else on the planet. I became bitter against Christianity and binged on all the ‘bad’ things. By which I mean I purposely littered, I didn’t hold the door for people, and I called rude customers bitches (under my breath). Did I mention I was a little strict with myself? These things felt like acts of rebellion to me. I felt powerful. I felt how Snoop Dogg (Snoop Lion? Whatever he calls himself now) must have felt smoking marijuana at the MTV awards. I felt smug as fuck. I was sinning and there wasn’t a god in the world to stop me.

So where does that leave me now? I don’t know, cunts, crouched in some dirty alley way tossing Cadbury wrappers on the ground (no I’m not, don’t litter kids, it’s bad for the environment). Still bitter, I suppose. I still can’t bring myself to stand in a church and nature just makes me sad at the loss of connectedness to the environment. But we all have our things to work on. On another day I’ll go into the story a bit more if you’d like to hear it, but for now, let’s lighten the mood with more arty fun times.

Changing the world.
Changing the world.

So my lovely cunts, what’s your small act of rebellion?


Wild Saturday night, poetry, and mold.

Ahhh Sunday morning.

I have a new bookcase. It’s chocolate coloured, tall, and begging for books. The walls of my room are freckled with mold that looks to be making a home for itself (the joys of living in an old damp apartment), so I’m frantically moving all my prized books out of its reach. As it is with these things, I couldn’t help but read some of them.

Now it’s late (or early) and I’ve had my nose in some pages by the likes of John Tranter, John Forbes, and August Kleinzahler. So now I’m messing around with words. Here are some I prepared earlier.

Coral lipped, she had her tongue split
down the middle, now she talks strange
She likes to stick it out at small children
declaring that she never saw herself as a

concentrating on the red man, he changes
green and we walk to the movies, she hates
romantic comedies and so do I, so we catch
some Nicolas Cage disaster. We’re not there
for the popcorn.

In the park in the early hours she hands me
a can of Coke, we do the whole look
at the stars and contemplate our lives shit. She feels
Athena is misunderstood – her manager – not the goddess
she tells me, though the goddess has a right to be mad
too, if you ask her, which I didn’t, but to watch her is heaven
and the night’s too cold for me to move.

I think the ending is a bit too weak. But I’m still mulling over what to replace it with. Maybe a detail about the other persona? I don’t know, it’s kind of her show, so… I’ll have to think on it some more.

Wild Saturday night/Sunday morning alone at the keys. I know what you’re thinking, “how does she maintain her extravagant lifestyle?”. Coffee and meds, my friends, coffee and meds.

Why, what are you doing with your Sunday morning?


Freudian Friday: Diablo Cody on Inspiration

Diablo Cody (Juno, United States of Tara)

As you are about to see, Diablo Cody is a badass. If you need more than that in order to click the little triangle then: Diablo Cody is important because she shows us creatives the value of writing the stories our parents warned us about.

Video coutesy of Artisan News Service.


Text Thursday: Get Caught Out in the Sydney Theatre to Inspire Men in Bangkok.

Now I’m just getting ridiculous

FYI, the level of stupidity displayed in my titles is directly proportionate to how much sleep I’ve had. You’re all doomed.

First thing’s first. Congratulations to my American followers on #Obama2012.

Congrats on four more years of common sense and reason. Image courtesy of Obama’s twitter page, which I’ve already linked so lemme alone.

I can’t help wondering how MENA/Asia/any-where-else-in-the-world feels about both the outcome and the fact that the west never seems to pay as much attention to their elections as they do to the American ones.

Moving on. Ok onto some quick food for thought.

The SMH ran an article yesterday by Aviva Truffield entitled How to Inspire Men to Read Books by Women addressing some of the concerns people have about ‘women only’ writing contests.

She raises some interesting points. Image courtesy of SMH.

I’ll be interested to know what my femme followers think about the credibility and implications of gender exclusive literary competitions. Helpful or Harmful?

In other news, Travel Blackboard ran an article on Tuesday about Bangkok’s first literary festival.

Featuring 100 authors from around the globe including Australia’s very own Matthew Condon, it represents a step in the right direction for literary circles worldwide.

Image courtesy of Random House Books Australia.

Matthew Condon, in addition to campaigning for literary prizes, edits the Courier Mail. If you don’t believe me, check out his twitter page – @MatthewCondon2. I wouldn’t lie to you, honest.

Moving on.

More for Australian peeps (sorry non-Aus followers, I’ll post non-Aus relevant prizes soon I promise).

Entries for the Sydney Theatre Company’s Patrick White Playwright’s Award and fellowship closes TOMORROW. If you’re over 18 and have a full length unproduced play just lying around, get off your butt and enter. There’s a total prize pool of $35,500 to be had. Plus there’s a picture of Patrick White staring you down, I don’t know about you but that makes me want to enter, if only to avoid his posthumous judgement.

Now I have to get out of my pajamas and get ready for my day job do lots of important artistic things so I’m going to leave you to get Caught Out with the ABC’s 500 word story competition.

I’m not really sure if you win anything but hey, you can submit your 500 word masterpiece and feel chuffed when they feature it on their website. And this early in the morning that’s good enough for me.

Plus there’s a picture of someone in plaid looking shocked. You know that’s a good sign. November’s theme is Someone who shaped me. So get to it minions!