So I finished that poem




Letter to an Iraqi Physicist

Letter to an Iraqi Physicist


O Gentleman

not quite a gentleman but in your own mind

buoyant, a DIY high-brow daydream in designer

collared shirt and loafers, taxied everywhere

by a sense of importance, oyster with a pearl

of impatient wildness, too good to be bohemian

too rich to be bourgeois


O Gentleman

I feel you will not die but dissolve like salt

only to crystallise somewhere else, reborn in sun

perhaps blonde and not Iraqi but Finnish and still

constructing the same classical altar to yourself

turning in the incense of your own superiority

bowing to disinfectant, too clean to be relaxed

too intelligent to be self-aware.


O Gentleman

science holds many things but tenderness

is not one of them. Kidnapped by your fear

of disease, you shut yourself off from common people

without knowing that common people still love

with all of themselves, common people still breathe

your air and deserve your kindness. O Gentleman

how do you not see

the fool you make of yourself

more than the fool you make of me.


Ouija Board

Ouija Board


Australian autumn gum trees don’t lose their colour

perhaps they knew you or saw your stubbornness

about letting go and will hold in all that green like a breath

I don’t know, I’ve never asked them or you but sat

in awe at your refusal to cave in to cancer chipping

away at you like a sphinx nose, turning yellow in your last days

as your liver struggled to keep up with your bull-headed

grip on life. You fell eventually like a leaf falls

I refused to see your last breath, I said my goodbyes

like a child with hopes of Jesus miracles

but I knew. I imagine you in the garden of lost souls

snubbing the afterlife to haunt the grave attendants about their

improper manual handling skills or poor personal presentation


Gum trees shed their bark as they grow and I have studied

all I can from your diaries but read again just to be sure

postcards from Denmark and short raw poems

there was an admirer but he lost out to our grandfather

because he was too shy to ask you for a date

I think my siblings would be different, if you were

still here. I think you would be proud of  Shaela’s painting

and Willow’s flair for mechanics. Maybe Joseph wouldn’t

drink so much. Perhaps you would share your poems with me

and I wouldn’t have to steal them from the family records

hiding them in borrowed books and reciting them like a spell.


Ryan or Brian or Sean or Cheyne

Spring rain and JB on beige chinos. Leggy millennials squawk in the disco lit windows. I am young in face and old in dissatisfaction. My amaretto sour served without egg whites, too much orange rind is always a problem. I suck the cherry and try and tie the stem with my tongue – I was never that kind of woman. Waiting for my lover in the corner under the heater and birdcaged bare bulbs, the bar is honey-thick with noise and that lawyer from Market St with a name like Ryan or Brian or Sean or Cheyne, is drunk (constantly), and he’s punching above his weight again with the blonde in the middle, always the blondes. He thinks blonde equals gullible but she crosses her legs at him. I’ve bitten my tongue more than once on the topic of his 90’s spiked hair – frosted tips. He quotes Bruce Lee incorrectly and adds his spin on the severity of climate change and I want to mock his hair and correct him but he’d recognise me and then where would we be? Spring rain and beige chinos. Or the last thing we spoke of before the rape joke and the spilled drink and all that mistaken identity business, so I hide in this swamp of crocodiles and parrots, until your arms come and lift me in a hug. He looks with something like recognition, turns, and tells the one about the Jew and the German.


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?



I’m obsessed with this inscription in my second hand copy of Back to Methuselah. So I’m writing a poem about it.


Above is the first draft of the first stanza.


Sweet Child

Sweet child, 2014.