I subscribe
to publications
that incur international shipping rates
while buying skirts
and three dollar shirts
from op shops down the street.


Emotions are very difficult and my thoughts on this are not so profound

I’m taking a brief departure from my usual slosh of poetry, prose and odd diary-like entries to write more plainly and probably less effectively about feelings. Specifically, the process of having them and then turning them into art. Or at least trying to.

Also, just a disclaimer, I’m using the term ‘art’ to describe all ‘creative practice’, not in any way to imply quality or merit to what I do here, just as an encompassing term for making stuff and honing in on creativity. So let’s get down to it. Continue reading Emotions are very difficult and my thoughts on this are not so profound


I like the sound of my pen scratching paper drawing smooth long lines until we


come up for air and breathe for a while

aimlessly wander to the brink,

of this morning’s tastes
and the colours of last night
that have seeped into your skin.

For my pen could draw lines on your back connecting each scar, freckle, blemish

Rose Tattoo

A constellation tattooed in the back of my mind though nothing is permanent,

but the sound of my pen this morning and you-



Morning After


nights spent in sadness, cocooned in blankets, hands clasped, close to your chest with shallow breaths, clinging to the edge of your rib cage, clawing at your throat

in and out, in and out again, your dry and evaporated breath, air to lungs, fingers shaking, lips trembling

skinny light edges through your windows and birds wake up before you do and you, you let your feet swing to the edge, maybe slowly at first, your heavy still, but not anchored

toes slip from the bed to the floor, sinking into carpet, into socks, into slippers, maybe boots, your move next, and you move

and on