I have used up all of myself today.

Exhausted all of my resources and pulled out extra efforts

Like super powers.

Did I do good things today?

Yes I did.

Did I speak and eat and meet up with friends?

Did I laugh and love and be loved and feel love and wish love for everyone and everything…?

Yes, I did.

That was me.

Was I listening, absorbing,

analyzing and reforming,

Exploring the scenery,

waking up my energies…?


I’ve seen myself change,

No longer living wet and dazed,

193 days away from burning liquor,

The 3 litre piss box that made me feel sicker,

And sicker……

and sicker…

The quicker I get to the farthest away from there,

the better.

I used up all of myself today,

But I hope I managed to give you

a well needed top up.

Remind me to forget about you


Remind me to forget about you

Every day

Be a memo of misery

Every day

Resurface continuously

Wrap yourself around irrelevant things and bring back imagery of what you were to me…


Every night

Remind me of your destruction,

Of your presence

Every night

Make me aware of your essence that declares you left a bitter residue…

Remind me to forget about you.

Take your grip from off my wrist

Take your name from off my list

Take your triggers, you won’t be missed

Every hour

You fight for floor space within my mind

Every hour

You hide, but are easy enough to find.

Remove me from your special promotions

Remove the content, the context,

The addicted devotion…

Remind me to forget about you.

A short walk in the wind


She spoke in poetry

And the rhymes were in time with her thoughts,

But too fast for anyone else to keep up with.

She sought your glance

And hoped that your hands would need her hands to pass you something.

She follows the direction of love

And waits for you to read from the same map,

So you both land in the same place…


She walks too fast for anyone else to keep up with.

She stops.


Then sets off with you, making smaller paces,

so spaces closed in,

Became closer.

She craves your face

And wishes that your heart would need her heart too.

She stops and notices the rhythm in the wind

And waits for you to sweep her hair out of her eyes.

This Cup


Drank the sun down

Drank the sun back up

This cup filled with sand, ash and regret,

The hours have passed,

The minutes we forget.

We forget dates on calendars marked,

Trip, then sit on journeys embarked,

We lose count of the amount of times we said we can’t be fucked!

Ducked under duvets on Sundays,

In some ways

We just stayed still.

Time stops when you’re drinking

And you’re thinking,

Not true…

Week after week after week I’ve consumed.

Long night and long islands and a long hard look

at a long black in the morning,

Dawning on you, yet still you say

Nah, No way!

I’ve partied, had cocktails and been on benders for days,

Displayed behaviour questionable,

Been barely workplace presentable,

Unstable within moonlit, blackout evenings,

Leaving tables of empties,

Bottles aplenty hidden in plastic bags in boxes under beds,

This begs and beckons me up now with the sun

For if I must choose from these options,

then this is the one.

This cup filled with a double…


Time starts, we check we are present and then go

On dates on calendars marked.

Insert poetry here.

As we lay in an embrace, you said “This would be a perfect moment to be poeting to each other…”

And I reached within my emotional tomes, perused through thoughts of things already written, rehearsed and read…

And my brain said…

And my heart said…

“There is nothing here for her;

These memories and words already have a home.”

As we lay in an embrace, works refused to surface, like I’d forgotten the whole alphabet or what a comma was…

and this was perfect.

I studied your lips as you spoke eloquent art and I knew your words too had lived before, but I enjoyed having them visit.

I extended my arm to find your skin

And my brain said…

And my heart said…

“Here is your new page – there is everything here for her…

…and for you, 

draw from this moment from now on.”

The walk.

A hole in the toe of my shoe shows a hole in the toe of my sock as I walk,

wondering how u do the voodoo that you do to me. 

And it’s not pricky like pins…

more like smudges of pleasant across sensitive areas. 

And they are good sensations. 

And that makes sense. 

A hole in the toe of my shoe that shows a hole in the toe of my sock would sometimes worry me….make me think that passersby assume I am not 

all together…

…that I’m lower level…

but it is only me staring down at my feet. 

My sneakers squeak as I ponder how you appear in portions in parts of me in pieces of my day.

And it’s not easy to write as I search for perfect word choices…

…but all my summarised scrawlings are smudged.

And that makes sense to me and that’s ok.

No bones about it – a framework.

About to expose the shit list.

Bare my bruised and broken past.

And it’s written down and it hurts to look at,

to remember…

to feel and re-live again.

About to acknowledge those I’ve hurt and heckled and been hideous to,

And it’s spoken aloud 

and its echoes hit the walls like suicide splatter on aged floral wallpaper.

About to admit that

…this was where I was…

…but is not where I




About to heal.

About to hear.

About time.

Pleasure me…asures

Sunshine upon shoelaces

Dipped chocolate biscuits into Elderflower tea

Big couches and lots of pillows

Two small cats.

Rhythm within earlobes

Dipped paintbrushes in a stained plastic cup

Long walks and plenty of trees

Three written words.

Rain overflowing guttering

Dipped feather quill into a digital ink pot 

Small gratitudes and

…a forthcoming love.

Quiet, relaxing nights

Dipped down underneath duvets

Wide eyes and everlasting energies

One happy poet.


We can switch

If you like…

I’ll try out yours

If you test mine.

I’ll get underneath your pores, you dress with garments from my drawers, 

We explore how each other passes the hours,

takes showers,

smells flowers and how each one listen

and sit in the quiet…

How we react to downtime.

How our bones hurt and our limbs swell and our minds race and our shoulders tense and our fingers writhe and our hearts play pong inside our chests…

We can switch back

If you like.

Thanks for sharing yours,

Thanks for wearing mine.

Be in your moment.

Be in your moment.

Sit in your skin.

Observe the people and their place and their faces and look at their shoes.

Be aware of how far we have walked

And how we hold our own hearts very carefully with both hands now.

Be present in your world.

Feel what a good life feels like…

Live this.

Embrace your friends and soak up nature – be in your moment.

Surround yourself with calm and kind and caring and love…

Be in love.

Sit next to skin.

Observe their eyes and smile and look at their hands and hold them, feel and soak in how this feels…

Be aware of your journey and pick the path most pleasant.

Now there are four hands around your heart and they are still holding on very carefully.

Be present in both your worlds.

The pigeon in the room

Will you rub my back when I’m feeling tense?

Will you hold my hand after making amends?

Will you encourage me to keep sipping tea?

Will you help me up if I fall to my knees?

I once was very much broken.

Once, so very rudely outspoken.

I once was selfish & unkind,

More than once, lost my shit, my mind.

Will you excuse the awful poetry?

Will you refuse my negative ‘woe is me!’

Will you kiss my dirty smokers lips?

Will you wipe away my mascara slips…

I once was always inebriated.

Once was satisfied but never sated.

I once was an attention seeker,

Never once the listener, only the speaker.

Will you take my past & my mistakes?

Will you accept my scars, bruises & breaks…

Will you trust that I’m a better me,

Will you think of me pleasantly…



I am okay.

I AM okay…

Honestly, I’m so far away

From the darkness of my yesterday.

A Literate Elation

Words on walls written

Readily readable rhetorical rhyme

Confidential conversations craftily consumed

Enigmatic energies emotionally exhumed

Sensored strobes stare into his soul.
Sips of Sauvignon sunk

Drams of delicate Drambui, drunk

Mind melting melodical mime

Tripping up on tipped, turned time

Darkness dwells deep in his dreams.
Arriving with artistic arrogance

Listlessly listening to loves language

Harbouring hardened hearts, heated

Tenebrous talks traumatically treated

Vexing the virile virtue in his voice.
Performing as poetic prodigy

Facetious feelings flow freely

Quantifying quotes, questioning quips

Gluttony gloats, greediness grips

Broken brilliance burns into his being.



Now that I’m clean I rock a positive sheen, instead of standing clothed in last nights filth.

Having had crawled out from under the duvet, I’d survey, sniff and repeat into the next day.

No longer do I sway when

I walk through the streets;

I don’t footpath weave or drunkenly bush pee…

Now that I’m sober I no longer fall over the black spots that are lost,

The unrecovered costs…

Waking like a dried up dehydrated ghost after the evening priors host un-responsibility –

Still hungover ’til morning tea…

Nothing resonating, nothing functioning.

Now that I’m dry I no longer worry why my life was or is so hard,

Because it isn’t.

It’s straight edged with pleasures,

It’s enjoying beautiful weather,

It’s remembered and lived in.

It’s lessons and laughter,

It’s’befores’ and ‘afters,’

And it’s now mine to get amongst.


I am ashamed of my surname.

It’s bold, it’s brutal and it’s embarrassing to have as a female.

I lay blame for my surname.

It’s masculine, it’s ancestral, it’s a horrible moniker for a lesbian.

I feel pain for my surname.

It’s the last of its kind, it’s deceased, it’s a joke…

So I cut it in half.

I threw away the gender attachment and cocooned into a Hood of pseudonym.

I lay claim to my surname.

It’s legal, it’s employed, it’s identified.

I abstain from Google searching my surname.

It’s phallic, it’s medical, it’s Mills & Boon material like “she was aroused at the sight of his exposed bulge, his pulsating package, his staff of sex…

But it’s my surname.

It’s unwed, it’s happy, it writes, it drinks fruit tea. It’s a great ice breaker, it’s the title to my voice.

The choice i make to embrace it or run away, is my choice to make

In the end

Of my first name



Off the beaten 8-Track


I want my future partner to be a fantastic driver.

Or, just to be a driver –

…to drive…

To operate a vehicle that goes places on wheels, with stuff under car seats and in boots,

food wrappers and spare pairs of shoes,

off-frequency radio stations and cassettes –

Yes, cassettes.

To show me sunsets over beaches,

Night lights from cities through windscreens,

Parked up on a ledge,

by a Boulevard atop a Hill

and into a Lane of lovers.

I want us to open up sunroofs & high speed Highways;

I want to re-fuel at dusty petrol stations…

I want road trips!

I want to stop for ice-creams and pies; to sleep in backseats overnight with beach towels and bikinis, I want hot leather and door handles with shocks, a keyring with a button that sounds an audible lock,  i want trailers and burnouts & drive-throughs and BBQs accompanied by opened passenger door acoustics…from the cassette player…

Playing B side cassettes as she revs the engine and we reverse…

Out of a moonlit campground carpark, across the Avenue, take a left lane into a Crescent, indicate to carry on to Main Street, where she puts her foot to the gas and we drive the last Road leading out of this place.

Good morning, Darling.

I want to cook eggs in this one really awesome way I know how to, for a girl on a Sunday morning.

I want to be that movie scene cliché, where I’m doing this in an oversized shirt and my underwear. And the underwear would be nice – clean and clean looking…

And I want to brew us coffee as sunshine streams through the kitchen as she sneaks up behind me and wraps her arms like breakfast burritos around my front; Nuzzling into my neck, tickling me with her bed hair, I stare at the…

Prepared scrambled dish, turn around to face her and kiss…those….perfectly seasoned lips, turning off elements whilst turning up internal heat;



The coffee is poured and then sweetened and now I won’t at all feel like eating, this beating…the fleeting thoughts of dramatically clearing the table with one desire-dripping sweep,

… brushing hair out of eyes I keep


Swimming in retinal oceans deep. Of passion, of lust, of insatiable urge I verge on maybe making a mattress from the weekend paper and lying naked on the crossword…

With her…

The girl who thinks my eggs are the best in this really awesome way.

In my mime.

I write what I cannot say.

I could say,

But I daren’t.

And if I did say what I cannot convey, chances may be slim choosing the word ‘daren’t’.

Inherent thoughts occupy my brain. My heart pulls at the dragging laces of shoes untied. Try as I might, this wandering stride cannot settle runaway desires.

So tired of entertaining solo. Imbibed long blacks in October, the flow of the prose goes on top of lines atop a table wobbly.

Oddly matched couples walk by me.

Nicotine injected into breath upon lips, slips in time inspire me, it’s quarter past the hour of caring as I intake an ice cream in the freezing behind-me wind ripped from the seams of the sea…

I think what I cannot comprehend.

I could then work out those questions, those cemented memories, those moments of unease, those tragedies…

But I shan’t.

And if I should show what shouldn’t be shared, scared may be my soul.

Whole days are categorised between observant glances. My heart gravitates towards the arches of doorways above stores, calling me into the warmth and calling out ignored signals and opportunity.

Does she see me?

Does it matter if I’m here, if I’m near her general vicinity, moving off dark Java and into blood orange tea.

I can’t.

I can’t sit in between cushions of anxiety, sugar spoons of insecurity and amid surround sounds of inadequacy…

I leave.

What matters…

Nails painted and polished

But chipped, chomped and crevacing crumbs of the scum of the day hide under the tips of moons.

Quiks quickly bitten and nicotine stains hidden where the arm of the pen sits.

Lips lacquered and glossed

But chapped, over-licked and laced with seamed saliva simmer 

beneath dried remnants of last nights consumables.

Teeth touched with tainted tongue

And plaque plagues enamel, 

while palates are arid, showing barren gums…

…brush off this decay…

Skin softened and moisturised,

But bruised, scraped and scaly.

Flakes slide through stockings,

Longing for a healthy bronze…

A moleless map of skeletal covering.

Eyes tinted with lenses of blue,

But mapped with lines 

through streams of salt, masking optics and visions true.

Soles padded and striding sturdy,

But blistered, bleeding and raw –

…This journey…

With holes in socks 

and rocks under foot

Is measured

By the length