Poetry Music Thoughts and Reflections

Passport — April 24, 2017



turquoise town

flagged rooftops

revolution red

ripped on the city outskirts


binoculars on Buddha’s blessings

butter melting

the sage fired air


curtains pulled

over Beijing’s chosen Panchen

homage to a stolen lama


military molestation

a monk pat down measure

at temple gates


machine gun checkpoints

operating their lungs

over chanting nomads


clockwise hum plaited

om mani padma hung

in the hair of pilgrims

in the base of the belly

in the neck

behind eyes

in the right breast


a tourist attraction


one way permeability

all Tibetan passports

confiscated in 2012



the train reversing

a forty-hour goodbye

in a smoke-filled carriage

beige borders blur

ranges melt


an airport gate

a wing span night

waves folding on the sound

of the 747

a cold window thaws

into an opposing season


Air Asia knees

white slippers under blanket

in the seat pocket

Hemmingway’s The Old Man And The Sea

written in Chinese and English

bought at the Beijing station

and permitted

to enter Lhasa


Max in three words — February 8, 2017

Max in three words

When I read this work out loud, I feel like I’m naked on a coat hanger … this is a difficult piece for me, yet one that I am most proud of. In 2012 my poetry mentor Claire Gaskin prompted the class to express 10 years of life in three word sentences. Instantly I was reminded of my son’s prosody of speech. I felt like I’d finally found the way to express our story. The work was first published in Southerly’s  Long Paddock and can be found here.

Like other work I have written in collaboration with Max, I believe the piece is more powerful when heard.

The audio of Max in three words can be found here

The Agent — August 25, 2016

The Agent

Lying in bed the sound of the telephone rings in her thighs. ‘It’s him again, I just know it’. Her fantasy drives false thoughts. There is no telephone. There is no him. Her chin lifts as she places four fingers in her mouth.

There’s a knock at the door, she wants to ignore it, but it’s already moved her from hind brain to frontal lobe.

‘What is it? Fuck.’ Kate trolleys out of bed. She races on dirty knickers and yesterday’s dress. The knock gets louder. She combs her hands through her hair as she calls ‘I’m coming’. She pauses at the door, straightens her back and takes a breath out onto her wrist. Her breath smells like her vagina. ‘Fuck’. She says.

Kate opens the door. ‘Hello Sir. Can you give me a minute?’ The man nods. She closes the door behind her and bolts to the bathroom basin. After a ten second scrub she takes a swig of mouth wash then coughs it out. Her eyes water.

Standing on the front porch the man in the black suit hasn’t moved. His eyes are focused on Kate’s front door. The door opens.

‘I’m sorry Sir.’

‘You’re not ready Katherine.’

‘Please Sir, I am. I really am.’

The man repeats, ‘You are not ready.’

Kate holds the man’s gaze just long enough for him to know that she is serious. The man standing before her has perfectly bare feet with fine black hairs at the base of his toes.


You are my age. Today you are lying in bed pondering the identity of the man at the door. He is tall and he is wearing a black hat. He has an Irish accent. No it is French. No it is Russian. His lips are wet and his tie is straight. His fingers are long. He has fine black hairs at the base of his toes.


‘What is my mission Sir?’

The man stands silent, he holds Kate’s gaze. After precisely 45 seconds, he says, ‘You’re to leave this planet immediately. Your identity has been compromised.’

‘My identity has been compromised? Compromised by whom?’

‘Your identity has been compromised by the Reader.’

‘Are you saying that the Author is dead?’

Kate grabs the man’s tie and pulls him in towards her, ‘Is the Author dead?’


You are my age. You want to cum. You want a brain-splitting orgasm. You imagine a man with long fingers at the door. He has a Russian accent. No it is French. No it is Irish. He is wearing a black suit with perfectly bare feet. Fine black hairs at the base of his toes.


‘What is my mission Sir?’

The man in the black suit steps towards Kate. He takes hold of her chin, turns her head to the side and draws his lips to her ears, ‘Your mission is to turn around, go back inside and take your underwear off immediately.’

Kate grabs the man’s hand. She pulls it to her crotch, ‘Does the Author want submission?’

The man in the suit slowly draws his hand away. ‘The Author is dead. Turn around, go inside and take your underwear off.’


You are my age. You are lying in bed. You’re wet, but not convinced. There’s a stack of dirty plates on the floor. You close your eyes. You pinch your nipple with your left index finger and thumb. The base of the right middle finger presses onto your clitoris. You imagine the man at the door. He has an Irish accent. No it is Russian. No it is Irish. It is 1925. No it’s 1960. He is smoking a cigarette. No it’s a cigar. No it’s a cigarette.


‘What is my mission Sir?’

The man draws the cigarette away from his lips and places it between Kate’s. ‘You’re to return to Ireland immediately, your mission has been compromised’

‘Does the the Reader know?’

‘Not yet’


You are my age. You are lying in bed. You sigh. You yell. The yelling doesn’t help.

You imagine the man at the door. He is a Jehovah’s witness. He has a French accent. You lick your middle finger.


The door is open.

‘I have no shoes mademoiselle.’

There are fine black hairs on his perfectly bare feet.

He finishes with two words.

‘Convert me.’


You are my age. You are French. No you’re Irish. No you’re Russian. You’re lying on your back. The man at the door is a figment. You imagine a woman. She has big breasts. You think of your mother. Then you think of your father. Then you think of the Author. You decide he is a man. He is French. No he is Russian. He is wearing a black suit. He is lying in bed with no shoes on. He has fine black hairs at the base of his toes. You enter the room. The door bell rings.


Kate opens the door.

She scans the man from his black hat

down to his bare feet.


You start by sucking the Author’s toes. You are my age. You look at the Author’s thighs. You are French. You say you don’t believe a word of it. You are Irish. You say you want to be unbuckled. You are Russian. You remove yesterday’s underwear. You are pinched. You pinch at nipples. Your hair is pulled. You pull on hair. You bite your lips. You’re bitten. You scratch into skin. You’re scratched. You are pinned to the bed penetrating. You penetrate. Face-to-face. You are face-to-face. Cover-to-cover. You are cover-to-cover. You finish. You’re finished.


Kate opens the door.

The man in the black suit has the

Author’s head in his hands.

Haiku — March 31, 2016
upon a time — July 20, 2015

upon a time

what a time we’ve had
the piano playing
as the bass strummed
the yelling neighbours
Louder Later Longer
the red wine sipping
pink teeth
stained lips
the fish that caught you
baking the oven

what a time we’ll have
when finally
the kiss allows to lips
and my bed
sweats into your pores
the fish eating us alive
writhing in its skin as
blue eyes are thrown back in

what a time I’m having
in a pond drenched
with music and rose
my body filling my head
with hands
senses torturing
a repetitive song
longing grasping itself
while trying to shake
salt into the flesh of dinner

what a time I’ve had
the wine pouring itself
from one cup
into one mouth
the bed warming itself
on one side





— July 8, 2015
Tony — May 29, 2015


To see a satirical song dedicated to Tony’s knighting of Prince Phillip, press here

Duke of Edinburgh's Australian honour

File photo dated 06/06/14 of the Duke of Edinburgh, Prince Philip meeting Australian Prime Minister Tony Abbott. The Australian prime minister has defended his decision to honour the Duke with a knighthood, despite a social media backlash.. Issue date: Monday January 26, 2015. See PA story ROYAL Philip. Photo by Tim Rooke/PA Wire