you treat hearts as butterflies

and you, the catcher,

proudly displaying all of your beautiful conquests

behind polished glass boxes.

from far away it is a sight to behold,

all of these beautiful loves, but from

up close the silver pins piercing flesh tell

a different story.



Not writing for a long time is making me feel like a jigsaw puzzle missing its final piece.


Critique, please.



My favourite body part, shoulders.

Before I was old enough to know
what a ladder was for
I would sit atop my father’s and
gather the stars closer.

Before I laid with pillows
I would lower my head
between that space against your neck
where, in safety, I laughed, and I wept.

Before, they were only bones to hold
Now I pretend, I am Atlas
carrying the heavens
For if the weight of the heavens is a death sentence
You, are the most romantic penance.

Parental guidance recommended.

Here’s a poem I’m entering for a fun competition for National Poetry Day. It’s a bit crap but hey, what isn’t?


Thanks Tim Minchin for satirical inspiration.




You know what’s great to tell small children?



I mean.


Who doesn’t love the idea of having

a career like Santa Claus?

A jolly old fellow made from cookies and Jello.

(Or so I was told when I wasn’t too old).

He gifted candies to Mandy’s and trucks to Chucks.

But, if you weren’t very nice

you’d up with something icky

like coal,

or lice.


Lying to kids is great! And it wasn’t till I was eight

when I learned the truth,

in a ‘That’s Life’ magazine article

which would refute

Santa Claus,

and the Easter Bunny,

and the Tooth Fairy,

and instead make me wary of

poppy-cock fiction adults made,

to ensure their children would


But I remember the lessons I learned from them,

like how to earn money

from discarded body parts, and

too much chocolate is bad

for the heart.


I’m creating lies of my own now

for when I’m all grown, and

have tossed my job in for these

sweet little runts

of mine,

who will probably

morph into

sweet little

country bumpkins

when we visit the zoo,

or the farm with the cows who say


(You can probably tell I like animals, but any who).


I’ve made up one character we’ll call him

‘Billy Banker’.

A business like chap,

with a nice suit and top hat,

who’ll be richer than Gates and all

his tech-industry mates.


I can’t wait

for him to tell my kids how


is more important than the environment.

His catchphrase will be

‘Trees need solitary confinement!’


‘Forests are a waste of wood!’

And they’ll grow up to learn that

money equals good.


He’ll educate them ‘money

is nobler than clean air and drinking water’,


I mean.


Just look at what global governments have

already taught us!

We can sell our resources, and buy

all-natural food

from the sweat shop countries.

down the road

With their dilapidated factories and

battery caged workers, who

work diligently to ensure

our lives don’t descend

further than the glitter

and gold prospects


does hold.


This is what they’ll get told.


I mean.


If we really loved these environmental places,

Wouldn’t we do better

at leaving

less traces of

the completely


fucked up thoughts, of

‘what profits can be sought?’


‘what legalities can be fought?’


‘what politician can be bought?’


I mean.


How do we tell our kids the real truth,

that money

only pays in hands



How do we tell them

‘we know how to save the planet, but

choose not too’.


‘we’ve pulled the blanket over our eyes, because

we hate the current world-view’


‘we’re responsible for the damage bills, but

the clean up is up to you.’



But hey, I’m not the bad guy.

You made it ok to lie.

I’m only following suit, and putting down

the childhood boot.

Educating my kids about disrepute.

And they’ll learn to harvest this

insatiable thirst,

from my lies a blessed curse,

for they’ll grow up to know money

is number one.

And become kings and queens over

the growing poverty slum.


Just look at what the world’s already become.


I’ll teach them, through lies,

that money buys