Tomorrow is Sick of You Salacious Voyeurs


tomorrow is a errant delusion

a terrible addiction

we can’t shake

a cold we can’t break

a lover we can’t escape

sir you’re making a scene

they scream

because I’m holding the nipple hair of tomorrow

and I know it’s fairy floss not spider’s silk

so I bite bite bite

until my teeth rot,

on that candy

you can’t binge on

like you did when you were young


A Moment of Pride I Want You To Share In

Today I am proud to say I am the feature artist on one of my favourite blogs Horror, Sleaze, Trash. HST is an Australian literary and arts juggernaut that promotes underground writers from across the world. They publish a highly-regarded quarterly journal and are a vital force for lesser-known writers and artists. Today Arthur has published three previously unseen poems of mine. These are poems straight from my id, vile statements of who I am under all the socialisation and unspoken insults. Facets in my personality diamond I’d be too afraid to reveal right there, in the flesh, in the full light of day, to even the most well-meaning mother. Instead I’d rather rip my trench coat open and expose my animal side to the whole world. Transgressions in digital.

So please, go ahead and check out my faecal soul, judge it as you would a deflated soufflé, a gnarled and malformed bonsai. Go on, you’ve had a long day, it’s only right you feel a little better about yourself.


Bespectacled Wisdom (just repeat: “we are in control and know what’s best” until your lips bleed)

Here is a vitriolic poem that wasn’t accepted for publication. Me at my most angry and impotent. Here’s to an oil-black future and a barren tomorrow. Cheers.

A big fist shadowed the sea,

Reached over the shores it dwarfed and plucked through the tree’s leaves,

Took a eucalyptus to chew, as it ruminates, between its teeth

And finally sunk its fingers fatally down into the Great Barrier Reef

It stirred up muck and silt and interstellar debris

—the ocean is like space in its limitlessness and zen secrecy

It had calloused fingers and dirty nails—coal eclipses

And its money line was long and strong with endless fallow ridges,

—a polluted river carved into the palm that glowed black and viscous

And on the wrist was

The time, on a Patek that drummed down the minutes to midnight so listlessly

Reflecting the sun of wealth in technicolour ads so bright it dazzled our vision’s ability,

So when we shook hands over ground or ocean it was a forgone decision to break bread

With multinational companies— corporate citizens who want their shares

Brokered by white men in blue suits with Cheshire Cat smiles and every politician’s high fore-headed white hair

Who won’t live until the destruction he’s ensured arrives on a Gulfstream and is right here and everywhere,

And smokes off on the horizon where it can’t be redeemed by tireless effort or appeals to faulty rhetoric

And kids will grow up knowing only levelled horizons and fallacies and personal attacks and straw man arguments

They’ve learned from watching politicians bicker about tax breaks for corporations we’ll pay for without asking us

When we can’t even get a ‘here here’ and shaken fist to fund crisis housing or renewables or public welfare

Kids knowing only of acid rain on black sands topping up a bubbling tar pit of mesothelioma and well wishes gone decrepit

And flowers on the sandstone graves where coral once freely grew in splendid colour

Until notions of Progress become our father and we look around seeing we’ve progressed ourselves to endless squalor

Praying everyday an Our Father to scientific materialism and for political elites to take us farther

Past our pastures, people and pets chopped up for lazy appetites and stored until out of date in our larders

Looking at those big clouds of pollution riding cattle class to well-researched disaster

At the top of the triangle is money then the people who lend it then private property then you and me

And I hate to sound like a commie

But we need a change from money=power=worth which defines what life you can lead

And who you are with a cursory look between rushed meetings at your CV

How do we develop infinitely in a world being treated like a consumer good at worst and replaceable at best?

Human arrogance, we developed medicine and munitions and that gave us some power, now we think that we can out-design death

That we can tread heavier on the Earth because we know what’s best and that there’s, well, definitely some resources left

And then when they’re gone repent, point fingers at each other’s desperate faces as the night lengthens

We’ll teach the next generation (if it comes) that our calculations were right and the world did us wrong

Pulled the calfskin rug out from under our dress-shoe’d feet’s strutting song

When our greed has led us into the ocean’s deep and there’s no one left we can dispossess or take from

Because we’re all in the same oil rig with our lying pants on fire and no saviour from the situation

Until the petrochemicals disappear back into their belched curse

One of the wonders of the natural world

The coal mine everybody came from overseas to observe

The national mascot we need for jobs and growth, and the unhealthy fate we probably deserve

The last viable tourist spot on Terra Australis’ once blessed earth

And now we keep the lights on selling tickets to see it in its titan slumber

Presiding over a dead sea where fossils are the only remaining worthwhile things you can come to visit

We’ll catch passing clouds and bring them down to drill into to produce our power plant’s vital numbers

Until the sky is blue and empty like the bodies the Aussie flag covers

And it’s numbed and we’ve hopefully stolen new tech someone else had discovered

The earth melts and we subsidise jobs and industries long-supplanted and compost-condemned

And argue with one another if the facts actually establish global warming’s real or just a trend

Here’s a new fossil fuel: grab a drum and fill it with cash to burn for warmth for you and all your friends

Because soon money won’t matter, there’ll be no one left to think it’s real

And the brute fact of a destroyed world will glow in the depths of space as a cautionary tale of hubris and human greed

When we still can’t fucking realise we’re living in the middle of a miracle that the universe has maybe never before seen

And enslaving all this possibility to little bits of paper-waste that don’t produce oxygen despite being green

We grew like a mould on this rolling stone, gathering moss but wanting more to eat not caring if we’re eating up our home

And in our DNA is death, and now instead of killing each other, we’re killing each other and ourselves and yes

It’s evolution just occurring, we’re moving over for whatever, whoever, will come next


After all you can’t stop progress


Image courtesy of business insider

Every Boy’s and Girl’s Boogeyman

I’m going to stay up later than I ever have before! Mummy told me the boogeyman comes out after midnight but I’m not scared. I know all the hiding places in the house. He doesn’t. Even with fingers dark as night he can’t find me. The other kids say the boogeyman isn’t real. But I know. I’ve seen the scars he left on Mummy. The bruises. I’m waiting up for him with my bat I play baseball with. Mummy’s in bed, snoring. She took her medicine tonight and fell asleep on her bed. She must be warm coz she hasn’t pulled the covers over her. Daddy finishes work in the middle of the night, too. Sometimes I hear him screaming when he comes home and sees what that awful boogeyman has done to his wife. They cry together, holding each other in front of a picture of my brother and me. I. I’m a good girl in my special pajamas. They have Spiderman on them. He’s swinging through a little city. He protects people who’ve done no wrong. I’ll swing my bat at the boogeyman and he’ll go away. My hands smell like used cars from the bat’s rubber grip. I put the TV on in the other room to distract him—it’s turning my face aquarium colours, lime and aqua. When the clock next strikes it’ll be midnight. I can almost hear the TV, even though it’s on mute. Hear the colours changing. Staticky, like the tide. GONG. The clock chimes. The doorhandles turns. I close my hand deep into rubber, hold the bat over my shoulder. The door opens and the boogeyman walks in. He looks like Daddy but smells like the homeless men we see on the street when mummy drags me in close to her leg. He sees the TV left on and his face turns red and veiny. He swears, with spit. I know it only looks like Daddy but I hesitate. Then it drinks from a brown bottle, breathes in a cigarette. I know daddy doesn’t drink. I know he doesn’t smoke. I come out of the shadows, unseen, unheard, the bat over my head, a hummingbird in my chest and I attack.