Breaking bread

If you walk into the forest and never stop where do you end up?

If you look into the fire long enough what do you see?

If you knead bread for long enough how does it feel?

I think the most spiritual thing you can do on this earth is share food, break bread.

The first signs of civilisation is empathy.

Sharing is caring.

Tearing at the seams of broken dreams.

Tearing up at the thought of empty plates.

Mates sitting home alone moaning about loner stoners.

Take a breath, take some bread, take some butter, share it with your mother.

I stick my hand into a bucket of cold water, aching and waking up to the idea.

Sticking up for what you believe in, what do you believe in ?

Do you believe in heaven?

Do you believe in better tomorrows?

Do you believe in sunsets?

Do you believe in things you cannot see?

Things that bleed.

Things that grow, and morph and change and turn into things that they weren’t before. More flour.

So it doesn’t stick to the bench.

Turn it.

180 degrees.


20 minutes.

Isn’t enough time to write meaningful things

Hence why poems are never finished,

But shared,

Like breaking bread.


Light Red Over Black 1957 Mark Rothko 1903-1970 Purchased 1959

If I’m being completely honest I hate your guts with every fibre of my being

Please just love me back

Cover me in hot honey and leave me to be eaten in the sun

Leave me sideways fucked up

Fucked over the bench, the hood of your car, the knee of your father

But maybe thats too much to ask of someone who never knew him

Who never wanted to anyway

Its almost as if you are purposefully sad

About the man you want to be

The man you wish you could be

I See him

I See Him

I want to tell him that its all gonna be okay

With me anyway

As I’m writing, I’m wondering what you would think if you found these words

Slipped under your door

your pillow

I wonder if you would love me the same way you loved the feeling of jumping on a trampoline

Startled deer caught in the headlight

Caught in the moment between today and tomorrow, sleeping and waking, light and dark

The liminal space between people

These people we call home

Call me on your phone

I just need to hear your voice

Or at least thats what I tell myself

Over the phone

You’re my one and only, my craterous, vacuumous blackhole of a man

That has swallowed me whole in his black expanse

Pulled, stretched and folded into infinite nothingness

Te kōre.

How does it feel to be my absolute nothing.

My potentiality

Im so sick of being in love

Im so sick of being sick of being in love

What if for once,

Twice in my life I’ve seen the night-sky and felt free

Felt the weightlessness of looking into the void and touching all the points of each and every star

Burning my tongue on the tip of your finger

Perhaps if you look long and hard enough at those you have around you

Loneliness won’t come so easily

Breezily making my way down aisles of appropriated food for thought

Moments captured in ziplock bags

Memories sealed in containers maintaining their totality but not their taste

Paste of personality, applied to the heart of the souless

Coming to a total of 16.99

The price you have to pay.

Ode to the men and women who have died in a blizzard


Something for nothing

An equal exchange of thoughts and ideas for those out of mind

and out of time to buy a christmas present

Wrapped in newspaper

Headlines reading that 76 die in a blizzard

A nor’easter 

I cave in

Letting myself go with the wind

Take me with you, you said

Let me fly up there in the sky where tears dry on the cheeks

Of children who let go of their balloon

Im tangled in the powerlines 

Mangled branches and braces

Chewing gristle

Thistle tea and scones with clotted cream.

I sorely miss those days

Crazed attempts at being someone

Who could run up and down the aisles of a supermarket

Scream at the top of my lungs

Eating worms

But surely there’s a better way

I’m sick

That’s it

Kill your darlings

Kill them all

Smother them in their sleep

And steal their belongings

I was going to jump into the ocean

I wanted to drown

Fill my ears, nose, mouth, and mind

But I didn’t

And that’s all I can say

I think there are 2 types of people in this world

Nighttime strolls with nameless men

Craning  their necks to see over the sea

Seething with potent rage and fervour

Waiting to explode on my face

Cradling it between their thighs and asking me how i’m getting home

In a hot air balloon.

Freedom can come in many shapes and sizes

Sometimes she smells like tar and compost

Sometimes they take me to the top of mountains and draw me in pastel

Sometimes it punches me in the face on the dancefloor

Sometimes you take baths with me

Sometimes you are printed on a receipt

In the pages of unwritten manuscripts

In timeless afternoons

In soft grass

Sometimes his voice gives me goosebumps

Sometimes it sings and I cry

Sometimes you have your way

And sometimes I have mine.

Lament for the jungle gym at my primary school playground


What you’re about to hear means absolutely nothing. 

Take from it what you will and want because at the end of the day it amounts to absolute zero.

Lament for the jungle gym at my primary school playground.

Monkey bar boys swinging and lifting themselves upside down

Skinned knees and elbows, road rash, gravel burn.

Picking scabs and eating them.

There was once a young man named Harry.

I was in love with him. He took me to the stars and back.

He would play with my hair and whisper his postal address into my ear.

I loved his curls and locks of chestnut brown hair.

I was in love with his pubes and his body, his pelvis forming a beautiful V that sunk and flowed into his cock.

His arms were strong and taut.

I watched him climb trees and try to eat the sky.

He knew my name and I knew that he wanted to go to far away places.

He began to cut himself into tiny pieces and seal them away in envelopes, stamped & sent away to the further reaches of our earth.

When he disappeared I met a girl who was born out of river stones and loaves of bread.

Her favourite song was french and I thought she was beautiful and cool and had eyes like shattered glass.

I didn’t fall in love with her.  But I think I wanted to.

She chewed up pumpkin seeds and spat them into metal buckets, she made a paste from the waste and made masks that she would paint and wear to parties.

She would never drink water.

She melted in the bathtub and disappeared swirling down the drain.

I want to talk about the boy I met on halloween night

We almost got trapped in the elevator together

He was dressed as someone from Reservoir Dogs and I was dressed as a Frenchman

I had a baguette and a paintbrush, he had a suit with a red stain on it.

I think it may have been wine.

I almost fell in love with this boy I met on halloween. 

He took me to a cafe and gave me coffee and attention and I liked that about him.

I gave him my paintbrush, which he seemed apprehensive about.

He had dark black hair. He called himself an artist.

He showed me his most recent painting, it was of a house on fire.

It made me feel lonely and lost and hurt and like crying.

I said “ I liked it “

He said he liked it too.

I thought that was narcissistic and didn’t love him anymore.

But the boy I met on Halloween had a friend who could write and had sad eyes.

She was someone I wished I could fall in love with.

She smelt of dead ants and Sylvia Plath.

But that’s a story for another time.

This one is for now and you.

I hated the smell of my mothers perfume, i think it was Beyonce heat.

She would ask me if i could cut wood for the fire and I would say no because I was scared of the spiders and that they would know it was me that disturbed their home and they would come into my room in the middle of the night and crawl into my mouth and live inside my stomach and have little spider babies which would have more and there would be generations of this spider family living in the pit of my stomach.

I would cry whenever my cat killed a bird.

But i remember jumping on the trampoline in our front yard and climbing the tree that hung over the footpath and watch old men and women walk home in the twilight sun.

Frank expressions of interest within a framework

Naked people swimming in oceans

I built a crater in the backyard for me and my teddy bears to sleep in when we wanted to run away

It was underneath the lemon tree, right of the gooseberry bush and left of the cabbage patch where leeks grew too tall and zucchini turned into marrows

Behind the house is a concrete slab with all of our hand-prints.

My own little hollywood star on the walk of fame.

Hearing sordid stories that make me sick

I throw up all other myself and I hate it

Drowning in my own bile

I am a supernova

I am exploding into thousands of pieces

I know that I have nowhere to run except into the stars

I am lonely up there 

My friends keep me afloat by singing into my ear, they tell me of the times that they loved and fires become young again

What are you doing to me what do you see?

Let me tell you about the time that I sent a love letter to a stranger

I sealed dried flowers and dead bugs between the pages of my words and told them how much they meant to me

It seemed like a good idea at the time

It seemed like something someone would want

I am grateful for the sun

I am grateful for the box of beers I bought 

I am grateful for all this world has to offer

I am grateful for the family I found

I am grateful for the great beyond that sits just over the horizon

I am grateful for art

For hearts 

For darts

For smelly farts

For silliness and fun

For joy and love

They fill me up to the brim and I am happy

I am happy

I am happy

I am.



I steal things.




love & pain.

i steal because it’s all i know how.

i never was taught what was good &

what was bad.

i’m a bad man made from bad, fake things.

i’m made from cut grass & oats.

i’m all filled up.

i’m afraid of fire.

i need a brain.

i’m bile &

sex &

snot &

cow manure

shaken not stirred.


pockmarked buttcheeks


Pockmarcked buttcheeks 

Pig-faced liar

Putrid fruit

Pickled ginger breath

Namely yours


Climb Kilimanjaro 

Sugar town street lamps

Freeze dried fantasies

It’s a post-mortem jungle gym

Straight ties

Scrambling eggs for binding

I’m making vegan cake

For your birthday.

Stop fucking my mother.

Stop reading into dreams.

Jay walking on one-way streets

Cowboys sitting on wooden chairs at wooden tables

Drinking percolator coffee

And spitting into tubs.

Naming dead plants.

Spending too much effort on the small things.

Making way and space to vacuum in the corners

Frankly speaking I don’t know if we can

By friday anyway,

Sleeping in on sunday

And cutting our friends hair on wooden chairs

On windy days

Dandelion tea

Letting the letters fall in on themselves in the mailbox

Film photo memories

Time stamped.

Climb a mountain

Eat the sky

Break your promises

Let the day take its time

Just let it sit for a bit, let it hang in the air for longer

Cream coloured sheets & lavender oil

Sharp scented girls

Dancing with dull nosed boys

It’s almost as if they’re floating

Tugging at each others shirts

Whispering curses into each others ear

Sending shivers down their necks

Powerline sneakers left dangling

Maybe it’s a sign

2ks to a better place.

I like swimming in rivers

And creeks

Tip Toeing on slippery rocks

Avoiding the eels gaze



Worshipping the midday sun with our naked bodies

I think this is what they mean by the good old days

When boxes of beer and bottles of wine

Become supper on a wednesday night

Drunken sordid stories about losing our virginity

Smoking darts that aren’t ours

Sipping on red

Talking about the books we’ve read

And taken with us on road trips

We should leave this city, together

Take a hike

Knowing full well we never will

But it’s the thought that counts


I’ll be your bridesmaid 

Your maid of honour

Because i love you

More than you could ever know.




Beyond, below a sea that sinks and bubbles there lay 2 sweet women made of gold.

Their names were lost on sunken ships and in lightning bolts.

They sang to young men who ate rotten apples.

To men who have fire between their legs.

They are the women of love, of loss, of meandering hunger.

Of caution. Of stained glass, sharded hearts.

Of nameless feelings caught in a southerly breeze.

Of pure rage.

They sing long into the night. Whispering verses.

Cursing those who turn away from the rising sun.

Run. Run Run Run run run run run run.

Purposeful forceful astrological fallacy

These people are frozen in time.

They are becoming of themselves.

No if, ands, or buts about it

They don’t know where the beginning begins and the end begins

Because starting is the hardest part

The start

Lethargic attempts at makeshift love

Proven methods of procreationary

Stationary emotions stagnating in the living room

Under the sheets of my bed there lay a filth

A layer of foul grime

Rhymes and meters dribble from my mouth as i sleep

Staining my pillowcase

Washed away in the afternoon sun

Are you healthy ?

I create fantasies in my head of ways i want to see the world

Do i need him ?

Do I Need him ?

Don’t I need him ?

I don’t.

Find him buried in the backyard underneath a barren apple tree.

Bearing his body to me and telling me he loves me but not enough to care.

Not enough to make an effort.

Because the soil is spoilt, tainted, barren.

Lacking nutrients.

Lacking in some way.

Shape or formless i find ways to conjure you in dreams and in nightmares.

Versions and permutations of a self I’ve created becomes muddier and muddier with each iteration

I lose myself in myself

I lose myself in you

I lose faith in the things that would bring me joy

I forgot how much i enjoyed dancing 

Spinning and bouncing and jumping

To a beating heart string

Plucked and fucked by someone who didn’t even know my last name

I am going backwards in time to meet myself

Asking him silly questions because I knew he would like them

He loves himself too much.

Not enough world for him.

Grasping at the corners of paper boats

Thinking this would be it.

I would give up my left leg for something to have gone differently.

I am a Green yellow man who sits on the edge of today and tomorrow

Swallowed whole.

By the women who sing from the bottom of the sea.


The Partnership Divide


There lay a path, just out of reach

beyond sea & boundless sea; 

where at the end, it may surprise

sits a lonely willow tree.

Its branches lick the summer sky

pushing upward with the breeze,

where lovers sit & lovers cry

in their masses and with ease.

They look upon their chosen mate

& speak softly in their ear,

“I want my china dinner plate

and your Netflix for a year.”

Here, where tears flow in abundance,

 & the screams, heard far and wide;

this sacred place I like to call

‘The Partnership Divide.’

Where love, with paradise is lost

or just hidden out of sight,

for when divorce comes out to play

over everything, they’ll fight.

They do pay the price of passion

yield the fruits of lovers past

for ardent acts of mindfulness;

they shall never cease to last.

In this black hole, devoid of hope

where love is lay rest to die;

you see the worms that grow inside

the late apple of your eye.

It seems, at first, that love is dead

but this wisdom I will give;

“You can’t prosecute with evidence

that’s all corroborative.”


Here’s to…


I suppose this one could be for the kids that are lost. Tumbling and twisting down rabbit holes where time flies by in fistfuls. Grasping at loose threads on the knees of ripped jeans. To the kids with worn souls. Always on their feet, standing tall towards the sun. Burnt noses and burning hearts. Yearning for things just out of reach. to kids lost in time. Whining about their empty pockets, filling them with things that don’t belong to anyone. To kids that drink cheap beer because here your hair has a mind of it own. Here where no one knows what day it is. Welcoming the midday sun with a cup of brewed coffee. Coughing and spluttering smoke from nights long ago. Paper rolled memories licked and lit with friends on hills at twilight. I suppose this is for the ones who have too much time and not enough soles to walk forward, towards nowhere in particular. Not knowing which way is up and which is down. Pouring themselves another glass of wine to fill an empty stomach with something. To the kids who buy bread for a dollar. Hollering through empty streets, making noise to seem less lonely. Filling an empty space with anything. Riding a wave. Trying to save themselves from drowning. To the kids who like the feeling of sand between their toes because who knows when summer may end. Up there where the air is clear and crisp, blue, green, purple, an amazing technicolor coast. A toast to the kids who had to grow up too fast, watching their youth speed by through car windows. Wondering where and when they might end up happy. where home is never far but hard to find. Where kindness is taken in gulps, deserted dreams wilting like dead flowers on dusty windowsills. To the kids who are 21 in 121 dancing to 212 at 2 am 1 drink away from too many. To the kids who know better but do it anyway. we’re playing with fire. To the kids who grew up with chicken wire wrapped around them. Where the grass grew tall and strong. When the night were long and streetlamp lit orange-yellow. To the kids who cant drive. Cant survive without a ciggi. Cant thrive without a city. Cant provide for themselves.  Diving to the bottom of the sea just to see what it feels like. Empty pockets filled with dreams, ripping at the seams. I suppose this is for those who read, freed from something that they cant describe. This is for them and only them because these days they dont get enough of it. Fill your belly. Hell. Here’s 2 to take home for me and you.