Glasshouse Mountains


Here’s a poem of mine which featured in The South Townsville micro poetry journal in February. Michael Fitzgerald-Clarke, the editor of the online journal, also asked me a few questions about the poem, which you can read here.


Glasshouse Mountains


A thundercloud made solid

and fallen to earth.

A wizarded beast.

It hunches in stone,

leaning for the migration south.


They huddle behind curtainous trees,

a threatening presence.

Heads swivel as the train turns,

always keeping them in view.

Always just in view.

If we took our eyes off, they would move

and in a flash, be upon us.





Poem: When Cafe Poets get writer’s block

Poems, Posts

In this untitled poem, a cafe poet struggles to justify the last hour and a half she spent staring at a wine rack.

It’s good to have this time to write

each week; not waiting ’til the time is right

but sitting down and spitting out some rhymes.

I’m of the opinion that it’s a sin to have no discipline,

so this time has a lot of merit. But I think that I could bear it

much better if I could just think of something the f**k to write.

I did draw a pretty nice picture of a wine glass.

Not the Mona Lisa.

Poem: “What Is She”

Poems, Posts

The second poem I’ve written as part of my National Young Writers’ Month writing goal (10 poems before 30 June).


What is she when she’s at home?

When she unwinds her scarf, when she pulls off her shoes,

what is she when she’s on her own?

Is she a stockbroker, or a dancer?

Is she a cheat, or a chancer?

Is she a tomboy who drives a Lancer?

What is she when she’s on her own?

While she wipes off her make-up, is she surviving a break-up?

Is she someone who’d take up

with a guy who’s no good?

Is she a stuck-up bitch while she looks through the fridge?

Is she unsure which major to take?

Is she good to her mum? Is she someone who bakes?

What is she while she fills up the pot?

Is she a five, or a ten? Is she officially hot?

While she shakes pasta into the boiling water,

is she the dux of her alma mater?

Is she waiting for somebody to call?

Is she painting her house?

Is she having it all?

Is she nice to people who don’t deserve it?

While she stirs in the sauce, is she really “worth it”?

Is she kind, or is her heart a stone?

I want to know what she is when she’s on her own.

What is she while she eats her dinner alone?

Poem: “The Self’s Prayer”

Poems, Posts

As performed today at the Perth Poetry Club.

My Self, who art in my head,

hallowed be my name.

My wisdom come,

my will be done

in life as it is in my head.

I give me today my daily fun.

Self, forgive me my sins

as I forgive those who sin against me.

Lead me sometimes into temptation

and deliver me a cheese pizza.

For my person,

my power,

and the glory are mine,

now and forever.

Ah, me.

Poem: “Retrospect”

Poems, Posts

Little do I know, though I’m no Picasso,
I’m about to go through my own Blue Period.
A myriad of things are about to upheave my life
’cause I don’t yet know that all is not quite right.

Right now, I think I’ve got it all sussed out:
got a job, got a plan, got a car and a man.
Within weeks, I’ll have watched all these pipedreams burn,
but right now I’m thinking it’s finally my turn.
Little do I know.

Though I’m free of my degree, at the age of twenty-three
the rest of my twenties stretch out in front of me.
After years of stringent study, I think I can agree –
little do I know.

My loving boyfriend, I’ll find out that he just pretended.
In two weeks, on Facebook he will be defriended.
What I thought was fraught with promise will soon be ended,
but little do I know.

Why I’m tired in the mornings, nearly soldered to my bed,
why I sobbed right through a movie when I should have laughed instead,
why I can’t get the hurtful things he said out of my head –
little do I know.

Though I’m no Picasso, I’m about to go through my own Blue Period.
A myriad of things are about to change my life,
’cause sometimes it takes a lot of wrongs to make things right.
But, little do I know.

Poem: “The Bogan Rap (lyrics)”

Poems, Posts

I’m here today to tell you about a man – you might know him.

He is every man lining up for The Shed in Northbridge
and he is every man who still thinks Ben Cousins is a hero
and he is every man with a southern cross tattoo on his shoulder.
He bears the cross on his shoulder but, christ, he’s not Jesus
(though he may wear sandals wherever he pleases).
He’s crackin’ a can of coke and Jack Dan
and lurching at me with his drink in his hand
and I’ve seen him, leaning out his Commodore,
keening on me like I’m a common whore.
I’ve got class, man, I like a conversation.
Been to uni and got me an education.
Yeah! This shit’s tertiary, bro,
and I think you should know
to use your head
use your head
use your head
use your head.
Like John Stuart Mill said,
Show bitches respect, show bitches respect,
like Johnny Mill said, show them bitches respect.
…Uh, yeah, that’s not quite what Mill said,
but you know what I meant,
though using the term ‘bitch’ was a detriment to my argument….
But I digress. Yes! Express my words with finesse.
Though this bogan everyman is causing me real stress,
‘coz he’s the loudest and the meanest and he’s got cash, too,
and he’s traded up the flannel for Armani suits
so he’s harder to find. But the state of his mind will divide
him from the other blokes every time that he gets blind.
‘Coz in his head, the world is neatly split into two –
so it’s me and it’s you
it’s yours and it’s mine
it’s black and it’s white
it’s us and it’s them and it’s them and it’s us
and everyone owes him
and it’s not his fault
and his only ambition in life
is to drink every weekend and have a hot wife.
Such is life! I guess this is
the life of his missus –
tradin’ her freedom for his seldom kisses.
So take your coke and your Jack
and a big step back,
‘coz if you’re crackin’ on me, I feel sorry for ya, son.
I got 99 problems but a bogan ain’t one.

Hit me.