And don't call them Lady Producers (2017)

Riverside Rave; a review (2017)


washing the dishes (2017)

For the first time in A Time 

I felt longing for a life half-sang 

like a pang in my breast 

that I medicate with curation 

images and poetry on my wall 

fabrics hung on my frame 

books stacked in an alcove 

a line etched on my side

and Klimt 


the longing (like a plughole) sucks and slurps inwards 

“how passionately I need some wild darling!”

I grasp and clasp at things around me 

things escape me 

I am reduced to a sliver of my ego 


the longing (has no plughole) sucking and slurping endlessly 

“There is some kiss we want / with our whole lives” 

I paw and claw as things surround me; 

things deflate me


my ex’s instagram reminds me of how much I love him 

my messy kitchen reminds me of how much cleaning I have to do

my empty bandcamp reminds me of my empty discography 

my dissatisfaction is palpable 



there is 

more to me 

I see myself 

somewhat more 

clearly than before 

whenever I look again

in the maze of mirrors in 

my blue share-house bathroom 


I see a bare-chest woman 

(she cut and dyed her hair) 

a denim woman 

(dressed like Patti Smith sometimes) 

a woman 

a woman 

whose steps are measured

whose ambition is not 

who carries on even staring into the face 

of such love-hungry-longing 

a woman who falls in love 

a woman who catches herself 

whose sense of self emanates like a glow 

that wraps round her like Klimt’s blanket 

(not needing a lover wrapped beside her)

and cushions her from the emptiness outside her cocoon 

and keeps her from the love-sucking-Longing


she puts a plug in the plug-hole 

runs the sink full and

washes the dishes 

There are banksias here too (2018)

The old banksias start to weep even though their veins are so dry that leaves don't grow anymore

candlesticks cling to their curving figures silhouetted by blue


When we get closer to dunes

trees kneel to the wind, lay their boughs down to kiss the fields

as saplings they surrendered to being blown over, growing north instead of up so by the time their trunks are twice my torso, their limbs lay horizon-ward

and let the wind trace their length


But nearer to home 

a tree that graced the sky and stood to the wind was ripped

I could see the tendons all squirming in the daylight, heaved from soil

'O' Mighty Queen, your hair is now grey and your teeth are grey

your breast is grey and your limbs all grey, 

your skin turned grey and you lay.

Not like the others who willingly bent to the wind

you fell

willing every part of yourself to stand

Let me perceive your tenderness (2018)

Let me perceive your tenderness and trace your features just like I learnt my lover's face. Tips of fingers and even palms, delicate touches that I cannot possibly give freely because I would give myself away. But for you, I will give this. For you I will try, open-eared approaching point of contact, seeking skinship.


Let me perceive your voice, so softly spoken, and I so deafened by the dying howls of my kind (for even as we are born we are dying, and so aware of our fleeting existence are we that we go our whole lives howling). 

And grant me to understand your grace.

And let me know of your stillness.

And though I can never feel the sun, or the wind, or rain upon me as you do, please let me try. 

twenty fifth (2017)

I caught a moth.

Tangled over uma,

white nets