The will to have children,

it comes in atoms

that make up slow smokes

of fear:

Fear that the sand may forget

the way our footsteps sank in-

pumped plump with life.

That a golden age would dawn without us,

that no one would read our name out loud

even in an obscure book at a city council library.

That it wouldn’t have mattered a thing

if we lived or died.


But, if a speck of our dreams, our secret schemes

made it to promised land

tangled accidentally in a hair of some distant being that lived

only for itself and its day,

I suppose we could call it immortality.

The will to have children is not about love or other noble things;

it is about the fear of dust.


Image – Untitled, by Ashley Carlton


Enough sweet nothings

Enough sweet nothings,

it’s lame.

Enough falling deep,

no one does it anymore.

No more fighting, it’s untame.

No more going strange places

or feeling new things

like complicates mixes-

emotions that are oxymorons.

It’s old,

no one is here.

Move on.  


Picture - Mikhael Subotzky

Picture – Mikhael Subotzky


Here, now, shine.


handcrafted, artisanal.

Everybody’s every single opinion.

Things unwanted categorically unfollowed.

Legalised, criminalised.

Beautiful, silver feminists; big points missed.

Slow-cooked love, raw food, free music.

Immortally tagged;

smart, lukewarm in Helvetica font.    

Picture by Yulia Krivich


Now ones

We were born today;

give us life in a nutshell;

heartbreak, freedom, sex, love and intoxication-

give it all in a nutshell.

Easy, compact, fast, summed-up before the dust rush.

What we want is not to feel,

but to have a great story to tell a stranger at a bar

in exchange for a fuck where we wake up a superstar.


Picture by Veronica Krause

Picture by Veronica Krause


Twenty-seven year bore

Ma, I’ve seen these dreams before,

from afar and terrifyingly up-close.

Seen them lived, shaken and faked,

fought for and perfectly dead;

their safety, their surety, their script

their sanity, their reality, their conceit-

I’m sorry but it’s been nothing more

but a twenty-seven year bore.


Even the truths of prophets

become unremarkable wrongs

if the taste of their proving has been

left unsavoured for long.


So when the hurricane comes flying by,

I will  get swept along,

to relearn every meaninglessness

to turn their rubbish to gold

and the weight of everything forgotten

drags me to the centre of earth.


I will return swimming in wounds

just to assure you

that, the thing we both secretly wondered about

is really true.


Photo - Jimmy McIntyre

Photo – Jimmy McIntyre


I am my mother’s wild future

I am my mother’s wild future,

her lost longings breathing in being,

woken from her ocean’s abyss,

trembling to thundering possibilities,

stolen from her eternal sleep;

dreams to abandon, to fall away,

to scatter as wild as the stars may.

This is why I’m her daughter –

her worldly obsession-

that she circles mystified, cautious,

abashed and ferocious,

because with every step I take she learns

that, I know the path to her secret garden.