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Day breaking over Cottesloe


Terse light

taut in stretchmarks

cursing the sky;

Such fine homes and gardens—

huddled, mis-shapen,

malformed in the gloom—

mangy beasts, lumpen breasts;

Corrupted crust of cliff and

oozing sea;

Sour taste of last night’s

argument, reprisals

in deranged murmur of spray.

Rise up, ye faithful!

Greet the new day!



Cuttlewoman, 2015


Could be I am nearly nearly growing out of the love gripes stuff? Who knows? There’s that magic between the legs… and there’s the seeing it in its place… a way of getting a person over and into another person’s body space…

I’ve got it bad.
Like a schoolgirl.
I think about you.
Nearly all the time.
I’m hungry for
scrutching for
grubbing for
any teeny squeeny tiny toenail of news.
I long for symptoms of
the merest hint
an omen of
some sign of this infection
in your affection.
Some weakening
waivering of that
icy rime melting
in mouse time
a little rill of
meandering gently down
that grubby little alley
tossing the dirt
up into little heaps and seeking
the dark and the moist
and the rhythmic.
Going down
that mutual incline
with no sense and no time
that down and out and under
under the intoxicating
dementia of
the brassy awakening of
the sly paradox of

Cuttlewoman, 2015

The moon dangles


The moon dangles over the garden like

a great glowing ear.


I lie in the grass in my blanket

and think of you, my dear.


I’m thinking of things I may never know.



what was the creature that cried in the roof.



what happened to Patti the Passionfruit,

losted before she ripened.


And what do you think about me and,

if I knew, could I submit

to whatever it is you truly thought

as the whole and frigid truth,

damning unhinged hanging

dropping flopping




Cuttlewoman, December 2015




Dogs dinner

And cat thief

I’ve been

dragged through

more than one glass hedge

backwards, downwards,

with my insights out

with my wiring shorn

I’ve been hung drawn and quartered

I’ve seen the hearts and pants

of boys and men

I’ve been groped bored and overwatered.

But I think I could

maybe this time


could be

might be

may be



Look, I’ve been loved to pieces

and I’ve come back good again.

D’ya fancy a drink?





I am so angry, I find, about not understanding the necessity of perpetual economic growth, about why there is no alternative, about the things not said (my sympathy to the family and friends of the perpetrator–how do they fare?)… just angry.

All of it

give me feet like diamond teeth
and thighs of tyrannasaurus rex
and i will grind every street
every concrete slab of it
all of it
and leave it
to the mercy
to the ruthless heartlessness
of plants
all of it



Oh so sad, how nasty the fad
For sportswear in yoga…

Is downward dog less profound
In pinstripes and cufflinks?

Does a sequin skirt scupper
The flow of a flowing cat?

Need your tadasana
Topple in a polka dot smock?

Ha! Me, I am limber in lace.
Personally, I think my Damned
T-shirt brightens up the place.


I am pagan. This poem has been coming on for a while, this summary of my spiritual-social insights. A first draft.




Each and every tree is sacred.

There is no one Tree.


Taking the life of a tree

Must only be done

When you are sure its replacement

Is thriving.


At present we owe the planet many more trees.

Humans are in tree debt.


Clearing environments where

Baby trees grow without human

Intervention is blasphemous.

If we do this, we will be left only with weed trees.


Weed trees are better than no trees.


This is a planet of plants,

Not humans.


The needs of plants, especially trees,

Are to be privileged above those of humans.


The work of combining water, minerals and sunshine

Into life is sacred.

Humans cannot do this

And should not stop it.


Trees do not make mess.

Humans unwilling to tolerate the sacred work

Of making humuus

Should retreat to rocky places.


Humans need to remember

That trees live in quiet contemplation,


Human conflict (internal and amongst ourselves).


As far as can be determined,

Neither trees nor humans understand

The consequences of their actions.

On our present tranjectory,

It is unfortunate for both groups that humans are able to choose

Their actions over and above

The compulsion of trees to grow.


It is entirely possible

That leafy no-brains

Are smarter than

The wrinkly brains.


Religions which model themselves

On one leader are mistaken.

The spiritual work of the planet

Is evidently collective and




I have hestitated putting this poem up, feeling it came from a predatory place. You judge.

The poetess and small pleasure

I paste our photos together
on one small screen.
You in Europe,
me in Australia,
virtually coupled,
a 21st century dalliance.
My children would have been
more handsome.
Yours would have had
more hair.
What can a spinster do?
I run a bath and
splash around like an infant.


Stick this

Stick down

Your jocks. My love.

The inscription reads:

You are forever


Within this web

Of immaturity and lust.

Ephemeral, yes.

But difficult to wipe

from your



Cuttlewoman, 2014


Was it death that came. Is it death that comes for me.
Leaves a dry petal in my pocket. Is the ending penned for me.
The frightened female cowered in a corner.
Hiding hooded and low and lidded.
Mine alone and mine alone. When I have only
scratched a little, stretched a little,
when I have only lived and little.
I cannot say, but nodding toward
that sad incline, decline.
Nothing happened yet and maybe something is
about to happen and still there is this
rustling petal, pouched, pouted. Binds
my fingers, blinds my eyes, my yes,
stops my breath and stiffles its own
pain-filled announcement. No-one is dead.
No-one is here to hear.
Whither death?