Big Mama

This poem is about a chicken. Some friends of mine inherited three chickens with their sharehouse: two small red ones and BIG MAMA, who is suspected of eating the fourth chicken, though no one is brave enough to ask her.


Menacing chicken
Pint-sized velociraptor
Egg-cracking beak
Bold-black sheen striking feet
Clawed and ready to run

Not a fan of cuddles


I am an ocean

Old, and corny, and ever so sincere.

Love, I grasp at you
You shiver, fade and I
Hunger after your shadow
My body’s live
Sinews static
I am not a girl, I am
An ocean
Boiling, teeming with life
Shifting, meltwater and salt
On the tip of your tongue

Winter Is Coming (to Canberra)

The leaves rust on the trees
Flake off their branches and huddle chilly on brittle grass
Breeze breathes freezer breath down scarfed necks
Cars grumble engines iced and sluggish
Frost adorns the lawns of parliament and the Brindabellas
Coaxing sleepy spores to sprout magic dreams
And attract eager harvesting hands yet ungloved
For there’s still warmth in a single blanket and
Sunset-baked afternoon clouds with one
Wheeling drunken galah cutting the bronzed skyline
Bold knees in thin stockings and knuckles wrapped
Round the sound and steady mug of tea
And the tree holds onto its rusted leaves
Not quite ready to let go


This is the very first poem I performed at Bad!Slam!No!Biscuit!, the world’s rowdiest poetry slam, which is held monthly at The Phoenix Pub in Canberra.  Ever since then my relationship with shouty drunken poetry has only gotten more fulfilling.

I’m sitting in the kitchen
With my cross-eyed cat
And the clock ain’t tickin’
‘Cause the battery’s flat

Then the phone in the hall
Gives a sudden squall
It’s the Pope in Rome
Saying, “It’s The Fall!”

And the Quakers quake,
And the monkeys shake,
At the bars of their cage
‘Til they bend and break,
And the couch sprouts feet,
Gallops down the street,
And the drum in the sun
Strikes a sizzling beat,
And the children play,
At the break of day,
‘Til a wailing wind
Whips them all away,
And the preacher weeps,
And the sinner sleeps,
On a Milo tin where
His sins he keeps,
And the grass rips free,
‘Neath a restless tree,
And they dance to the beach
To drown in the sea,
And the leader of the land,
With a shaking hand,
Digs a shallow grave
In the shivering sand.

I’m sitting in the kitchen
With my cross-eyed cat
And the clock ain’t tickin’
‘Cause the battery’s flat

So I check my phone
And I give a groan
While the cat sits there
Like it’s made of stone

Then it’s back to bed
Barely half-alive
For the time, no joke
Is fucking half-past five.

Shazza for Pope

My friend Sharon wants to be the next Pope
She has a platform:
To paint a new coat of spirituality
On a society cracked with sin,
Champion social justice,
Give a voice to the voiceless,
“And,” She says, “I look hot in robes.”

My friend Sharon says
She has heaps in common with Jesus
Like Him, a keen concern for the plight of the poor
Like Him, a flare for public speaking
Like Him, a
Parental background

My friend Sharon
Has a plan
She is plotting a campaign:
Focusing on grassroots activism and social media
She says to me,
“What would Jesus do?
    I’ll tell you! He would open a Twitter account
    For all his followers
    And subscribe to their prayers
    Tweets are, after all, just
    Confessions caught like fireflies
    In the World Wide Web.”

My friend Sharon scoffs
When I suggest
Her technological testament
May not reach the cardinals
In their smokey Roman tower
She says,
“Skeptic, beware! For –
    Jesus answers your prayers,
    Though, by necessity he has
    A short attention span
    So better make it
    140 characters
    Or less.”