the birth of rome



imagine god is a wolf
at the banks of the Tiber.
in its jaws wolf-god
holds a baby by the scruff,
another child lodged somewhere
in its throat.


imagine wolf-god drops the baby
in the reeds at river’s edge.
lets it roll into the shallows.
the baby, fresh and filmed
with blood, can’t tell howl
from lung from water,
can’t tell bone from sky
from fur.


imagine now that wolf-god
starts to tremble, drops its head
and starts to wretch.
watch as wolf-god rasps its throat
and wracks itself in spasms.
watch as wolf-god wretches up
the other- child who can’t tell blood
from blood
from blood.


imagine though that other-child
knows just how the story goes,
knows he’ll grow to kill his brother,
found a city full of weeping wives,
and watch the city tumour into empire.

imagine other-child wants to speed-up

imagine that before the wolf-god
births the other-child, other-child digs
his little hands past wolfy throat, tears
through wolfy lungs, finds the wolfy heart
and eats it.

and watch as other-child
drags itself from wolf-god’s carcass,
mouth all full of wolf-heart,
watch it sets its eyes upon its brother,
watch him take the brother in his little hands
and drown it.


see that this is how the world is sung –
waterlogged and blue,
twitching in the hands of boy,
as boy looks down at what he’s made,
boy with dead-god dripping
from his mouth,
boy with yellow-eyes and yawning,
boy whose jawline breaks and swings
as lips pull into a smile,
boy who spits the gristle of a dead-god 
off a soft pink tongue
and shows the swell of gums

o, this is how the world is sung-
o, little howl hurled up to sky,
o, swallower of hearts.

(oh lord, hercules is drunk again, face down in the water, trying to swallow the sea)


water always finds a
level. squid will always
rise to a flourescent light
at night. you can hook
them easy then. tangle
their little legs on steel.
at night the fishing boats
untangle themselves
from the dock. press
out into the waiting black.
drop their silver garland lines
and wait. some nights
I am so afraid to sleep.
some nights – a waiting sea.
most days we remind
ourselves of the world.
one day
we don’t wake up.

Slow growth


It will have been months since you’ve written
anything that matters, on a day you’ll think yourself
to be a fat and slowing story, or another sinking stone.
You’ll wake and read someone else’s poem
about angels and bombs and how, on detonation,
a thing will weigh precisely nothing. You’ll think
of how a flame, viewed correctly, can appear
to be a flower birthed from air. And you, your hands
all full of mud, will think your bones have turned
to hardwood, will think of white ants in your blood,
will think your joints could crack and bleed out sap –
all this until your daughter, who woke an hour before you,
holds a flower out to you and says she wants to dance.
And as you haul your dogwood bones up off the floor
you’ll wonder if you’ve somehow caught alight,
if you’re both a kind of slow explosion,
as you and she, both dancing now,
don’t seem to weigh a thing.

Asahi Draught


What a strange inversion
of your plans –
to have come so far
in search of language
and to find so little speech

But to find instead an ocean
opened up inside you –
to call that ocean love
and feel a loneliness
to part the sea

To feel this otherness
only as an ache
for the holy
of the returning flight

And you, self-referential to the end,
no urge to shed a van Gogh ear,
no need to force a poem,
resolve to sit,
to nurse a beer in Takayama
and convince your heart
of something small

That this loneliness might yet be
a song pecking out the shell of you –
that this slow returning urge to write
might be held, and fanned to flame

The way a home might be a vessel
cradling, giving voice to quiet

Gate 7


for m & o

How all this paranoid velocity
requires such a weight of waiting,
stacks seven stones in the throat,
finds seven ways of waving goodbye,
seven ways of saying perhaps I’ll stay,
seven ways of turning and going
and stacks so much glass
between there
and there
and there

A mathematics of language
would be needed now
to render how a body,
caught between two planes,
finds itself to be nowhere,
and how nowhere might be anywhere or everywhere
where revelation winks
in the holy of the list,
the blinking of an LCD screen

now departing,
now departing,
now departing,
how I wish that you were here
to still this winking heart’s delay

Sonnet for ghosts


I mentioned recently that I’ve started working on a series of poems set in Australia’s convict era history. Thought I’d share one of the pieces taking shape out of that. Feedback is always welcome.

Sonnet for ghosts

Daddy woke every Sunday early,
dressed me in my finest and hauled me to a church
he never set a foot or raised a voice within.
Crouched low as he – or a ghost within him – said that he
– and perhaps his boy – so full of sin, would burst to sparks
if he ever passed through the gate into the hall.
Said the priest would nail him to a cross if he knew
the thoughts sprouting thorns inside his head.

And so I stood, waiting at the gates for years,
daddy folding into paper, swallowed like communion,
until in time a tumour took him by the throat and buried him
and left me there – standing always at the gates and looking in
but never knowing how to raise a voice or foot to enter,
knowing this – no doubt – will be the way it goes with death.

When the writer you becomes a ghost

So it has been a while hasn’t it. Projects starting to come together, then stalling, then getting moving again. It’s a funny feeling to have projects coming together at the same time as new ones are forming. Does anything ever really get finished. Anyways, here’s a little experimental piece from a new project starting to seed in my mind. A kind of poetical reflection on the first convict arrivals in Australia. More oceans. Some history. Something full of bones.


With the cape of good hope now a ghost behind us

Another one dropped dead this morning,
a boy, scarce 20, done for theft of petticoats,
fever gripped and full of rotten blood

they mustered a detail to haul the body to the deck
rolled him in a strip of torn and flapping sail
lashed it with a rope and threw him over

I watched him bob a while then fall away
                     (nothing falls away entirely)
                                  (nothing falls away)

we are haunted now
        by all this water
the bones we hurl to sea

and a shape now full of ash
and teeth is trailing us
something dark and haunting in our wake

they will come in time to call this history
which is just another way
to speak of blood

the way that home
can be another word for grief

                          or the tying of a noose