Blog Archives

My Wishlist

The list I leave out for Santa
has grown increasingly short
over the years. Where once
I asked for toys and games,
books and television shows,
I now ask for things
that are neither purchasable,
or easily constructed.
It is unlike love to be found
in the aisle of a shopping outlet,
beside Christmas toffees
and beverages. The want
for romantic companionship
is an ask not easily answered,
although obtaining something
so beautiful would be easier
granted than world peace.
When we are young, money
is the sole requirement
for obtaining our heart’s desires,
but once aged, like a fine liquor,
bills and coins become obsolete,
for our wishes can only
ever be granted by other means.

On the Hour I Shall Seek My Final Resting Place

If I were to die tomorrow,
would you tell my story,
and would you tell it well;
tell it truthfully? Or would
there be so little to say,
that only silence could fill
the empty void which makes
up my obituary? I held this life
in my hand on too many
an occasion, preventing
myself from ever cherishing
what I had while it was truly
my own, and by the end
when the final beat exited
this heart of mine, perhaps
it was not death I wished
for, but life instead. The irony
of such circumstance
could never be melted down
into a purposeful existence,
and though death was always
an acceptable choice,
by the end, it may well
have not been my own.
Destiny is inescapable,
as I might soon discover,
and if my life is to be proven
forfeit, might I have
the pleasurable luxury
of knowing I will be remembered,
along with all the rest.

Below is the link to a reading of this poem, along with the reading of ‘Shangri La’, a poem I recently published on this blog:

GMBS Accepting Submissions

Mental health group Good Morning Bedtime Story (GMBS), an organization I work for during my spare time, is still accepting submissions for their campaign, Be Kind, and shall continue to indefinitely do so until otherwise stated.

Today, the ‘selfie’ movement has taken the world by storm, and GMBS wishes to use this medium to promote the advocating of mental health awareness.

If you are passionate about mental health; if you enjoy frequently taking photos of your beautiful features; if you spend just as much time in front of a camera as you do elsewhere, GMBS would really appreciate your involvement.

‘Be kind, for everyone is fighting a hard battle’ is the organization’s slogan. If you wouldn’t mind recording yourself saying this one line, and submitting it to GMBS, they would be very grateful.

Submissions can be produced in any number of ways; instead of saying the line, you could write it on a piece of paper and hold it up for the world to see; or, you could introduce yourself; ‘I’m (insert name) from (insert place)’, followed by the line; there are no limits on imagination.

Please send any and all submissions to: with BE KIND in the subject line.


Any recordings will need to be done pro bono, because GMBS regretfully does not have the funds to compensate people for their time. Just know, they will appreciate your involvement, and shall pay you with admiration.

This campaign will be presented on the GMBS YouTube channel.


This is a poem I wrote with Canadian poet Nelli Agbulos over the course of several Twitter posts. A reading of the poem can be found at the following link:

Striped socks my feet wish I was wearing – it’s cold.
Tight stretch jeans, blue in colour, match my frozen thighs;
how can it be winter in the summer?
Uncertain as always, weather is strange and I shiver as my jacket cuddles me.
His scarf (borrowed, not to be returned) tickles my chin and I cough. Throat hurts, and all I want is wonton soup.
A shiver travels along my spine. Not from the cold, but from his scent. Oh, how I remember thee on cold nights.
Lemon tea, temporarily, cures my discomfort. Wild waters before me swish and swoosh.
My head feels groggy and dizziness becomes me. I am tired and sleep beckons me to dream away my symptoms.

The moon is a lone pearl in the sky.
I wake. I sleep. I wake again. I count not sheep, but stars as they glitter in the skies outside my window.
Mama used to say, “The stars shine as a reminder from loved ones that they are with us,”
and father used to say “the stars are the eyes of God, who is everywhere at once and never will He abandon us.”
But what omnipresent being lets his children go to war with each other?
Ironically, the same all powerful being who allows us the opportunity to live life and love one another.
I wonder if the sky is His blanket,
the moon His pillow, and the sun His mattress.
More than a million night lights surround Him,
as they do you, me and everyone else. For we are His masterpiece, and this world is our majesty.

I miss my lemon tea, but then I realize the cup is empty.
I fill it up half way and contemplate how, like the cup, my life is never entirely fulfilled.
The parking light’s glow reflects the moon, and I think about heading home, my feet are cold.
But then I stop, and I think; your house isn’t too far from here – and I sure could use the company.
Hitch-hiking it is then, four miles onward.
The distance is much and the road is untraveled but I will be happy to cross it.
TONIGHT’S GOAL(S): Into your arms, scent-engulfed, and a night of sweet dreams. Cookies – a wonderful welcome!
(BTW Will only accept chocolate chip) But what of the sleeping arrangements? There’s only one bed & an aging sofa?
The floor shall be our humble abode – fort making and storytelling will keep us awake
for hours on end; this is what dreams are made of & once complete, we shall compete to see whose fort is stronger.
I’ll tempt you with smores then knock your fort over!
I play for keeps; I play to win and now I shall claim my prize!

The crumbs from our smores are edible fairy dust.
We devour them and lick our chops with dreams gliding idly through the air.
Candlelight’s soft glow creates shadows on the wall
and we watch as those shadows do battle to see who will command our attention, but they needn’t bother.
Tell me a bedtime story, please,
and so you do. Your words are so sweet and they glide me to sleep and I lay my head back in your arms.

Hope you enjoyed the read guys! On a side note, I am always happy to collaborate with other poets out there, so if you’re interested, give me a shout in the comments section. Wishing you a great day!

Sins We Never Died For (Poetry Reading)

This here is the link to one of my new poems, Sins We Never Died For:

Rather than including a textual version of the poem, this is purely a recorded reading. I will note however that this poem is rather erotic, and thus does contain some images and themes that will probably not be appropriate for people of all ages.

Dear Tony Abbott

This poem contains some profanity and adult themes. Additionally, a video of the poem being read aloud can be found here:

You may be the minister of our country,
but I never had you elected, and you are
no leader of mine, and I would have wasted
my time if I thought you would ever listen
to my concerns. Therefore, this is not
addressed to you, but I would not mind
if you spared me a moment, as the Liberal
weed killer withers the fields
of social tulips, tarnished by the hands
of economic persecution.

Rather than wielding your words
of political propaganda like an artist
with a brush, you wield them like a son
who has found his father’s gun,
blowing holes through the hearts
of all Australian citizens. Tell me,
as tax exempt politicians shrink
the pocket money of the people until
it becomes gaunt and feeble,
should you privatise water
to solve the crisis of debt that is almost
non-existent, when in contrast
to countries across the ocean’s divide?

Speaking of, are there 457 reasons
as to why you give jobs away
like leaflets on the street to supposedly
skilled migrants, educated half a world away
with no knowledge on our creed or culture,
yet deny us, Australia’s children,
economical aid when these jobs are unavailable?
In doing everything to hinder families for life,
whilst helping ensure the rich are unimpeded,
you help illustrate that all one needs
to be a minister is the willingness
to tax the poor and deprive them
of government aid; commit cultural
genocide, homophobia and misogyny,
and return us all to the age of the aristocrats,
when only the rich were educated,
and the poor remained forever in their slums.
All this from a man who accused the previous
government of lying, and proceeded
to do away with all of his promises
before the year was over; all this,
from a man who would laugh
in the face of sex workers with seamen stained
lips, and the taste of cheating husbands
dripping upon the every word that falls
from between their teeth; all this
from a man who thinks turning
back boats, and almost starting
an international incident in the process,
makes up for all the families in Australia
that shall go hungry tonight.

Wrapped up in the hangman’s noose,
and meant to march to the music
like a toy soldier, I recall a stranger
having once asked is this your country,
for it is drowning in deficit. Is this your country
probed another, for it is buried
beneath a behemoth of lies. Is this your country
questioned someone else, for it is blind
to the pains of the struggling
and the poor. Is this your country
another citizen asked, for interlopers
and shameful stigmas still exist – when shall
we right the wrongs and cast down
the barricades binding us to poverty? What
answer should I give to those struggling beneath
your reign? Is rape even a crime to a man
who rapes the country blind?

Moreover, did your daughter happen to drop your name
before being granted an education, bought
and paid for, without consent, by the taxpayer?
I am the child of the prime minister perhaps?
A threat, much like a mother telling
her disobedient spawn wait till your father
gets home, and suddenly, those unwilling
to cooperate find themselves flung
out of offices for failing to abide
by the corporate standard; the Abbott’s
get what they want, and all the rest
are fucked over. And so, the tax payer
paid for your daughter’s education,
and now you’ll probably knight her too,
and if my name were Abbott, would I be entitled
to the same? Of course, if she were gay
you would have her disowned, right?
Made an example of; erected a statue
in the middle of the city of you marching
her towards the metaphorical guillotine
in you red budgie smugglers?

On second thoughts, I hardly think I want
an answer when I know it shall
be burdened beneath the arrogance
of pompous, egotistical revolt, from
a man and all his friends who dress
in thousand dollar suits and dresses,
whilst the people strive to buy a loaf
of bread. Here, allow me to give to you
my severed penis, for I want no
children of mine born into your
fucking cut throat regime.

Call for Submissions to Poetry and Writing Anthology

For those of you familiar with Good Morning Bedtime Story, a group which advocates mental health through art, writing and poetry, then the new anthology set for release this October, titled Home Grown Ghosts, will be old news to you. For everyone else, listen closely!

Although Home Grown Ghosts is looking for any form of writing pertained to mental health, the anthology is set to be broken down into three unique themes which focus upon different characters. These include a man, once plagued with alcoholism, who is attempting to redeem himself; a man suffering from delusions, who wishes to alleviate them as to better experience the blossoming romance he has encountered; a woman, who, as a child, witnessed her parents take their own lives, and has since then been riddled by guilt.

To poets and writers interested, you may submit one poem per e-mail, and up to a total of three poems. These can be sent to:, with the e-mail title HGG Submission, followed by the title of the piece. In the body of the e-mail, attach a short description and background of the work submitted, along with the total word count.

There is no word limit, however poems with fewer than 400 words, and prose with less than 1,000 words will be looked upon appreciatively.

Submissions close on the 1st of June.

Best of luck to everyone. Hope you consider submitting.

To Stand Aghast at Poetry

I awoke to discover a Monday morning
quite unlike no other, and wondered if at first
I had fallen into the abyss of a dream,
that dared to reunite me with the binding tides
of familial foundations. To the left of me
my mother sat, a smile wider than any crevasse,
and more moist than any ocean
written on her face, as she proclaimed
that I wake up to drink the rays
of the rising dawn. To the right,
my father stood, with the physical resemblance
of a toad, after having recently returned
from rehabilitation, where he had spent
his last five years for being beyond inebriated.
A bottle of intoxicating liquid
sat upon the dresser, not far from his reach,
the beverage already having offered enough drops
to fill the glass in hand. ‘I like to look at it’
he answered, whilst masticating away,
after having noticed the doubt
caught between my eyes,
and although there was much I wanted to do
during the hours of this day, I realized,
what kind of man would I be to deny my heritage
the opportunity to discover
what had become of their only son?
These parents of mine, who had consumed
the identities of academic modernists,
were incredibly impressed to learn
about my conquering of university endeavors,
but when they uncovered the roots
of occupational ambition, exhausted after years
of well earned triumph, their expressions
plied me with the knowledge
on how their happiness was halted
by such allegation and slight.
‘I have decided to become a poet’
I produced with a winning smile,
to those who provided me professional morals,
their cheerfulness having capsized
in the uproar of emotional intensity.
My mother stifled a cry; her voice
was now completely gone as my father stood aghast.
‘Oh honey’ my mother managed, her solemn tears
almost seeming inappropriate, ‘you poor thing’,
fearful of how I had been betrayed
by misguided thought. My father on the other hand,
after having bat an eyelid,
drowned his stupendous sorrows
in the emotionally quenching liqueur,
before beginning on the bottle,
and no force in the universe
could stop this occurrence from coming to fruition.

This poem is not entirely truthful, so please dear readers, don’t leave this blog thinking my family is really that deranged. Thanks for reading!  😀

Poetry Reading – There Were No More Roses

Hey Guys!

Here is the link to the first poetry reading I have uploaded online:

The poem is a piece I have previously published on this blog, and because it is close to my heart (as I explain in the video) it is the first of hopefully many poems I will eventually upload.

Thank you for reading/watching!


I Dedicate this to Death

When the darkest hour of the night dominates
the sky I used to see by day, I am left alone to
carry the thoughts of my own self-destruction
in my lonesome head. The corrosion of my
life, which shall be anything but bittersweet,
is launched towards me across the highway of
time, at speeds beyond incalculable, towards a
life I have barely begun to appreciate. Is it too
much to ask for a final kiss to grace these lips
of mine, before the final hour of my bleakest
end is thrown upon my death bed? Would the
lips of the angelic damsel I long so dearly for
even wish to lower her face towards mine, as
I lie unmoving beneath the duvet that will
shelter my damnation, or shall her judgement
be reserved and her lips pulled out of reach,
before the touch of flesh is even aligned?

Upon the bed of death, is not a man entitled
for one final wish before crossing over into
the light that illuminates the world beyond?
Should I not be allowed one final act of
gracefulness before the beauty of the world
is all but barred from me in the hour of my
unpredicted demise? Should this be the end
of daybreak; not the world’s, but mine, what
words will escape the lips of those who knew
me well? Will a wave of tragedy sweep people
from their feet, or shall a smile of satisfaction
be what caresses the moment I was timed out?
Will tears fall from the eyes of many, burdened
by much grief, or shall a slight shake of the
head be the only recognition sent my way?

What will be placed in my eulogy, and would I
like to hear its words, or shall there be none to
speak of, and no obituary or funeral too? Shall
I be so easily forgotten, and become less than an
inaudible whisper in the gathering darkness of
shadows and time, or will I live eternally, and be
granted immortality in hearts and prayers of
those who prevail with life? If these written
words contain a droplet of truth within their
printed ink, then such shall be the last creation
ever conceived by these hands of mine. What
legacy would I need to leave behind within this
work to prove with truthful honesty that I truly
did exist, and am not the result of fictitious
vanity? And if by chance I manage to convince
the hearts of many about the life I did once hold,
let it be known that the last of the romantics
died with me.

Pretentious perhaps is such an ideology, but in a
world which lacks the values of love everlasting,
perhaps I was simply grateful to have my existence
brought to an immediate close? Regardless of the
final thoughts which crawled across my mind, I
was able to feel for but a second what few people
ever find, and maybe, although I never became a
published author and married no celebrity;
although my friends numbered in the few and
those who loved me were almost non-existent;
although I was never rich and had no mansion to
speak of; although healthiness and exercise were
not continuous components of my repertoire,
after 24 years I knew what love truly was; how
many people can claim the same?

Tomorrow I’m going into hospital for another major operation. I wrote this particular piece with regards to how I have no idea what fate has in store for me.
Thank you for reading.