into the soil
roots burrow deep,
push dreams up,

see if that sun
really is that far
away at all.

sweet things form
in the heat
like wild teenagers.

soon bigger creatures come
and crash those summer
romances to juice.

dreams get stronger,
concentrated into truth
in those dark places.

I drink these stories
of liquid love,
get softer in that warmth,

soon returning to expel
myself, give back
that living memory

to fuel more dreams
in the dirt.


scent is a language
written to the wrong score,
for the wrong organ.

the field is a lit stage
and sweet basil whips
fifty lashes to the conductor’s

face. I inhale whole chapters
of your story
despite the sting.

in the final act
my knife skips a beat.
blood spitting out the stanza,

my story becomes your story.
a papillon dances for the crowd,
figure-eights my forehead

intoxicated, pages deep now,
desperate to know
how it all ends.


after ten ill hours
my wife finds sleep

and finally repairing

my heart

zucchini leaves

after afternoon sun

The Blue Hour Volume Three is now available.

empty vessel

and now just smithereens,
this empty vessel

is trying to hurl itself
at itself,

collide like armies
of mad hadrons.

infatuated, intoxicated,
it tries to

glue its glass heart
back together,

just to re-live that bottled
up, deep love:

the one-more-time
weight, vanishing,

red with rage
in the spill

of having poured

all its secrets
to me.

— first appeared in PRISM journal Vol #3. I like wine.


it must be teeming
with life,

this spiderweb of
trapped fly galaxies.

some time from now
we’ll collide with

andromeda, meet
the new neighbours.

for now, though, such
vast beauty intimidates

such gorgeous violence
bruises only ego

and how to monetise
that sort of thing?

on this rocky blue gem
no-one is coming to visit.

when stuck in the web
we must make our own fun.

I guess we’ll send your sons
back to war


a hole in the heart –
a worm chasing the blood

down it goes,
down, down the old town’s

the one-way shit-carrying
to the caravan’s abandoned block.

you dream of holidays
away from   barbed wire

and of where things don’t need
to flow through tubes and

and front pages

to get to where they’re going.

no undertow,
flagged nothing,
no sinister thump of machine

kicking you in the chest.

down the old town’s
up over the walls to

where half-eaten figs hang
steadily more soft,
and through windows open

or not –
they have forgotten
last year’s frost.

now down, over, and into
the minds of the dreamers:
quickly, quickly now,

then seeping back, back
into the earth,
hiding the infiltrator, the dance,

that incursion of night
from the sun to set fury on
at dawn.

— ‘ideation’, from xor

I am sorting my bookshelf and managed to group all Australian poet single-author collections (e.g, excluding anthologies, journals and the like).


Then, annoyingly, I found another few in the shelf that I had missed after I took the photo. So here they all are listed, in no apparent order other than the cold and brutally efficient ‘alphabetically by surname’ method:

Mathew Abbott ‘Wild inaudible’ (2012, Australian Poetry Ltd)
Luke Beesley ‘Balance’ (2012, Whitmore Press Poetry)
Luke Beesley ‘New Works On Paper’ (2013, Giramondo Press)
Julie Beveridge ‘Home{sic}’ (2012, Another Lost Shark Publications)
Lachlan Brown ‘Limited Cities’ (2012, Giramondo)
Andrew Burke ‘{QWERTY} (take my word for it)’ (2011, Mulla Mulla Press)
Andrew Burke ‘Mother waits for Father late’ (1992, Fremantle Arts Centre Press)
Ashley Capes ‘Between giants’ (2012, Ginninderra Press)
Eileen Chong ‘Burning rice’ (2012, Australian Poetry Ltd)
Aidan Coleman ‘Asymmetry’ (2012, Brandl & Schlesinger Poetry)
Jennifer Compton ‘Ungainly’ (2012, Mulla Mulla Press)
Luke Davies ‘Interferon Psalms’ (2011, Allen & Unwin)
Tricia Dearborn ‘The Ringing World’ (2012, Puncher & Wattmann)
Koraly Dimitriadis ‘Love and fuck poems’ (2012, Outside the Box Press)
Benjamin Dodds ‘Regulator’ (2014, Puncher & Wattmann)
Toby Fitch ‘Rawshock’ (2012, Puncher & Wattmann)
John Foulcher ‘The sunset assumption’ (2012, Pitt Street Poetry)
John Foulcher ‘Light pressure’ (2012, Pitt Street Poetry)
Lisa Gorton ‘Hotel Hyperion’ (2013, Giramondo)
Stu Hatton ‘Glitching’ (2014, (outer) publishing)
Andy Jackson ‘The thin bridge’ (2014, Whitmore Press)
Miguel Jacq ‘Magnetics’ (2013, hur, hur… couldn’t resist)
Jean Kent ‘Travelling with the wrong phrasebooks’ (2012, Pitt Street Poetry)
David Malouf ‘Earth Hour’ (2014, University of Queensland Press)
Kate Middleton ‘Ephemeral Waters’ (2013, Giramondo)
Omar Musa ‘Here come the dogs’ (2014, Penguin Books) – OK this isn’t strictly poetry but it blends poetry and prose
Ron Pretty ‘What the afternoon knows’ (2013, Pitt Street Poetry)
Angela Smith ‘The geometry of flight’ (2010, Pulse Publications)
Ben Smith ‘Horror Sleaze Trash’ (2013, Rooster Republic Press)
David ‘Ghostboy’ Stavanger ‘Station to Station’ (2006, ouTsideR Press)
Ed Wright ‘When the sky becomes the space inside your head’ (2012, Puncher & Wattmann)
Ouyang Yu ‘Self Translation’ (2012, Transit Lounge)

Looking at the list, it is obvious that 2012 was the big year for me in terms of Australian poet discovery. I lack a great deal of older works, but have hunted down a few such as that of Andrew Burke.

What am I missing that you have? Or feel free to write your own list (if it doesn’t take too long!) and link back to it in the comments.


all my writings
are like dust
in september space

whirling away
from me to

you, you
who are distant systems

wielding vast

influencing me,
my words
into supermassive

or perhaps you are

an immense
at the core of

condensing all

my efforts into
one thing only

is for sure:
that we seem

to travel
on light and pulse –

we are forgotten,

we may not burn

but we are spun
from dust
and we thus arrive so


the decision

they say you’ll
see red
but all I got

was white
with specks of blue
like gaunt

I heard no searing

of flame, felt neither
nor heat.

somewhere the faint
tune of a song
echoed, looped back

on itself.
I knew the lyrics
like I know coffee.

I know how to
an addiction.

now is the time
to take the white
and that blue mottle

up on the human
breeze, to where
the humidity is

just right,
keeps monsters
from forming

on surface ripened


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