I will come back to haunt you



I will come back to haunt you

Slumped nightly in your La-Z-Boy sprawl,

collecting zzz’s before the game is finished,

predictably inebriated with ghastly breath

expelled and sinking in the airless living room.

I will yank back the stale, putrid curtains

and shove open the window,

so the rain, thunder and air, chilling to the bone,

can make an entrance,

that would wake the


I will press my icy fingers on your lips,

a kiss would be too much for your heart,

and place the burden of my discontent

on your cowardly chest, for greater weight.

And you will wake, with clammy skin,

heart palpitating, knowing absolute terror,

force of the unknown, dread of the end,

you will try to stand,

like the hairs on the back of your neck.

You will struggle to scream and flee

but your limbs will feel restrained like a

dead man

in a cement boot anchor,

ready for the mantle of the river,

and your voice will go missing,

like I went missing.



Published in ‘Werewolves and Other Bitches (Prospective: A Journal of Speculation)’ 2012

Ghosts of Boggo Road Gaol


spirits released on execution
(hanging from the gallows beam)
souls rising with the slashing of the throats
(payback time in the prison heirarchy)
ghouls let loose from suicide
(despair in the dark of brick walls and cold sweat)
spectres emerging with death from old age
(lifers lament)

ghosts forever bound,
an eternity
behind bars


Warning: This Poem is Revolting

The reader’s face was blank
the words had not sunk in.
The poem had been read
but then he chucked it – in the bin!

He didn’t like that poem,
didn’t ascertain its meaning,
he was busy contemplating pies
and the cost of his dry-cleaning.

But this story is just beginning
for metaphor was pissed,
his very being was compromised,
he didn’t like being dissed.

Simile was outraged,
like a prisoner denied a smoke,
he didn’t like this reader
who was slow beyond the joke,

narrative was spewing
she was livid, through and through,
she told as much to subject and shape,
and they were fuming too.

Symbolism was gnashing teeth,
cross tattoo on her back.
Infuriated – an understatement –
she wouldn’t take no flack.

Outrageous cried the first stanza,
turning to the next,
this reader is beyond the pale
with no clue about the text?

K’noath, that’s how I feel,
my tone is smoky red,
I’m only short but misunderstood
is not the way I’m read.

By now allusion was going crazy,
cartoon smoke came out his ears,
bit like the lies from Abbott’s mouth
before he engages gears.

Rhythm and rhyme were plotting,
they were going with the flow,
let’s take revenge on this dim dude
he knows not how low he will go.

Attributes of the poem united,
in ranting and conniving.
The theme would be taking revenge
– there would be no surviving.

Gathering their weapons so swift –
knives, an axe and chainsaw
oh yes, they were ready for battle –
the reader nowhere to withdraw.

The readers face was blank
as you’d expect from someone dead,
he had failed to hear the music,
so they cut off his empty head.

(soundtrack to the poem)


The perfumer


The perfumer

By night he dreams of three exotic ladies in harem pants, adorned with beads and misty coins, whirling together in a heady dance.

The dance of the three ladies, beginning with the light touch of one that awakens his senses to the fleeting now, shimmy from the top; then the heart and body of the second dancer snaking and shivering with the middle notes, the music punching the air, staccato hips; joined by the final dancer, who lingers over rich, base notes, infused in the atmosphere, undulating torso.

Arms and bodies fuse in a confluence of silk, flesh and hazy smoke, forming a pyramid of inspiration burning in his






Note: the fragrance pyramid consists of top notes, middle notes and base notes to create the perfume, that the perfumer will create


Sunday Snaps


You lookin’ at me kid?


Two heads are better than one #alpacabag


Llama Drama #ShearingDay

huacaya with Michael

Dr Doolittle with a huacaya alpaca 😉

sandys mob

That’s all folks #alpaca #catwalk

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