owns me

i’ll make poetry my bitch!
until then, i’m its,
like an infection that renders you feverish,
or a scratch at the back of your throat you can’t itch,
it’s there ensuring you serve and obey it.
for us in prose prisons, were slaves,
and to it, submit,
at the end of our wits,
at its beck and call,
decisions, decisions,
what to emit, what to omit,
to reconcile,
and deliver writ.


Poet Snobbery

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I hope to one day have the confidence and presentation skills to say this at a high end poetry recital. Fuck you guys!

“Where’s your meter?” he said?
As if to dismiss every inkling and war that’s gone through my head,
So you want me to conform to your rules instead?

Don’t worry,
With prose like ours, metronomes vanish,
Besides this language I use, is only English.

You see it’s a matter of tragedy,
That whilst you were in the dark ages, we’re the ones who mastered poetry.

Writing rules become prison bars,
For those who can’t see far,

Beyond their spectacle dented noses,
They can only pose as,
We drop words on pages,
And give sermons like Moses.

Yeah, he once had a lisp and lacked the confidence,
Raised his heart to his Lord,
And became a poetic prophet with vengeance.

Spat truth so deep forced the people repentance,
Had them submitting before he finished a sentence.

So you really want to do this word dance?
Wanna’ take a chance?
Lift your fists, avant garde,
When you’ve never taken a fighters stance?

You want to pose your attention at the words I write?
Try to catch me out of sync and turn out my light?
Fault my meter dull my rights to write?
Because you have some poetry insight?

Bitch please, sit yourself back down,
Yeah….. Over there, in that corner, wear your frown,
Leave us be, no in fact turn around,
We don’t want your input, ya’ pompous clown.

To all the lazy snobbery elite, too pompous to explore anything other than what they deem high society poetry, looking down on younger generations trying as they may to make words their lives in whatever style they know, be it rap, spoken word, written word, hip hop or poetry.

You do this full time and struggle with your lives,
Whilst we do it second nature, part time,
Because beneath our breasts are unsettled hives!


p.s. Inspired by a cool poet when she mentioned something about meter, and not really being aware of it, like as if that was the pre-requisite to being able to write. But this has been brewing for a couple of weeks as I read more and more articles of poetry snobbery and listened to bickering about what is or isn’t poetry.  She has an amazing ability to write and I am glad she wasn’t dismayed (as are many youth and even adults) from words and poetry. Whatever it is your style, enjoy words, they can heal or at least help get you through things.

p.p.s. Check out this ultra cool Australian Luka Lesson at Australia’s most popular poetry slam hands down.  Bankstown Poetry Slam




A Poets Repentance.


How can poets repent?

When they carry the sin of every man and woman that lived before them and that will follow?

Maybe they don’t want to repent because repentance means giving up past vices
the vices that become their muses
the muses that fill their hearts with so much blood it tsunami’s into their mind
their mind can’t contain it
breaking ocean beds
smothering shores and pouring out into the pages of the city
swirling through drains
bubbling up through fountains
sweltering shop walls
drowning city halls
revitalising city parks
softening the foundations of sky scrapers
floating away old wooden shacks that have outlived their time
washing away the drunkenness of taverns
sobering the park bench inhabitants
cleansing the lanes from human waste.

Maybe they can’t repent because repentance means they can’t leave pen dents any more.
If they can’t dent a page
with love or rage
with lavender or sage
with wisdom of their age
with paying homage
to their forefathers gauge
how can they take the stage
of loves rib cage
give and engage
with the human masquerade?

Maybe they will be forced to repent
in which case
they’ll be the future generations embrace
the fire souls solace
the writer, rapper or activists brace
the stencils for children to trace
the soldiers about face of about face
the disbelievers worship place
the lovers lace
The freedom fighters giving chase
the farmers growth space
the peoples abandonment of haste.

Whichever way you look at it, a poet can’t repent, there’s things to be said which only the love off their tongue can expel and exorcise the demons out of us all with.

Priests, holy men and war mongers will all but surrender under the poets megaphone.

Be it as they may, torture them kill them or cut out their tongues, they cannot and will not repent.

To repent is to turn their back on everything past and future, severing the voice boxes of the children to come.

So off to martyrdom they go inviting death so that words may live.

Repentance after all is for the wicked!


Her sacred melody


He could play any six string guitar to the tingling of senses.

But strumming her six ribs was his masterpiece he reserved only for her

Some things have to remain sacred.

Love is being able to compose a masterpiece but leaving it only for the pleasure of one soul, despite knowing you could have any soul in the world by playing the haunting entrapment of its melody.


Poets Feast


Tonight, we feast on words.
Even though we are separated by worlds.
Your ages so tender,
So full of splendour,
Colloquially speaking,
You’re mind benders.
And mine?
Battered, beaten and bruised,
Torn, healed, re-abused,
But, I remain amused.
At the possibilities ahead,
Just like you,
Open hearted to receive,
To conceive,
To achieve.
So raise the goblets in time,
And lets drink loves wine.


Love letters

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I am saddened at the thought that a whole generation of young women will never have the opportunity of receiving a love letter.
Articulated – be it as poetic as Byron or as simple as a child’s innocence – with love and soul, carefully crafted, paper selection, ink and script, fragranced to suit your temperament, cursive leaning towards you as they cannot contain themselves from their advance, they are brimming to the top with ecstatic elation and a sorrowful hope that their efforts are realised and received.

Yours truly,