Ultimate surviver

Graffiti, Melbourne alleyways
Graffiti, Melbourne alleyways

In the sticky smell
of an aerosol-smeared tyre
survives the painter.

Soul stare

Wall art in a shopping centre, Canberra

Though ink washes off,
haunting eyes stay forever—
shopping centre scenes.


Indigenous Australian art, National Multicultural Festival, Canberra
Indigenous Australian art, National Multicultural Festival, Canberra

Reflecting life, art,
as a leopard’s spots, imprints
colours in our minds.

It is what it is

There’s no right or wrong. No rhyme or rhythm. No period, no commas, and no bloody capitalisms—oops, I meant capitalisations. It’s all about order, or lack thereof.

No rule book, no guidelines—no restrictions can be placed upon it. Sometimes we need to be passive to be actively engaging. From a drunken writer to the sober reader, from one heart to another, poetry is raw—like broccoli—uncooked it has a crunch, with every munch like mulch it lives with you, seeping within you.

It’s an uninvited reality check, like a rule-brealing badass teenager that refuses to abide by laws—setting out to transform the world with their far-fetched ideas and enviable immunity… to sensationalism.

Poetry is escape. Like the tiny, almost invisible insect crawling up your desk, words, with their innate and not-so-explicit meaning, clamp into oneness, clasping your throat, binding you to a chair, and leaving you mesmerised at their beauty, their soul-sucking tentacles wriggling in the air in front of you, with life-affirming waves, playing, teasing, gripping your attention as you slowly fall…

into the deep,






of love for words.


Performer encouraging audience, National Multicultural Festival, Canberra 2020
National Multicultural Festival, Canberra

Owning controlling,
channeling the inner child,
puppeteer singer.