Im not one for romance but

Her hair, all of the beauty leftover from a palette after a masterpiece is created, who said brown was the colour of ****?
Her eyes, the green of mother nature that gives my heart a buzz to infinity and beyond.
Her nose, the reason I need to smell good.
Her lips, the cushions that keep me up at night.
Her smile, a capital U, the bliss that eclipses my own and blacks out my thoughts whilst it revs my heartbeat.
Her voice, it can babble on like early civilisations but im happy I met-her, for I have so much love to give.
Her words, have magnitude to dig holes which would make the sea sunk and send waters to hell to drown my demons, my own revelation.
Her jokes, they're pretty bad actually however
Her laugh, a record stuck on repeat of all the things I want to hear, the perfect rhythm that sets my soul ablaze and makes me laugh back senselessly.
Her hugs, a second home that has everything right with the world inside.
Her love, the warmth that sinks its way into every crevice of my heart, with the heat to break bedrock and boil Satan to the heavens, a heatwave of affection that I could surf like a beach ***. I love her, I love

You.
Until time is forgotten or matter and anti-matter stop fighting.

I will think about you.
The reason I'm still writing...a silly love poem.

Terra Nullius born from the ashes of colonies past,
from a nation over seas far,
the white cliffs of Dover show their colour,
they reached a land of beauty rich and rare,
they saw and they conquered caring none for those that stood in front of them,
for years this ravaged,
destroying ancient culture,
until a man realised that the land he loved was not his,
taken from him unbeknownst,
he stood in despair,
the system against he fought,
until he died a young man of pain from tortures past,
in his grave he heard the victory he won,
Terra Nullius is gone,
Long live Eddie Mabo.

and that one man
blinded
distraught
stuck there in the middle
of that no man's land
that abattoir
that circus
walking round in a ring
and falling down
stumbling round in a ring
and falling down
till somebody
finally
put a bullet through his head

I needed safe schools because my parents did not have the education to teach me what my feelings about myself were.
I needed safe schools because I did not have the education to know about myself.
I needed safe schools because I was educated that liking people of the same *** was a sin.
I needed safe schools because I was taught that I was wrong to feel the way I felt about myself.
I needed safe schools because my peers do not know how to talk respectfully to a trans person.
I needed safe schools because I had no refuge from the judgement of others.
I needed safe schools because I didn't know that transitioning was a possibility.
I needed safe schools because I felt I had to suffer in silence, believing I was the only person who felt like I did.
I needed safe schools because education is key to a functioning society.
I needed safe schools because it is a chance to better the future.

And the very last, the endling,
Caged in the sunlight at Beaumaris Zoo,
Tired of the poking and the prodding
Paced out of existence into history,
Into emblem and icon
Legend and label,
On to things protected by copyright,
Footage and fable,
And the internet's electric jungle,
And into that great white emptiness
Of extinction,
That giant ship which we are building,
Stacking and storing,
Fitting and filling,
Recording into the grand voyage
Of oblivion.

At this deep pool
Where no light is reflected,
Where small birds come
Clinging to the vine
Amongst fallen logs and silences,
The crush of leaves and the rot of years.

At this dark edge
Where now unassailable trees tower
In a brief clearing,
At this still centre where the wreckage lies
Of river's breach and storm's rage.

Here at the heart.

Where once the workings of long-ago men,
The wild, roaring, toothless ones,
Desperate and dislocated,
Their fierce eyes blazing through dark,
And bodies by day burning through timber,
Cut sunlight in shadow
And nation in nature.

And these men that made the land,
That wove their dreams with dust and dirt,
That needed death to know the flower,
Men of the corrugated country.

Men of bones,
Propped in the rusted windy ruins,
Who watched the movement of the birds
And bartered life with sky and earth.

Men of the drought's bare-cupboard cradle,
Biblical through plague and famine,
Who struck the water in the stone
And fought with flesh to swell the soil.

Time's weathered toys,
Who sought a garden in the sand,
Where the withered streams of the dry season
Flowed with flooding summer rains.

Men of the dark deserted spaces,
That masked their ruined stars with drink,
That fed the shadows with strange desires
And drowned the broken plough with tears.

s u m m e r t i m e . b o y
.
he fell to earth before Bowie became a star, landed on the Smithsonian current and washed ashore with webbed feet.
the south swell rider scans the horizon searching for bombora  breaks akaw, making a gnarly entry over those same rocks.
timing is crucial or the wet will smack you hard against it!
he pushes out through the foam and finds his fins ripping the green room, grinning and yewing hell bent till the salt crusts over and muscles burn.

What do Australians do well?
At the football we really yell,
All sports have cast their spell,
We are all quite laconic,
With work, it's really platonic,
We love a long weekend,
We wish holidays never end,
We even have a public holiday,
For our horse racing day,
Yes, that's Melbourne Cup Day.
What do Australians do well?
Well, we welcome all, do tell,
One multicultural southern land,
Progress changed us to helping hands,
We can work hard, and play hard,
Looking for weekends too far,
We Aussies do lots of stuff real well,
Yes, Australia has cast its spell.