my father pours his beer on my mother’s wounds.

i bet she rues the moment
god fashioned her out of his hollow ribs
and him, out of the twigs breaking
under her careless, tiny feet when she was fourteen.

hollow and broken, the walls fall
all over me like ancient, perishing twin cities
and lot’s wife never looks back; the angels never look back —
i crack like a lightless dawn that wants to disappear
but my brother has started to look like me —
wearing an all too familiar silence, an all too familiar sadness
wrapped around his neck like a cursed talisman.
my sister’s wrists are exposed; i check
for bitterness, and cigarettes, and boys —
maybe i hid them better and held them tighter away
until i was pale and white as a ghost i longed to be,

hollow and broken, the walls fall; the door flings open.

i no longer have to hide my wrists,
but i crouch to a cluttered corner of my room.
every sudden movement, every unchanging voice,
and i bow my head low for my father to pour his beer,
like a baptism of the heathen who accepts the words of god.

my mother’s wounds shine like biblical relics
kept in my body — too fragile and small
but i was not made for the word of god
who calls himself by my father’s name.

It all starts with an idea, that you can
Feelings come between now and then
Thoughts come running through your head
All the time is ripened for what could be said
Then it takes what was yours
It just breaks all your core
And you'll never know why
You gave in just for more
All the sights and the sores
Painful cries as they court
And you'll never know why
You take in, lust yet torn

Sometimes I fear the feeling of contentment
Of completion and accomplishment
Because afterwards I'll never know
If the passion dies, or if I'll still grow
Then it stops what you start
It just drops from the heart
And you'll never take back
What you gave just for art
All the lies and the lores
Faithful eyes now they tore
And you'll never know why
As you come back for more

And it starts as it the ends
The idea that you can't
As you say one goodnight
The last of all goodbyes
To the brush, to your pen
To all books that you've read
To the lovers that come
To the letters you've read
As you'll never come back
To create, you just can't
One last time, one last sigh
Close your eyes, one last breath
All the doors closing in
Right where we all begin

Our dreams come pure with uncertainty
When all doors are closed as answers can be
When everyone has turned their back on you
While the chance is null and you have no clue
That dream you have is yours alone
It only comes once, yet with you it's grown
It all starts with an idea, that you can
You were passionate once, embrace dreams once again

Three poets
rot down a river bed
their body decomposing
except their head
still composing poetry
and recite being dead
where poems still flow
I’ve heard them read

one was caught
by the sun beam
flickering ripples of light

another fought
by a splashing bream
kicking up a fight

the third flowed down
the rapid stream
where water foams white

I, one day went fishing
and caught myself a fish
down the river swimming
quoting Tennyson
Dickinson and Finch
I set it free
because poetry is freeing
Not every line in the end
is a hook
three dead poets can testify
down by the brook

the romantics
after meeting you
will idealize love

the poets
after loving you
will romanticize loss

what is it about,
west australian poets?
who hide in journals
where the paper smells,
personal
organic
safe.

what is it about,
women with poor eye sight?
who wear leggings
-instead of-
dresses
who can't help making messes
and sleep until three
because she needs more time to dream

what is about,
women like me?