The rape of Eurydice

The rape of Eurydice has been going on since time began.

The Greeks didn’t invent this tragedy.

It happened this week in Princes park, and it left my heart in a ditch.

Short poems

1.Gender, come back you little pretender,

wing defender,

it’s not a level playing field.

You don’t remember being in your mother’s womb when the chromosomes chose you,

Short poems

1.She’s got breast cancer, a tumour, like the catepillars she found destroying her lily.

She’s having a double masectomy and chemo. No longer can her lover fondle her breasts the way some boys build lego in the bedroom

1.Never mind the delicately lyrical minor poet,

he won’t mind as you mind your own business,

sitting on top of all your Goldilocks riches.

2.Footy kids, kicking youth around with their boots

An Aunt’s passing

The daffodils are blooming like bright, yellow haired children,

it’s been a hard year since you’ve been gone.

The dusty lines on your palms like tracks on a farm of where we come from.

Madonna Von Trapp (because the world is one big musical family)

Are you a female deer?

A touch of golden sunlight?

All the things I hold dear?

Or are you just a singer on top of some mountain,

I spotted the spotted bird lying dead in the gutter,

perhaps it flew too high.

I wanted to cry, but only the wind brought the tears to my eyes.

I was followed around the oval by twin puppies.

I’m sitting out in the beer garden with a pint of ale, about to impale my ears with the voices of the poets, we’re surrounded by the amber moat.

We should count our lucky stars that Lucy does love spells, she sleeps with feathered owls for cuddly toys.

I’m a transgender writer and poet, inspired by the life and death of David Bowie, Michael Hutchence, Amy Winehouse. Back at the turn of the millennium I got the autographs of all the musicians in the Melbourne punk rock band ‘the dead cowboys’ I changed my surname to Yowie because in Australia it’s a mythical aboriginal creature and also was once a…

Fitness Ring boxing studio

In the ring sizzling fists are pots on the hotplate.

The prize fighting monk,

he talks like he’s drunk

from all the fists that have sunk into his face.