Intern daze

I write small, fanciful articles here and there for Broadsheet Media these days.

Egg's Olympic Lunchboxes




Laduree Opens in Sydney





All the Pretty Lights on Gertrude

The Cats' Mother

You smell to me like kittens and baby’s milk.

Inside odours are where you hide

and cry over midday movies

that remind you of your childhood

and of your father,

who always eluded you.

You prefer not to drive at night,

your bird-thighs wobble beneath the wheel,

and the TV set flickers as you sleep,

its chatter cradling

your skinny, lonely frame in the dark.

I wonder why you aren’t kept snug by

that heart of yours; it melts marshmallows

and latches softly onto mine,

as your cats paw at your cheeks

to wake you in the rose-lit mornings.

Those sad, doe eyes are frozen over;

ghostly pools, they cannot thaw.

They no longer know or dream of

spring, or summer, or sundrenched chests,

or toasty laughter.

I wish my own love for you could,

like talcum powder on bath-wrinkled toes,

dry up the moisture of your woes.

I wish, while alone in your kitchen,

you could love you

like your cats do.