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Curfew (2012)

There is something so special about a book, a song, a film that makes you bawl your eyes out.


I am not a vocal person. I speak softly. I have the occasional braying laugh. When I cry, tears stream down my cheek, but if I was facing away, you would never know. The tale told in Curfew is one that bound itself to my heart then wrung all pain from it. It left me with the feeling of utmost grief, and at the last moment, it blinked, and handed me pure joy!

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Treetop Chatter

Sitting, quiet, watching, thinking
As chatter surrounds
And footsteps shatter the film of the swamp

Across the flat where lilies, bare against the dirt, subside,
A breeze disturbs the spear grass
Last year flooded
This year dry

Mosquitos flee the rising sun,
Giving ground to greenflies beneath the shade,
While from the shallows, a staircase rises.
Solemn & proud in its testament to out-dated metallic perfection,
Twisting upwards to a platform packed with personality.

A treetop refuge from the day’s heat,
Revealed in its glory,
Beneath the emotions of those who stride through the ankle deep oils of well soaked foliage;
Unconscious to the benefits of tee-tree oil exfoliant.

Bound for relaxation & idle banter amidst the miasma of smoke that spilled downwards
Away from the clear sky.

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In which the painters’ inspired creation

Fearless of staring eyes
As rake her back, to then ignore,
For every stroke a conscious move,
Out of tune to the soundtrack’s turn.

Turnout upon the painted board.

Without boredom, eyes are stolen,
Fixed in place by wonder –
Full of figure, a man is born.

Borne first in colour, detail transformed.

Emotion, tears of paint in motion,
Drawn by classic melodies
That emote devotion.

Impromptu waltz upon the brick.
Future’s glue will stick
These designs, then blend
With knives & times
Of written words, arrayed.

Writ inside a lizard’s skull
With golden magnetic,
High trumpets majestic.

To herald the birth of euphoric zines
These, the lines, are mixed between.

The soul side chorus track,
Betwixt the gullet
When the dreamer yawns,
In stone, on canvas,
Beneath the light.

Stand back for the dingoes, those ochre dogs
Of communal thought that think and run,
Through the city the descendants wrought.

Think, for this is what the imaginarium brought.