My body represents the coming together of a billion individual decisions , the collision of trillions of happenstance acts ,without any one I would not be me. I would not be here. For better or for worse I am the culmination of my line . From boat builders and sailors, tavern keepers and brewery workers…

St Cuthbert’s stood strong and fortified on a raised piece of ground. Its walls were thick concrete, ramparts for God.  Elysian defences. From its vantage one could gaze out at the Slaves of Satan across the street. Perhaps it was all the more reason for the thickness of the walls. When the stout church was…

Larkin subverted. Dedicated to my dad Paul and my grandmother Joan, both of whom slipped away . They fuck you up, your mum and dad.   They don’t mean to, but they do.   They slip away through nights and days  And take along some special bits of you. But they were fucked up in their turn…

It had a dark tower of ornate wood , beams and car crates, walls combined from detritus. Making do , no… making more than do, making beauty from that which was cast away. The wharenui smelt of charred wood , rich and reminiscent of ancestors , not mine but also mine. The charred smell was…

Silky questions, just asking with innocent sheen . Scrub away your reticence. Stand up and stand by, the truth is coming or perhaps it’s headed down the drain. A tongue of imperial leather, sliding over the subject, leaving scented flowers behind. The smell of the smartest brothel, Uber aromatics, all the perfume money can buy….

Between the Satan’s Slaves and the Sisters of Our Lady of Compassion sits the pub. Once upon a time it was our post office , the world changed, and piss replaced postage. Now I sit with my mother and sip beer, the ghost of my father stares at us across the street. The ham factory…

There is a sky of wind and scatter pointed rain high above this cocoon of tin, and glass and brick, its blackness so absolute , hiding saints and sins alike , and all we can ascertain is that at 3am when all questions come to light that he turned to the gods and gave forgiveness…

III Battleship grey day, stretched taut with needlework hard fingers. Wind ruffles Old Man Mānuka , it marbles the heavens. I accept the low hum of humanity into my room, windows opened. Cracks form and dark pungent strains of celeste blue spill through and it occurs to me that as much as anything I’m Tas-man-ian.