Envelope Point


In pajamas I am sooky for you, a child. Curl up into your timber body straight and flat looking up. There are no hinges to extend yourself, manoeuvre yourself, gather me up in you. You pull yourself up when you’ve had enough, pull the sheets off you and fling them on me in an envelope point.

You pull your pants up, button them to your hips and stretch up to the daddy longlegs family looking down upon us. You are in front of me, your black hair. Your body. I know it like a cow knows her calf but that body has never belonged to me. I have touched it, stroked it, smelt it, grabbed it, tickled it, kissed it, felt it engulf me in the earliest grey shimmering light in the early hours of the AM inside my house. Though that body has never belonged to me.

When I lift my shirt up in front of the mirror I see my bare breasts and my concave belly that growls at me with a sickness that apparently only you can take away at that point. I think to myself this body is mine again, it’s just mine. It’s back to being mine.

In a piece of bread I was only allowed the crust, yet I gave my whole loaf. Who then I wonder feels emptier for it now.




There is this woman, bless her. She tells me I should not get so wrecked before bed. That my ability to remember my dreams is being affected, she says. She says I must dream and I should remember all my dreams, note them down even because it was a good sorting out of the mind.

She advises me of several plants to ingest to help me dream better, dream more clear. Mugwort, she tells me. Mugwort. Have it in a tea, she says.

I go home and I have one glass of wine instead of four and 3 tokes of a joint instead of a full one and I drink a cup of mugwort tea.

Then I  go to sleep and I dream about me and her husband all night long.



The name of the town most can’t pronounce is somewhere between the glitz and tits and high rises & a hippy town clinging onto its sinking charm. You’ll find a long road stretching out behind the beach there, if you follow it far enough it leads you to the old highway where banksia and bottlebrush make way for cane fields eventually and their dancing silhouettes tickle the air where the coast line falls away.

His caravan is fixed lengthways in a holiday park, a choko vine creeping up the side. At the front of is a garden bed with young paw paw trees as high as his clicky hip with leaves embroided like his late wife’s lacey slip, their trunks patterned like a python’s skin. Succulents grow in terracotta pots and saucepans. The steps up to the door he’s made himself from mismatched bricks. Through the rectangular-cut windows of the caravan wooden shelves sit tacked together with old bits of pine and enough crockery for the air force, just in case.

On a bicycle he gets around, peddles his way into town, his pension cheque in pocket, a cotton dressing over the cut out skin cancers on his nose, sunglasses like a buses windscreen, fly swatter thongs like an old mattress worn in. Grabs a Goldie and puts a bet on at the tavern, cycles back through the banksias. He takes his time.

In the afternoon light he makes a cuppa, sits on a foldable lime splice chair faded with rusted legs and watches the flurry of colour, all the tarps and tantrums, the clang of mallets on tent pegs, snags cooking, kids yelling, the sweet gasoline tang of lamps, 4WDs with surf rod feelers, bush turkeys with their prehistoric heads inside plastic bags. There he is, 75 year old Clive. King on a throne of holiday makers left behind camping paraphernalia.