Feed on


I am intrigued by you. 

By your inspiration, your process, your thoughts.

Where do you sit when you write?

Do you pen it or tap tap tap?


At home,

The study, the office,

a cosy corner café with wi-fi?


Within procrastination city

You are not In Real Life. 

Yet I know that you

Breath and make love and you cry.


Here you share platitudes.

Gracious with each other. 





Reality in here

can be the reality of anonymity.


I am real. 

This is what I see when I am writing.




I wish I had a long dark room,

silent in the night to the world of Mummy and Carla,

With wall to ceiling bookshelves,

sighing under the weight of sturdy spines and wordy words.


There is a gum tree outside,

and here on my desk

is the only plant I haven’t killed. 



I smell vanilla and paper.

And see

Scattered images, attempts at inspiration.


Today they are little squares of mostly me. 

Little me. 

I was as real then as I am now.

Yet before me they sit

like the avatars of the one hundred and forty.


But I tell you that it’s true…


I am real.


And so are you.

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