Don’t speak of petrichor

And a friendly reminder, as of April 2017, my first collection – BONE INK – is available here. This is one of the poems that didn’t make it into the collection.


Don’t speak of petrichor

At Leura Bakery the radio plays my murder ballad,
Jive Bunny – Tutti Frutti, C’mon Everybody.

The street outside is laden with tacky air
my ears frizzle
electric with the static between
cacoethes and imminent lightning. The boy

lifting sausage rolls is a picture
skin like vanilla slice, pear
and rhubarb loaf at his fingers.

Rock around the Clock, Wake up
Little Susie. He’s dancing an ancient
jive across the thoughts I’ve willed my life into.

Still life on the wall,
Lithgow Springs water.
I’m wearing Tevas

and slipping off my stool to speak to him.
I mention the Swinging Bridge,
a girl with horse flesh perfume,
a case of UDLs under the deserted house.
It’s enough to turn his head.







  1. interesting stuff, i especially enjoyed the description of the “boy lifting sausage rolls.” the combination of sight, smell, taste and vision is so vivid.

  2. This poem has such a great rhythm. It needs to be read aloud. I can image you performing this live in a smoke filled cafe of yesteryear with bongo drum accompaniment. Maybe you’d have a goatee and beret. A cafe in Leura of course, never Katoomba or heaven forbid Lithgow!

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