Men
are made to invade and to hit
grim-faced and intense, they force me to feel
nothing but them: they bruise me
then leave me
pleading for pain, and all abused flesh
like meat on a spit
Some lamb
so when I’m empty
I want to be beaten
down, again, or to slash my face
which men have seen but
Men die
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Australian-born, with English mother, has lived in several Australian cities and in London. Travelled widely. Way way back when, published widely as a poet and short story writer. For the first 20 years of my working life I worked as an entertainment journalist, publicist, PR consultant and in advertising and media agencies. In the second 20 years, I worked in marketing roles at non-profit organisations then retrained as a teacher, primarily teaching English to non-English speaking, newly-arrived refugees. Also did miserable McJobs, and a long, happy stint at an art gallery.
