A is for antimony

You drop a little in their tea.

Their hair falls out, their frame grows thin.

They die a bag of bone and skin.


I used to write like Legolas walking over snowfalls without leaving footprints behind.

In the last few years, it feels like trying to hop through neck-high molasses with both ankles tied together (thanks awfully for the toxic life circumstances, City of Rockingham). Aside from an early burst while we could still get away without me working, my life in Karratha has meant I’ve had to drag myself towards reincorporating writing one shattering fingernail at a time. The regular Lego-review blogging is a part of that: establishing the habit once more; rediscovering my voice; flexing muscles of discipline and routine that have atrophied.

The decision to discard my previous career and go back to writing whatever the hell I want to, just for the hell of it, without worrying about trying to build some sort of cynical career act that wasn’t working for me anyway, is another part.

And it’s borne its first fruit: the first draft of The Alphabet Book for Young Murderers, a 29-stanza satirical probably-a-picture-book-but-definitely-for-adults is completed.

Can I sell it? Absolutely buggered if I know. But it’ll have it’s aural premiere this weekend when I perform it as part of the Red Earth Arts Festival Beat and Eatz open-mic night, which I’ll be attending as part of my local writers group (I’ve gone back to that, after a year away, too). I’m sure Karratha is more than ready for a satirical black comedy poem about mass murder while they’re chowing down on their gozlemes and milkshakes.

As ever, the Battersby formula remains: find an audience, go as far as possible in the opposite direction……

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