Owen Bullock

Six Poems

inspired by L.A. Hindmarsh’s self-exposure

I am not a beautiful man sitting in the garden of secrets with a tumbler of flower petals
I am not a castrated faun rediscovering Glam Rock with philanthropist overtones
I am not a swimsuit doubling for a parachute
I am not an emblazoned eagle ready to die for the burger stand that offers the best 2-for-1
I am not asking for more by wanting to give, wanting to create


Creativity’s a wild pig that comes at you out of the bush when you’re isolated without a gun and uncertain of the knife in your hand. If someone were to control it, it would be a tame event, a habit. We die each day because we live.


definitions of play

doing something that isn’t there; making it up, seeing what happens, for the sake of; inviting, inviting others to join, playing games, making rules, revising breaking rules, assembling, destroying; going inside, finding out who isn’t there, finding out a god isn’t there, finding out; creating perceiving the world, translating self to outside and outside to self; following colours, sounds, the feeling of heartbeat, following sand on skin, milk on body, mud on face, piss on legs; telling lies, telling telling lies; not caring, climbing trees, jumping ditches, frightening the dog, tempting the snake, tempting fate, burning bridges; failing, it makes you.



overtaking forks don’t indicate

awwh ‘L’!

ride your palanquin

store capacitance

a long, mysterious question

quote chop
something up works

a tick to the beehive
serves animals

                extend customer experiences beyond the browser

tender bone

                she’s been shoulder-tapped

jaup the propitious light

                it’s a good day for rainbows


Let someone else be crazy

I was starting to get jittery, back and forth to the printing room with slight but important revisions, to the balcony to read, the desk to correct, when a man came in, sat at a cubicle, talked aloud to himself, ran frantic to the printer, exclaiming yes, that’s it and fuck, and I got on with what I should have been doing, let someone else be the crazy one today.


I’m tendrils today. Speak to me, I’ll write a poem. Show me the bark, I’ll plant you a tree. Crash me skyblue, I’ll comfort you a cloud. Stand at the bus reading a novel, I’ll oratorio right back at you in a strange and distant land she stood like no other fearless in the face of contumely. Take me to song and record a melody, I’ll be grounded.

Owen Bullock’s publications include urban haiku (Recent Work Press, 2015), A Cornish Story (Palores, 2010) and sometimes the sky isn’t big enough (Steele Roberts, 2010). He has edited a number of journals and anthologies, including Poetry NZ. He won the Canberra Critics’ Circle Award for Poetry 2015, and is a PhD Candidate in Creative Writing at the University of Canberra.
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