The Delusional Suite

The Delusional Suite

Grand Delusions

Lost in sleepwalking halls.
A grand piano, stage light;
none of the above. I open a door.
A breath breaks mooring,
finds my shores.
I know where I am now.
Where had I got to (or with whom)
before this moment?
Brought home
by the sound of his breathing.
You can tell a good man
from the sound of his breathing.

Red Emperor Delusions

Fishing line catches your boots.
You trip on your own delusion,
fall flat on that rocky tale – a married man.
A lure is a pretty piece of torture.

Amputated Delusions

No-one wants a scene.
No-one wants a pirate song
precisely when it’s needed.
Cold hook; wooden kick;
beard black with rage.
The daggers come out.

In the morning,
hopes that all will be forgotten
but a parrot repeats every syllable.

We never wanted a scene,
sweet, amputated sailor.
We limped around one,
then fell off the plank.
I was a poor treasure chest.
I miss your marauding.

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Girl, the things that get stuck in your head

Girl, the things that get stuck in your head

How many things you break
while drunk?

A sacrifice isn’t
unless it hurts.

A sacrificial glass
makes you sweep the floor at last.

the things that get stuck in your head.

Stuck. Might as well
stay where we are; go inside
your overturned heart.
A family man, traffic jam, a fish stranded
by waves. I roll it gently;
set it swimming again.

Finding a bone as big as my own
with a bullet blown through
the idea of you.

Finding the matching foolish grin,
bleached white, losing
dignity to the moon.

the things that get stuck in your head.

Things studied at great length
are made new. You shift the view, tell me
teeth are not bones, dreams
are nothing but a continuous search for you.

Web adrift,
attached to no thing.
A sexual spider, still
without strings.

Let me come to rest at you.
Still my wandering.
Let me try your strings. Things
get stuck in my head –
you, mostly.




Found bones

Bones are not teeth are not bones.

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Hi, poetry lovers (and folks who thought they could access something saucy through my title). (Well, you can, actually, so read on …)
My new book!
Yes, it has been released into the world and it looks a little like this:
final cover copyActually – exactly like that. Cover image is by the fabulously talented Kit Kelen (Painting #48 from Pictures of Nothing at All, Macao Museum of Art 2014).

This book contains poetry written between the years 2010-2014. So if you were between my sheets during this time, you might want to see if you feature in it …

The book itself: DIRTY H2O hones in on the gritty, sexy and disturbing things people do to/with each other on various levels: political, social, personal and historical. While dealing with the dirt, the collection, nonetheless, makes space for forgiveness and love. Chris Mansell says about DIRTY H2O: ‘Turbulent, hot and irascible, Thibodeaux’s work is Top End true, by which I mean, true poetry. Poetry that knows its place but never knows its place.’

So you want to buy it, yeah ..? Of course you do! It’s only $15! Best to buy it here:

Alternatively, you can hit me up on:

I am about to take down from this site any of the poetry that is contained in the book. So, quick – download and save to your desktop! No, of course you won’t do that. I’m sure you’ll support independent publishers and that most threatened of species, the poet, through purchasing this book. I’d be very grateful for the opportunity to rest by your pillow.

Thank you for all the reading – past, present and future. And thank you, Mulla Mulla Press. x

At my WordStorm launch. Photo: Jen Jewel Brown

At my WordStorm launch.
Photo: Jen Jewel Brown

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Prettier Suns


drop the pride.

you’re not the only one needing pain relief.

Mars glares at the others
in a cardinal cross
you’ve both been hammered on.

it’s only a shell
and the meat is sweet.

it’s just a roar
without teeth.

The sun has Leo,
the moon has Cancer
and would rather not talk about it.

The sun has Leo,
the moon has Cancer
but what’s this ownership about?

It’s about fear.
You should own up to that
and move into love.

The moon eclipses the sun –
not enough to block his burn,
but enough to make him prettier
than he is.

She makes you prettier, Leo,
and you make her beam.
So calm that self-immolating sun.
You haven’t finished this path.
You’ve just begun.

Annular Solar Eclipse (NASA photo)

Annular Solar Eclipse (NASA photo)

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Saturdays with Sauce

Saturdays with Sauce

Bus stops and tomato sauce
are inseparable.

The nutter
will always find you.

What makes hot buns cross? What cross
did you bear when my arms went cold?

We were inseparable
and the surgery was cruel.

What could possibly
alarm an alarm?
It’s already screaming his name
this fucking early.

Sometimes you’ll bruise legs
getting a spider or a lover
past their death wish.

Poster sells ‘The Lost Boys’.
But aren’t they all?
All aching for the womb but fighting reason
and the GPS.

Muscle and tatts but scared stiff
her long, blonde hair will be too strong for him.

Two things died on their heartfelt leap to beauty.
One was a frog.
I was there at the time.

Autotype punches ‘orgasm’,
‘orgasm’. But it’s ‘organising’
I’m after, and not for a threesome.

Intimacy. No. None of that.
A man’s body finds mine
and I scream and have to apologise
to the bus stop: ‘Sorry.
Was not expecting flesh.’

All of that
on a messed up Saturday morning
with too many deadlines and not enough sex
or frogs.
Then he says he’s proud of me.
And buns, crosses and tomato sauce
make sense at last.
And it’s almost happiness.
Perhaps not at this stop
but the one after.

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Matchbox Engineer

Matchbox Engineer

Trying not to burn bridges
but your fingers hiss like flame throwers,
your hair is soaked in metho
and your feet tap
tunes for a bomb.
Trying not to burn bridges
but you watch him drive away
without objections.
Your hair reeks.
Your feet would chase after him
but they’re somewhere beneath a bridge
and an incoming tide.
You are no engineer
and struggle with bridges,
burning or saving.
Due to this lack of training,
your lover leaves you
with a river of grief
to cross.




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Double-Shot Homeless

fish heads edited






Double-Shot Homeless
we’re all on the brink of crazy. we pick
our scabs in the street, ride
caffeine like horses, take
the hand squeeze.
we wet our faces
when nothing can be done, forget
our words, whisper
when the pain hurts our ears. we eat
what little we can – our guts
crammed with pleas
we wish our mothers would rise. we wish
our mothers would rise. we lose
our sons,
breathe other families heading home.

Pleasures grow small,
laughter crawls.
In the morning, rosella petals,
tissue-thin but, nonetheless, pink.

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