The Launch of Verity La Mark II

The story of the best Australian online journal continues…

Verity La has been redesigned and restored.

VL has been supporting and publishing established and emerging writers for years, myself included on multiple occasions. Steered by some of the greats; Nigel Featherstone, A.S. Patric, Stuart Barnes, Ramon Loyola, and now, under the current managing editor Michele Seminara it has undergone some major renovations, including the podcast, generous payments to contributors, the release of their first eBook anthology and the launch of the vamped up new website.

Jump over to Verity La to check out the new image.

While there, have a look at The Hunger, only AUD10.00 for some of the best writing over the last 8 years, with all proceeds being returned to future contributors – a worthy cause for starving artists.


Image ©Verity La 2018

∃volution of a Kind

how do we rule?

.           in words derived from Latin?

whispers from a dead tongue?


rolling with the punches

crippled by the lunches

feasts of fat men

suffering in splendour

priding themselves

on their wheels

and dreaming their

machinery dreams

but still

.           just desperate apes

.                       trying to escape


A version of this poem was first published in Verity La, 12 June, 2012

Published in The Frequency of God, Close-Up Books, December 2017





The first candle she lit was for Grandad. She doesn’t remember much about the old man. She remembers his baritone hum and the smell of tobacco. And she remembers being carelessly happy.

The next candle was for Daddy, or more specifically for the kiss he gave her when he said goodbye. She sat by the window for days waiting for him to come home. When she realised he wasn’t coming back she lay on her bed holding the cheek where he’d kissed her.

There was a candle for the boyfriend. The boyfriend she’d loved, not the same boyfriend who’d drunk too much that night, threw her down, and took what can only be given.

A candle for Mum, she’d found her on the couch, the television blaring with some midday pop psychology talk show. She looked peacefully asleep. The empty sheets of zolpidem lay carefully placed on the coffee table, a glass of water lay spilled on the floor.

The last candle she lit was for herself. Or rather for who she’d been.

She stared at the candles, watched the flames flicker, watched the wax liquify and drip.

She closed her eyes as the tears came and sang in a whisper to herself; ‘happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you.’

With all of her remaining strength she took in a deep breath and blew the candles out.


Published on Verity La., 7 September, 2011



Hell’s Band

Tom Waits’ bleeding knuckles

painting the piano keys.

Keith Richard’s slits a finger

sliding over the Devil’s symphony.


Bukowski stands at the mic

calling everyone up to fight.

The MC dressed in leather

promises one hell of a night.


On drums Keith Moon is vomiting

while John Bonham waits his turn,

through trumpet Miles is jonesing,

waiting for his shit to burn.


Demon Beasts of Bourbon

piss elixir into your throat,

the barman spews toxic venom

through the wicked teeth of a goat.


The bar room’s fucked up crowded,

the bar maids are filthy mean,

but give me a smokin’ dirt house

to any sterile ku klux clean.


Published on Verity La., July 2010