Lee Kofman

I heard some Russian poets have been recently resurrected. Visotsky ended up being resurrected in Melbourne, in a bar called The Men's Gallery. Naturally, he asked for vodka. The young bartender with the fountain of spiky hair enquired whether he …

Writes poetry about her cat Because she has no one else to write about Tends to stray dogs Because humans bite Feeds a bird Barks at her doctor: No more medications! They're made of animal fat

It should be taught how not to choose your lovers. Lesson number one: beware of men who go days without kissing you with their tongue, saying they have intimacy problems. Then they kiss you for hours, wounding your lips, wearing …

Nowadays, when I do not make love, I often lose my body. In a shower my gaze slips. I feel shy noticing I have a pink, fleshy arse.

Look at my mother. She has this talent for dismissing hundreds of years of desire. She lifts her hand, dripping fat and kindness. Shakespeare, Schmakespeare, she says. What this Julia really needs is to find a faithful, Jewish husband.