Tim Grey

Tim Grey is a writer from Melbourne, who works a journalist, photographer and editor. He’s also part of The Red Room Company, where he helps create, publish and promote poetry in unusual ways.




“it bundles in the mangrove, caulked
on waterline. the etymology incomplete;
black and clear below. 

a second beer swims and fizzles
with repetition. sunrise panics and
spills like breath or my letter. 

hair like hair; my hand dripping out
like your hand or my hair. red quartz
lay like leaves everywhere. don’t 

american jets curl and wake
us, their hands the definite articles
that knit the map to land. 

wood unravels a proletarian scent,
water burns a bag in the earth,
underneath. we wait. 

hematite raft climb down and go
somewhere secret. busts in the ash-sand
peculiar grass waving a grid 

on the sea-bed, the half moon
on a gorge. say nothing but the sand-path, which
is all the word means: sister”



flat sunlight transports its late sticks to that other, bees
plumb and phase     , meddle with transparency; the lip
of smell. sunlight palls, a bridge through substance   parted
              spring is mouth in her small privacy. she watches
girls float on the asphalt pause, pool between convent and
Brougham, imagine they’re unseen.  iron fencing clots and
weaves.                 a fairlane slows to boat. from the facility
above, the westerly fumbling at the window, grasslands
pressed against almost, municipal. the dryer wets the walls. 

                                                           small language of her
shopping closing on the bench. the elevator’s every zone