Becki Logue

I bet Becki Logue doesn’t give a fuck about

recommended daily intakes.

Becki Logue gets into scraps on Facebook.

Becki Logue has doe eyes rimmed in Rimmel

And slags off other residents

On the community Facebook page.


Becki Logue is a badass




With her push-up bra

And perfectly angled selfies

And appropriately cryptic gifs

in the comments section

To shut down those who try

to put her in her place


Becki Logue

Spells her name with an ‘i’

She got 402 comments on

Approachable Vegans Australia when she wrote


It makes me so fkin mad how some of us are new vegans or

trying to transition and as soon as we ask a question that

may be an obvious one, people like to be bloody smart

asses and be really rude


Sorry not sorry if this offends anyone and I hope I don’t get

kicked out. But I’m sick of feeling so stupid for asking



Becki says

A girl is only as good as her eyebrows

Becki says

Never forget 9/11

Today: Becki’s aunty’s cat is missing

Today: Becki is counting on you

Becki Logue needs your help with a petition

“Cadbury: Make Caramilk chocolate a permanent thing”

Join Becki and 18, 801 supporters today.


I kind of hate Becki Logue

But I kind of love her too

Because she’s not afraid to arc up

And she’s trying to find her way

And I reckon we don’t have much in common

except the community Facebook page

But Becki Logue puts it out there

And I just hover and watch


When I was young

The march and tick and bureaucratic thump

of to-do held no sway

behind my closed door.


Hours would disappear

Summoning a future in oil pastels and wishes.

Interpellating dreams with music and tears.


My room. The hand-made desk and shelf

with peeling and blistered paint

The pillow ancient and compressed

by sweating dreams and practiced kisses

The sketches on the ceiling

Clumsy art

about clumsy hopes

The dusty dollies watching

with impassive glass eyes


The boom-box, powder-blue

The stretched cassettes

The hand-held phone with sticking

latch and wax-encrusted listening holes

that patiently transmitted

hours and hours of adolescent longing and

speculation and

hormone-soaked analysis


The rows of journals

The dainty wallpaper, patterned roses

and ornamental lilies, stared at so often

that a crone, a savage Rochester-profile

revealed themselves in the pattern.


My room. Incubator of dreams

Spasms of desire

radiating longing for the future self.


My own children are on the verge of that age


As I perch my glasses another few

millimetres towards the tip of

my nose to write

As I contemplate the forced foreclosure of

my womb

As I find myself in my bedroom again

with nothing to do but to think

He sleeps beside me.

And they in their rooms.


I bite my tongue to resist the urge to call them out

The urge to have them close

To have them younger


They are old enough that I

remember that age now

Of longing and vibration

Of possibility and despair

Of everything so emergent and bright

But still safe in your room