The sky is a non-event. The last squall is a fading fingerprint on the horizon. I’ll miss you, the hunger for rain and time, the passion for shelter. We hoarded days as if they were the answer. I remember a downpour on the beach, its roughness falling all over us. The ocean was a wall so high it lay down for us and still we couldn’t see over it. An undertow of happiness hauled at me. I wanted to drown in the hours we spent together. Every minute was a delicious dead end. […]
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There are only so many ways a boy
can save his mother and I know none.
After my mother passed away, freed from her suffering, the house
felt empty, and the sea, churning waves, glanced up to hill’s crest.
My brother tried to strangle me but a neighbour saw it happen.
Nightlights strobe through the window’s condensation, signals from anywhere, a stratosphere, at 3 or 4 am—sometime to find oneself suddenly awake, making haste across a country that will forever contain others’ breadth of residential moonshadow. Or an owl’s. The train’s motion is all; sleep the only known border when travelling through such space. Then slowing to a halt, somewhere as gripping as grease, wheels seizing the rails, as if a reason to continue on into the long night is duly being mustered, a wearisome matter. Sleep, then. The resumed rhythm of the train under the stars […]
Art Gallery of New South Wales, May 2017 A man undressed, lying on his back, propped on pillows. His legs are open. His pencilled lines curve: stroked pubic curls, weighted scrotum— The penis: asleep, hooded. Careless thighs exit the page. More. I have never fastened a ticking watch around a cock and balls, or tied a neat bow around a man’s girth as a present. The soles of these feet: a wrinkled cave of skin, akin to a woman’s soft receiving.
I Saw the Devil in the Cane Fields by Shastra Deo
Walking With Lucien Stryk by Anthony Lawrence
Quasimodo’s Lament by Judith Beveridge
‘Yorick’ by John Kinsella
autumn: after Rilke by Jonathan Dunk
Wild Horses by Jodie Hollander