CONTRIBUTORS

Anders Villani

Anders Villani is the author of Aril Wire (Five Islands Press, 2018) and Totality (Recent Work Press 2022). Assistant poetry editor of Australian Book Review, he lives in Melbourne.

Valour

If he were angrier, it would be better for them. She would like that more. Want him in a way she can’t anymore. They can’t be in the car anymore. Camp in an empty lot beside a football oval off …

Posted in 109: NO THEME 12 | Tagged

On the Rise

All morning, the brothers work their father. They break him—he leaves his odd jobs undone and drives them to the tennis club. White cloud banks avalanche. Wasps cloud the drink taps. Summer heat rubbers the air treacly with the wattle …

Posted in 105: NO THEME 11 | Tagged

Compassionate Grounds

Nausea ransoms hour twelve of the second flight. It wants the Dramamine you refuse to have left in Melbourne. In Planet of the Apes, the human discovers a talent for invective still prodigious. Voices breach my headphones, fingers knife open …

Posted in 102: GAME | Tagged

Moravian Eclipse Myth (Corona of Hunters and Prey)

Seven women roam a caldera in the mountains. One starred in a ‘90s sketch comedy—wigged damsel Fabio strummed the lute for. One knows how arms at sea say, Save me, above the waves and below; her red one-piece’s cut grooves …

Posted in 87: DIFFICULT | Tagged

Young Animism

A white-blonde boy stands toe-to-wave on a surf beach in Queensland, midwinter. He has just dug from the shallows a small, ruddy shell. Some kind of ark, perhaps although the plump red-lipped mouth—that cups his right ear, nibbles it, hisses …

Posted in 80: NO THEME VI | Tagged

Bedtime Story/Reveille

Snow can’t have fallen. There was a chessboard on a scintillating bluff of stairwell flesh—what-all he up endued, or down, with pivots, concretised. It smelt of old spit- air let from a carnival mallet. 5 a.m. He’s in a bed, …

Posted in 70: UMAMI | Tagged

Learn the Flowers

Entry for February 5th, 1798. Wordsworth walks to Stowey with Coleridge. She observes some trees putting up red shoots. And then, innocently, she signs off: Query—What trees are they?. In twelfth-grade philosophy class you visited a Buddhist temple, somewhere out …

Posted in 69: TRANSTASMAN | Tagged

Cabin Near Stirling

Vision crowded with mass coronal injections —the pit he’d kicked in the snow behind their untreated log cabin so shallow he was shitting on himself— skin too numb to notice, was this one of the welcome numbs—White Sallee copse too …

Posted in 68: NO THEME IV | Tagged