the revolution is my ex gf

Posted on May 4, 2016 by Hugh Schwarz
when the revolution & i broke up we said it was mutual but it wasn’t. the revolution now says the ease with which i have moved on is hurtful & has affected her confidence in history. although i strove for benevolence the revolution suspects i never loved her at all. the revolution wholeheartedly stands by her uncompromising views on love. the revolution & i are in the acrimonious process of divvying up our remaining friends. the revolution says i was always too concerned with what people thought of me. the revolution says we used to be about more than just ourselves. the revolution says my new partner is attractive, sure, but isn’t she a bit basic. it was so good in the beginning, the revolution laments, where did it all go wrong. the revolution says i was always looking towards the future & fretting about the past, never living for the moment. the revolution says i was more into the idea of her than the reality. the revolution knew that i was a flirt. the revolution accused me, rightly, of never giving it my all. the revolution & i agree that we both knew it was over long before we called it quits—things never had to get this bad. privately the revolution & i worry that we blew the best thing we’ll ever have. the revolution & i promised each other that if we were old & alone we’d give it another shot. i told the revolution that she of all people should know things change. she told me to fuck off, she was never my revolution anyway.


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Mutton-birds

Posted on May 4, 2016 by Emily Crocker

We spiraled down the escarpment road, with the dog,
keenly Houdini-twisted out of his harness, panting at the view,
and found the beach below torn open.
Great hunks of sand tossed crudely from the dunes.

A mass grave of mutton-birds had been swept ashore
resting in a gentle swash-curved line.
Charcoal thumb-smudge across the berm.
Do you suppose there must have been a storm out on the sea?

You asked, but neither of us knows what happens
out further than the frothing waves. The dog,
a westie-bitsa-something-terrier, nudges at a corpse.
Finds it unsavoury. Common. Looks up,
shakes out his skin, twitches his nostrils.
Throw the ball! Throw the ball! a swinging tongue begs
the taste of mortality already forgotten.

But the death sitting mucus-heavy
on the muffled ocean breath, tarnishes
that pure grey sky, for us proves harder to shift,
convicted in its cheap talismans;
beaks and feet and feathers and flesh.
The waves crumble ever, as always, in.

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Criminal Thoughts

Posted on May 4, 2016 by Jane Downing

In which I realise I will not make an attractive corpse
In which I carry a broken watch so they’ll know the time of my demise
In which I half burn a letter in the grate
In which I leave the curtains wide so I can draw them deep into the night
against the stalker’s prying eyes

In which I plan to wear a wealth of gold so I’ll have green bones

In which I file my nails with a look of disdain like a cop show receptionist
In which I practise my identifying-the-loved-one-in-the-mortuary face
In which I make a mistake but that’s okay because it is someone else’s clue
In which my life of criminal activity bangs me up for another stretch
between the sheets

In which I flip open my notebook with one hand
You must understand I have to ask these questions

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Dream Diary, Anderton Street

Posted on May 4, 2016 by Lachy McKenzie
I dreamt that our kitchen cupboards were no longer kept in logical order. This was cause enough to welcome heartbreak. The drawback of a dream, like unrequited love, is that only one person can occupy it at a time. Luckily, I awoke to the increasingly warm embrace of economic latency—and, from out back, the vacuous clucking of suburban chickens with secular names. Such as Warren, such as Clive. The cat that lived here before us paws the door, bringing with it presents: soft-drink cups, empty protein shakes, plastic straws. Sure of our refuse, his glittery collar reads: WILD FOREVER. Adornment, diamantes, formal splendour. In the distance, over Kyeemagh, a silhouette dances against the dissolving dawn. I’ve never known what to make of breakfast.


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Humid Mirror

Posted on May 4, 2016 by Martin Kovan

Days cyclic as Rangoon traffic turning so many yugas of hostaged
time, at any node of its unraveling a thousand words ransomed
to a thousand other gods of perfect memory. Jaundiced light at the
edges of uncounted towns, dogs and barbershops, old men
with tinned food in their hands, people on bicycles looping
between potholes on roads that cross India, China, places
between designation, unrepresented in official-worldese.
A woman stretching to reach a single papaya on a tree, the
birds that rise up when the boys on bikes take the billowing
curtains of daylight into greying fields and palm tree groves,
the solitary shrine with its dripping candle, the coitus of gods
kept close in the sanctum where none can overhear them,
ringing bells, ringing bells, in the dusk, through the night…

Who saw any of it, from some concealed place? All the worlds
that swam into view, and receded. The half-demolished buildings,
engorged moon hung low and pregnant with an unshed blood, past
midnight at the provincial station where in a yard of broken glass a
girl showed the amnesia pubis under her skirt and motioned a stranger
to come. Who saw the theatre minus all spectators, calling from some
other barely-held frame, trains racketing through plural globes of life
untouching, unrelated but contiguous in some apparent space, boys with
soccer-balls, girls singing within earshot of a warzone, days before their
wooden stilt-houses slid down the mountainside. Office-workers on
the suburban lines didn’t read it in the thumb-smudged papers left on
seats behind the morning rush. Umbrellas against the radium glow of
premature sun, cobbler of sweat putting new paan in his mouth, become
a master of knees and torn, rain-washed newsprint. In some places no-one
could ever cross the streets, you must stand and wait a lifetime, guarantees
in hand, letters of recommendation to an eyrie in the air on the 19th floor…

Who would reach there, or if reaching fail to unburden wings and fly across
to Macau or Rio de Janeiro, or somewhere that had never yet featured in a
motion-picture for stateless driftlife? Still the woman who cut coconuts
for iced-drinks had I.D. papers in a curbside drawer, and spoke to the
delivery-boy with the benefit of only five teeth which she counted on
large, saurian fingers. Not too far away her incoherent daughter who
walked epicycles around the house and only for brief moments gazed out
a window at the passing clouds. To passersby she was a piece of brittle,
frayed wire. Would she have a funeral? The delivery-boy might know,
or the half-sized man who lived at the bus-station, with no arms on his
ironing-board torso. His neck and missing shoulders were the same part
of delicate plank with a chess-piece head on top, the head of a pawn who
had only ever moved ahead, one step at a time. There was another habitué,
carrying a dozen shopping-bags who whirled around him like a satellite,
an exotic, large, plastic Chinese bird, space-eyes a-flutter. All in space,
cycling in wide concentric circles, the traffic alone a certainty in the
flux. We’d never fly to Rio but it was the notion alone that counted…

Words were everywhere, to be sold on street-corners, in bunches
beside enormous flowers and fruit-towers, girls with rafflesia mouths
and kohl-rimmed assurances. The rain came down, came down, on our
mutual parade. Honeyed light at the edges of the fields, gongs sounding
at the beginning and end and in the middle, bodies moving and turning
through time that as it rang had no foundation. Whatever happened next
was something that had happened before. You swam, saw and cycled like
a water-dragon through liquid forests of event, some luck, much death
and home-coming. In the mirrors of the tea-shops, the coffin sweatshops,
in the gold-markets and trinket stores the aging eyes and teeth and death’s
heads looking through, right at you, smell of decay between your feet,
incense rising at the temples and the humid mirrors full of happenstance or
possibility, each branching-off a tributary of another, not truly replicated,
nothing so certain or perfect, never fractal in the repeating but repetition
itself that would every sun-blinded morning recur and recur and recur,
vertiginous blur of prismatic lives in the markets and roadsides and
foodhalls, allcomers to the feast, primeval dog-headed servants at the gates
letting the guests through. Megaphones announced it, bells ringing through
the night, the various marriages and their blessings amplified through rubbish
laneways and you passed, you passed through to another place, another
town, uncounted, unsought after those that had come before …

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‘I Love You’ and ‘I Still Call Australia Home’ Meet at Daisy Bates’

Posted on May 4, 2016 by Michael Farrell

A solid phrase can be hard to grasp. I can say
it and mean it here but not there, where Daisy Bates
is a conduit. Places where Peter Allen irons the Dadaist blue
skies, with the Nolans and a few wet chooks. Toast’s popping
up, kettles are boiling, books are being taken off the shelf
to whack things with. Sidney Nolan’s just out of sight
painting a brolga in a miner’s helmet. Daisy Bates is a
word atmosphere. (You are in Pasto; you are in Cartagena.)
There
are a lot of tracks out there made by humans. The
unsaid is circling; being circled. A lion of some kind (or
labrador) lies by the fire. Knowledge settles in. It comes from
the one who runs the Post Office. A postcard for the
kids in the Qantas ad. You can try to hang on
to that word but it’s gone. The toaster’s Daisy Bates. The
table’s Daisy Bates. It was a season in hell, with smoke
and the smell of rancid water. Breaker Morant flies over in
a labrador. ‘I’ve been a gal on the town, but now.’
‘I love you’ flies over in a giant wet cat. It
gives an impression of rain to the town below. The toast’s
veiled on the Edwardian rack, the kettle wears mustard riding gloves
‘I Still Call Australia Home’ evokes Daisy Bates at the pianola

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You Kept Up the Swell and Arched it Over

Posted on May 4, 2016 by Annie Blake

for Frank


Here’s your daddy’s Valiant. Now you can start growing
up from where you left off. The first baby came and then the second and then the fifth.
When the kids are older, I said, we’ll take them surfing at Jan Juc.
Then you drove one of our girls down the highway to show her
the canola fields when they opened their hands bright yellow.

The photo of you on your bike is still stuck to the fridge –
when you were young, the breeze barely found its way from under
the carport and into your room.
The Australian grass – the heat that prickles,
my dad always drove us to the beach. They were the best days I can remember.

The fringed orange bedspread, the psychedelic lamp,
the vacuumed carpet. I remember the smell of furniture polish
on Saturdays and the photo of my dad when he was young.
He always said he dreamed of living on a farm, I can hear the sweep
of clean silver when the waves start diving in.

I can still see the kid who drowned there.
Everything was sepia in those days – everything got passed down
with a child’s smile. Even the clink of bottles lined up on the edge
of the lawn and your dad’s smoker’s breath kept you inside
his jacket. It always felt like the early mornings

you come home and feel happy nightshift is over.
Dad was always mowing the grass – the lawns were always turning yellow.
We used to take long drives into the country and stop at the river.
I always wanted to be one of those 80’s boys jumping off
the rope. The highway has always been so long –

the street lights are new and it can now take 110. It was one of the kids’ turn
to take a ride. She sat on the hot vinyl seat with her new sunglasses on.
You cruised her down the Western Highway
without the gravel and the dust. I must say it was you
who somehow kept up the swell and arched it over.

When you took out the car last you got stuck
with it behind the pub. Your tone sounded grounded
over the phone – you said, it’s getting dark now
and the men are getting drunk. The tow truck isn’t here;
it’s Friday and I just wanna come home.

Posted in 74: NO THEME V | Tagged

Handbrake

Posted on May 4, 2016 by Alison Gorman

Six years old. You are eleven.
Our mother parks her boxy corolla
outside the newsagent’s. The road
is flat-like it’s been eyeballed
with a spirit level. She counts coins

from her unzipped purse, pencils the expense
in her notebook and speaks an instruction
I can’t remember. Perhaps it’s easier
to leave the two of us in the car
needling and elbowing each other

on that vinyl seat, until one of us
claims the space (measured in stitching)
we think we deserve. But as I watch
her swish away from the car towards
the headline bills and lurid lotto ads,

I long to follow her. To browse Holly Hobby
swap cards and smell the strawberry
scented erasers. Instead, I watch you
climb into the front seat and wait
until you catch my gaze in the mirror.

Don’t tell, you say and lower your hand
onto the brake. Your finger rests
on the button. “I’ll let go.”
You practise a release and laugh.
I stop looking and scream, my throat

wide open like the foxgloves
that bloom years later in your garden,
the day you tell me what he’s done to you.
Our mother returns. Keys open the car.
One day we’ll all crash.

Posted in 74: NO THEME V | Tagged

People

Posted on May 4, 2016 by Matthew Jenkins

people know people but don’t see people
or want to speak to people except emails
people see people in shopping centres and
don’t know them on the mobile some ppl
look like the flu people staring at the wall
for organisms people grow beards to hide
keep away from strange ppl they’re strange
people
ppl take the bins out in the dark people are
divergent the sum of two people is always
one schools are full of new healthy people
ppl have no time for orgasm or voicemails
people have things to do with other people
you know like TAB or driving maybe people
are tired of ppl too many people too little
world people in the café ppl we are all of us
the strange ppl behind beards like god.

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Resort Town

Posted on May 4, 2016 by Judith Beveridge

Sunset here is the distant roar
of motorbikes, and down Pacific Street,
I hear the enormous rage
that fills the mosquito’s head. Flies still circle
the day’s unalterable groove. A gull pierces
the distance like a sail needle. Summer’s
already gone with its squalls and king tides,
quarrels between breakers and shore.
In the palm fronds, a windy shootout —
a cockatoo firing gun-metal screeches
into the dusk. At the marina, boats called Insolence,
Betrothal, Party Girl, Gypsea, Liquidity
bob in the swell, their masts tip
like competing violin bows —
those principal instruments
which must be heard above all others.

On the headland, motels light up
like bright perfume bottles selling sex,
headlights flare like shoals of jellyfish,
then cruise away. On the beach’s far end —
pylons in tight barnacle socks, pelicans lumbering
where a few old men hold fishing rods and all evening
listen to the irascible abrading of their reels
along with the crickets in the marram.
Youths throw bottles into the surf —
they know the fast language of money

is spoken only in the casinos
and restaurants and by those who own
the shopping malls and boats.
They listen to the tide struggling
over the sandbar, their eyes coined
in the beer bottle glass
breaking along the rocks with the force
of their curses. Now a few gulls, like last season’s
junked fliers, peel away in the wind, and
the moon writes its graffiti in silver glyphs
across the hoarding of the cliff.

Posted in 74: NO THEME V | Tagged

Dunce

Posted on May 4, 2016 by Carol Jenkins

That great dunce the new day arrives
awkward in her blue pyjamas
knowing nothing of what will
happen, not even that by evening
her clothes will be smeared with rust,
streaks of blood, that bruised and pale
she will limp off, over the horizon
nearly forgetting the brilliance
of her azure, the long gold
of her afternoon.

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Conversation with a Decommissioned Electric Chair

Posted on May 4, 2016 by Samuel Wagan Watson

Circa September, 2015
Powerhouse Museum, Sydney

I first admired your arms, brown and unrefined like mine, the scars and veins unhidden.     Straight back. Strong neck.     An inanimate object that would never be caught slouching.     I pay acknowledgement: you were always professional and executed your charge efficiently…
in the end.
But what say you of right or wrong? Guilty or not guilty? That you know that I know that hardwood is a memory-medium. The acoustic resonance of a final whimper and breath may haunt your joints, limbs, and possibly persuade a vibration of inconsequential requiem…
in the end.
In the servitude and the conditioning, the extreme prejudice, the fact that no one except the killer and the victim know the truth…Does a confessional simmer into your timbers on the last moments of your charge’s rapture?     If the crimes fit the punishment, you only respond one way anyway and know not reverse, even for the slightest mitre of compassion.     And is any of it relevant in the final seating arrangements of judges and assassins and lambs…leaving one to ask this of
a decommissioned electric chair…
in the end.

“If he has a conscience he will suffer for his mistake. That will be punishment-as well as the prison.”
– Fyodor Dostoevsky, Crime and Punishment.

Posted in 74: NO THEME V | Tagged

Marrickville

Posted on May 4, 2016 by Louise Carter

It’s been three weeks since I cleaned the bathroom
and it hasn’t been cleaned since. But that’s what you get
in a share house – a glorified squat for people
who don’t want to pay full rent but dress it up
as ‘community minded’ – a place where conversations
about the fairest division of the gas bill take place
over the compost bin. You could say, hopeful of heart,
that it’s a family, which it is – dysfunctional –
the air seething with PMT, all of us rolling
out yoga mats to the sound of the kettle boiling,
the fridge stocked with kale and coconut water
but never meat. We’re a generation of ideological orphans
building Zion in Marrickville, our dyed hair a symbol
of our kinship – while the original residents, the old-school
Greek immigrants, gaze bewildered from their porches
as hordes of us jog past them of a morning,
farting smugness. I’m so far from home,
from the buzz-cut lawns and yipping dogs, from kitchens
with microwaves and African violets softly dying
beside disinfected sinks. These days I take comfort
in YouTube and weed on nights where the urge
to give up on this poetry caper becomes overwhelming –
the fear that there’s nothing you can do to avoid
becoming your mother so you might as well swallow
your insolence, move back to the suburbs and give birth
in front of the TV. These days I force my focus
onto whatever the present moment happens to reveal –
organic toothpaste, bowls caked with chia seeds,
my own face glimpsed in the mirror like seeing
a celebrity in a cafe – the intimate recognition
of a stranger in this, the mediocre immediate.

Posted in 74: NO THEME V | Tagged

Mollusc

Posted on May 4, 2016 by David Morris

She sat up from the pillows crossed against the bedhead, her back straight, eyes locked on me. How did I think she felt? I spent every night in my study. I never wanted to talk. I hadn’t touched her in weeks. Couldn’t I see she was hurting? I stood in the doorway, looking at the white bed sheet she was gathering up into her fists. Then, she started crying. She called herself an idiot. Idiot, idiot, idiot. Suddenly, she punched herself in the face. And again. She cried she was a fool for loving me. I had no blood in me. I was a mollusc.

I didn’t argue.

Even as I tried to say calming things, tell her we’d work it out, I looked at the drywall behind her, thought how thin it was, and that our neighbours could hear every word.

When I was a child, my bedroom was opposite my parent’s room, just a few feet of hallway between us. I’d hear my mother at night, whimpering, “No” and “Please”. I knew it was for my sake she stifled her voice, and it wasn’t much louder than a whisper. I’d hear my father grunting.

I want to believe there was a time when I wrapped a pillow around my head and pressed it hard against my ears. All I remember are the years I searched for faces and objects in the moonlit water stains on the ceiling, waiting for him to finish and later, falling asleep before he had.

I wish I hadn’t said anything about that. The part about my mother and father, that is. I want to stop making that a part of the story.

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Hey Preacher.

Posted on May 4, 2016 by Charlotte Guest
Be groovy or leave, man. Bob Dylan in the speakers, holding my hand and God’s. I took my velvet coat and slithered into the night. They called me The Confidence Man. I started the car. The machine stroked the road as we glided through the city. Every night until 2:00am, dropping angels off at bars. Time was a physical thing then, a thing with three dimensions that stretched on and on like my mother talking. I remember when I took the job, when it occurred to me. I remember thrashing around to Hendrix, watching people look at art. I remember ascending the stairs to his gallery feeling like something was about to happen. There was an atmosphere of brink. He had the fever. He was cold and sweating. I took out a handkerchief and wiped his brow. We hummed together, singing the moment, and then we were silent. You’ve got a cowboy’s mouth, I said. He smiled, and you’ve got the eyes of a preacher.


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Astronomical Twilight

Posted on May 4, 2016 by Gig Ryan

In a dress, in a dream
your guide points out carvings, a well to kick.
Sissy mountains slope to ground.
His fans bay in the church of Perpetual Succour.
Plane to the apron,
a rook abed, to swindle and jack.

Walk into sky when the street ends, to turbid night.
Traffic dinks around a tower.
She rotates in her garden.
The spying dog returns, flummoxed.

What a relief, her promenade or whatnot
but still the shouting,
and languor overtakes both like a victim,
his velvety daub in the ashtray,
the sewn mouths in the islands.
Parliament resumes, on a corpse.
Each path, addled and peremptory, calls
in bossed waves.

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Focus Pulling

Posted on May 4, 2016 by Shane Strange

In the economy of flesh, shame has no
tender— it is the first thing to go

And, you know, self-flagellation, if done
correctly, provides a gravity to which loose
bodies accrue. So, the calculation

arrives unbidden—a balance of junky
cunning: first make ‘em weep, then
see what’s in it for you.

Posted in 74: NO THEME V | Tagged

Horse Preamble

Posted on May 4, 2016 by Ania Walwicz

Dear reader. I will tell you a story. This is a story of my life now. Dear reader turn away from these pages…They will only bring grief to me… It will only wound me and hurt me. But I must do it now. lch muss… Inner necessity. I have to do it now. I must.I have to. I have to do it now and do do do a doo doo … lt is imperative. I have to. This is something I have to do to save me. Dear reader, I’m in bits and pieces. I am a broken house. I am a puzzle. I have to place this together. This will glue me and repair me. This will build me. Buildingsroman. A constructive novel. A book. This is the theatre of my head in a theatre. I act this out. I enact me. I act out. I act up. I work this out. I am actor enactor of the inner theatre of Anna 0. This is the theatre of my head. I am my performance now. I become somebody else. I want to become somebody else who is me. I am a she looking for me. Somebody help me. Help me. I help me. I talk to me when nobody else… I talk when I can’t talk. I speak here where there is no speech or speaker. This is a page and a tape. This will be done and done with. This is the theatre in a theatre. I act my body now. I feel my finger tips when I cannot feel my finger. This will stop a dam from burst asunder. This will•keep a dyke from flood. I’m little Dutch boy. I keep the world, together. By doing this, just by doing this, just by this, exactly. I intend to travel back and travel forward. I aim high. I plan to fly and fly. I am making this up and this makes me into into somebody. I become my story. I put on costumes in my, the theatre of my head. A performative text and a performance now. I am speaking in your head. I put on a fur cap and red boots now. I act up. This is a play in a play. I enter a narrative, a fragmented narrative. I cut me up. Rumplestitskin. I tear myself in half when somebody knows my name, but nobody knows me now and I don’t know me. But I will know me. I aim to. I want to.I plan to. I will start with a little child. I will start with Swidnica, a little town. I will go back to that and I will travel. This will take me where it will take me. I am ready.! enter a little theatre now with red curtains. I wear a red dress now. I have a horse. I wear a crown I wear. Who am I now. I will talk this out, work it now. I am making, I intend to make a person in a person. A subject in process, in progress…! am on my way. This is making me different. This does me an Ania. This my record and recording. I hear me now. Oral, aural text. I will act this out now. I ride a horse, horsey, hobby horse, dada. It rolls now. Unroll red carpets now. Lights and action starts. I feel lively, lovely, beloved, heavenly. God help me now. Light me, bright me. Speak through me.l am spoken now. Words tell me and say me and make me into me.l please me.Other writers speak through me now. I am a fictocritical construct, a machine for writing. I am made of this, only this.I make this. This grows me and grows and grows and makes itself in me.l am the beanstalk and jack and jack in a box now.I open my lid and laugh now.l will see where this will take me. It will take me where it will take me. It will make me famous and different to me. It will transform me. I will make a story and a theatre.! will travel far and further.I feel better and better.I can cry now.

Hinda Rosen, my student in the poetry class brings a book for me .”Konik Garbusek”, a fairytale “Konyok Garbunok”, written by Piotr Jerszow ,a Russian scholteacher. This is my first year prize from my primary school in Swidnica Slaska, school number 7. I remember the school number embossed in white on a navy blue shield, sewn onto my coat. And the blue beret that I now wear. With a bow.

What does this mean to me what does horse mean to me it hurts me it hurts me i remember me school now and blue navy blue uniform now overall with buttons on fartuszek with white collar on you have to iron this i have to find this out i have to know what i mean now I have to work this out rebus puzzle story of my life now what is it it’s all in my book now all here my diary dream diary my analysis now with franca simone shanti belinda Jacqueline and naomi now i learn how to cry I have to try and try to know me and i don’t know me no i don’t know me

I meet Hinda at the age of 11 at Elwood Central School by the seaside in Melbourne in 1963. I tell her I want to be a writer. Autor. Writer here. Exactly where I am. The Polish ambassador contacts me in 2011, Andrzej Jaroszewski. He wants to meet me and he meets me in 2012. He edits books of poetry­ about war. l am introduced to him by lzabela Rajtaczak who becomes my friend and sends me the current print of the “Konik Garbusek” book, Oficyna Wydawnicza, Poznan, smaller now and translated into prose but with the very same illustrations by Jan Szancer. I receive the book in 2013. The original imprint of my book is 1957, in the lost world now.

The book becomes my symbolic field of reading the self, of reading myself, of projection, introjection, play of symbolic meanings and the sense ofthe puzzle appears. Something needs to be deciphered or made clear. I have a stone in my shoe I need to take out now. This has to be done. I have to do this. I want to do this now. This is the doing. I am doing this is doing me and writing me now. Writing as a memory and imprint ofthe self. This is my diary. This my dream diary. I analyse me.

“Konik Garbusek” translates into “Humpback Pony”, the pony is the helper, the assistant, the magical force in the story. I am the humpback pony. At the age of six my back is bent, one shoulder higher than the other. The self is split and exists within the fissure of the underdog Ivan, the protagonist, the Konik who helps him and the elements of the story, a journey. I write a fairytale at the age of six, called “Sopel Zlosci” – “Icicle of Anger” about a king who is ill and a magician travels and performas magical acts so that the king can recover. I never finish the story. I abandon it and I take it up here. l abandon me and take it up here. The anger is frozen but I unfreeze me. I come alive now. I feel good. I feel my life now.

pony humback pony hunchback me I am humback pony help me god help me help me somebody help me oh help me help help me help me Rhonda help me guardian angel with wings help me over a dark water now ober over over little bridge guardian angel with wings aniele bozy strozu moj angel help me now over water river I can’t swim now in deep dark forest now in deep dark night in deep dark now I am pony girl now i enter my picture get into me now associate and disassociate now i attach me here i sew me in i sew me in by magic now I was torn in pieces and sew me together to put it how to put

Fictocriticism; a practice that sews me that I sew here. Bricolage, montage, assemblage, collage, caller, to stick together. I make a story out of bits and pieces. The process of associative thought and reflection. Improvisation and analysis. The flight of thought, a trajectory and reflection, retrieval, recoil. The use of multilevel text comprising poetics, theory and appropriated text. The entry into my fairytale here.

Define fictocriticism, define a horse. Fictocriticism tells a story through a story, tells a story indirectly, alludes to a story, tells my story differently, represents me, presents me with a symbol, a remnant, a rebus, a puzzle, a shadow a dream that has to be decoded.Amanda Nettlebeck writes in “The Space

Between- Australian Women Writing Fictocriticism”:”the voice and the book dissolve into a plethora of half complete” texts”, voices, incommensurable “positions”. Between the two moments-a world of difference”.

I dream that Margaret Trail, my reader is my mother and that Leonardo di Caprio who plays Arthur Rimbaud in “Total Eclipse” is both my brother and my father. He is drunk and writes “The Drunken Boat” here. We live in the flat in St. Kilda. l write my dreams down now. Margaret Trail becomes the “good enough mother” of Winnecott who “meets the omnipotence of the infant ( me} and makes sense of it”. lanalyse my dream now. l analyse me. I am the director of my theatre! am Arthur Rimbaud who is drunk now.

I go back now I go back now oh I go back now … i cry and cry and cry and cry now or i pretend to cry here boohoo boohoo I tell jess that I worry and worry but now I don’t worry but I worry I scare me

Sigmund Freud writes an essay on the uncanny, unheimlich, the unhomely, the weird, that which makes my hair stand up. The pony book reminds me and reminds me … One thing echoes and duplicates another and doubles and trebles and multiplies me. This scares me. Freud becomes terrified by his reflection in the mirror of the train, a sleeper, wagon lit, when the mirrored door swings open, all of a sudden he sees a stranger, a gentleman in a dressingown and a sleeping hat of a sleeper who invades his cabin. The self and its reflection. The self and its double. That other in the mirror. I am scared of the book that is brought to me in the poetry class now. I read it and re-read it.

Freud writes …”the uncanny is that class of terrifying which leads back to something long known to us, once very familiar…We are reminded that the word Heimlich is not unambiguous but belongs to two sets of ideas, which without being contradictory are yet very different: on one hand, it means that which is familiar and congenial, and on the other, that which is concealed and kept out of sight”. *(“Imago”, BD.V.,1919; reprinted in Sammlung, Funfe Folge.( translated by Alix Strachey}

return to child me return a come back to me where at six it comes back a me a feel how i this feel to m,e what ida did what happen to me what did what where where where am inow back a me where

aniusia tak ja jestem biedna i chora, nie, jestem bogata i zdrowa jestem zywa jeszcze zywa tutaj tu ja wiem jak czytac teraz wiem jak pisac wiem jak teraz wiem jak

Anna Gibbs writes” … a selection of psychoanalytic writings to explore what theoretical writing on intertextuality so often occludes: that is the passionate dimension of intertextual practices … literary borrowings, influences, apprenticeships, and hauntings- by other writers, by the music of words, by memories …”fiction theoretique”… called “fictocriticism”… hybrid forms of writing which mix genres,eschew omniscient modes of narration and “grand narratives” in favour of first-person or multiple partial perspectives … singular stories and fragmented forms”.*( Australian Feminist Studies, Vol. 18, No. 42, 2003}

Ania Walwicz writes-” I always have to quote somebody. This is a form of gossip now. So-and -so said. That’s the way to write about. The discourse, the formation of a discourse. That is what I am learning

now. What somebody said and the interaction with that. That somebody says me now. Or I say that, I say that. I say what I think now. What I think about.” *(Meanjin Voi.S6,1996)

When one reads one’s writing one becomes another person and another person. I am Luce lrigaray, Monique Wittig, Helene Cixous, Piotr Jerszow and me when I was six years old. Reading and re­ reading the self or what one thinks and feels the self is or was. Janet Frame writes- I don’t know if it had happened to me or is happening or will happen to me in the future.

Freud writes about screen memory. We recollect an outline, a shadowy construct, a fragment and then fill that in, colour it in. The pony book is the instigator, the trigger, the commencement and then beginner. I free- associate now. Teresa D’Avila writes about the smell of flowers, the olfactory event when I smell the smell of roses, dusty pink smell of roses while I read my words. I begin a voyage, an adventure here. I improvise and construct this as I go along. I don’t know where this will take me. Yet I feel my way and know that the story, the true story of my life, the real autobiography …

i am little horse pony konik garbusek little hump back pony now am mister ed dead dad mister deedee said i get in me iget out of me and I get in me I enter little door now in palace of ants i am king here I am king of my heart

Marguerite Duras says that the story of life does not exist. I am made from bits and pieces. Glimpses.The Kaballah states that awareness, awareness of the divine, the Shekinah, appears in glimpses, little glimpses, shards. Zohar, the book of splendour, writes that all will be reversed, all that stands up will lie down, all that upside will stand on its head, all will be transformed, transferred, altered. Words will alter me, words will, by writing this by saying this

god help me assist me gold help me now angels of angels hold me up arms gold help me assist me

The horse book tells me a story. Three brothers live with their father and grow wheat. The eldest are strong and cunning but the youngest Ivan, Vanya ( Ania) is stupid now. He sleeps above a stove, on top of the stove in winter. Somebody steals wheat now. They set up a watch. Big brothers fall asleep. But Ivan, Vanya (Ania) stays up and sees a white mare, a big horse now, golden mane who frolicks and gallops. He leaps and won’t let her go now. No, never ever. She speaks to him and makes a bargain. She will give him two beautiful, fine horses, and a magic pony, in return for her freedom. He can sell the horses but the little hump back pony must stay with him, always. He agrees to this. He lets her go. The horses arrive next morning, with the pony. Evil brothers steal the horses and sell them. Evil sister steals my horses away. I am Ivan now (the focus of identification). I am the hurt party, the underdog. They steal me and steal from me. But I keep the pony, the magic pony- konik garbusek, with two humps on me. Ivan finds this out. I find this out now. I find me out. Brothers sell horses, lovely black horses with silver manes and plaits and shiny hoofs from pearls. The Russian tsar buys them for his stable. The best horses. He hires me to look after him. I am the stableboy, groom, at the centre of the story. I act it out on me, in me.

Psychodrama, the theatre proposed as a psychological carthasis, a release of conflict, an externalisation of repressed areas in the psyche, the theatre where all elements of the narrative become movable

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I placed a sprig of rosemary at your feet

Posted on May 4, 2016 by Broede Carmody

Grief is finding bits of Tim Tams in your bed
even though you haven’t slept there for two days.
I want to move to a place where they will laugh at my dingo accent.
Pine needles pressed to cold cheeks we have read too many picture books but
also not enough. Drive slowly tonight there is a lot of water on the road I’m not sure
there is such a thing as an afterlife. Knee-deep in wild grass we walk in each
other’s footsteps the place we are going is not far from here. Coffins
are much lighter than what you think. Falling in and out
of love is like breathing: you don’t notice it
until something goes horribly wrong.

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Return

Posted on May 4, 2016 by Chris Lynch

In the first few jetlagged days of being
back in Australia, I always notice the birds:

the bright cacophony of rainbow lorikeets
the liquid alien throatiness of magpies

the dusty, distant, intimate confession of a crow.
But this time there’s something else as well—

as if the country is inside a dream
somehow sheared off from the dreamer.

Like looking up one day in the backyard
and seeing an enormous airship drifting by.

Then cracking open another beer.

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Freeway

Posted on May 4, 2016 by Sanna Peden

the road markings run, reflected
on my sunglasses
in swooping arches
the freeway ferns in on itself
and spits me out
where nothing happens but concrete grows

the trains don’t come this far
not now, not yet
never quite in time

they grow tomatoes now
these friends with not-enough children
and too-much time

the salad is nice, real nice
but it is still just a salad
I didn’t know heirloom basil existed
but there you go

they grow their own mangoes as well
– or rather, mangoes happen in their backyard
“they thrive on neglect”, they say
and I look for a dramatic reveal
in the way they are determined
to maintain eye contact

the fruit salad says I’m a bad friend
and I’m inclined to believe it

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The Astronomer’s Son

Posted on May 4, 2016 by Kazim Ali

At my birth, he whispered the equations of gravitational resonance into my ears. Taught me to calculate orbital positions of unseen objects.

When I was six, he used fishing twine to string up nine foam balls around the ceiling lamp in my bedroom, coloring each one with felt tipped markers.

Like the moon I turned evenly around him, always keeping one part secret.

By nine, I never liked to be touched, hated to raise my voice or shout, was lonely in groups of boys or men.

He drew me a map each night on blank chart paper. Taught me what I would see: Scorpion. Hunter. Little Dog. The Lyre.

Between the solid inner planets and the outer swirling intangible ones are the ruins that hold the whole system together. There are a dozen theories about why Saturn collected rings or Uranus lies on its side. And me? I always knew I never wasn’t what I was.

These days it is not the language of the heavens but the language of heaven that has pulled us from each other. In an astronomical equation even one digit of difference introduces light years of error.

Sometimes in my loneliness I recite to myself what snatches I can remember of what I was taught: In the shoulder of the Herdsman is Arcturus, the giant orange star.

To live I will have to leave you, I will have to forget the math of round orbits, the rule of even planes. To be true some days I do wonder: In all the endless space of the universe how will you find me?

14,000 years ago, the North Star was one of the strings of the Lyre. 12,000 years from now, it will be again.

I hurl my doubt down into all the unfolding time it takes solar music to resound against the outer planets.

After all, Of all the stars in boundless heaven, it’s the Little Dog that shines the brightest.

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Rune

Posted on May 4, 2016 by Anthony Lawrence

I did it like you said I would
in terms of how we thought
things would go accord-
ingly. And yes there’s blood
in family, love and sport
or making from our words

a tight, confused assembly
of musical notation, line
and the kind of detail hurt
thrives on when we occupy
the dark side of what’s mine
what’s yours. Therapy as art.

Art as fuck it, that’ll do.
We like it said the way we’ve
seen the matter off to bed
but sleep comes hard, and so
we lie beneath a wall of waves
that break inside our heads.

What was I saying, and why?
Have we made it here to take
measure of each other’s hands?
The day arrives, the red sky
washes in to make amends
for its downfall or atrophy.

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5 Ways to Breathe in the CBD

Posted on May 4, 2016 by Alison Flett
  1. Listen to the shoes of office-workers counting along the pavement, and your
    own shoes adding in their numbers. Write it all down as music, the black notes
    clicking and tapping.
  2. High above the multi-storey carparks the sun jellyfishes past. So slow. So
    slow. The numbers drift upwards into a belljar of silence.
  3. Feel the hands of buildings stroking your face, the electricity that lives in your
    hair, furs the inside of your ears. See how everything is cloaked in sequins of
    light and when it rains, hear the rain’s thin tinsel.
  4. Even in the bitumened streets the dead are busy beneath traffic. Their teeth
    chatter in the soil, adding and subtracting.
  5. Count the trees growing out of holes, roots cracking through tarmac as if the
    dead are reaching for your shoes. Touch the cloth of their bark as they pass
    you. Try to remember the music.
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