Galaga

Forgetting is a required skill: blot out anything harder than your mum’s final golden glass of
sauvignon blanc. How many nights did you spend there, where oil and hand grease laminated
the plastic of the ancient game’s joy-stick, seeking the sight of your name in three-letter glory?

The smell of a beer-stained pub carpet is an odd in-joke you now share with your inner twelve year-old. Sick leave does not
cover melancholy, so if you must complain, please scream into the concrete box in the bleakest corner of your office. Wait
five to seven business days before screaming again. For efficiency’s sake, leave your need for meaning in action at the door.

Choke out the sunset’s glow over power lines, and the sight of bats speckling an outer-suburban sunset through a yellowed pub window. Forget the taste of garlic bread sinking
through your tongue on a humid November night, and scrap the way that if your acting was good enough, your Dad would join in on pretending you were asleep and you would be carried
from the Commodore’s back seat into bed. When have you ever needed the brass railing of the stairs as up you went, buoyed by the precious one-dollar coin in your fist and the knowledge
that you were loved? Let reminder-riddled post-it notes pile down your burning throat and only ever contemplate if it’s about why your manager has been CC’d. Become dead-eyed, bogged
down and wired up, learn what an RSI is, and how to steal sleep while haunted by visions of spreadsheets. After all, wonder and finding joy in small things are not useful KPIs.

But once your sensors for meaning are blunted by the terms ‘time-poor’ and ‘value-add,’ et cetera it will be simpler to swallow,
anyway: hold up the part of you where your soul burns through the lens of your self and put a pin in it. Like Io into an ox you’ll
shift your shape, and assume the strained skin of an admin rockstar who thrives under tight deadlines in a fast-paced environment.

Sometime there might be a punchier pain than a station barrier pinching you, or the EFTPOS at
a Woolies’ self-service declaring ‘DECLINED.’ If so, just slip on a thicker pair of quirky socks,
and haul on a formal coat. All it is is another friendly reminder that your score will not be saved.

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There’s Always a Joker

/A bit desperately lonely/ poor Sharron berated, having eaten Kim’s /last fat free fruche/ again, you didn’t know /please look at me/ Mrs D’s got /two words to say to you/ an ear to your soul searching a friends’ mum not a friend, Sharron since high school you’ve been stuck in the suburbs. now you’re streaming and under a haze of nostalgia I’m /breaking out the tia maria and the footy franks/ and raising them up to the best /second best friend/ a girl could have. it’s been three seasons of heartbreak. you walk through the sliding door, pash rash gleaming, only to fall to tears at the kitchen island because not even a Shane Warne cameo can find a way to make things work over the course of a 23 minute episode. maybe we, the audience, are led to believe your perfect man stands closer than the Day-Knights could ever know I don’t think its Bret you’re in love with, but I could just be the queer kid projecting, despite the river dance and netball skirts we’re all a bit desperately lonely

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Daddy

after sylvia
& tina




I look for you
in the crinkle pop
blister foiled
two moon mournings
after I swallow
third eyes
mahler’s fourth
vision of heaven
waiting and
just like that
puckered rings toll
bells, wake
the love parade.

I smell drizzle
then dehydrate
hard yakka on the fly
and blood left brown
on skin which vespers
spittled spirits
‘cos when you’re done
I try to hum how I died
a little bit
(excuse
the french),
how you’ve
mopped up when I came
to settle
to bury you so much

slower :
bottlenecked
to arterial
my mouth will tessellate
middles
of your virus
or at least a la niña
where we blamed girls
for the reservoir
where youse are a flood
orange-lit
bastard musk
and our throats pitch here to
O god
or something kinder
but still

blasphemy,
and we learn to wean
the diminutives back-
arched, mouth pillowed
covenant to tithe points
of milk-warm,
crystallised honey.

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Sonnet watching Lions Love (…and Lies)

After Agnes Varda

Outside the rented house, Andy Warhol
is shot. RFK is shot. The camera visits a memento
store for blacklisted Hollywood stars. Yes, film is always
already nostalgic. The 60’s avenue
in colour: there are large fenders, gloriously Futurama
rococo. Agnès Varda self-directs a suicide
when a New York director says it’s tacky. Inside
3 hot white people say 60’s stuff. Viva
is drag. She has trans girl energy. You pause on the blueness
of the Pacific, the typography on buildings. You ask
your Google-Map if the buildings are still-standing in California
one is: it’s now a DMV. The bricks are stained.
one is a vacant lot: in the photo, an auction is taking place
outside, like the world’s straightest Mardi Gras. The third is —

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THE SECOND BEFORE AN EXPLOSION

1.00.00

All of that heat
All of the first times
All of the people watching Pornhub.com
All of the freshly shaven people on dates
All of the friends on their phones waiting to hear how it went
All of the celebrities sitting on toilets
All of the ones you thought died years ago but then do on the one day you don’t feel ready


1.26.00

All of the astronauts with their tears for Earth gravitied to their faces
All of the quiet rocks comforting them in long slow circles
All of the things that trying to grow:
The feelings of teenagers
The torsos of handsome flowers
The sins of Facebook and other air pollutants
All of the music in the ears of kids walking home from school
All of the average screen times of 6 hours 11 minutes per day


1.53.00

All of your major loves doing minor things in a house you’ve never slept in
All of the people in hospital waiting rooms who didn’t dress for devastation
All of the split seconds of no contact before accidents
All of the early morning joggers trying get up without waking the whole house
All of the $1 coffees pouring in all of the 7-Elevens
All of the chance meetings interrupting plans to die young’


1.79.00

All of the drafts of difficult conversations in Notes apps
All of the newsreaders hoping for once, just for today, nothing fucking happens.
All of the books holding their tongues in late afternoon libraries
All of the people saying ‘all y’all’ and not realising that it translates to ‘all you all’
All of the people trying desperately not to laugh
All of the people trying desperately not to cry
All of the prayers to the air
All of the minutes that shimmer with death
All of the life slipping down throats
All of the joy coming back up

1.91.00

All of that energy
All at once
All of that matter
Is –

Time.
2.00.00

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Etymology

after Gone Girl

I am the space between
your thoughts.
The hiss, the twitch, the sound
of bones that crack in a double-take,
recollection. I am lost in a flood of faces.

I am the tattoo you try to hide,
the name you bury in your backyard.
I am roots and petals. The prickle of a thorn.
The green that gets grassier each day.

I am pins and needles. The missing
button of your favorite shirt.
The stench you just can’t get rid of
in pipelines, on walls you paint
over and over again.

I am the jacket you leave behind
when it starts to drizzle, when it
storms. The itch on your back
that you can’t reach.

I am high and mighty, Godlike, immortal.
I am permanence. The moon
that follows you everywhere. Nostalgia.
Find me in the ocean beneath your bed.

I am the song you hear on the radio.
Go ahead, scream. You remember
everything: the rhythm, the lyrics, words
left unsaid. I linger like an afterthought.

And when you see my name again
on billboards
on paper
on someone else’s skin
I hope it stings, forever.

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Insatiable

See that girl over there? / I want to be just like her. / Fat ass / give a fuck / twerking on my feed like / Miley in her Bangerz era / like a wrecking ball / break the internet / those likes / the comments / an avalanche / of praise / I could only dream. / See

that girl over there? / Sheets tucked / slick-back / pilates girlie / with an aesthetic so fresh / so clean / you could eat off her. / I tell myself maybe / I too / could hit / the reformer and re-form / squeeze / curl / crunch / myself / into a / tight toned ball / a body so good / I’ll afford / to be / nothing more.

But I don’t take up pilates. / Because some blonde bitch from Byron / who / to clarify / is only a bitch / because I wanna be her / or be with her / I can’t tell / but she tells me / and her 20k followers / that she got the six-pack she was born with / from surfing. / So I spend 200 bucks on a wettie / and try to erase my mind / of AnnaSophia Robb with one arm / because I wanna be just like this girl / or “that girl” / who instead of sea shells she sells / skinny tea / string bikinis / and herself / #ad.

And I eat it up. / Along with all the others / in their comments / who are starving / to know / where’s the dress from babe? / which shade do you recommend? / all scrolling / searching / scamming / ourselves into delusion / into thinking / that as the sum of many muses / I will somehow / become / an individual. / Instead of just / another hungry girl / destined / to consume / until my head / heart / and phone / storage is full.

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Wordle

First

Begin badly. Bring every thing forth— alive, dying:
wormy apple, stale bread, fresh flesh, cheap vodka.
These early, windy hours leave their marks.
Plant frail hopes.
Water.

Third

Later, alone: going about bends while
skies flash—white, black,
white black white. Sheer cliff. Lands shift, slide. Light gilds.
Drive. Drive.

Fifth

Ready? Begin again, lying lower.
Write facts: words about facts,
argue these often, until truth bends,
falls
apart.

Sixth

Words weigh grams, morse coded,
spell ‘maybe’, spell ‘might’.
Pitch black empty pages, every night. Erase. Blame no-one.
Touch ‘print’.

Ninth

Thirst. Drive. Ardor. Yearn.
First. Knife. Adore. Learn.
Karst. Swive. Adorn. Spurn.
Worst. Alive. Scorn. Churn.
(Other words taken,
added).

Tenth

First light. Blink. Start again.

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Equivalence.

I
The world is my psychiatrist
My body is the couch
And I am the upholstery

II
The world is my upholstery
My body is the couch
And I am Psyche’s diary

III
Couch body? World upholstery?
Psyche’s diary? Psychiatry?
My lifeline is Gertrude Stein

IV
Psychiatry is psychiatry
The couch is the couch is the couch
The cats have destroyed the upholstery

V
The cats are my psychiatrist
The couch was a gift from my in-laws
The upholstery is Gertrude Stein

VI
The world and my psychiatrist is a conspiracy
My body and her body is a conspiracy
The couch: a conspiracy of cats

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My Vader

: was introduced to me like every other adult –
EXTREME LOW ANGLE [from which we took our cue].
: will forever remain ahistorical, trademarked, helmeted.
: is a famous heavy-breather, propelled forward by
his own breathing & rigid, black bike-leather hate.
: to this day, contains within his expanding frame
the disembodied voices of all angry men.
: was also sometimes my father ((NOOO!!!!))
: oftentimes came between ur-Luke
& his softer sisters; acting on intelligence
to disrupt secret meetings on rebel moons.
: was recently photographed on the steps of parliament.
: stands in the corner of a million bedrooms;
man-shaped black hole, talisman to every child.

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Valentine

It’s a card or a chocolate or a flower. It’s a presence. It’s once a year, unless you make an effort. Not everyone does. How I forgot to show you how to hold an axe. How will you start a fire? But you forgot to tell me how to live without you. It’s how it’s not even, but we can pretend. It’s an obligation. It’s the relief of your face untouched. It’s till death. It’s how I

sent you into the bright with no food. It’s how I didn’t wait. It’s how I said yes I’m sure. It’s someone you’ve never met but you know they’re special. It’s ignoring their messages. My clever girl, it’s how you left me first. It’s how quickly I accepted your ghost. I tuck your brother in and I turn and you are yawning and prickly. Your handprint so soft I only see it

in the dew of a midnight water glass. The pink mitten of your tongue awaiting the press of a vitamin. I dream of flinging a net into the nightlight and pulling you down. It’s how you have to forgive your mother. We know best, otherwise we’d never sleep a blink. My red red girl. And yet I see you in the dark unhollow tunnel of my voice. It’s Cabernet and trembling

thighs. It’s trite, commercial, overhyped. It’s how if you trace the bolt of my cheek it takes you back to Salome, Katherine, Worm. It’s a map I cut you out of. It’s how I don’t even know if I’m allowed to miss you. How even now the skin itches to reunite. How even then it begged to come apart.

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Dirty Hit

do you ever find yourself reading poems
just to see what people who actually get published
are writing these days?

or sniff your clothes in the washing basket
even though you know they’re dirty?

I do

it’s like I realised today I have
only ever had a very middle-class experience
of drugs

never rich enough to justify a habit
or know intimately enough anyone who is a dealer
& can give me drugs for free

I go places all the time
where I’m the only person with an iPhone X
but I pay $13 for a pint without blinking

is it the same for you?

when people offer you a line
you know it’s a flex
something a little less severe than pity

here’s a taste of the wealth
you don’t have
enjoy!

anyway cut to
me in this borrowed jacket
me in these second-hand shoes
getting to live in that world for 20 minutes

which is a much-needed break
from constantly worrying if
my card is going to be declined

& suddenly
wisdom hits!

it’s another way of realising you’re
30 years old still surviving on hand-me-downs
& hand outs
but briefly not caring

like Phil Collins in the gorilla suit
it has been drummed into me
to look past status symbols

big cars or flashy ones
sneakers without laces
home ownership
art that is not a print
jet-skis
bags

you see through them

these will make you feel good
for a bit
which is kind of wonderful

we all need the serotonin

better than hate-reading this poem
only because it has been published in POETRY
just to make myself feel shit

a line from it I quote here

making love, one eye on the window



because despite its best attempts to convince



the high never lasts

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after Meditations in an Emergency

i haven’t written anything in three months so i take 60 mg of Adderall XR & watch the sun rise. i want to be awake & on the verge of greatness. i want to write the worst poem in the world. last week, to a friend, i drunkenly confessed to her that i want to write the next great American novel. but i have never written a page of a novel. or a paragraph. what i mean to say is that i am supposed to be palpable. what i mean to say is that i am not happy. what i mean to say is that i have $30 in my bank account & am ready to drive to Philadelphia. i lack self-awareness. i am 25 years old. i have never been good at the tortured poet thing. i tell coworkers some of my darkest secrets & they say the word, “sorry.” i am not sorry. one time, or many times, i’ve had less than $2 in my bank account, so i have driven to taco bell to buy a spicy potato soft taco. it’s been my first meal of the day at 8 pm. i want to write the next great American novel. unfortunately, i am friends with madness. reasonably, i have dropped out of college four times. one thing that college taught me is that pity should last longer. if it did i would make better use of it.

what’s that one line out of that one poem that’s like, “i wake up & it breaks my heart.” that is silly. it is true. i wake up & it breaks my heart. i wake up & it breaks my stupid little heart.

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Instagram Poem from a Near Future

______________

__________________,
________________

________,
____________,
_______________.


  • Directions for Use: First, ensure that your: heart, sweat, brain, and blood are attractively honest and fluent in the dialect of rebranded revelation. Write down some concerns/thoughts along the provided lines and crudely sketch whatever image corresponds to them (these thoughts don’t have to be your own; it is better if they are someone else’s. Rewording and elongating a platitude from a motivational speaker always work well). Choose a symbol that is neither too cliché (so that people find the poem original) nor ambiguous (so that your audience do not overtax themselves with interpretation). If this advice is followed and a poem is successfully produced, ensure to repeatedly revise until it pontificates in the most relatable manner possible. Handwriting the poem is preferred as it provides the illusion of vulnerability no matter how distant the poem may be from your real identity. If typing the poem, then a popular font like Courier New will immediately denote aesthetic integrity.
  • Disclaimer: Most line breaks not necessary. Writing and drawing utensils/sources of inspiration sold separately.
  • Warnings: Exceeding the recommended limit of one symbol is a health hazard. Only use this space to replicate, covertly or overtly. Never invent; their nothing is something, but your something is nothing. Do not stray from the algorhythm nor top posts. Memento mori.
  • Expiration Date: 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1…
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Memento Maury

I wish I could forget that craggy mug
In any given doctor’s waiting room
Provided like free samples of a drug
To numb our fears of sickness and the tomb

With strangers’ chosen pains, affairs and beefs.
Who should be sorry, or who’s coming out?
A test dissolves a family’s beliefs—
The father’s name now known beyond all doubt.

The host consoles, cajoles and referees
Until hour’s end, and that, friends, is the show.
Tomorrow’s guests and their dark comedies
Will come from ranks as limitless as woe.

His talents thus employed, what have we missed?
One hears he used to be a journalist.

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ASMR & Geekophilia

-with words from ASMRtist ALB in Whisperland

Whisper to me about Pokémon cards.
“Piplup, Mew.” Coo & murmur, “Noctowl,”
through my speakers at night. Crackle
the wrapper of a booster pack between
your fingertips. I want to hear its tenor-
ous opening tear, your millennium pink
fingernails tapping on a secret rare foil
of Charizard, as you say, “I’m a very
sensory person.”
Slide each card slowly
off the stack; I feel your caress on my arm,
your breath in my ear, whispering, “Look
at this one. Oh, my gosh.”
My gosh,
my gosh. When you say, “Pokémon
are a part of our life,”
a tingling down
my body. I climb into your susurrations.
“Smolive. Slowpoke, so cute. The pink
background, the sparkles.”
My head is full
of down and batting. “Cacturne, Flittle,
I’m over the moon! Snorlax, Drifloon…”

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Days of Heaven

Two weeks ago, I watched “Days of Heaven”
at Suns Cinema. There were some real locusts,
some just peanut shells. The film was made from shards
of three years, so it looked like memory –
the memory of weddings, the memory of fire.

The drink I held was melting and melting,
until it was bathwater.
I don’t know if that film was about love,
which I’ve felt as bodies smearing in the wheat,
and our souls staring out between the fingers.
Maybe the locusts were close enough.
Alien-blue seraphs, the engines in hunger.

It was only after the movie ended, that I felt
a chewing in my lungs, the grazed reminder,
that I was holding my breath again – that I was
holding my breath again,
the locust in my chest – which was exactly
how it felt to be with you, so long ago.

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The Non-Bogus Paradox of Keanu Reeves & Most Serious Choice (A, Most Excellent, Cento)

You ever have that feeling where you’re not sure if you’re awake or still dreaming?
When you wake up, wipe the slugs off your face. Be ready for a new day.

It’s when you start doing things for free, that you start to grow wings.
If we’re gonna waste the dude, we oughta get paid for it. I mean, that’s the American way,
right?

Heaven and hell are right here, behind every wall, every window, the world behind the world.
It wasn’t just a puppy.

If you can make a woman laugh, you’re seeing the most beautiful thing on God’s Earth.
God’s a kid with an ant farm, lady. He’s not planning anything.

Lying in bed with my lover, riding my bike, happy times with my friends, conversation.
I want room service! I want the club sandwich, I want the cold Mexican beer, I want a
$10,000-a-night hooker!

It’s always wonderful to get to know women, with the mystery and the joy and the depth.
Pain heals. Chicks dig scars. Glory lasts forever.

What does a scanner see? Into the head? Down into the heart? Does it see into me? Into us?
clearly or darkly?
All we are is dust in the wind, dude.

Be excellent to each other!—Shoot the hostage!—
Whoa!—Remember: crazy not stupid.

I wish I could say something classy and inspirational, like
“I once saw him kill three men in a bar with a pencil. With a f***ing pencil!”

My name can’t be that tough to pronounce!
Choice, the problem is choice.1

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INFLUENCER MANSION

winter was there but you wouldn’t know it, outside fully leaf off but the girls still doffing bikinis in every post & the steroids still seem to be diligently regimented, the infinity pool still steams so invitingly, one might wonder how spending time in the gym always ends up so effortlessly lending itself to energy drink endorsements, how some folks seem to casually encounter howitzers on a near-daily basis, how / life is more about setup, you know, and i wanted to like set it up so i could get laid without like having a bunch of conversations and dates and whatnot so when i’d have these pool parties i’d have like 30 of my friends and then like two to three hundred girls

the meet and greets, the whiter than white teeth, winter like a facsimile of a smile, sometimes they don’t want you to know how empty the party life can be, yet every post is forced positivity and more parties and welcome to my party, i used to be in love with how short the days seemed / and i basically wrote about where i was at at that moment and it was kind of like a realization of like i needed to get help this is where i was at and yeah it came out really simple just super easy…it’s basically like a setup to the prequel to all the songs i made while i was in my addiction

even though you can’t see to the other side of the kitchen, even though most days are played out on the chaise lounge doomscrolling straight into oblivion, even though it turns out the person i married that openly compared themselves to god wasn’t everything i thought they’d be / it’s like the little things is what i don’t have, i have all the big things, i have the extravagant everything you could possibly imagine and noone will ever do it like that i know that you know what i mean and i’m grateful for those experiences but

it’s a very odd experience to take an animal’s life, the first time i did it, it was psychedelic, it was a transformative experience / and then i started referring to everything, regardless of its veracity, as a truth bomb, the flower arrangements being just another way to forget you live in a prison and you know to be honest

i didn’t ask for any of this, tbh some days i pretend i’m sylvester stallone & just run up and down the driveway and i honestly feel cajoled into the 21st century, each season of survivor i honestly think: we’d probably be better off if instagram had never existed but i suppose the tribe has spoken, and honestly does this honesty make me an edgelord, honestly it barely keeps me a brand ambassador, honestly i didn’t even know there were so many different types of vitamins / honestly like seeing sorry seeing how people reacted to this like i don’t even know if i wanna do this anymore like this is messed up stuff people are saying

it might sound cliché but nietszche said the only worthwhile thing about life was dancing, foucault said the madness of people is divine spectacle, truffaut said you can’t have an anti-war movie because all war movies eventually devolve into spectacle, why are french people so obsessed with spectacles, sontag said we’ll do anything to keep ourselves from being moved, shakespeare said idk you guys, our phalanx at the bar yelled why can’t we see something beautiful without also desiring to possess it and in the comments section someone said / so it’s really funny because i thought i did my like face super cute today and now i have to redo my concealer cause you made me cry

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I Google ‘are Pokémon edible?’ and wonder if I’m a bad person

I don’t know where Meowth’s whine starts
and the voices of my brain weasels begin.

Sometimes I’m a Poliwag, an over-sharer:
small intestines like hypotonic corkscrew
on show for all to see.

Whenever I go to a polyamory meetup,
someone has a beer in one hand, Pokémon Go
in the other, and a smart mouth that jokes,
‘Gotta catch ‘em all!’

I wonder if TERFs relate to the female-only
species Chansey – harbouring the fragility
of eggs in their front pockets, reproducing
only through clones of themselves.

The pastel blue-pink-white ears/feelers/fur
of Sylveon is the most #TransRights shit
I’ve seen on my TV in a long time.

I wonder if I’d ever have the guts
to eat a Farfetch’d – pluck and cook
its rare flesh, garnish with the leek
it used fruitlessly
as weapon against me.

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In case I say no to someone at the reveal of Love is Blind

I want everyone to know, it’s not you, as much as that picture of young Stalin
(Google it) after our high school history book showed us only the cemented
face of old Stalin. Sean Connery tanned & shirtless as 007 in the 70’s, not
The Rock, so many shades of grey. The squeal of 1000 ladies, as Tom Jones opens
his mopheaded mouth.

I’ve been in a frenzy, image searching philosophers, since
I realized I’d never seen Jean-Paul Sartre—who, I must say looks
exactly what one would dream up of the gourd of existentialism.
How comforting this was, like when I discovered the singer of Ought
(I didn’t Google his name) looks exactly like that. Not special, just right as
expected.

When I saw Win Butler (the singer from Arcade Fire) durging on
online videos, it was our funeral because there’s something earthquaking
when a voice doesn’t fit inside the body it’s been allotted. Could you
imagine Marx without a tangled beard, and not to shake something but
Tame Impala is one guy. Imagine him seated alone in a studio
surrounded by instruments, contraptions, wires, whys

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Gosford

skins of an eel found in gutter
reminds me of butter smells
on a bowl of rice getting us
through until payday
then it’s strawberry milks on us
a bruised man is ripping bongs at the bus stop
cockroaches in lakehaven subway made the
newspaper
mum dropped the lasagne and my brother
cried in the shower
pelican itch will get you if you can’t swim
snag the motels cereal boxes
watching you cry after court
when it was hot on the bus leather seats
smelt like rotten petrol
avoid eye contact with the neighbours
throwing jim beam cans at each other
avoid the alleyways and dress for invisibility
blue bottles like the storms, storms will be
a reason for running
soggy gravy chips at the RSL, drawing on
keno cards and picking your lucky numbers
the community bus took everyone home,
my eyes searched for yours to meet.
street by street the plovers still squawked
jam on dry weetbix reminds me of
hearing you happy
finding golden keys in the loudness of a
quiet purse
every so often, violence resetting the
bus timetable the bottlebrushes the
shape of them under dry reverie and
thinking I was allergic when what I was
skimmed the sea, pulling in paddles
I was born in Gosford and when did I
develop super eyesight
we gave when we had something to give
strange men came in and out of the house
and I developed super hearing
the plovers grew swords

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No Cinematic Act Could Counterfeit

Confession flooded out that summer, the season of typhoons recorded in news, in memory, in that sweat-soaked scent and taste of your body, in my tongue. My mother and aunty snapped and slapped me though neither remember to this date which I doubt. But what can doubt signify except pain and guilt and if you are like this I will abandon you I will never love you you will be better off dead? In year two I borrowed your sci-fi book with an intention of never returning it back to you unless you return me love. In year three you kissed me once and never again. In whichever year I cannot remember I learned and memorised this line of that poem from that collection called 诗经 or Book of Songs/Poems and it goes [执子之手,与子偕老] which would lose all its puncture and punch when translated into English though here it is and there you go: holding thy hand, growing old with thee. What’s missing here is Sigmund Freud, by which I mean James Strachey the translator, by which I mean MOURNING AND MELANCHOLIA.

Tonight I am filthy I am filled with nicotine. Tonight which is just like any other night you are not with me and I don’t want you here either. But tonight it is the same night that I relentlessly clean my room, brush my hair, listen to 张国荣/Leslie Cheung singing 月亮代表我的心/The Moon Represents My Heart, and mourn for a cinematic excellency that captures the density of loss and pain and guilt in evocative 80s dim colour and pensive melody.

                                           No cinematic act could counterfeit
                                           the hands we hold tight tonight
                                           in the dim Hong Kong street-
                                           light.

But nostalgia is poison so I actively decide to live and mourn for this moment. I walk out. I look up. There is the moon. The moon, hanging, crescent, represents my heart. And I live this moment:

my right hand reaches for
you in the dark;
                                           absence = more present, in which there is
no remedy no melody but pain. And it is good. It is very good.

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Thirteen ways of watching Dr Phil with you

I.     Today on Dr Phil, we are identical twins. You have a fetish for clowns, and I have a phobia of clowns. We live together for some reason in a city where clowns are readily available.

II.     Today on Dr Phil, a mother of six has abandoned the Mormon Church for a life of partying. The stream buffers; you are taking off your socks.

III.     Today on Dr Phil, you are a sound technician, and I am a goth who won’t apologise for my hardcore lifestyle. My mother makes an appearance holding a rosary and I burst into tears. As you gently unhook my mic pack, my corpse paint leaves a mark on your collar.

IV.     Today on Dr Phil, your fixation on animal rights activism is negatively impacting your relationship with your family. I am sitting in the audience with PETA on speed dial, ready to throw red paint on anyone who laughs at the wrong moment.

V.     Today on Dr Phil, a man who lives full-time as a dog is unfazed by Dr Phil’s reproaches. He wears a fur suit and smiles indulgently as footage rolls of him eating out of a bowl on the ground. Phil is spinning up all his missed opportunities for a big wife and nice career out of the ether at greater and greater velocity but the dog man wants none of it. When his mum dies, he will inherit her house and continue living there, he says, so he doesn’t need much to live on. The camera cuts to Dr Phil’s wife Robin shaking her head in disgust. When the episode goes to air, our cheers of solidarity are dubbed over with canned laughter.

VI.     Today on Dr Phil, Dr Phil is broaching the topic of pronouns. We watch Ramsay’s Kitchen Nightmares instead.

VII.     Today on Dr Phil, the episode never goes to air. Due to industrial action, the AV staff have walked out in solidarity with the maintenance crew. You and I remain in the green room, drinking room temperature water as we wait for our cue. I pat “the friendly one” of your eighteen chihuahuas. After nine hours waiting we hug goodbye. In the cab ride home, I tell the driver about your chihuahuas. A few blocks away a lighting tech is telling their girlfriend about your chihuahuas too.

VIII.     Today on Dr Phil, we are striking in solidarity with the maintenance crew. We are asking Peteski Productions to come to the bargaining table on permanent contracts with health benefits. You say you feel sorry for the guests who never “got their moment.” I say, “I think one of them was just a weirdo with a chihuahua.”

IX.     Today on Dr Phil, my strapline reads “Jini Maxwell, 31, thinks she was born in the wrong body.” It is 2004. Dr Phil is not open to a discussion about more inclusive language.

X.     Today on Dr Phil, we join via livestream from our home in Second Life, where we are married and have lived together for many years. In the physical world, you work evenings at the ANU Centre for Social Research while finishing a grad cert in occupational therapy. I am sixty years old and work in administration for the Bismarck City Commission in Bismarck, North Dakota. Dr Phil turns to the audience in mock amazement as he questions the reality of our union. We have never met in person. You describe our love as a meeting of the minds.

XI.     Today on Dr Phil, this serial catfish is unrepentant. There is a softness to the catfish’s face that is giving less “boy” and more “boymode.” Phil tries to lay down the law but she just rolls her eyes and shrugs: “isn’t this just like, life in the digital era?” That night, you send me a selfie from a pub bathroom with a caption that reads, “isn’t this just like, life in the digital era?”

XII.     Today on Dr Phil, Dr Phil is apoplectic. His foundation runs from the crown of his head down his temple. You are blushing down to your collarbones, but when you look up and say that a better world is possible, your voice doesn’t shake. He tears off his shirt and screams, wrenching and guttural, into the cued recording of laughter from a long-dead audience. Then he folds into your arms like a baby, whispering his first ever words from the heart.

XIII.     Philip Calvin McGraw, born September 1 1950, is a television personality and author. He is best known for hosting the talk show Dr Phil.

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