Death of a Refrigerator | 冰箱之死

We assume the cold lasts forever.
Unaware of its untimely demise, we opened
its door to a dying ribbon of light. The cooler
had stopped working—like how the charm
hidden in an old film can’t help but prove
its stars dead, its soundtrack now stale.
The beer, refusing to cool, hinted at this
inevitability—or perhaps, at a lingering
uneasiness I could not ignore.

You reminded me to separate the food.
The meat, quick to spoil, was to be cooked first,
masking its death in a slaughter of oil.
Whatever remained, we left to be swallowed
by the heat, or hidden in the stomach of strangers,
if only to escape the wandering of flies. I wondered
if the eggs were alright. Only when they cracked
would we know if they were rotten, or fresh
like memories of breakfast. Or perhaps, we
could give them another chance? Let the
warmth’s embrace try and hatch them.

Your silence mirrored my cascading questions.
The answer came in the form of fried rice.
We ignored the vegetables for now, though
even the maggots could foresee their fate.

I open the fridge, expecting the melted ice
to have dried, only to find the spilt seasoning
grieving over their past. How I, too, who kept
opening this door again and again out of habit,
mourned in my many-flavoured grief—how death
somehow let me scent the proof of having lived.
How it let me taste this simple joy we neglected.

The inevitability of life quickly arranged
with the store for the new fridge’s arrival.
When the porters carried the old one away,
I saw an exchange of souls. How, spurred by
the guarantee, a fridge emptied and sealed
away is soon replaced by one new and
unopened, ready to contain anything.

Posted in 99: SINGAPORE | Tagged ,

26-second ad for canned cat food | 猫咪罐头二十秒广告

When we pass a clerk in a locksmith’s uniform,
The cat asks what kind of a relationship we are in.
Our relationship is that we wear the same colours.
Only with the cats I’ve loved before can I keep such a tight-lipped relationship.
The inexplicable image at last leads us to earnestly write poems that are more than half broken,
or turns us into another person who will fall in love with more strange cats.

The cat starts to run. Running cat.
I pursue.
The cat jumps over the Revolutionary Warrior Monument in the centre of the square.
Skips over the matchbox on the table in the outdoor cafe.
Leaps over the washing machine on the truck at the traffic light.
Soars over the champagne glasses in the hotel ballroom.
Jumps the turnstile at the subway.
Skips over our lost hearts.
The cat turns to smile at me.
We look at each other.
An innocent smile, absent all malice.

It is the immortality of the pictures on the ads that never catch up with the last train.
No one sees that there are no trains or passengers on the platform.
And so we suddenly realise that it’s a misleading, frivolous ad for canned cat food.
Frivolous and selfish.

If we just walk away in desperation,
that’s all it is.

Posted in 99: SINGAPORE | Tagged ,

3 | முதலைகளின் சுதந்திரம்

Crocodiles
graze on the entrails of afternoons.

Wearing his dentures
Grandpa would walk down the street to the shops.

In those places now
they sell crocodiles in tents.

Suddenly the wind might blow.
The tents hold on to their sides,
cheerful enough,
though eaten by crocodile.

If Grandpa were still here,
he’d be selling balloons like crocodiles.
You ask: where can we buy crocodiles?

Saturday afternoon lies with its mouth wide open
a wallet hurriedly stuffed with money.
A mouth opens like a city
a fluid-filled sac or saclike cavity
a purse
Saturday midnight.

Posted in 99: SINGAPORE | Tagged ,

Briefly, in the news | செய்திகளின் சாரம்

2.32pm, a moment ripe
in Singapore. Not America, not
Laos, where time pulls
dissonant. In India, more so,
it keels over.

The abyss clings onto Africa, as it did Asia.

All I have seen—
Sorry—
I mean, all that was seen by the news
agency
congregate in the spirits’ constant wailing
in that apartment building
where those buried under wander.

And finally, a dangling pronoun:
A deaf crow delighted after defecation—
The building is finally dirty.

Posted in 99: SINGAPORE | Tagged ,

Submission to Cordite 101: NO THEME 10


Images courtesy of Jeanine Leane and John Kinsella.

From now, and throughout 2021, we’re celebrating 25 years of publishing. Milestones include the publication of Cordite Poetry Review’s 100th issue in February, Cordite Books’ 40th print title, and the new free digital anthology 40 Poets.

For 25 years we have kept Cordite Poetry Review credible, lively, diverse, ethical and free, while continuing to pay authors, our contributing editors and the guests who help make our publications happen. It is a relentless endeavour, but a necessary one.

Two titans of literary activism, Jeanine Leane and John Kinsella, will be doing us the honour of guest-editing the poetry for issue 101: UNTHEMED 10: their call below doubles as an acknowledgement of our achievements.

Cordite’s first newsprint broadsheets published some of the final poems of renowned authors, as well as many of the first by members the new generation rising up to take their place. More international than ever before, Cordite Poetry Review now includes many writers not yet born when we began. Here we stand – tenacious, upright and still publishing, embarking on our next 25 years.

We cherish the worldwide collaborations we’ve been a part of, and our millions of readers across the world throughout the past 25 years. Although we receive no financial or in-kind support from any university, the strong network we have established with higher education institutions across Australia, and many others overseas, is fundamental to our success.

We’ve always been known, and will remain, simply as Cordite. The world knows who we are and what Cordite means for literature.

Please consider making a DGR tax-free donation.

–Kent MacCarter


We are looking for poetry that enacts and is responsible for what it considers. The crossover between the degradation of human rights and the injustices of capitalism seems to inevitably align with the destruction of the biosphere, and – even if it does not refer directly to these wrongs – we expect a poem to exist with a consciousness of the environment in which it is being written.

For some, crisis is an ongoing state of being, and continuing colonialism and neo-colonialism ensure that past wrongs cannot truly be addressed. Poetry is a way to engage a decolonisation that is imperative if our world is to be respected and its exploitation halted. The many brinks people have been pushed to over millennia by imperialism are reaching an ecological fracture that will be absolute unless addressed.

So, we look for poems that can be on any topic written in any style but are conscious of crises, brinks and redress. We are not talking about polemical verse (though we are not opposed to this per se), but poetry of consciousness – the beauty of the poem is second to the act of confrontation, healing and investigation of culpabilities.

We are calling for poetry that moves beyond a beautiful art form to literature that recognises the capacity and far-reaching impacts of poetry for social justice, community awareness and social and emotional wellbeing. Activism, yes, of course, but with deep belief in the poem having purpose as a dynamic means, and not just as an act of writing.

This being a celebration of the 25th year of a poetry journal that has enabled many activisms and assisted many voices to speak, we are conscious of what has come before across the great diversity, celebration and confrontations of previous Cordite Poetry Review issues, and their committed and believing editors.

This call is also a thank you to all editors and contributors of the past as we look to a future of peaceful and committed resistance to the status quo and the blandness of security in capital and social privilege.

Let us all aid each other in finding ways of speaking out.

–John Kinsella and Jeanine Leane


Submit poems (prose, comics, visual, concrete) or works of micro-fiction (500 words maximum). Read more about submitting to Cordite Poetry Review. Please note:

  1. The guest editor has sovereign selection choice for all poems submitted.
  2. Masthead editors will also contribute to the issue.
  3. We will only read submissions sent during our official submission periods.
  4. Cordite maintains a hybrid submissions policy. This means that the guest editor may invite five (5) Australian and five (5) overseas authors directly to submit to the issue. In addition, the guest-editor will anonymously select an additional 30-35 works from Australian authors and use their discretion to select further overseas works. For each issue, the guest editor does not know the identities of the online contributors (via Submittable) until after the final selections have been made.
  5. Simultaneous submissions or previously published material will not be considered. This includes works published in print and web journals but does not apply to material first published on personal blogs.
  6. Please place up to three (3) poems in one (1) Word, RTF or PDF document (unless specifically noted otherwise for special issues), with no identifying details in the document itself.
  7. We are not able to offer feedback on individual poems.
  8. Submissions will only be accepted via Submittable …

submit


Posted in GUNCOTTON | Tagged , ,

This is where you hear the echo

LOCATION:


What does it mean to be in narrative, to feel
narrative hyphen in your body


Who spies a doorway, to pose a question of passage
between your lips


When same vowel sounds within same word,
or in words near each other


Voices — your half-face — her side-on —
internal cross-walls called the septa


Wail
Wail
Wail


Mouth twenty three seconds silence across
a background room


Buried beneath your teeth, her tongue —
whose subtitles: look


Who is here, no remaining there — silhouette
and the light swallowed


You — running in — saying through






Out — look out here — every out — you saw






you



THIS IS WHERE YOU HEAR THE ECHO



BODY (repeat)
(BODY fades out)


SHE SIPS (repeat)
(SHE SIPS fades out)


ANOTHER (repeat)
(ANOTHER fades out)


EJECTA (repeat)
(EJECTA fades out)





WAIL WAIL WAIL
COUNT ONE TO TWENTY THREE
NO ECHO


TOOK (repeat)
(TOOK fades out)


FOLLOWED (repeat)
(FOLLOWED fades out)


YOU YOU YOU YOU YOU
YOU YOU YOU YOU YOU
YOU YOU YOU YOU YOU
YOU YOU YOU YOU YOU


BETWEEN
BEFORE
BESIDE
BEYOND

Posted in TMLYMI v4 | Tagged

When Back Where You Came from Doesn’t Want You Either

Even if I replaced the piercings in my ear with transparent studs and lied about a worried wife waiting back home for me and wore long sleeves over the ink that covers my arms and told crass jokes about cheap whores and faggots and cloaked the laugh my ex-boyfriend called impish and grew a thick and wiry beard full of secrets and lowered the pitch of my voice and kept my wrist taut and my shoulders square and my gaze as straightforward as a drone strike

My father said the Taliban would still kill me and they’d kill him, too.


Return to Tell Me Like You Mean It volume 4.

Posted in TMLYMI v4 | Tagged

Love Carefully

Studies have been done
on the impulse found within
children
to wave off morning trains south
bound to elsewhere

goodbye, you were here
for only a moment, and by noon we’ll have
forgotten you, goodbye,

goodbye

I want to know
why this life inside of me means
something more than the life that moves
the breath throughout my body, the blood
of a father who never calls, a mother who watches
game shows full volume, waiting
to win herself another life

I watch the train window, the reflection of our careful
bodies, how in the tunnel the dark
crowds us like the warmth of an open flame, how in the light
thrown back at us you
could almost believe these fathers
mothers
lovers
are tiptoeing out onto the tracks, their hungry
lonely bodies propelled
towards whatever lives
outside the edges
of nowhere


Return to Tell Me Like You Mean It volume 4.

Posted in TMLYMI v4 | Tagged

Tell Me Like You Mean It 4


Image by Rickiesha Deegan

Tell me you’ll come with me on the next part of the journey. Even if you are unsure, everything unfolds with inherent intention.

With the glorious task of commissioning writers for a new collection of sincere, heartfelt writing for Tell Me Like You Mean It volume 4, I found it took longer than usual.

All has been difficult. I have been struggling to write down any words at all.

Tell you like I mean it? I couldn’t tell you anything at all.

My whole apartment has become an extension of my consciousness. I ask myself why I would get out of bed when in the next room I walk into the contents of my brain’s mess, consciousness splattered all over the place. On writing this it seems clear why I am vacuuming every second day.

It follows, then, that putting words on page would be too concrete. It would be a validation of COVID-normal, validating the rupture in the way I was inhabiting the world before. Doing so would establish an after. Too much specificity. Me as a Someone, something corporeal, fixed.

A liminal space like this is what I’ve always thought I wanted, what I thought I was predisposed to, and where ultimate imagination, possibility might occur. But it seems like I’m stuck, incapable of saying. (Yet very capable of watching most of the Netflix lifestyle category)

Meaning is established in its own way, in everything it does. Something is meant, yet not always clear to you.

Bringing together a collection of writers should have been easier than the drawing blood act of my own writing. But it just wasn’t, like so many things haven’t been this year.

It was a privilege to work with writers whose work appears here and for all who I had conversations with along the way. Poetry is a living thing: conversations around this journal taught me grace, humility, compassion and openness. I thank the incredible folks who had, found or created a notch of capacity within themselves to tell us like they mean it.

It’s in the spirit of the journal for me to stand back and let the writers words speak, but just a small editorial offering: Rickiesha Deegan’s beautiful cover artwork came towards the end of the project, and is a visual summary of the words contained within as well as the process of editing the journal.

You haven’t travelled alone so far and you won’t go unaccompanied into the next movement. Does the future loom? Yes, but it’s also inviting. To go exactly where you’re meant to, a calm inevitability.

Posted in CHAPBOOKS | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Only Heaven

Hozier playing when
we climbed
into the backseat of my car

parked by the oval on
Gay St – your idea,
we laughed and perhaps

I am naive for not
seeing it coming,
for missing it,

turning to shut the door:
your slick-quick
undressing, how suddenly

I gasp and gasp –
the single streetlight
filtering through glass

we are blue in this dark or
underwater which would explain
why I am breathless

the only heaven I’ll
be sent to / is when
I’m alone with you

it’s not like I have never
seen a bra never seen
breasts before, I have:

my body mirrored in
salt-water stories
and childhood rituals

eyes closed to the night
in theory, in practice
in milky dreams

see, I have been chasing
the moon my whole life
and now here she is

full and orange, glowing
until I am tide-bent, until
I am waxing golden

in the low lamp light, I was
free / heaven and hell
were words to me

my mouth opens in oblation
whispers, ‘oh my god, oh
my god, oh my god’


This poem cites lyrics from two songs by Hozier: ‘Take Me to Church’ and ‘Work Song.’

Posted in TMLYMI v4 | Tagged

Untitled Grasp

Callow in a treasure cave
Peering through a finger hole

Wanting finger stiffens
With chalky cuticles billowing

All gargles of what is and isn’t
Catch a breath of something

Deftly capacious
After divorces, dated feelings

Without notions of solidity
We are apparently just sieves

And a statuette can sell, carve paths
Poke holes in the ceiling

Cold shower glimpses of body thunder
A shudder feels truer than anything said

The consequences of focus took more
From me than love ever did

A ringing to replace trust grows
Braying in the back of me

As I recalibrate, digest
A feint stiffness wafts

Was once stiff in the back from laying
At altars, forever-beds, isms

Send me a video of butterflies
Licking a carcass on a hillside

If what matters is how the tongue
Gyrates around its little harem

Be silent in the reverb tails of
Unprovoked claims of realness

How many times must a confession
Be made before we begin to feel the same

Posted in TMLYMI v4 | Tagged

when i tell you to run, you must run

almost like x-ray vision the
new skin of here they come
and soon the owl back to life
will notice what happened in time
as well as the egg yolk deposits for
our new bodies each nightmare kept
under pillow and so you marinate into
scattered daylight or disturbed sleep
something numb for my fingers to
feel so carnivorous and quiet that
the remnants of barbed wire will
consolidate our wide tongues we
can both be glorious and still
vanish into each other watch
and i will demonstrate not
during any rush hour
my wingspan


Return to Tell Me Like You Mean It volume 4.

Posted in TMLYMI v4 | Tagged

The Camera Adds 10 Pounds: A Short Film Analysis

A body in Cube (1997)
A body in Ghost Ship (2002)
A body in Resident Evil (2002)
A body in Elfen Leid (2004)

The One Where an Infinitely Thin Blade Penetrates the Skin, Goes Clean Through, and it All Stays Together for a Moment, in Memory, Until it Forgets, in Gravity.

A body in The Thing (1982)
A body in Akira (1988)
A body in Death Becomes Her (1992)
A body in District 9 (2006)
A body in Antiviral (2012)

The One Where, Like Plasticine, the Skin’s Integrity is Compromised or Redefined.

A body in Re-Animator (1985)
A body in The Fly (1986)
A body in Frankenhooker (1990)
A body in American Mary (2012)
A body in Excision (2012)

The One Where the Mainstream Medical Industry is Disregarded for More Home-Grown, Self-Taught Methods.

A body in Demolition Man (1993)
A body in Austin Powers: International Man of Mystery (1997)
A body in Futurama (1999-2003, 2008-2013)
A body in Idiocracy (2006)

The One Where Waking is Substituted by Freezing, a Group of Cells on Pause, to be Warmed Up at a Time When the Future has Arrived.

A body in Nightmare on Elm Street (1984)
A body in The Matrix (1999)
A body in Vanilla Sky (2001)
A body in Paprika (2006)
A body in Inception (2010)

The One Where Waking is Substituted by Sleeping, But You Wouldn’t Know, Unless You Can Somehow Remember the Physics of Yourself.

A body in Videodrome (1983)
A body in Lost Highway (1997)
A body in Total Recall (1990)
A body in Adaptation (2002)
A body in Extraordinary You (2019)

The One Where a Space Exists Inside Another Space, and so on, Where the Spaces Forgot Where They Once Belonged.

A body in Brazil (1985)
A body in Jacob’s Ladder (1990)
A body in Mulholland Drive (2001)
A body in Click (2006)

The One Where a Traumatic Event, Such as Death or Falling Asleep, Cannot Be Comprehended, so Must be Reconstructed, in Order to Conclude the Traumatic Event for Oneself.

A body in Tron (1982)
A body in Existenz (1992)
A body in Tron: Legacy (2010)
A body in Sword Art Online (2012)

The One Where a Virtual, or Semi-Virtual, Reality Forces a Confrontation of Mortality.

A body in Sliding Doors (1998)
A body in Run Lola Run (1998)

The One Where the Copenhagen Interpretation of Quantum Mechanics is Realised.

A body in Vertigo (1958)
A body in The Prestige (2006)
A body in The Double (2013)
A body in Enemy (2013)
A body in Coherence (2013)

The One Where a Doppelganger Comes Around, and Around, and Around, and Around, and Around.

A body in Big (1988)
A body in Seventeen Again (2000)
A body in 13 Going On 30 (2004)
A body in The Curious Case of Benjamin Button (2008)
A body in 17 Again (2009)

The One Where Time and Age Have No Correlation.

A body in She’s the Man (2006)
A body in Ouran High School Host Club (2006)
A body in Coffee Prince (2007)

The One Where a She Allows Herself to Be Mistaken as a He, in Order Gain a Position Within a Male-Dominated Field.

A body in The Beauty Inside (2012)
A body in The Beauty Inside (2015)
A body in The Beauty Inside (2018)
A body in The Beauty Inside (Forthcoming)

The One Where Homeomorphism, a Continuous Function Between Topological Spaces, is Exhibited, as All Humans Contain the Same Number of Holes and Handles.

A body in Pinocchio (1940)
A body in Life-Size (2000)
A body in Ponyo (2008)
A body in Under the Skin (2013)

The One Where in Becoming-Human, a Non-Human Attempts to Perform Human Rituals, to Mixed Results.

A body in The Falls (1980)
A body in Ginger Snaps (2000)
A body in Twilight (2008)
A body in The Human Centipede (First Sequence) (2009)
A body in Tusk (2014)
A body in The Lobster (2015)
A body in Sorry to Bother You (2018)

The One Where, Through a Curse, Crime or Convention, a Human Non-Voluntarily Becomes-Animal.

A body in The Six Million Dollar Man (1973-1978)
A body in The Bionic Woman (1976-1978)
A body in Inspector Gadget (1983-1986)
A body in Robocop (1987)
A body in Ghost in The Shell (1995)
A body in Iron Man (2008)
A body in Iron Man 2 (2010)
A body in Iron Man 3 (2013)

The One Where, Due to Carceral Techno-Capitalism, Man Becoming-Machine Enforces Law and Order.

A body in Child’s Play (1988)
A body in The Thirteenth Floor (1999)
A body in Freaky Friday (2003)
A body in It’s A Boy Girl Thing (2006)
A body in Avatar (2009)
A body in Secret Garden (2010-2011)
A body in Your Name (2016)
A body in Altered Carbon (2018-2020)

The One Where Mind and Body Operate Independently From One Another, so in the End, Descartes Got His Way.


Return to Tell Me Like You Mean It volume 4.

Posted in TMLYMI v4 | Tagged

free meat on a suburban street

Special thanks to Vale, the mentioned friend




















































oscillating from

disassociation to despair

i try to write a poem &

i can’t

so i read abt vultures puking

& shitting on an NYC couple’s luxury condo in florida

& how one rogue neighbour kept feeding them

whole roast supermarket chickens

that relationship to chaos

is intimately familiar

i try to write a poem &

i can’t

& instead lie on the sofa

& watch six episodes of love island

& fall asleep & wake up & find

a perfect crop circle of drool

sometimes the poems

come to u

it’s been one of those weeks

where i’m so busy, far too busy to

cry cinematically in the shower

or dramatically on the floor

or luxuriously in my bed

which is quite frankly, not ok…

life is like being slapped in the face

the responsible party shouting

[redacted]

as they walk away

flipping the bird w/ a perfect manicure

i wish i could be as useful

to the world

as that cult Maybelline mascara

but my long-term infected tragus piercing

is a reminder that my body

takes time to heal

last year i thought

everything was

expansive

the truth is

everything has limits

pressing inwards

like a stern finger

it’s like a chronic chicken shortage at kfc

it’s like wearing ur best gown to the met gala

& getting locked in the toilet

a friend told me that

her mother said

flowers are condensed light

& that’s what bodies are

& that’s what feelings are

& that’s what you & i are

& that’s what this world is

& i sure am

going to miss all of this light

when it’s gone


Return to Tell Me Like You Mean It volume 4.

Posted in TMLYMI v4 | Tagged

Beginning and Ending with a Line from Hera Lindsay Bird

love comes back
harder
falling in love with you
for the second time
is trying to sail back to the harbour
against a headwind
that I hardly felt as a tailwind
sailing out
so confident
though I’ve never been on a boat
it’s perfect saying things like
“catch my drift?”
& you do
but to borrow another line
from Talking Heads
“how did I get here?”
& now
how do I get back?
how careless of me
to have arrived at this party
so overexcited
but so emotionally
underprepared
(is anyone ever just
‘whelmed’?)
promising myself
these spirits (clearly)
too much for just
one person alone
although I really
go in for that feeling
where I weigh
nothing
at the top
of the trampoline’s vault
when the valium
counterbalances the molly
when left
to my own devices
I get high on my own supply
when in my hands
these tattered sails / this
mostly empty bottle
valiantly I sense
my back’s against the wall
though I know
I’ve never looked cool
standing alone at a party
I stumble outside
to feel the same wind
from earlier in the poem
hit me suddenly
& when that rush subsides
lying down
it’s when the trampoline
stops bouncing
when the boat stops pitching
that’s when
love comes back

Posted in TMLYMI v4 | Tagged

Intergenerational status anxiety is a pending job app

Suburban mums at Highpoint Shopping Centre (highlights in hair, talons on hands)
remind me of white lion statues worn as jewellery on brick McMansions;
I can hear the hose watering the concrete driveway from my childhood.
I wanna tape myself to the wall, like a t-shirt on display—2D, empty, not embodied yet—
for everyone to look at and ask ‘Ooh, how much for this one?’.

One line circulates each time it resonates:
more people bought their seventh home than those buying their first.
Ok, not true-true; proportions a little blown out,
like an unoccupied
high-rise.
I cackle at my 26 y/o brother after he buys his second house.
Funny like wog boy had no option but to join the family business in high school.
Cinder-blocked between:
funny like wog boy had no other choice but to work hard for good money.
Truth Coming Out of Her Well (1896), but broke.
The gate to his newly purchased property reads:
FUCK OFF C*NT
in sparkly, silver graff.
But the command is owner-facing, onto the property and upside-down.

Me, a Don’s gold pinky ring
sitting next to my didi front row at my cousin’s wedding
looking down upon a man, prayerlike
removing his own coat to lay across my grandfather’s lap.
This kind of mafioso exclusivity is not reserved for the Italians
but The Sopranos makes my memory yolky
so much so
I consider buying a $2000 plinth to rest my TV on while on JobSeeker.

On the outer suburbs of wealth are critically underpaid workmates who e-mail each other:
Don’t worry! No one’s having as bad a day as Lindsay Lohan’s net worth!

Posted in TMLYMI v4 | Tagged

Because It’s Slower It Races Away

Someone at the place that used to be Michel’s Patisserie but is now called something else and is in fact something entirely else but despite efforts seems more generic than Michel’s Patisserie with its new mint green and blonde wood is wearing a red Free Julian Assange shirt. Maybe 12 years ago I saw Julian Assange walk right from where I’m standing to the counter of Woolworths, which might have been called Safeway back then but was essentially the same place as it is now even down to the lighting system buy or request to buy a SIM card for a prepaid mobile phone. That’s Julian Assange, I thought. He is buying a SIM card for a prepaid mobile phone. I knew as much about him then as today, which aside from the words Internet and Freedom is zero despite or perhaps because of the fact I once watched a poorly made biopic about his early life in Melbourne. Something about Dandenong or is it the Dandenongs. Good at the Internet. Something to do with war and America. Or is it sex and Sweden. The Internet, which I can’t explain but am always on or is it always in except for when I sleep and being in the Internet is so like being asleep or is it a dream. I’m here because I’ve been working my way up to this moment. Not that there’s anything wrong with me, or wrong with this Shopping Centre. There is, but that isn’t the point. The point is I need to buy thrush medication to treat the UTI medication to treat the unprotected sex which I suppose I had as a treat. Chemist Warehouse of course is a dream and a curse to the germaphobes and to the racists and the way I live in the Internet is like the way I live in the coronavirus, perfectly well in those correlative ways without understanding anything at all about it but receiving this information or is it this dream. Life ebbing or is it flaring in Chemist Warehouse, a fact of life I ascribe to the general paranoia between the different customers and between the customers and the staff though I don’t feel paranoia between the staff themselves. Weeks later I’ll see the security guard remember and describe what will seem like one of his big nights to the young woman behind the checkout counter. I’m not surprised there’s some aggression between an old man on his bicycle and an unseeable driver in a grey vehicle and I take the aggression on board because it feels like mine to take. Even though I only came for the thrush medication my backpack has other items I purchased and took from Chemist Warehouse and also Woolworths including: a Twix, a surprisingly square carrot, an expensive coconut water I didn’t want. I have been working up to this moment or is it that this moment has taken a lot of effort. I didn’t want this moment or is it that I don’t understand this moment. It is aggressive, expensive, sick with this moment, this moment, or is it that I’m here.

Posted in TMLYMI v4 | Tagged

Generated I

// My brain is curing me
forgiveness aches in her belly
I look at her in the window and collapse into nothingness

// My heart is knotting me
won’t you please warn someone
I gasp at us and break apart

// My blood is soothing me
when aching words stay worn she will try to reach me
god, please fear for us

// My body is nourishing me
I might get lost, there’s no symmetry
the name gnaws in her body

// My lungs are cursing me
they might fall and stay down, but she’s still here
words can’t save her

Posted in TMLYMI v4 | Tagged

Soft Edges

tea is a bush art
stoke the fire
whisper to coals
with a charred billy can
boil rainwater on smoky white box
don’t even consider a bag
leaves in the teapot
steep black oolong
wait and wait and wait
add milk or powdered sunshine
sugar is compulsory
stir rigorously

pain is a bush lesson
dad was a shearer
I followed him to work for day care
smoko is sacred tea time
stop jumping near the fire
one two three
somehow I’m in the billy can
fuck someone get some water
shearers jumping over stock fences
Nata won the Olympic hurdles
that day a gallon of water
held above his head
poured over my shedding ankle

bush lessons have dangerous curves
no phones no ambulance nowhere
shearers running long and fast
more fences and Uncle Jimmy says
Dolly you gotta drive
hold this hanky on your ankle
and stop crying it won’t stop
pain and pain and pain better
call it a lesson to claim what I learned
even small buildings can be hospitals
everyday new bandages and green blisters
I stole that other kids lollies
the nurse wasn’t watching

bush curves have soft edges
a billy can sits on the side
of coals and fate and sings
dad isn’t a shearer no more
I ate fried sheep brains
and we moved in to town
dad is in recovery from everything
billy lessons burn remission
ankles deep and he sheds his skin too
silver bandages at a new hospital
tea is a dangerous love
love is a soft edge

Posted in TMLYMI v4 | Tagged

this is just another receipt

& yes I’ll carry it like all the others
waiting for the dan when I don’t wake up thinking about
all the debts I owe to people in my life all the money I’m doing wrong
in this sci-fi film to this opening music like
what could possibly happen next svet? throw ur muppet birds & duck armies @ me

people keep making plans like another year might actually come but I’m not so sure
my plans r less made more looking @ apartments in NYC & wishing there were two of me
so I could split the rent between myself & myself.2
the problem with a second me is she’d still be me & she’d probably still be a poet &
struggle to pay rent & we’d sleep on receipts instead of madraci

Tata talks of buying an investment property & taking out another loan
he says Robbie Williams has a Beverly Hills house with 22 bathrooms & when asked why
he said what if he has a party & every one of the guests get diarrhoea?
Tata says in Darwin u can buy a property four bedrooms for $304k
Mama says ne volim properties

pls let me keep pretending like the jobseeker & writing money in my account
is my own & for spending
or @ least let me dwell on my dreams as if they’re still possible
even though
so much was never meant to be attainable

I’m comparing myself to friends again but not everyone
is from a working-class migrant home in this unemployment shit for lyf
& a poet sick of x-po-sure
that is to say disappointing my family is more than likely
with the road I’ve chosen to take

Tata says me & my sestra r lucky
we just have to show we’re young & motivated & they’ll give us a job on the spot
this is not the saddest delusion he nurtures
in Alex Chee’s ‘Inheritance’ he writes ‘My mistake being that money is not
power over pain. Facing pain is.’

as the first daughter in a new world I carry us all not only myself
so I need to know things for us all
like how the average wage for full-time working Australians in the second quarter of 2018
was over $82k—I’d laugh if I didn’t feel sick about this—
or the cost of living & minimum wage for Bosnia & Serbia

I still wonder if I’d be writing if my parents never left
I still keep all my receipts (no matter how old) in boxes under my bed &
remember to pack them when I move—choosing to accumulate to sustain a wage fantasy
I still never expect to pay off any of our debts in this lifetime

there r 400 wild horses bringing tourists to Bosnia despite their abandoned ancestors
these horses r their own bosses now & have humans who love them enough to build/work for them
& I know money abandoned us
I know this country continues to abandon & silence so many
& I just want to be these horses for them want to be sjajni snovi fulfilled

I want the kind of money to picnic inside this landscape cloud watch with loved ones
& not worry about returning to the world
Do not return, my mother
shouts from her sleep. Do not
return.


Return to Tell Me Like You Mean It volume 4.

Posted in TMLYMI v4 | Tagged

Little Animal

Posted in TMLYMI v4 | Tagged

in/on/swamp

rather buoyant to throw around a word like ‘paradise’1
but I’d take bats ova beeps & bastards any day—
& greens, flakey tans & periwinkle eeks

somewhere in another dimension, a silver commodore zips
past a window & a nuttelex-haired passenger w/ red glasses
throws the head back & laughs
o 2 b Zooming through a saturday morning
w/ such verve / or any morning really / or w/ any verve

my lungs are so full of muck & I cough
& I cough
& I did this
to myself / almost w/ purpose & w/ good reason

this place—one time (or still)—a colonial birth canal: water-rush-quote/unquote-“purity”

Semi-Divine Anxieties! o drown thy selves in washtubs
filled w/ paper bark or faecal matter
& what matters may matter will matter will mattress

is opaqueness hidden meaning or
an attempt to not be found out so quick?

\\ focus shatters

whatever peace you found here
is it here
was it ever
will it be
enough to Void thy Self, who,
like pollen in the wind will
tumble dry on high speed,
up & down wind shafts
losing what amounts to
a finger or a toenail, before evtl.,
settling somewhere else.

Posted in TMLYMI v4 | Tagged

Two Scenes

expand, taut skin sparking
sharp and hot. peel off rocks, curved
vessels full of yawning toothy sky or
that teary green, thousand winking archives,
cut-glass shoulders. here
I echo and unfold like a napkin
taking flight in sudden wind,
waiting & reaching
first dip of the summer —
one lung blown wide
submerge, completely,
until: blur:
sun-drenched stupor, each drop
a free-wheeling collision
kissing chapped lips into hungry bloom.
fade to blue and balmy
all contours and warm hollowed spaces
quiet like a prayer:
held in palm an infinite goodbye
underwater, eyes change hands

candy-coloured sweat: filmy casing
like a third body:
frozen time. light catches
ice melting in clammy-grasp,
condensation forming is a gasp
or a promise uttered aloud,
salty-granular and always in motion
hugging the open air
all glistening bodies,
slide on the sticky sweet floor
in between the bass and the next limb
come out the other end glowing
wet and dancing new, each
an oil slick, a wave of sound
I count my breaths on my fingers
sink into lip gloss pooling
heat phantom and piercing
this is communion, this is ritual
to feel synchronicity in deep electric
& forget the body, intimately
Posted in TMLYMI v4 | Tagged

Standing at the Gas Station on a Winter’s Night, What Am I Afraid of | 冬夜站在加油站我怕什么

Translated by Eleanor Goodman

A driver used to long-haul raids, I watch
pigeons by the gas station, waiting for fries dropped by people
coming out of the fast food joint

a few people with obscured faces wait in the cold wind for
odd jobs, they and the pigeons
make Ronald McDonald sort of look like Jesus—is that
what I’m afraid of

no, I’m not afraid of that, although I’m Chinese—Wang
Xiaobo’s little brother Wang Chenguang
was attacked on the street, but let me tell you I’ve been in
fights, you think it doesn’t matter

but I’m used to it, in Saint Louis or a motel on the outskirts
of Chicago
I’ve achieved it deep within myself, an unflappable cool, since
in a dimly-lit situation

with my long hair and quick steps and slightly crazy eyes, a
classmate once took me for a thug.
of course I’m not but that doesn’t make me worry—what
really makes me afraid

which is more likely to affect me, there’s no need to say, but
the feeling follows me
turning my shadow from a hunting dog into a wild horse
into an even more terrifying animal at hunt, and so if I were
walking down the street in my hometown
I’d be aggressive, those who’d dare bother me haven’t even
been born, and the blast
distorted the street, and that might be even better for me to
walk down, and did you think I’m actually afraid

my childhood friend Xiangdong who worked in a chemical
plant, already dead from cancer
my next-door neighbour, beaten to brain damage and stuck in
a madhouse where no one will ever buy him cigarettes again

the dread I feel isn’t because fate is ruthless and decisive, the
sutras have explained that
in my dreams the mountains and oceans are behind me, as
though it’s a prophecy, but the scope is so big the details are
unclear

I fear the mentality of my feet not being afraid to wear shoes,
that’s where the problem lies.
trying to be a hero is just wishful thinking, and even if you’re
abroad, you suspect that if something happens
it will be set off by your countrymen—I fear this attitude, I
hate this kind of unflappable cool, bound up in a bird’s nest

of dread in my sleep, hearing the wings of birds of prey
flapping like the sound of cut paper
at such moments, perhaps fear is unrelated to bravery, it has
to do with millions of hope-crushing feet

stepping behind the simple mould of cause and effect, ten
years before epic poetry, countless people had already
silently collapsed

this really isn’t a question, beetles can survive under water for
forty minutes, so they can adapt
to an unfriendly world, and in an age of oil they win, they feel
contented

with their lack of security, and of course I want to be like that
too, when my hometown explodes to look like its own
reflection in a funhouse mirror

Posted in HOMINGS & DEPARTURES | Tagged ,