Thenar Webspace

Posted on October 1, 2020 by Jeremy George

Loneliness comes out of the toilet bowl with a flashlight.
This happens in the middle of the night but also the afternoon.
Sometimes you find it screaming around and around,
Sometimes you feel a flushing in your throat. Think
Of the violence as thick images glazed onto porcelain with
Blood/ decide on the aggressiveness of the word schlack
Twenty-thousand black squares hovering before your eyes
Shadow-box the hallucination yell whack/whack whack.
Now stick your head in the water. The roots of your hair
Will pull your scalp outwards until it feels like a hat.
Remove the hat. You are inside. It is impolite.
Flush yourself again. Press the steel button down
Slowly, tenderly, there is an intimacy in self-disgust
A sharpness to harness. Keep at it. Forget your
Passwords. There is only glass in the bowl now
Glass in your mouth now, each big tooth clenched
Inside. Other grooves chalking grooves flush.
Flush again, swirling is swirling the light your white
Hand reaching out with nail clippings. Press them into
A palm. Think of Love. Think of the purple flowers
When you extend your thumb. The dog trapped in
The ceiling fan whimpering. The faulty wiring. The oil
Sea beneath the earth. Dancing on the bar in galoshes
For the blood. Missed messages. That shit in the pipes
That diluted the sun. I want you to understand that this
Is not self-immolation. Not a colour. Sometimes you will
Be tempted. Keep moving, flush again.

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American Dream

Posted on October 1, 2020 by Grant Quackenbush

I like to pretend I’m a billionaire.
It takes the edge off being broke.
When I wake up in my shoebox room
which I share with a family of rats
(I hear them at night
playing Scrabble in the walls)
I say: I choose to live this way. I like rats.
When I go to work and the boss
tells me to move faster or I’m fired
I think: I could buy this shitty company
and sell it to China if I wanted.
Lah di dah dee, trah lah lah.
Sam Walton, founder of Wal-Mart,
drove a 1979 Ford pickup.
Henry Ford lived modestly in Michigan.
Look Ma! I’m Henry Ford
living modestly in Brooklyn!
I’m wiping my ass with invisible cash!
I’m the richest schmuck in America!
And no one knows it but me.

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The Management

Posted on October 1, 2020 by Peter Harney

reserves the right
to inspect your head.
please do not leave
before the red light
goes out
& obey all the rules.
survival will be provided
by collected time,
you may feel secure.
we have done all we can
to make you as comfortable
as is reasonably possible.
it is expected in return
that you do the best
we know you can.
more than this is not required.
(you are reminded however
that any less is a serious offence).
we are treating you
like a human being,
please try to act like one.

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Victory (1917)

Posted on October 1, 2020 by Anastasia Radievska

what did the sun feel like
that armed October day

– did your dried skin
breathe between Nevskiy and Liteyny?

did your hair stand on ending when you saw
in those new men a light refracted full
a future danced into a falling web

– and did you really point your arm like that?
did spasm take you as you cleared the gate?

what dust swarmed in your eye when you first felt
the mechanism of time change form and shape?

and did the body now grown ethyl-thick
run through with an imagination of the motion
spilling to causes from its tongue and hands –

my great-grandmother’s ladle swimming
into the wheat and flesh inside her son

her daughter a distended limb, my father
paused to speak between the eared walls, us all
turning away from faces in the street

knowing to look would mean to trust
and trust belongs
to some imagined country that’s not here

– perhaps the same one that you saw,
Vladimir,
when your gaze tore its teeth on autumn sky

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Red Scare

Posted on October 1, 2020 by Eva Birch

i.
The little fascist in me is
crushing that little flower,
Earlier Me, who
jumped the train gates
illegally.

My crotch was a hinge
I couldn’t feel
to get me through.
Don’t tell anyone it touched
the metal.

Don’t daddy, do
you have a ticket?
Like neo-New Balance,
neo-Asics, like
Me like Too?

I’m the morgenmuffel,
a nasty Czech waffle,
making posters of paper
in the spring tank,
leaving.

ii.
You’ve done a really bad job,
they said, as I
came, came, came
to the end of the brigade of
knocks and lights of surrender.

Lavender water and beauty,
the girls are saying
whatever comes to
mind through the phone,
No replies guys! Gays and go.

It’s going too right,
I write from the left margin,
a new warm cut
down in the right
place.

Space opening up
for Olinda phrases, bare
feet on the ground.
Thighs down, thighs down,
blood’s here now.

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Another Bushfire Poem

Posted on October 1, 2020 by Nicholas Chłopicki

DAY ONE

an early one tucked around the corner
by David Warner
the crowd really starting to feel the vibe
at the SCG
“Waltzing Matilda, Waltzing Matilda
you’ll come a-Waltzing Matilda with me”

welcome to the sydney cricket ground1 wherever you are around the world it’s a hot day out there and it’s only getting drier with water supplies running low and members drinking refreshments since 9am forecast is dry in most areas conditions continuing the pitch is predicted to crack in the heat a long and difficult battle ahead the australians will aim to bat trying to defend their homes until at least tea time barring a collapse or two fires potentially joining to create a mega-blaze on the border the pitch is showing early signs of turning a premeditated sweep into the number of missing has grown a bit hazy in sydney at the moment but met with a solid leave we’ve never been this prepared to stay and protect time for a break for all the players it’s hot out there areas of concern remain at concerning levels at five to three here in sydney its still 35 degrees so the australian captain tim paine will have that in mind it still looks fine to me to play a 15 over stint at the end less heat better conditions for bowling the perfect line as there is no safe level of natural variation just not sure if it’s gonna reverse swing or not it’s very dependent on the wind to stay or go as catastrophe threatens what’s the feeling there will the australian team be able to remain batting all day



DAY TWO

to smith and with conditions never before seen in this state you can’t bowl like that to this field so frightening and fierce it’s been a tough morning as far as run scoring goes for the australians we’ve seen this kind of destructive fast bowling tactics before often seen on the world test stage the australians still struggling to deal with it and score successfully especially in such treacherous and unpredictable conditions like walking into a real life nightmare and that’s what makes test cricket so hard and beaten very close to the outside edge with such ferocity a very trying time terrifying 468 minutes labuschagne’s been out there now and is nearing his first double century he doesn’t like to stick around he likes to have a go this will come as a bittersweet revelation for those oppressive conditions but he’s had a bit of luck it was really a scene from another world earth turned into mars a lovely stroke there with this toxic smoke one of the shots of the day could be gone in moments and will no doubt be hit in the helmet again before the summer is out it’s only going to get worse or should we say get better the pitch is only going to spin more PR before people it’s starting to turn the wrong’un spun triggering warnings while this test match is going on our thoughts and prayers are with those affected popular landmarks so many people struggling all over the country is at its wits end and well done to everyone who has donated the power in this area has once again gone out there are no reviews and there’s no slip in places evacuation centres have been evacuated a chance for a flick off the hip



DAY THREE

good shot really good shot you could hear trees exploding in the forest starc gets it through the gate steve smith gets his first blaze reaching emergency levels hammered by paine plenty of power in that stroke glorious absolutely glorious confirmation of another tragedy joe burns over the rope for six but cummins gets the last laugh he’s countered the tactics well i don’t think there’s anything left the australians understand that if we lose one we can’t lose a second wicket quickly that’s pulled away hard to the fence it goes this season marnus labuschagne’s batting has been freakish i’m sure it’s a summer he won’t want to forget i have never experienced anything like this you just run out of superlatives for this man trying to spend as much time indoors under raging winds for this kind of summer achievement the conditions are looking a bit gloomy not other people have been so lucky to be edged out with australia well on top and paine declaring with a lead of 420 as part of a wider relief package2



DAY FOUR

out and that’s the first breakthrough of the horrendous conditions reverse swinging incredibly quickly and late too only to be criticised and chased out of an embarrassment to be seen walking away a no-ball called a reservoir explosion yep on the replay it was the wrong’un set him up nicely when he thought it couldn’t get any worse it did turn putting their lives at risk so there’s some dry around the randwick street end that will bring a delight to nathan lyon and his off-spinners and that’s bowled him a moment of defiance against conditions that seemed so unstoppable doing nothing is not a solution as we see a backwards cut evading the silly point steve smith taking 39 balls to get off the mark now a comfortable drive through extra cover for four more monster inferno fears perhaps trying to shift the blame as well he’s dropped him can you believe it obscured by thick smoke he just got his feet wrong over the rope over the fence go go timing the ball to perfection now they have seen similar scenes only days ago



DAY FIVE

you gotta make your decision quick it’s getting more difficult to drive on this wicket there’s been some talk of reverse smoke and it’s looking a bit hazy for the first time a shortage of face masks over another maiden it’s looking a lot cloudier but i think there’s a bit of smoke amongst the yellow tinge pluming as we look through the glass here that’ll be out and one down a nervous wait for those families left behind as despite these big wickets where the bloody hell are ya the australians final review is being referred to the third umpire upstairs a dramatic federal intervention stay with your original out decision that’s it australia win the test it’s a very special day indeed3


another one tucked around the corner
by David Warner
the crowd really starting to feel the vibe
at the SCG
“Waltzing Matilda, Waltzing Matilda
you’ll come a-Waltzing Matilda with me”

1 Australians will be gathered whether it’s at the SCG
(Sydney Cricket Ground) or around television sets all around the country and
they’ll be inspired by the great feats of our cricketers from both sides of the
Tasman and I think they’ll be encouraged by the spirit shown by Australians and
the way that people have gone about remembering the terrible things that other
Australians are dealing with at the moment. Scott Morrison, ABC Interview, 01/01/2020

2 But at the same time, whether they’re started by lightning storms or whatever
the cause may be, our firefighters and all of those have come behind them to support them (sic), whether they’re volunteering on the front line or behind the scenes in a great volunteer
effort, it is something that will happen against the backdrop of this Test match.
Scott Morrison, ABC Interview, 01/01/2020

3 And on television every night, with looks of professional apology,
weathermen and women standing in front of scarlet maps of Australia tell us
over and over again the news that makes sense of all these woes: according
to the best forecasts, we have at least weeks to wait for rain.
‘Australia is becoming a nation a nation of dread – and the world looks on
in with pity and scorn’
David Marr, The Guardian, 31/12/2019

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intro to chinese politics

Posted on October 1, 2020 by Carissa Cheow

蹲点： to squat on a point for long enough that you belabour
the point, which is to gain enough experience to make a point
for you to squat on.

重点： all points are equal; some points are significantly more
equal than other points. use these in policy to add more weight
to your points.

工作队： saikang warriors with chinese characteristics. arrows
are stronger than bullet points in emphasizing the significance
of your campaign.

骨干： the backbone of a successful campaign requires
individuals who are willing to sacrifice their backbones to
ensure a successful campaign.

突破口： a breakthrough in your campaign; occurs when
cadres suddenly break their silence and open their mouths in
praise of their achievements.

扎根： pronounced, aptly, the same way one would say
“jargon”; literally means to strike roots. each step listed above
is jargon for how to 扎根.

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this dreamtime is colder than death

Posted on October 1, 2020 by Brian Obiri-Asare

how can I forget? a frozen winter sunset when I was playing
in the blow-up pool with mum and Kelisha said – there’s some guy here

to take your baby away. then, out of breath. mum in tears – just you wait
for the storm of needles and waves. next door, they were watching
the news avoid our context again. and it’s started raining again.

white cockatoos glide over the water. the moment stunning
because of the sad, sad beauty. because the sun reflected every tear

whilst nothing more was said, or was it the prayers inside my head
that started to tighten in all that sadness, making the mozzies
devour my trauma and common sense?

because you might need somebody too. you might be somebody that
needs listening to. that much I can gather in the light of each reflection

but between now and tomorrow I want to remember all the hungers
I have ever known. but where is Kelisha? has she forgotten me?
over the water, a thousand white cockatoos and the splashing sound

of silence as thunder and lightning fall. there is a reflection she won’t
let me leave behind. when I woke up and she was gone I got scared.

when I can’t rub up against you, your touch is all I ever feel
in the music of the howling wind. some guy approaches, shivering.
mum says a scarred surface never heals. who am I to say any different?

there’s some guy breathing heavily in the dark. Kelisha draws close
and softly, into his ear. she says – I’ve come to say goodbye.

there were more tears. the sky is closing in. tomorrow, I will walk
back to myself along the iced edge of the lake.

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Humdrumming

Posted on October 1, 2020 by Chris Ifso

Update #9 from the Department of Nearlyology which at this stage of our unlocking instructs an element of doubt to infect human encounters, a quelling, a coolness, a quiet curiosity. No rushing into arms nor towards other body parts.

Where once loud clapping and howling were deemed essential, now The Dept recommends most citizens perhaps once a week or so to stand in the street outside their homes and engage in humdrumming: a mix of body percussion and the creation of sound through a closed mouth, activities which sit between shutting the fuck up and shouting the heart out, are how we know ourselves from within, unrecorded, un-reflected, and through which we re-render heard songs, remake and repercuss them for our own purposes to express the inexpressible or almost ignored, those scraps of sorrow, bitterness, love, lunch, the everyday and in-between.

This humdrumming, the Dept suggests, can send out a forcefield of emotional complexity guaranteed as much as anything else so far to eliminate most mild symptoms shown of various viruses and hypochondrials. Here lockdown drifts towards the looking into various abysses of grief, ruination and fear, the whole planet staring just now into deep dark.

The Ministry prepares to make defining statements, number the sadly dead, hurriedly moving on to the cheerier rates of infection and frustration, to put an assertive stamp on proceedings, working twentyfourseven on a reboot up the planetary backside to be greener fairer kinder budgets allowing, keyworkers black and all shades of lives mattering some percent moreso.

Meanwhile the humdrumming right across the globe is growing, the pattering on bellies distended by stark staring hunger or anger or grazing on comfort foods, the lips closed, buzzing, ruminating on a tune embodied within us, performed falteringly, to ourselves and those round about, the best means to inhabit these weary skinbags. Let it out but in not quite yet. Hold it in somewhat but still be heard. Humdrumming and look down at our tiptapping fingers, look up to the stars, we are coming up out of lockdown, we open wide shoulders, stretching our backs, pushing out chests, to breathe, resonate, breathe, we must breathe. We are humdrummers no going back and shake.

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Conspiracy Theory is Contemporary Genre Literature

Posted on October 1, 2020 by Louis Armand

1. the task isn’t to tell the truth / but to induce
in the reader / the belief that they’ve discovered it

2. only the poet finds Abyssiania
inside the toe of their shoe

3. there are / worlds / where the sea / never / makes landfall

4. they dream of a sentence that can be pursued to the end with absolute certainty; of a word as definitive as a
tombstone; of a book after which nothing more can be said

5. silence / finally / also unheard

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Request // Response

Posted on October 1, 2020 by Rae White

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[Immigration Interview: Chinese Exclusion Act 1882]

Posted on October 1, 2020 by Derek Chan

[Who paid for your passage?]
The blood that burned the brightest
was always the one we followed.

[Is there a clock in your father’s bedroom?]
While he slept, silver wheat grew
from the sweat of his clothes.

The morning always found
a quiet place to kneel.

[Is someone forcing you to come here?]
I don’t understand the question.

[Who were your neighbours?]
The name Yu Yan. The name Ying Yue.
The word yùn dòng. The clouds – sliding
like Wang Shu’s wet slippers across the hallway.
The field – the field inside the finger.
The golden doorknobs wrapped in a blanket.
The loose joints rattling the ginger-jar.
The salt in the curve of a pinnae.
The sound womb glistening the air.
The strand of hair lengthening in the spine of a book.
The ocean forgetting our names.
The sky thirsting for our bodies.
Our bodies thirsting for the sky.
The country – her country – welling in the afterglow.

[Who paid for your passage?]
Unable to speak,
the dark thawed around us.

We held birds like candles.

A child mistook the snow
for his mother.

[What direction does the front of your house face?]
When we were lost,
I pulled the curve of moonlight
from the wet of his lips
into a sickle between my palms.

It always spun South.

[What pieces of furniture were in your living room?]
The radio – the father inside the radio.
The box of chalk. The pocket mirror.
The teeth – the jade inside the teeth.
The map that shrivels in the moonlight.
The wax that blooms in the bone.
The chopsticks – slid – into the holes of coins.
The shadows braided on the clothesline.
The window that breaks like an eardrum.
The wind drawing names in the ashtray.
The bayberry bleeding on the tongue.
The body – thrashing – like a blanket in the mouth.
The candied ginger – goldening on the table.
The breasts – her breasts – swelling ripe in the heat.

[What is your final destination?]
Could you please repeat the question?

[What is your final destination?]
Where the shadow pauses
at the edge of a meadow
into the shape of a gazelle.

[What is your name?]

[What is your name?]

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nothing ever really

Posted on October 1, 2020 by Hasib Hourani

i’m at the centre of something and yes, i can break through the plastic barrier of the thing i’m
in but then i will just be trapped again, this time in something bigger, and this process will go
on and on like a perfectly looped video: you are in a cocoon; you shed the cocoon; you
notice a clear film closing in on you; you are being vacuum packed again; the layers never
stop existing.

this is how i feel about politics and echo chambers

raw onions in your mouth: intrusive
and they stick like permanence
and then you add fire
and they are covered in soot
and they crumble
and they are like molasses: sweet
and they are like butter: slipping in and out

when i am in PALESTINE we wake up every day to the smell of sugar
from the bakery/ies downstairs and i feel sick like i am going to vomit

i want you to recall all the pictures
of pelicans after an oil spill
the ones that went viral for a week
then stopped circulating

because traveling when you’re coated in thick diesel slip
cannot last forever. we get tired. we all have to settle eventually

1. stop moving around so much
a. are you trying to go home?
i. yes
١. so…you’re finding somewhere new?
٢. so…you’re returning?
ii. no
١. good

go camping and get trapped in a place with no phone reception
(why are all your stories about being in places with no phone reception?)
when the boyfriend of the friend whose birthday you’re celebrating says
[ISRAEL]
alongside [REDACTED]
and alongside [REDACTED]
and alongside [R E _ _ D _ A C _ _ T _ _ _ _ _ _ _ E _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ D]
get more trapped than you were before

you are in a box now
you are always in a box that’s just how things work
but this one isn’t the right one

this is how i feel about politics and echo chambers

you are in a box now
and the box is a yellow dumpster
on jamal abdel nasser street
you are a cattle egret
in a yellow dumpster
on jamal abdel nasser street
even though you’re a waterbird
and Jenin is forty kilometres
from water
in either direction

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Corona lens

Posted on October 1, 2020 by Jeremy Hight

The thing is in the air
It rides on breath
It strides in crowds
Yet the marchers are out

Night was once believed to be poison air held high by the sun
To fall against the landscape as night
Windows were closed tight to keep the monster away
Creatures of the nigh originally came from as evil almost sentient
Now the thing is all across the globe stealing breath
Yet the marchers feel the need to be out

Wars once dropped bombs at night to those cowering below
Terror and fire and death from the darkness
Ruin born of architectures
Splinters and ill sculpture of home wall and window
And now the thing rides the very air and breath and needs no bomb or craft
Yet the crowds gather now each day

Death is only abstract when it is seen as far away
It waits for all
Compassion is a kind of contact
Empathy and reason are buildings, halls, seas and shores
And they stop nurses to scream about haircuts and sandwiches

Cities slumber now to try to minimize the tentacles of molecules
To reduce the horrors across the world
And the crowds yell into the ether
Self-congratulatory awash in ill formed rhetoric and base human desires
Like death itself can bow down along with reason and sense
To shouted voices
Like the grave can wave a pale flag to the force of will of so much weight and mass
And that the world is but a singular perception
A lens as globe

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in the chair

Posted on October 1, 2020 by Chloë Callistemon

please sit in the chair in the marked red square
please wait in your car
please stand behind the red line
please sit in the chair in the marked red square
in the grey room with the grey floor with the darker grey flecks
in the chair in the red square
they are quiet and polite behind masks
in the square grey room with the small square mirror
outside the red square with the chair
she leans in with the thermometer
with the finger clip for pulse and oxygen
on my finger in the red square with the chair
I answer questions and wait
glasses fogged above the mask
in the chair in the red square
met at the door with mask and sanitiser
please stand behind the red line
behind the perspex barrier
behind the mask and shield
the nurse asks questions then takes me
to the grey room with the grey chair in the red square
I have assigned each finger a purpose
right little finger is for glasses
which slide again and again
left little finger is to scratch my neck
in the chair in the red square
in the grey room with the square mirror
with the sink and WHO poster
on how to wash your hands
each square for a motion
I push up my glasses with my right little finger
my glasses fog
I wait for the doctor
in the chair in the red square
behind the door ajar to the nurse walking
to meet a patient
please stand behind the red line
one patient goes past
please sit in the chair in the red square
in another grey room
with a chair and a red square
like this with its drawers closed
sealed with cable ties
with cupboards and a square mirror
and a trolley with a green taped tray with CleanX
and a red taped tray with the thermometer
that came near me
with the finger clip that touched me
the doctor comes in using his foot
to open the door enough
to close the door enough
to ask his questions through the space suit
I can barely hear him through the fully sealed mask
barely see him though my fogged glasses
he stands on my deaf side and asks me to look forward
take my mask off and open my mouth
in the chair in the red square
he looks without light and swabs
I re-cover only my mouth
and the nasal swab goes in
as I sit on the chair in the red square
a toilet brush to the brain
says my sister later
her official medical opinion
treatment – hot toddy
when I am far from the chair in the red square
I cough once with the mask back on
my glasses fog as I slide them up with my right pinkie
my thumb and forefinger are for the mask
for the sanitiser, for surfaces that are not me
when the doctor leaves he uses his foot
to open the door enough
to close the door enough
to the grey room with the square mirror
with the chair in the red taped square
that must be so bare to be easy to clean
with its bare grey chair in the square
I wonder if the doctor must change everything
clean everything
before he sees the man next door
who has waited in another chair
in a red square
who will exit like me
from the other side of the building
in his mask with his information
who will drive home
close his door
and wait for word
as the next person arrives and is asked
please sit in the chair in the marked red square
please wait in the car
please stand behind the red line
please sit in the chair in the marked red square

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Film #6: Eve in Vietnam, July 8, 1968

Posted on October 1, 2020 by Alisha Yi

The rain never touches us. Light pushed
from stolen sky: a summer too early, we
mar into another war. Whittled into
indigo, the color of small infants, thrashing
under currents. Somewhere, the moon
becomes a muscle memory in ruin. Rain
intensifying like radio. The sky, more than
it can hold. Tomorrow, we will lie on our
backs. With our eyes, unblinking. Our mouths,
open quotation marks. & we will lower
ourselves into surrender. To muffle every cry,
flattened by falling, at once. At night, every
sound from our throats will be too quiet
to be forgiven. & perhaps the gods will
refuse us. For having seen too much. Years
drained into obsession. Red rolling by
our palms. For tonight, we crack the sky
with a torch & fetch holes into wounds.
Moon mimicked toward dust. & we take
turns being illuminated. The rest, kneeling
into epitaphs. No bodies mark our stay.
Only end, among us.

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Calypso from a Cemetery Slum

Posted on October 1, 2020 by Amílcar Sanatan

Idle skulls heap in the corner of tombs,
I scrub the art, sometimes
paint sky blue, Tuscan sunset, fuchsia
to give a kind of simple praise.

In the periphery of Urbanisation’s philosophy,
children dream kingdoms of fine passages,
repeated hammock swings from one ancestry
to the next, counting slums, one through ten –
whether or not God is dead or lives,
it is nothing so serious.

The breath bends like wire, wheezing,
sleep never really comes.
Cold symmetries of (rot) (buckets) (faces)
(white Gods) (ceramic) (angels)
I measure the distance between here and the afterlife in centimetres.

As if poverty melts in the air,
joy springs from the river of bankruptcy,
the single banana tree laughs
at the drunken singing and prostitution of our jaws.
Out of the mausoleum karaoke sounds

on the grave I rest my head
I fear the living, not the dead

on the grave I rest my head
I fear the living, not the dead

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On the web that farms

Posted on October 1, 2020 by Sam Domingo

“Microtargeting lets campaigns tap Facebook’s vast caches of data to reach specific
audiences with pinpoint accuracy, going after voters in certain neighborhoods, jobs and
age ranges, or even serving up ads only to fans of certain television shows or sports teams.”
 — Nancy Scola (2019)

Each push atop, I give in and get ready.
My feed’s replenished and I know I’m set.
“One skim, one like, one share,” I say
But in each click, I tap a new that’s born.
Like eggs that drop each one I catch,
To harvest all posts became my job.
I’m a pawn in a game, I’m a game all-caught
In one tap, one read, and one mail on the web.

Hardly did I know as I’m fed such fun,
Its stock feeds off data under my nose.
Ring-fenced? Not sure,
I ticked “yes” to its terms. I likely must have read
“Codependence” in the fine print and a hurry
Thus,
I see Left on its right-side panel,
Stretches of truth from CNN-Trending
that
CNN Philippines shares otherwise.

Its curator, which an AI is in command,
Chose shoes, blocked foes, picked my
Nachos, voted machos –
Enlisted me in their murders that news summed in three letters.

Without any ado, I took part in the deceit and guilt,
One look, one click, I now check dupe.
I’m a pawn in a game, but I’m not yet all-caught.
In one tap, one read, I call on:
When will owners desist inviting
Flocks with herdsmen
That pull the wool over our eyes?

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Erasure

Posted on October 1, 2020 by Yumna Kassab

Dispossession is increments a tree a plot the river a continent a bite at a time
then a hand grabs the whole it is gone they teach it now little class little school
an act of theft dare not call the name thievery no not that opportunity profit put to use
murder lurking beneath smiles one hand shakes the other away with the child bathwater left warm
a memento a tomb to weep at.

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The Ceremony

Posted on October 1, 2020 by Jared Yates Sexton

On the day of the ceremony our company watched as The President honored the dead. He staggered across the cobblestone path, shielding his eyes from the afternoon sun as a clumsy brass band played the traditional tune. The man who slept next to me in the barracks hummed a few bars before sighing and shoving his hands deep into his pockets. A few days earlier we’d talked about forgetting what war we were honoring. We’d forgotten the name of the enemy and lost track of which of the endless conflicts that day was set aside for. There were more days dedicated to them than not and over time it got too confusing to parse.
          The ceremony lasted over two hours and in the heat a half dozen of us passed out. The President, flitting and nervous, flinched with every body that hit the concrete. We were fed poorly. Water was limited. It became a sport to watch one another wither away and predict who might die next from malnutrition. Lying in my bunk in the dark, I traced the hard bone of my ribs, recalling stories the old timers had told us about the past where they could get in their cars and drive anywhere they wanted and for as long as they had roads to follow and gas to burn.
          Gas.
          Oil.
          Fuel.
          These words snaked their way through our briefings every now and then to explain the fight. But even those in charge had lost the thread. They seemed bored, like middle-managers doomed to send their men to die with little to nothing in return. The orders came and sometimes just disappeared with no explanation. I couldn’t tell you anymore where I’m supposed to go. I’m not sure if I’m supposed to go anywhere.
          That night, before lights out, our commanding officer rolled a television into the barracks and replayed the ceremony. The men who fell, the surviving ones anyway, were made to sit up in their beds. The rest of us removed our hats. The President looked amazing, striding triumphantly to the boom of the band and crowned by the day’s glow. The hand that shielded the sun was now a salute. And somehow, in his noble shadow, we were a pristine company, broad-shouldered, fit and hearty. No one fell. No one collapsed. My neighbor in the barracks received a close-up as a patriotic tear slipped from his steely, determined eyes.
          I caught a glimpse of myself before the laying of the wreath and the flight of the war eagle. My uniform hugged my chiseled chest. I was the picture of health. And as I admired myself on the screen, my hand wormed through the gap between the buttons of my threadbare shirt and lightly fell upon my ribs.
          It was a surreal moment, but a familiar one.
          To be lied to by your fingertips like that.

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Whisper Campaign

Posted on October 1, 2020 by Amaranth Borsuk

The game of telephone is a game of Russian scandals, where what goes in one air comes out the hotter, and overhead nothing swounds like anything less. In the middling, minor things set, a shifty swift adds interest to the hessian. Though, as always, hope’s ploy reveals our hodden addenda—what raiment means loss than what beheld. Hostage in the park, we each have nothing to say and sew we blow handsomely into someone else’s war. Soman holds out harp that moaning will pass, that ruth will come though like laquer. We orange our faces to token the casket of reaccession, secluding our dominion effect. Meanwhile, it seems, the weld is also watching. But what does it mutter? Whilom and whale, we hear nothing. We wait for the white noise to die down.


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gengar

Posted on October 1, 2020 by Rory Green

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Stone Fella

Posted on October 1, 2020 by Bronte Gosper

In 1878, the base that mounts the stone fella was brought from Moruya to Sydney
It weighs eighteen tons and is stained with a plaque that reads ‘discoverer’.
Made to be so heavy that it could not be shifted
Two and a half times the weight of an elephant
Your permanence asserted through immovability,
my ancestors groaning beneath your burden.

It is widely known that igneous rocks are formed by magma cooling and congealing,
and that limestone comes into being from the calcareous left overs of organisms.
But what made you?
Massacre gleams through your stony exterior.
Patrols surround you in a ring, protecting your being
Perhaps if our bodies were made of stone
Reinforced concrete to persuade consciences
A heart beating through a dense rocky chest
Tears of granite
breath of basalt
Granular, coarse, taut.

Show them a limb made of ‘history’,
a tongue heavy with stories, heavy with silence
Replace our flesh and blood with a narrative of heroism
“Intrepid is he who plucks what he needs from the hands of others”
Reinforce our limbs with splinters of mistruth
Brush me over with one
or two
coats of pretence.
A sculpted artifice, cast over and over, caked with blood
Better you daub it now,
and as the paint dries
let it seep into the land, my land, her land
and wait for ancestral requite;
atavistic reckoning strengthened by your hatred.

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Listing lost days

Posted on October 1, 2020 by Leni Shilton

28th March 10pm

Some dates
are a shape,
this is one such date
where I see something –
days are curved
in circles and spirals
people are losing their jobs
the young, the old are becoming ill.

29th March 1045pm

You and I are just two people
we are here
there is no going out, no seeing
The world’s contracted thus
But smallness is neat,
it is haircutting and sweeping
calling family
and peering at phones,
counting statistics
window cleaning
and gardening.

30th March 1225pm

Half the world is closed
some think the Government is controlling us
and we are cheering them on.
We follow podcasts, hopeful
we listen to the radio
loudly.

1st April 945pm

The whole world is closed
and now we wait
in strange limbo
for the new warnings
and reports.
In the morning
I stand in the kitchen
weeping at the radio
there aren’t enough candles
to light
for Spain and Italy.

17th April 7pm

After days of quiet
I find a rhythm
cleaning the hidden parts of the house
where insects thought they were safe
I clean behind washing machine
I make piles for the op shop
for the tip
but boxes stay stacked
by the door.

20th April 1020pm

It is a warm night
fans turning
the dog settles out my window
a man yells far off
there’s often yelling
in distant snatches I miss.
The desert town is a memory of its past,
people knock on my door
asking for grog.

21st April 11pm

I’m attached to dark thoughts
I ignore the lack of tears
and am surprised
when they come.
But there are the small moments –
honeyeaters, a new leaf,
two pearl white eggs
of a feral pigeon,
things to look for –
things to focus on.

22nd April 1130pm

Too much Netflix:
Israeli security police drama,
a crazy tiger zoo,
the death toll rises
too quickly.
Little by little
my garden grows.

The world’s contracted thus from The Sunne Rising by John Donne

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