Walking through, in/out: my son a shadow? His mind marks the boundaries, he
sees only mercy. Out of my quiet yard and body – a threat to nothings. Confusion
fails and a clear truth emerges from my thigh…
In my skirts I carry his birthdays, I'm the ring: he's the stone.
I feel like I've eaten last week's donuts. I take on the uncommitted sins of my
unborn children. Storms will come, I'm not there but only passing. I take not a
teaspoon of hell to my lips, but of the waters of heaven I take great draughts.
Feet grow slowly, blisters quickly, in the living room they grow like mushrooms. In
my books I travel, in my mind I live and die the deaths from overhead wires and
hawks. My father instructed me in the abstract, ensured the real was ever strange.
Angels aren't opposites, there's always a human figure to draw on. What are we
burning? There's gold in death, and cold ash, I taste it with you: every embrace the
Like an epic, dozens of my generation go mad and are infected; I feel nothing; I
observe from my post behind her ear, as we go singing through the gate.
This is my fit, frame by frame. I wait, as if a child, for the terrible experience. The
lies and truth combine in the error only I can tell. I choose the orange – it reveals a
murderer's face. If anyone knew if it suited me, what would it mean? I've already
used it, they've already copied me.
Where you're going means Japanese colours, cool denim drinks at the innocent's
club. I see their destinations, crunch on its magic. I sent you on, noone knows
why. I couldn't be the tears that formed you, my heart the subjective pump. That
act changed me, made me the mother I'll always envy.
I dabbed soil on my son's brow, a Russian treatment for ego.
Wilde, Borges, Foucault – a pie I foil and carry. Orphaned by god, I become the
sunlight on the gate ( that I interrupt), the moth asleep (that I wake). Suffering for
belief has many forms (all traps). What have I added to my cv since '75, since 9
o'clock? I drank you like beer, like an alcoholic, like banana milk, like piano music.
I run when not under observation, now I twine like wisteria, an old lilac soul.
It's a lonely moral, a shock to the emptiness of knitting, channel-surfing. I've never
done this before.
Jesus reflects on my glasses – or fire does. Nietzsche's child's the garden's
apostrophe. You'd think I'd nothing in common with love, but I look to it in secret. I
tell the gate of my loneliness, overlaying the morning's music, embarrassing the
peony. It's my fit, my gamble, my fellatio. There's no over, this isn't a cover. If only I
was Kuan-Yin. Inside me are countless reactions. I sear and scrape. Will I wake
up Australian? Will I save anything? Cool any flame? The flowers tremble in their
I've been shown the killing example, and go through the motions. I lie to both sides.
Absolve me. I couldn't get a girl so I headed for ecstasy. There's no through.
Suppose it's night. I pretend to normality, I don't shake, or scratch; avoid mystique
and metaphysique. In my leotard invisible against the gate, a red S on my chest
could be a cockscomb. I lack the military touch, the easy recycling of a million
“I'm only Kafka,” I say on my way. The light is Keats; I lumber, prosaic. I do
everything, it's everywhere. I pretend to be a dream, I mar the peace of ash.
I fear the failure of the image: sitting with Whitman in olive tree silence. I can't leave
‘the sunlight,' can't go back ‘through the gate'. I risk Vedic sickness – but nothing
more – to draw the red from his skin. “Forget ice,” I say. Forget bodies.
Dream or nightmare? Them becomes em in my excitement. Centuries click over
(what was I reading?). I stop writing, regear my sensitivity. The past's always now
— in the scarlet whatever, in the cabbage damage. Blue stasis gives way.
I'll know the colour when I close my eyes (flickering with illness). Breaking for the
My four fingers reach for you, my enigma enters you. We go into the winepress
together: you leave it alone. The worst comes and is still to come. Resignation
fights with expectations. Is fame the hand or cheek? The slow experiment
We die to become angels. The air and ways reverse. A teacher shames us for our
angst, yet our axes express a violence that rocks. My decadence consists in this: a
hydrangean childhood, brown last century glass. You think I can't stick Marx to
The circumscribed spirit, the interpretive tendency: my German legacy? The Irish
ship played its radical part (convicts aside). The anachronisms of blood and
memory. A faint eroticism my hands can ignore. No parents in sight, no erasers
needed. Automatic sainthood.
Like riding, like fucking, I point my angelic toe. My psyche's cage opens. My
Catholic substance leads me along a line of despair, the first line I remember.
Into the city of thinking. What once was pseudo is orthodox. The revolution awaits
an eclipse, and then it's cloudy, there's the washing… The roses assemble
(they're prophets). I breathe in moonlight: avoiding nothing, embracing urgency.
Drowning in waterlight, I yell the “Prayer of the Hostile”. Iron clangs, semen burns
on the steps. This is not my beautiful life. I kneel down hard in the church of
anxiety. The comfort of splinters in lukewarm hands.
A subconscious Sunday. George Eliot without a novel. The dirt erupts and my feet
relax. I meet noone. Through the cold early fog, far from god's skin, I bring my
orange tone like snow, like a slow motion pinball. Forgive me – and I'm warm.
- FREE: 20 Poets anthology
- 91: NO THEME VIIISUBMIT to C Gaskin 90: MONSTERwith N Curnow, coming soon! 89: DOMESTICwith N Harkin 88: TRANSQUEERwith S Barnes and Q Eades 87: DIFFICULTwith O Schwartz & H Isemonger 86: NO THEME VIIwith L Gorton 85: PHILIPPINESwith Mookie L and S Lua 84: SUBURBIAwith L Brown and N O'Reilly 83: MATHEMATICSwith Fiona Hile 82: LANDwith J Stuart and J Gibian 81: NEW CARIBBEANwith Vladimir Lucien 80: NO THEME VIwith Judith Beveridge 57.1: EKPHRASTICwith C Atherton and P Hetherington 57: CONFESSIONwith Keri Glastonbury 56: EXPLODE with Dan Disney 55.1: DALIT / INDIGENOUSwith M Chakraborty and K MacCarter 55: FUTURE MACHINES with Bella Li 54: NO THEME V with F Wright and O Sakr 53.0: THE END with Pam Brown 52.0: TOIL with Carol Jenkins 51.1: UMAMI with Luke Davies and Lifted Brow 51.0: TRANSTASMAN with Bonny Cassidy 50.0: NO THEME IV with John Tranter 49.1: A BRITISH / IRISH with M Hall and S Seita 49.0: OBSOLETE with Tracy Ryan 48.1: CANADA with K MacCarter and S Rhodes 48.0: CONSTRAINT with Corey Wakeling 47.0: COLLABORATION with L Armand and H Lambert 46.1: MELBOURNE with Michael Farrell 46.0: NO THEME III with Felicity Plunkett 45.0: SILENCE with Jan Owen 44.0: GONDWANALAND with Derek Motion 43.1: PUMPKIN with Kent MacCarter 43.0: MASQUE with Ann Vickery 42.0: NO THEME II with Gig Ryan 41.1: RATBAGGERY with Duncan Hose 41.0: TRANSPACIFIC with J Rowe and M Nardone 40.1: INDONESIA with Kent MacCarter 40.0: INTERLOCUTOR with Libby Hart 39.1: GIBBERBIRD with Sarah Gory 39.0: JACKPOT! with Sam Wagan Watson 38.0: SYDNEY with Astrid Lorange 37.1: NEBRASKA with Sean Whalen 37.0: NO THEME! with Alan Wearne 36.0: ELECTRONICA with Jill Jones
- Alex Creece Reviews Marion May Campbell’s third body
- Ivy Ireland Reviews Steve Armstrong
- Magan Magan Reviews deciBels 3
- Claire Albrecht Reviews Manisha Anjali’s Sugar Kane Woman
- Review Short: Simeon Kronenberg’s Distance
- Review Short: Judith Beveridge’s Sun Music: New and Selected Poems
- Melody Paloma Reviews Keri Glastonbury
- Submission to Cordite 91: NO THEME VIII
- Judith Bishop Reviews Phillip Hall’s Fume
- Bella Li on as Associate Publisher
- Alex Creece on as Production Editor
- Review Short: Diane Fahey’s November Journal and Carmen Leigh Keates’s Meteorites
- Review Short: Vahni Capildeo’s Seas and Trees and Jennifer Harrison’s Air Variations
- To Outlive a Home: Poetics of a Crumbling Domestic
- ‘The Rally Is Calling’: Dashiell Moore Interviews Lionel Fogarty
- Jackie Ryan: Teaser to Burger Force 3
- Dispatch from the Future Fish
- Introduction to Cordite 89: DOMESTIC
- 7 Portraits by Ali Gumillya Baker
- Selections from 3 Yhonnie Scarce Series
- Kathy Acker and The Viewing Room
- To Live There: on ‘Dispatch from the Future Fish’
- The Wild Workshop: The Ghost of a Brontëan Childhood in the Life of Dorothy Hewett
- Externalising the Symptom: Radicalised Youth and The Membrane
- On Deep Breaths and Friends Forever: Im/materiality and Mis/communication in Happy Angels Revisited
- Letter to Anne Carson: Work of Remembrance and Mourning
- Translated Extracts from Chantal Danjou