Don’t Move On

by Matt Hetherington

drifting along

to be where you need

to find a shiny puddle

of ill-will

for examining your grimace in


seeing you

are like all the rest

but the invisible finger-prints of love

on your face

are yours alone



you return to the faces


by Aaron Kirby and Eleanor Malbon

another few minutes,

maybe the brown dribble from the showerhead will run clean

but work can't wait today, 


she inspects the yellow rivulets

as they collect the night sweat

trailing like new veins down her abdomen,

her legs, the drain.

a vagrant drop settles in the corner of her mouth -

taste of chalk, of iron, of something else she can't remember

(childhood smell of dry creek bed).

this is normal now. 

a spritz of fragrance hangs white particles in the air

and hides the strange dry smell.

her brother went to see the dam wall

looming absurd, holding back air

she dresses and she thinks; ‘why go there?’


the bike, past the old Floriade carpark
converted shipping containers 
once emergency shelter, now
men sit in folding chairs there
cigarette rolls between black fingers
washing strung, musically bare


there are some dogs
nothing special, or really vicious
just a pack
but she’s nervous enough
thinks how she’ll kick if she needs 

when she’s clear she thinks no further
work can't wait.
maybe the water
will be clean tomorrow. 



by Charles J Quinn


a list of lists I haven't made yet

list of awesome names for cats

list of fancy pants

list of rejected marketing ideas for tampons

list of reasons why it's awesome to be me

list of reasons why it would be awesome to be a cat

list of reasons why Disney couldn't be worse than Lucas

list of inexplicably hot cartoon characters

list of awkward times to need to pee

list of weird shaped penis' I have seen

list of reasons why I don't understand my friends attraction to Bear Grills

list of celebrities that probably smell weird

list of facebook status' nobody wants to see

list of facebook status' it's inappropriate to like

list of things we are nostalgic for but really shouldn't be

list of sexy scientists

list of contests the master of conflict seems to have put thought into (a very short list)

list of badslammers who look like fancy hobos

a list of SHUT UP KABO



fill a page with swears

all the swears

in every combination you can think of



A short poem about tea:

chamomile tastes like disappointment

Question time

by Emily Stewart

I guess the luminous excuses made
a master out of me. I comprised the
grasslands and the river, the car
wash and the utility services bill
­­— always the lectern stood
though I refused to speak or
couldn't? That strange breach was
broached by a warm acquaintance,
not involving campfire but yes,
intimate, yes, during a late chill
of hours. It's commendable to
sign up each day, but better
to maintain a patina of disobedient
actions, shoplifting or whatever. So
we concluded. The vibe of Canberra
is OK. The lake water slops in
one direction, which you must have
thought impossible. This means
an easy air governs despite the unease
and no one really bothers the potoroos.
A series of underground passages bring
the kink. That's a true rumour. Gimme. 
There at the vault is where I mouth off.


by Raphael Kabo 

Three times now I’ve managed this:

To line the city like a shimmering fish

From its own water.


It churns on the bank

In a gnash of sun.


And you, Cassandra, who come to me

At night, mouth empty and eyes white:

You who have reason to hate the light,

You tell me the canvas here is dry, tired.

The structure despite the borders

Falls apart inside. The symmetry swells

And rots. I believe even you.


But even you could not tell me this:

How it feels to love two cities at once.

My skin springs open. By the lake, where the carp

Stink and move, a woman aims her camera

At the towers and the sky.

Her husband aims his at her.


I pass the centre line, where

For a moment the halves whole.


This Suit

Ryan 'Skip' Schipper


I am a respectable man and this is a respectable suit


When this suit walks

it walks without distraction.


When this suit is forced to sit

it sits without wrinkling.


    It provides a relaxed slouch

    and never reveals the socks -

    it is respectable - it is

    above that sort of impropriety.


When this suit shakes hands

hands shake at its touch.


This suit disguises piercings as pleasantries

and hides tattoos with tesselation.


     Within its fabric foundations,

     fear falls foul of courage (and)

     hubris hastens headlong

     into authority.


This suit is energy fueling ecstasy

erupting from your face, hands and arms.


This suit is a windmill!


This suit is an archetype passed from

father to father to father

and to each his son

as he had before him.


This suit is a hymn

sung exactly as intended.


This suit is hungry

for friendship. It wants

to take you for dinner. It wants

to hug you

on your porch

in the rain.


This suit wants to fuck you.

This suit wants to fuck your mum.

    And your dad.

This suit wants to fuck your dad

While your dad fucks your mum

And your girlfriend watches in the corner.


This suit is Superman and you are Lois Lane.

This suit is Big Bertha and you are a Belgian bunker.

This suit is Lee Harvey Oswald and you are J.F.K.


This suit is fucking a hole in your head

    from 100 yards.


This suit is a tornado!


This suit is everything you hold dear

    wrapped in merino wool

    lined with silk

    and exploded

    in the foyer

    of the International Criminal Court.


    There's fucking tulips everywhere!


This suit is a whirlwind

    of indiscretion and shrubbery.


This suit is in a Dutch basement

peeling your skin back

while you eulogise yourself.


This suit is soaking a flannel

    and making it just so




    It's in your mouth

    It's in your mouth

    It's in your mouth

    It's in your mouth


This suit is pulling your tie

    It wants to fuck you

    It wants to fuck your mouth

    It's in your mouth


    Swallow, goddamnit!


This suit will swallow you.



by Bela Farkas



BOMBS blew the shit

BOMBS blew the shit out of Darwin

Two hundred and forty three people blown to dust

Dust that no one remembers, dust that is not as interesting as Kim Kardashian’s failed marriage or Warnie dating Liz Hurley, ‘cause she’s a supermodel and no one can understand how Warnie pulled it off, but he did and that must be more interesting than a raid that flattened Darwin.

But I guess if they made a movie with Matt Damon fighting off the Japanese bombers using his amazing acting skills, then people might care.

Unless that twilight movie’s playing, then people would need to know

Who will Bella choose? 

Will it be the sparkly, angst-brooding, whinge face, vampire dude or werewolf guy, who constantly takes his shirt off for no reason? This is a hard choice; she will need more movies to sort out her feelings.

Either way, if Darwin is to be remembered, there should be a memorial day, a national memorial day.

So we don’t forget those who died by Japanese bombers that raided

not once

not twice

but sixty-four times.

But that probably won’t happen, we have too many foreign tragedies to think about, foreign marriages to watch on TV, also we still have not worked out...

How the hell did Warnie pick up Liz Hurley? Okay, I know he’s probably the best leg spinner ever, but Liz Hurley is Liz Hurley.

I’m sure she’s done a movie or something. But that’s not the point. The point is she’s hot.

So Liz, if you’re ever in Canberra and you need someone to talk to

I’ll be here for you

To listen