Mother, the child is a seed you plant deep
and shower with nourishment. Exposed
to sunlight I blossom. The adolescent is a weed you keep
strangling in gardening gloves. Winter days
are longer. I scramble for purchase on rocky ground.
It cuts against my softer parts.
I am cramped in the narrow alleyways
around your heart.
I open your jars but I
cannot open your eyes.
Mother, you poison me in pesticides,
I fear I outgrew you
and our entangled roots. The gold
around our necks chokes and cuckolds
the hoodlums in slums where temple bells echo,
reincarnated in brothels where only men go.
Like cubs, we nestled
into you. We wrestled
to emerge behind the ramparts of caste.
And I am a child.
Here, you sever delicate fronds.
Here, you grind digestible leaves,
separating the inedible.
Mother, he attempts to keep you chaste
with the loincloth wrapped around his waist,
but Mother, he snipped the space around your clitoris
when you were ten.
And I am your child, still, but Mother,
your land is not my own.
he is linear or a jaguar
sucking on frog legs
she is a hot flush on a tandem bike
clamped shut; frozen in hinges
her cognitive two-step trigger-crazy itch
– with talks of infinity
the sides of the hipflask up the waterspout
he plants notions
that take root in her jugular –expose blossoms
up through the mouthpiece, twolips or tulips
to pollute with all these voices
that don’t have a split-second pause for an external sound
monosyllabic –cutting corners in haste
the tug-pull –to want but not want for
to want for but not want
propped by faithful pillars of faith-filled friends
he possesses the logic of equilibrium
she provides halves –an absence
of connection in the present-tense
slowly unwritten by his calloused hands
that pick up her
body corporate – a horse trapped behind lungs
the more he remembers
the less she remains
Simplethings - Miguel
She said, I don’t want a model
I don’t want a movie star
You don’t have to win the lotto
I want you to win my heart
Yeah, she said I just want someone true
She said I just want someone to, smoke with me babe
And lay with me babe
And laugh with me babe
I just want the simple things
Smoke with me babe
And laugh with me baby
And lay with me baby
Cause I just want the simple things
I just want you
Woroni, ANU Student Media, is running an article by Chris Thornburn about how consent in sexual assault law invalidates sexual progress and feminists should pipe down. As the Managing Editor, I’m all for freedom of speech, but I’m at the brink of censorship at this juncture. There has to be a line somewhere.
Her knuckles against skull, hard white
stomach crunch, forward lunge, lungs tight.
Jackhammer humdrum pounding louder until
pressure points indent, build and still.
Jumpstart, throwback two thousand metric tonne,
high express engine spluttering to attention,
and still the beat beat of hammock
cartilage, won’t stop. So unhook
blow-dried, spin-dried excuses. Fear oozes,
its entrails impale, cut right and fuses
with decades of drive-by resilience.
Feed it, heed it, point-black shoot and bleed it,
till blue-back eyes can peel back and finally see sense.
(experimenting with rap)