je ne suis pas ton divertissement
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Fruit falls from the Tree

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.

she is the scaffold

he is linear     or a jaguar 
sucking on frog legs

she is        a hot flush on a tandem bike

clamped shut; frozen in hinges

       he re-arranges

       her cognitive two-step   trigger-crazy itch

– with talks of infinity

dribbling down

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

Conflict of Interest

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.

Pastel Icebergs by Zaria Forman

(Source: f-l-e-u-r-d-e-l-y-s, via musingsanddaydreams)


(Source: dailyanimals, via heartparadox)

The fear

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)