The wasp lies by the window as if to beg elegy or apology for the ease with which I smashed its wings. I pretend not to notice & the next day, there are two of them.

and asked the bird if it feels trapped by its song, by its language being known only as melody. Its eloquent speech ‘my home is endless and dying’ reduced to piping notes, a shrill ringtone.

I carry within the unmimicable dark. Weeping open on the train one day I learn no-one speaks to the sorrowful

On 2 May, PR consultant Ben Grubb, along with a few celebrity signatories such as Troye Sivan and Missy Higgins, launched a public petition to get an ‘LGBTI focused anti-bullying program’ nationally funded by Malcolm Turnbull’s Coalition government. It was billed as ‘Safe Schools 2.0 – without the ideology’ and was from the outset a spectacular misfire that didn’t stir a single hair on a bigot’s head while managing to wound the very people it aimed to defend. The backlash was so swift that the organiser retracted it the very next day, issuing an apology.

I am not hungry, and this feels wrong. It is Ramadan, the holy month of fasting which begins with the moon bent over, showing only curve. My tongue is grey with wanting, the way it used to be when I was a boy and went without taste. It’s hard to explain how much it excited my body.

my heart is a nude bulb. Or is it my cock? Both muscles are small & hard. Blink often, or at least wear protection, I repeated