On a beach track at Two Rocks, a stone; its lime weighs down the sudden minute. I watch sand swarm like bees

liberate love into dust shifting, self-gearing

Turns out you can still pash in a graveyard at 28, though by now my fear of spooks has faded into a more realistic fear of people.

I can’t think of a time she uses it. The word. Ghost. My difficulty. Believing this. There are ghosts everywhere in her words. She just uses other.

Malapropos, my slow mind & mouth play cyclamen-chlamydia-Clytemnestra like a musical scale. It embarrassed you

The current sluices through her toes, rendering them in duck shit. She picks at a whitehead on her shoulder. She wears a bra with solid black straps, sheer cups – expensive.

In a scintillating talk organised by Express Media, the Dharug/Bundjalung poet Evelyn Araluen speaks of the production of literature as historically being a dangerous place for Aboriginal people. I heard her say this around the time I was reading Aileen Moreton-Robinson’s The White Possessive, Penny van Toorn’s Writing Always Arrives Naked and Gomeroi writer Alison Whittaker’s beautiful Lemons in the Chicken Wire.

A track marked by broken branches traverses Redhill Wood

the momento mori of a drowned world       is untold inside out umbrellas, a plague of logo-spangled spider bones

The lighthouse turns, blinks a steady eye, warns of steep hills, unknown shores, channels moving with the tide. No one knows how deep it is

A line of eleven custom-plated BMWs followed by a Prius. A Four Pillars gin and tonic w/ cucumber followed by a macchiato

The suburban bus route elicits in its rider a mood of compliance

anxiety is the millennial condition, says a click-bait article I probably read somewhere; as for my own tangles, well, there are some parties you just shouldn’t go to.

Overland is seeking poetry submissions for a special online edition – ‘Tribulations of the digital frontier’ – to be guest edited by long-time Overland volunteer, Mitchell Welch.