The scavenged tin hovels and wet pits of desert dwelling skags seem deserted save for the encircling shadows of bulimic buzzards. And hanging from the sprigs of thistles are toothbrush plastic rosary beads

He had good ideas in the shower, he was sitting upright heroically typing away on his computer – he improvised the filthiest, bawdiest limericks you can possibly imagine.

Didn’t think I’d hear from that man again, but then there was a message in my inbox. Within five hours we were in his bedroom. His hair is not computer hair, it’s straight and black: turntable hair, old school, calligraphy brush hair.

So then the Librarian said: ‘the Piggy Bank is pi times ratshit squared’ and left the building seeking tundra.

Dawn, and two stars hang beside a daylight moon. The pendulum shifts, and I can almost guess the time by the light. The potted magnolia on the

Sometimes the voices in your head aren’t telling you the whole truth. Sometimes even your drugs and lovers lie.

(after Eugene’s Falls, by A Frances Johnson) inside the invisible atlas of a wave possessor of savage kindness two-tenths of the way

dawn starts up the sound of a tractor between my legs buckets

(for Anthony) Gently turned the tap; small boy awe and glee. A withered stick man smoking in his bed,

would as I do thought inside faces happening, not peacefully,

on the road to Ballarat the argument thick between us we take a wrong corner

You wore a white Bonds t-shirt to bed last night. A plain, white, no-nonsense Bonds t-shirt and I knew it was over. I heard the death knell. And when you asked me if I

‘not so much extraordinary but merely in touch with the emotional ebbs and flow of the Pilbara ... you’re left with the feeling that it’s the legend that counts, not the real thing.’ – Mark Naglazas in the West Australian

You don’t need to queue at the entrance but then so dark your captions now unreadable since the children left.