Published in Overland Issue 209 Summer 2012 · Uncategorized The Ear Especially Corey Wakeling You don’t need eschatology to see the finitude in all this. Cantilever arm of all sweetness, pinions of every description in the sinew of its reaching out. And towards what? The globe is fine corpulence, the flesh of the ear especially, vigour of sports car on wet May bitumen slighting the bone catacomb smart. Paris, hello. Where have you hidden my brother, and Now, my brother’s brotherhood. There is a Southern Californian song about all of this that eschatology cannot penetrate. So stop, sweet claw of new day, digits clammy. The clay pits, to gasp with hand on back of head, to be lulled to sleep like the puppet infanta, side with brother clover and fatten wanton, lope the lambent disguise if but only in the moment of finitude. Need not finitude to see the sweetness in all of this that made eschatologies unrenewable, when instead, and we do know this, the fossil only comes twice, as in: all time under, the all time no time above. That grasp, darling hand, park your car, knowing restlessness and velocity in the woken, in the face. Corey Wakeling Corey Wakeling is a writer, scholar, and translator living in Tokyo. In 2013, he was granted a PhD in English and theatre studies at the University of Melbourne. Corey has lived in Japan since 2015, currently working as an associate professor of English literature at Aoyama Gakuin University. His most recent poetry collection, Uncle of Cats, appears with Cordite in 2024. More by Corey Wakeling › Overland is a not-for-profit magazine with a proud history of supporting writers, and publishing ideas and voices often excluded from other places. If you like this piece, or support Overland’s work in general, please subscribe or donate. Related articles & Essays 11 October 2024 · Friday Fiction How we know the forest’s name Jamil Badi The clouds lean upon the night with threat of a storm but I do not let them break. Yes, I am thirsty for rain, my barked fingers pruned a dry and brittle grey, but I make the clouds wait. A pair of them, boy and girl, he tracing his fingers along my bones, she kicking the leaves of my dead hair. I tell the storm to wait, for I can sense a story in these two, and there is no better thing to quench the throat than story. 9 October 2024 · History Public housing can only be won through struggle Chris Dite The Hands Off Melbourne’s Estates campaign's organisation, unity, and tactics defeated ten years ago a less extreme version of what Jacinta Allan’s government is implementing today. It’s worth asking how it did so, and whether shifts in the political terrain over the past decade mean such victories are now out of reach.
