Published in Overland Issue 227 Winter 2017 · Uncategorized Collarbone Louise Swinn We’ll be living on top of each other in an outer suburb. It’ll be an evening backyard barbecue turned lounge party, old friends changing discs in the house we’ll never own. You won’t be in bed – staying up later than us now, as you do. When someone puts on ‘Yoshimi’, you’ll roll your eyes at the middle-aged Gen-X’ers dancing. Mum and I ’ll gravitate towards each other and you ’ll try not to watch us larking about, no longer two solid organisms. Later, with Mum’s head resting in that crook of my collarbone I didn’t know existed till she came along, and then you, I’ll wonder what percentage of everything I owe to the Flaming Lips. Image: Record / Andy Baxley Read the rest of Overland 227 If you enjoyed this poem, buy the issue Or subscribe and receive four outstanding issues for a year Louise Swinn Louise Swinn is a writer, editor, publisher and reviewer. Her work appears regularly in the Age, the Australian, and the Sydney Morning Herald. Louise was one of the founders of Sleepers Publishing, the Small Press Network, and the Stella Prize. More by Louise Swinn 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 First published in Overland Issue 228 1 June 20231 June 2023 · Politics Turning peaceful protesters into criminals—again Evan Smith So the Summary Offences (Obstruction of Public Places) Bill 2023 has been passed by South Australia’s Legislative Assembly and will become law. Fifteen hours of debate in the upper house, led by the Greens and SA Best, could not overturn the bill that was reportedly rushed through the lower house in just twenty-two minutes a fortnight ago. First published in Overland Issue 228 31 May 202331 May 2023 · Film In Memoriam: Kenneth Anger’s cinematic incantations Eloise Ross ‘Making a movie is casting a spell,’ said Kenneth Anger about his lifelong profession, his unique and spectacular talent, his very own dark magic. That certainly describes how I was lured into his realm. There was a time in my life where I would watch Anger’s seven-minute film Rabbit’s Moon basically on repeat, infatuated by its blue-tinted images of a sprightly harlequin dancing around a clearing and calling silently to the moon. It was poetry.
