Published in Overland Issue 229 Summer 2017 · Uncategorized Band | Aid Aidan Coleman Animals attack whichever celebrity. Everything else can be summed up as tennis. Statues yanked out and the squares fill with custard. Day’s equation adjusts incrementally for agile pushers, precarious trucks. Darks and neons plucked from our mouths before we can ask. What of those shades of menace we lost, simply a matter of costume? Your plane dropped eggs on hapless villains, who – accordingly chastened – went home. Read the rest of Overland 229 If you enjoyed this poem, buy the issue Or subscribe and receive four outstanding issues for a year Aidan Coleman Aidan Coleman has published two poetry collections, the most recent, Mount Sumptuous (Wakefield Press, 2020). He is an Early Career Researcher at the JM Coetzee Centre for Creative Practice at the University of Adelaide. More by Aidan Coleman 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.
