Published in Overland Issue 229 Summer 2017 · Uncategorized Some climb Jonno Revanche offering me honours sorbet for heart-wrenching situations coffee sweetener wallpaper those months wondering the climate of your bed there were days when i was scarlet but quickly turned mandarine against mountains, tapestries, escape routes climbing the town of hobart fireworks suddenly have the ability to explode in the unseeable bow of the ocean fireworks suddenly have the ability to explode in the quietest part of me i’m not a little boy (but i am small) i long to do all the things the others get to do like publicities that ship me above and for another body to reel me in charmlets indent sleep skin trying on, conflicting to, explaining toward it missing it, that one time where / when i remembered feeling magical Read the rest of Overland 229 If you enjoyed this poem, buy the issue Or subscribe and receive four outstanding issues for a year Jonno Revanche Jonno Revanche is a writer based in the cross. More by Jonno Revanche › 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 21 April 202621 April 2026 · Reviews Pilled to the gills: Ariel Bogle and Cam Wilson’s Conspiracy Nation Cher Tan The question that Conspiracy Nation implicitly raises isn’t why people believe in conspiracy theories but rather why people have stopped trusting official narratives. But what do we do with this knowledge? When we call something a conspiracy theory, what work are we doing? Who benefits from that designation? 17 April 2026 · Friday Fiction These old hands, they are still growing Sam Fisher It was an old house meshed in an unrelenting grid of brick and weatherboard. Its walls still stood stark, red brick. Paint like tender old sagging skin on the timber windows. A bastard of a garden surrounded it, ran up brick wall and concrete path. The lawn, dead that time of year, luminescent in the streetlight. In the center of that void, a sign, Auction.
