Published in Overland Issue 240 Spring 2020 · Uncategorized I can't make a living Adam Ford out of watching butterflies drinking turtles’ tears on the internet. My family won’t benefit financially from the quickening pulse and close-held breath that make sunlight slow and smooth on orange wings glowing and flickering around wise and patient reptilian eyes. No skills are gained or improved upon by spending moments so idly. No tangible ROI comes from resisting the urge to reach through the screen and touch the tiny strobing vortex of light and pigment landing a million quick kisses on such a stoic recipient. There is no profit in this, no place for it on any resume, no KSC or KPI addressed. Watching butterflies drinking turtles’ tears on the internet is wholly unsustainable, a complete misappropriation, a truly and gloriously shameless waste of my time. Read the rest of Overland 240 If you enjoyed this piece, buy the issue Or subscribe and receive four brilliant issues for a year Adam Ford Adam Ford is the author of Man Bites Dog, The Third Fruit is a Bird, Not Quite the Man for the Job and Heroes and Civilians. He has written for Australian Author, Desktop, Going Down Swinging and Cordite. He blogs at theotheradamford. More by Adam Ford › 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 22 May 2026 · Friday Poetry Judas goats Caitlin Maling Because goats can climb / and cave, clamber to find cover / in the bushes of what they can’t eat / which isn’t much. 20 May 202620 May 2026 · Reviews Are you experienced? Louis Armand Pam Brown’s poetry has been described as both conversational and deeply layered, its historical consciousness seemingly belied by a fragmentary, diaristic style. An easy comparison might be drawn with the work of her long-time friend Ken Bolton, which often achieves a sense of over-arching unity of vision expressed in monologue form. Bolton’s work can appear exhaustive — long prose-like stanzas — where Brown’s seems to flicker down the page like dawn through the mangroves on the drive to Cronulla.
