It was 1980. I was writer-in-residence at a university. I had booked a meeting room for the first reading of a play. But three young men were dug in deep with each other. I became stiff and shrill. — 'Did you book this room? I booked this room!' —

Emily Dickinson was part of the elite, and although none of her works are outspoken in politics, a current of elitism, colonialism, and the wealthy language of divine right threads through all her poems. Using various language and style choices, Dickinson’s poetry is adept in the ‘clubbishness’ that was American high society’s identity.

Not everyone knows I was once a giant cockatoo, and the moon is an egg I laid. I tried to keep my egg warm but I was a drag on the tides so I flapped back down to earth and left her alone in the sky, cold and reflective.

in a corner of the dark he paces lickety-split arms stiff to his sides hands flat out fidgeting it is definitely not ballet he spins a few circles then claims he needs to pee I pull him close

M.J. Moriarty of Redfern found his wife dead in the kitchen with her throat cut. A married woman named O’Connor died suddenly at Armidale. The coroner refused to give a death certificate until the contents of the stomach had been analysed.

If I wrote a letter to my Country, how would it read? Dear Bundjalung Jugun, Or Dear Yuwinj Dhari? Will she forgive you and me for discrepancies of the anthropocene lately? Because it took too many ancestors before you and I to arrive.

&  ||  pointing screens through a scree of screens, to memorize our memories >>> a Gwanghwamun (vb.) of shuddering shapes, 2,000,000 light-cascading hands rising through the moth-like snow, falling soft in neon drift, our glowerings on stone-faced fields a weather, accretive, a citizenry at the feet of Bukhan Mountain

It’s simple: you either believe another world is possible or you don’t. To believe is to be on the side of rock-throwers, to find a rock to throw. Recto: the story of the world contains a chapter for each innovation that found and ruined yet unimagined zones of rest, pleasure, flesh, and study; a chapter for each gadget that extended the zone of work to non-work; a chapter for each technique of watching, holding, frisking, patting, searching, emptying, surveilling, surveying, weighing, shaking.

And you thought you had stumbled into paradise — the word virgin on your lips, blind to the giant kapok’s ancient life.  Your arrival has disturbed my dreaming, frightening the anteater who’s been searching for worms all day. Leave Amerigo, we are not a discovery.

Two poems from Ismene’s Survivable Resistance     Ismene after the Royal Commission     the truth is I went back to the ruins of the house I paid with my being to live in   the gate like an opening and closing in the heart   my dead mother  still living in the one […]

Through scrolling lines on an antique television, The Omega Man watches Country Joe and the Fish at Woodstock, clutching the stock of his machine gun, cheering the military parade from a trench haunted by recollections of La Belle Epoch by the hourglass of the yellow river, a shotglass of vodka on the dustcover photo of ‘Nugget’ Coombs.

Giving it away to the first white man that put his hand up / and its okay cos we are Black and Indigenous / it’s okay to quarter and divide our mother up / this is Country / not Auschwitz / the Thames or Rome / this aint the valley of the kings / or Paris or any catacomb / this aint Times Square / just a place to bear the colony’s bastard children

What is the colour of the world? The bush flame? And how should I begin? With phantoms like portents a blowtorch on the roadhouse the pity blues dogs don’t let up bragging. In the aftertaste of mourning are bankrupt sermons ‘twit twit twit’

‘Raise a glass to absent friends!’ with a swish of blonde with an actual wine glass raised to show my bare arm’s slope; and I lean back, so they draw close, a stage-murmured disclosure: the word’s round fal-lope along my tongue. Men draw back, bodies rigid in their stools; the women, forward for gossip or to bask in the boldness of my moment.

Over the years, for Ouyang to encourage Yu, or vice versa, for Yu to encourage Ouyang to engage in the innovative activities, they (Ouyang and Yu) collected sayings about the use of mistakes wherever they appeared.

don't want to    w a l k any where any more lingering orientalism delivered to your door --- guy does the guy collected guy's collective events gaga does the gaga & yes when i think about it echolalia's not that medical