Australian writer and tattoo artist based in Brazil. 🏳️🌈🏳️🌈🏳️🌈
We wax surfboards, watch each other take steep drops and catch waves that run like glass across the entirety of the bay. We pretend we aren’t scared. We wear wetsuits and zinc and ignore shadows passing underneath. We laugh at getting wiped-out. We become familiar with the seals swimming and playing in the line-up. We can no longer feel where our own skin ends and the ocean’s skin begins. We watch the surf at sunrise. We check the surf until sunset. We learn with haste not to surf when onshore seals congregate.
We wear shoes on the beach; this is not a place for bare-feet and romance. We wear shoes right to the shoreline; where the desert meets the Great Southern Ocean and the skyline stretches to Antarctica. We build shade from batik sarongs, hot- pink towels, and tie-dyed mosquito nets; trees don’t grow on these desert plains. We hump one-hundred-and-eighty litres of water like feral camels voyaging over arid landscapes. We eat Peanut Butter on Corn-Thins and Nutella on tablespoons.
The Navigation of Hands
a sudden wave disarticulates the hand, liberating the shadows of fingers. this is an outline of pure possibility replacing remembering, go with it—there is no balance, it’s all or nothing—memories covered in whiteout throb on the page like divergent bulbs and your hands become staircases of rats swarming, clawing over each other. rodent fingers of chaotic planes trace your non-pulsed heart. these hands are not to be navigated.
How to Find Poetry in Objects
Dear Backpack, It's been a while. I'm writing you now to see how you're holding up. More so now than ever before, poetry is the only form of madness that renders me sane. Below is our past, as I recall. Perhaps your memory is in better shape. I thought you could help keep me honest.
Well Old Son: Part Five
V Daisy-chained clouds gather in wine-stained morning skies. A placenta of rain sweeps over him. He's a milky tear in a red tissue. He's a tissued petal scattering in an emphysemic wind. He's a silent orchestra: rusted strings, perforated brass, disfigured percussion, withered woodwind. He's a blue echo haunting voiceless thought.