Stevi-Lee Alver
Bio
Australian writer and tattoo artist based in Brazil. 🏳️🌈🏳️🌈🏳️🌈
Achievements (1)
Stories (59/0)
The Capitalism of Desire
desire is to lick, just a little, the back of the blue poison dart frog. desire is to look at lanky legs floating in lefkas. desire is to follow, through the far-flung corners of chefchaouen, bald heads squirrelling away crumbs of blue salvia. desire to drop the base. a circus in flames. after many moons, and a few drinks, a feather in the smoke resembles the face of a white man howling, chanting, raving, wanting to know how to sleep while his feathers are burning? white-faced empty melodies of shares and rock for stock exchange, coal seam gas, uranium, iron ore, a bed of cold hard coal. a cobalt fact is the prettiest element. how can they dance while the menagerie is collapsing? how can they sleep while the clowns are crying?
By Stevi-Lee Alver5 months ago in Poets
- Runner-Up in Epistolary Challenge
A Novel in Ten Lines
We sat on a concrete wall in Paddington, waiting for the bus. The concrete was cold and hard. A shy punk was Benny. Spiked two-toned hair. Painted-dark punk eyes. I was 13. Handcuffed, he went quietly, missing the bus. The next morning found Benny, a body in blood. A dead-quiet watch-house. A dead cold concrete floor.
By Stevi-Lee Alver6 months ago in Poets
Summer in Byron Bay
The season is a damp dollar sign. A sign that the humidity is bearable but the traffic is not. A sign that the mould is barely tolerable and the mozzies won't stop. When rivers swell and roads vanish beneath puddles - puddles so deep, if ducks landed they'd be relabeled ponds - when unrelenting nor-easterlies push carnivals of wind all summer long. When sandy beaches are blemished by bluebottles and floating trumpets embellish our footpaths, all mauve and miniature. When ripening papayas nourish and brushturkeys flourish in yesterday's rubbish. When clouds of bats tarnish dragon fruit sunsets. When early down town is still quiet and stylish, and in the street a boozy scent mingles with that of espresso, when the aromas are all singed and overpriced and as heavy as damp dollar signs.
By Stevi-Lee Alver6 months ago in Poets
