Jackson

“The Independent Type” exhibition, Melbourne, 2009 Dead poets placed, plastered, exhibited, all the words I’ve missed, and I try to copy what’s left into my head using my dilated pupils and blood-framed lenses But I’m too late The uniformed man comes The lights are going out The sun is going down on Melbourne again Live… Read more

Lay down your laptop Turn off your phone Let’s have no more text messages no more emails and no more goddamn Facebook! Let’s touch. I said, Let’s touch. And I don’t mean lintpicking. I want to mess your hair and stroke your face and grab you. Let’s turn off the city lights and let the… Read more

Elena was someone’s daughter, sixteen or maybe older. She came for one night only. I didn’t write her face, just her hair: short slick black. Down in the Cafe Sport theatre among the smoke and poets she spoke the wish of a martyr in words of wisps of a zephyr, like a brush of palest… Read more

You’re hunched over a [ ], [ ]ing a little, [ ]ing imprecise [ ]s and picking at the world. Drinking good [ ] as we drink bad [ ]. We’re your last [ ] [ ]ing loudly trying to catch the [ ] for you conscious of our [ ]ness. First published in Edith… Read more

Rain violent on the station roof I’m half-drunk at midnight waiting for the last train Rain in my eyes, stupid black rain of goodbyes If I could wear this black coat all day all night meet eyes with a shared begin a beautiful if I could if I Cold buzz terminal air I’m half-drunk at… Read more

one gull hang-glides on the white wind, suspended from skinstretch boneframe, head, heart slung from twangy sinew strings First published in dotdotdash Read more