Jackson

I am a woman and I speak. I am a woman with lines on her face and I speak. I am a woman with lines on her face and scars on her belly and I speak with the voice of a mother I said, a mother twice split once by a scalpel once by the Read more

This is for you Melbourne and all your men so sexy and so lonely I’d like to kiss your mouth for long discovering minutes and lean heavy against you and feel you getting ready In my dream we had fences to cross, dry country wires and your sisters wanted to carry you but I made Read more

(Poetry at The Drunken Poet bar, Melbourne, 16 August 2007) Where are you? In the very wood of this building, but your cries have deserted me, leaving only shivers and drunken smiles. The Guinness is good in here. Andy White plays guitar and reads, County Down, Belfast, Dublin, namedrops Joyce and Beckett and Wilde and Read more

You’d look good in anything, you shaped like that: the isosceles triangles of your back, your nose, each of your buttocks Ramparts, towers, battlements, network. Can’t read all that. Pick out the points where someone you recognise might be at the window Prayer-bowl whing-whirr, hot in a girl’s hands A sound cold as lemon, cold Read more

I want to write like this guitar with its shimmering folds, lime juice, explosions of cut-off flowers … Devil-may-care has the best songs. I want lines your lips can dance to and lines to lay you flat. Lines to make you want, to take you out, to satisfy you. To touch you. Just to touch Read more

Don’t touch these untuned keys, don’t hear this thing with strings so dissonant, so dissident: seek simply to sink into thick distracting complexity. Think movie. Think beer. Think weekend. Think fuck. Put your workboots on the ornamental carpet, yell “Party!” into the smell of pretzels, into the barbecue, into the karaoke street, in Perth, Western Read more