Jackson

About the people in Amber Fresh’s poem “wind farm” wind in the turbines electric generation his fingers brush mine Read more

in stark black lines on white the cane toad      with lumps and warts drawn as rounds and discs      inked eyes      a curve as a hint of tongue comes out of the night with its croak: am I not?      am I not, too,      made for some      place? First published in Westerly Published in the Fremantle Press Read more

Scared It is dark. I am lost. It is horrible. I mean it is really really scary. When it is light I am found. ——Callan (aged about 10) He hugs his teddy-bear and says Sing a happy song. He wants a happy song, lilting along, to distract him from the growl of his voice-destroying fear. Read more

I get a beer and lean on the bar I can smell the pheromones He’s been sweating into that t-shirt all afternoon I want to touch but he doesn’t even smile I think he’d be intense in bed A really good hard fuck But he’s so serious He doesn’t flirt And I don’t know where Read more

no words: my head your scket: want my words in your pcket: want my hand in your pcket? oh fck it—let’s just dance Read more

I’d like to write a poem. I’d like to write a poem. I’d like to write a poem. I think of ignoring my aesthetic and just fucking someone, anyone with a flat stomach and a half-nice face … but I feel sick. I’m not selling my soul again for my cunt, using someone I don’t Read more