Happy hour reverie
Dougal Hurley |
27 June 2016
Amber brethren unified over glazed tables,
cracked leather chairs groaning under the burden of another weary apprentice.
Here's to the blackened crust on a Parma special
and to being pricked by an unofficial entry tithe.
I lack an opinion on the politics of this golden age that amounts to more than a quotation. Yes, these are free hearts, free minds —
at least for the time being. Or at least to the loving regard
of a reasonable bystander.
Douse me in the balm of mellifluous chatter.
Let me move amorously down
through this molten journey
until I am left suckling at the dregs in my comfortably reduced environ,
tending towards something
what some might call
French Provincial style, they call it.
I see a concrete bunker.
That slight scorn is not a hopeless hankering for the Wattled thirties.
I always preferred writing to literature,
building to architecture,
a house to inhabited sculpture.
Did you buy anything at the NGV?
I don't want to go backwards.
I just want the straight hedges
and the white kitty litter pebbles spread over cookie cutter cubes
to be ripped from the ground.
Alternatively, I would still be content if revolting weeds slowly choked their borders or if concrete rot
crept insidiously inwards as it did in Brasilia.
The worst thing is that
this village was not built on scrappy highland earth as
misguided metaphor for a reborn utopian polis.
They tore down their terrace,
ripped out their myrtle, banished their shade
replaced the brick path
to their snail filled letterbox.
In their place?
Bare temples bloating outwards,
plunge pools lit by blue bulbs.
Dougal Hurley is a postgraduate law student at Melbourne University..
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28 June 2016
Sharp and elegant. Thanks.
Belinda Rule | 21 June 2016
I saw a younger girl, blonde hair in pink clips, spiral glitter sneaker laces - baubles of a treasured child that no-one ever bought for me. A girl in a parlour painting, and I the hairy spider hulking in the corner. In the war-room of the mind, I pierced my map with pins. How simple to trick her to some dirty culvert, hold her down, mar her white arms ... Civilisation was a hair draped on the head of a pin, each one of us poised, rigid, clutching our own pin still - I could see I would cramp with the effort all my life.
Julie Guirgis | 16 June 2016
Today I walked past the bathroom and noticed a pale yellow puddle with an odour worse than an unflushed toilet. I cringed at the stench, with the realisation that I had to wash urine off the floor ... Dad's illness sometimes causes ambiguous loss. It is unclear, has no resolution or closure. He is like someone I don't know anymore; he is gone-but-still-there. This leads to complicated grief. I can't look at him without seeing a fading picture of who he used to be, and speak of him in the past tense.
Chris Wallace-Crabbe | 14 June 2016
Brunette or shocking white, these wallabies have their own special nook nearby, under that blackwood. Why just there, I ask myself: no particular foliage has given a meaning to the spot. Something about bone-dry shadow under those boughs appears to murmur clan or family. Yes, I know that sounds kind of patronising, but when these animals go through their routines we can see a social order clear as day.
Ellena Savage | 10 June 2016
When my friend and I get to the payment station of the car park, it says we owe 70 bucks, which can't be right because we got the early bird special which was a quarter of that, so, nah. We call the parking lot people and they say look at the fine print, it clearly states that the early bird deal only applies if you leave the car park after 3pm. Wilson Parking is a subsidiary of a subcontractor of Transfield Services, which runs security at Nauru and Manus Island. I grow petulant and say I'll wait til 3pm.
Rodney Wetherell | 07 June 2016
In prayer, our minds are sex-free, let us hope; our thoughts of God do not include the body, his or ours, svelte or chunky, erotic perfume should be undetectable, ditto the sense of orgiastic writhing sent down to us from digital porn heaven. Should your inner eye pick out an angel, beautiful, and fixing eyes on you, or Jesus wearing little but a wisp of cloth across a gym-toned body streaked with blood, contact your counsellor, ring that number - you've wandered to the opposition site.