Poetry

Listen

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Street Talk photo: Tim Parish / art@undergrowth.org

by Cassie Tongue velvetandlace@gmail.com

point-click type here, press the ʻenterʼ key so loudly i can barely hear the voices screaming into mobile phones (no one cares that dinnerʼs at seven sharp and that heʼs late again, that cad) and i just want to scream

Hey Newstart, thanks for the good times

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Centrelink photo: Rak Razam / shazaman@netspace.net.au

by Callum Scott c.scott4@pgrad.unimelb.edu.au

itʼs not a great main street in fact itʼs awful KFC, Mackers, Safeway, Banks, Smoko Shops, Bakerʼs Delight, Pokie Pubs the usual array of muck. somebody called me a faggot yesterday as I walked down the main street.

City of Angels

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7-Eleven

by Olivia Mei Lai Swan meilai@wildmail.com

she slips onto the train as it slips out of the station sits down by the door where she can’t see her reflection in the window opposite “next station siam square” a woman, flared jeans and rampant hair plugged into walkman littering the air

BetwiXt's picture

Destined Magnetics of Abject Bewilderment

Revolutions 'Free Parking'... Year in year out I see them come :– and depart Fighters for the dawn Heralds of the revolution! Eyes burning bright as the night was dark before them. Soldiers from the abyss - “Where have they been?” Sings Ian Curtis in a Promethean machine. Yes, now where is he? Where art thou burning numinous beings? The firesticks devoured by the grease pit of chronos. Woah and where are ye? Harbouring but a sweet memory, latent cells in evolutions machinery.

Poetica

poetry





stream of consciousness beholds time's poesis, wind and rain tricklings, a daze of sun and arctic vision of inspired tongues, the will o wisp so long unspoken when art can be named poetry chartered into cornered visions, the aesthetic of an ever fickle soliloquy... a free space for poetic illumination. For submissions please contact contribute@undergrowth.org


BetwiXt's picture

Nutcracker

Unconsciousness is the ragged doll Consciousness a bewildered Tin Soldier... Art the orifice of both the immaculate conception the not yet cometh... far far beyond pastiched aesthetics... (collusion of the unthought) the future arrives in the eclipse of time hail to thee the dissassociative divine a chaotic algorithim delineating the never never in the firmament of mind... love
BetwiXt's picture

Palimpsestuous - Works In Progress a la Metamorphosis

I’m not a poet, a fool rather, a boy crying wolf and the muses sing imploding tunes. Echoes hurling insurrection! Squadrons of warring angels through and through involuting mirrors and citadels of consciousness, pranic breath of souler architecture laughing off the epochs. The errant tuning celestial profusion of galactic instruments at the cosmic carnival, now, pause for silence... Ah, at last, musicians, the conductor is in, ok, now, we can shake that drunken haze history tried to capture and frame through authoritative refrains accepted by the bored of acceptance, schooling chains, 1984 and the echoes of World Wars, what vapour, Baby Boomer at the helm! World War Two traumatic cell, industrial tree slaughter! 'Woah these earthlings sure know how to fuck up their planet' cried the village ferret, God replies: "as hath been said, albeit, in frozen text", as so rendered by the English translator reprinting the 'New Testament for Idiots, 134th edition'*...
verb's picture

Manifestosis

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Last night I heard consciousness whisper crude jukebox sonnets to an already subdued and lovesick dream, while in between the body slept with ancient purpose, absurd in absent motion, groping sculpted bedsheets with the thirst for intimacy. Primal as the moment of touch. Homesick for reality, warm and sweaty nights of tantric communism. Dreamlike but true. Never forever but long enough to seem, another dimension away.

My Darling Race > Damien Huxtable

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My Darling Race > Damien Huxtable

The Tree > by Lou Smith

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The Tree > by Lou Smith
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