“Etched in the fading hues and worn paths of ancient roads,

Marking the passage to memory's embrace.”

Obviously

And also you can’t read minds

As in I caught you!

And your psychic violence

Although I gave you these powers too

Your actual ones are far richer

I sit cross-legged before the mirror yet again. What do I see? I see a face. Is it me, or some Other?”

No hour shall be forgotten

And no sinner shall weep.

I don’t want one thousand words | Screaming at a black hole.

Backstage at Deathwatch, I felt a rearticulation beginning in the vocabularies of everyone there.

A love letter in soil-loving solidarity.

To be in and represent a female body in the early twenty-first century is to explore the beautiful and discarded, and tell one's story through new forms.

An homage to intergenerational love.

Childhood imagination – strangled dead from this codified, mundane and despairing task of appropriating (dressing) ourselves – was revived.

How happy I would be

To be a prisoner

Of another skin.

Instagram handles are the new frontier; a form of advertising yourself; an iconic tag; a brand.

Improvisation is the act of conjuring for the instant, an adventure in entropy.

Today, winged eyeliner and black double grommet belts seem enough to constitute belonging, with “goth” and “punk” being thrown around in place of “emo”.

a vastness of ocean

half of me belongs squatting on plastic stools

The lives of these men are certainly more interesting than the movie they inspired, and perhaps a testament to the capacity for the Australian outback to swallow complicated figures whole.