Last night was full of fire and this morning is full of unprocessed beer. We watched the branches turning to flame long into the night, and after the morning’s rainstorm the wet ash has settled like sediment in my liver and my throat and behind my temples. The DVDs at the corner kiosk read like portents of doom. Obsessed. Torturado. El Funeral de Muerte. Fracture. The Hangover. Criminal. Last Train to Auschwitz. The owner likes us. He likes that we’re Australian. Do we surf? he wants to know. Have we eaten kangaroos? Did we know the Crocodile Hunter was killed by a stingray? We shake, nod, nod. Walk back out into mud. The glare stabs us even through thick clouds. Mosquitoes come out to circle. Obsessed. Torturado. El Funeral de Muerte. The Hangover.
Geoff edits Going Down Swinging
- When there’s nothing left to burn, you have to set yourself on fire
- Hey, Kat
- Meet Australia, the traitor who turns you in
- Now’s a really good time to re-think voting Abbott
- Strung out like jungle flowers
- Best text message exchange ever
- Campbell of the Overflow
- Want to write new work with Elefant Traks?
- They arrested my high-school guitarist
- Better than chicken
- Where the hell did that Heathen Scripture guy go?
- Just because it’s free… (the worst CDs from the storeroom of doom)
- Bondi Junction fitness gangsters are not Julia Guillard
- Hey Yumi, stop being so goddamn Japanese
- As a poet, Rinehart makes a great billionaire
- Christmas, or How I learned to stop wishing a violent death on reindeer
- Talking on the internet
- The life and death of Peter Roebuck: a good man, a bad man, or something in between
- Tie the Kangaroo down, Joyce