After all this stasis, summer has finally arrived. Melbourne is flat on its back, the heat breathing on us like an open mouth. Air warm as blood, dry as sandpaper. The scrape and catch of bushfire season whispering in the leaves, the creak of gum tree fibres desiccating till they splinter. The sense of portent. It’s like every summer I ever knew, twenty years between wiped away, every summer rolling into an endless loop. For the past week I have slept easy and woken smiling. The hooks that have dredged for so long can find no purchase. If we closed our eyes long enough we could dissolve, every part of us swirled up with the warm air. It is summer, and every summer. I would go gladly.
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