Portable Curiosities, by Julie Koh

from “Civility Place”

“You settle into your death chair. You call it this because—although it’s handsome and designer—it will eventually kill you: first by weakening your spine and then by rolling its five vengeful chrome wheels in starfish formation over your vital organs.”

from “Cream Reaper”

“One of his most popular flavours is sage, roast duck and single-origin cardboard.

‘For that one, we had to get the balance perfectly right,’ says G. ‘We had to keep in mind that the duck was the hero of the ice-cream, and things went smoothly from there.’”

 

The World Repair Video Game, by David Ireland

“The sun is out. Uncertainty glitters in the sunshine. Yes, uncertainty wins in the end and all along the way.”

cover

“I hold my imagination tightly in, I want as little sight as possible of the tract that runs from mouthparts to outlet, that never-ending cascade in sickening peristalsis, of stomach contents, gastric juice, chyme, foul unmentionable gunk, bits and bobs of exhausted elements of food on its way to the ultimate foulness of shit, stamped with the personality stink of the corpse.”

 

What is the poem saying in the white spaces? What do lives say in the gaps between events and people? What happened to us or two poetry that we ordinary people can no longer be confident that we know what the poet is saying and why? Grandpa said to put no trust in verse. Why?

Riders in the Chariot, by Patrick White

All of the sentences containing the word “goat”, rearranged into a new narrative.

Wandering along the bank of the river, which on the outskirts of most towns is the life-stream of all outcasts, goats, and aboriginals, Alf could not help feel moved as he remembered the generous waters of Numburra, and the clumps of orange bamboos in which the gins waited at dusk.

“You could get torn,” Mrs Godbold warned, who had come up to the edge of the road, in search of something, whether child, goat, or perhaps just the daily paper. Heaping boughs and pouring endearments, she would padlock her goat every night, and return, and return, to see whether her love might not have vanished in the course of some devilish conjuring act.

“What happened to the goat?” He would mumble a grace through his broad, goat’s teeth, eyes half closed, almost smiling.

The goat had appeared already before Peg’s death. “Goats? Please don’t tell me! I really do not understand any of these things.”

In time her mind grew equal to the tranquil wisdom of the goat-mind, and as she squatted in the evening to milk her doe, after they alone were left, their united shadow would seem positively substantial. After the doe had been delivered of a dead buck, Peg said they should milk their goat, which Mary Hare proceeded to do.

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