Home Sweet Home

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A young couple have moved into our street. They couldn’t be more than twenty-two. I see them some mornings when I’m walking the dog. He’s dressed in sharp attire, off to work. She’s at the door, clutching their clearly adored terrier as he kisses her goodbye and hops into his Ford Ranger. I wave hello but, of course, I don’t know them. I’m left to imagine the very adult lives they lead behind that closed door...

I’m In Here

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A cup of orange juice sits on the table beside me. The sun sneaks in sheets through the shutters of my bedroom. I want to open the rest of my windows but I do not. The drink has sat there for a while. It warms in the sun, changing from juice to honey to amber gold...

Saint Luc de la Chemise

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I

In the year of Our Lord, 1539, or thereabouts, in a small town in the centre of France, or thereabouts, three middle-aged men sat together in the corner of a tavern, in silence. They were Piers L'Hernault (more secular than religious), Onfroi Parsley (more religious than secular), and Gosse Barnard (majoritarian) – three of the twelve town councillors. When their council meeting began that morning, their town was Champs des Navets (Turnip Fields); controversially, when it ended, Saint Luc de la Chemise.

Sunday

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Bea, where are you? Your mum rang me a few months ago, out of the blue. It was great to hear from her. She told you me you’ve found yourself a new lover (your boss?!) and you’re no longer at your old address. She said you call sometimes when you have the money and you can find a phone. I hope next time you call she remembers to tell you I said hello. She said you’ve been living in your van for a while now, driving around the hills outside Barcelona and working the markets. So all those letters I sent you are sitting on the floorboards in the hall of someone else’s newly rented flat.

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Australian poems

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Australian poems are something we love here at Brain drip. Do you remember when poets were the Insta-celebs of the old world? So maybe those days are gone, but we haven't lost the love for the written word, rhyme or no rhyme, iambic pentameter or dactylic pentameter. 

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Office Jetlag

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His face was trapped in the ceiling tiles above my computer. I stared at the roof, feeling the bile rise up in my throat. I hadn’t noticed it at first. The line on the bottom could have been anyone’s smile, and the two black dots among the white plaster could have been anyone’s eyes. But after he had leaned over my desk the first time, shouting at me, I stared at the ceiling tile straight afterwards and ever since pictured the outline of his face every time I looked at it.

Closer In

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You show up in Parnawarratji and try to arrange the single loop of sealed road, the vacant red dirt lots and the dotted housing with massive metal cages on the front, into a ‘community’ in your mind. It isn’t what you were expecting, but then, you didn’t know what to expect. Certainly not so much sky, arcing over the horizon, the line blurred by a hazy fringe of spinifex grass.