Stevi-Lee Alver

'There is no such thing as repetition. Only insistence.' Stein

The Restraint of Meaning: Stevi-Lee Alver reviews the #concrete issue of 'Australian Poetry Journal'.


This film poem, written by Paul Summers, is | the lost underground |’s contribution to the Paul Summers and Kristin Hannaford ‘TRACE’ Art Exhibition presented in Rockhampton, Queensland 2013 by Creative Capricorn.

This poem and much more fantastic poetry can be found in Paul Summer’s book ‘Primitive Cartography’

.swansong celebrates the heritage of cinema and The Wintergarden Theatre in Rockhampton with a special focus on the influence of Anna Pavlova on the dance culture in the Central Queensland area and in Australia in general.

We hope you enjoy watching our film.

(via paulsummerswriter)

Byron Bay Writers Festival

After three days of discussions, readings, writers, ideas, and eventually rain, the Byron Bay Writers Festival has come to an end.

If you happened to miss it, or didn’t catch a session you were hoping to, the SCU media blogging team probably covered it.

Check out - - for blogs and links to audio recordings. Some sessions were also covered via live tweeting on Twitter: ‪#‎bbwf2014‬or @bbwritersfest.

I hope everyone who made it stayed dry and had a great time, and for those of you who didn’t—enjoy the blog!

Acid-Base Titrations

Stop. It’s too pink.

How pink is too pink?

That pink is too pink.

It just became pink.

Well, it’s too pink.

One drop too pink?

Probably three drops too pink.

It wasn’t pink two drops ago.

It must’ve been, it’s more than translucent pink.

It’s one drop too pink past translucent pink.

One drop too pink.

Frank O’Hara reading from Lunch Poems


Intertextuality, Influence, & Gertrude Stein

A Sundog Dirtbag Enterprise

I watched her dropsaw briefcase snap open releasing

papergun necklaces, which rattled the branches of trees.

Where had the paints gone? the ones lost in the freezer.

         She is a good deal, blonde.

         Red fading turns to brown, and the

         heat is forgotten as skyward bubbles fill slender necks.

A cat hashtagged cries all night and sleeps all day, as

a star-picket prosthesis steadies a scabby table in an unshaded yard.

A petite female frame planes plywood from a Sasquatch footprint.

         A teacup pig snorts

         from the businessman’s car, full

         of surfboards and clinking empty glass

almost full, always leaving room for more. Lacquer drying

in toxic waves of heat, bending McDonalds splintering

in sunburn, and drying spray-painted collages, fifty shades of hot-pink.

         She is a Sundog Dirtbag, her

         dream is an enterprise. I heart

         her art, which can be found online. 


words exist beyond belonging 

nothing in complete


complete is somewhat less than incomplete 

fucking alphabets

1. sometimes, when i was a kid, i would wonder if the letters of the alphabet fucked each other.

2. to be honest, i would imagine how the letters of the alphabet went about fucking each other.

3. d would definitely fuck c.

4. h would try to get on top of p.

5. b would do e back-to-front and e would ask f for a three-way. 


i heart you

you rock my world


you are two hours late, but 


you still rock my world, and 

i heart you.


getting people places




you never cease 

to amaze me.


you complete me,

i love you.  

…Maggie Nelson, i have just discovered you
i am not you. i want to be you.
i want to write about the colours of
fucking the way that you do. i want to
marry you. i want to
be you and i want to marry you. i want to
be you and marry myself. i want to
be Facebook friends with you. i want to
be blue with you. i like bluets too, but Maggie Nelson

i do not like police officers, and

elevators make me nauseous…


The season is a damp dollar sign: a sign that the humidity is bearable but the traffic is not; a sign that the mould is barely tolerable and the mozzies won’t stop; when rivers swell and roads vanish beneath puddles—puddles so deep, if ducks landed they’d be relabeled ponds—when unrelenting nor-easterlies push carnivals of wind all summer long; when sandy beaches are blemished by bluebottles and floating trumpets embellish our footpaths, all mauve and miniature; when ripening papayas nourish and brushturkeys flourish in yesterday’s rubbish; when clouds of bats tarnish dragon fruit sunsets; when early down town is still quiet and stylish, and in the street the scent of rum and beer mingles with that of espresso, when the aromas are all singed and overpriced and as heavy as damp dollar signs.

Crisp Valleys

Louise Crisp says: she grew up in hard country meaning, she was free to wander. I say: I grew up in soft country meaning, I was free to wonder. The rainforest mountains sheltered me in nurturing undulation. A tanned kelpie followed my scent upstream. We ate from tropical fruit trees with abundant exoticness. Swollen rivers often left gullies full of water. The music was as consistent as the rain. Even the cicadas had rhythmic purpose. In creek corners we hunted crystals. The canopy was my home, and it was anything but silent. With nothing but harmonies, even in the pitch black dark, I never felt alone. How else can I explain rainforest-dwelling?