Survivisection A coal stove burns 
in the corner. I don’t 
want a coal stove. In 
a survival situation, 
versatility is essential.

Knife, ax & machete — 
these items are extremely 
necessary. Other minimal
lists have taken the count-
ing challenge to the limit.

I now own 15 things. Je
veux un hamburger.
 “Yes.
Much as I expected.” The 
other eats, hates himself 
for eating, & then purges 

it out. Houses are the best
places to hide out in. I exit 
out of the tail with CTRL+C 
& continue. Assume that 
everything is case specific. 

My biggest fear is that I’ll 
fall back down the hole.
Ramen noodles aren’t the 
most nutritional food but 
they are cheap. & easy to

prepare. I no longer have 
a coal stove or pots & pans
or water, but I watched
a video & now know how
to cook ramen in a cactus.    
Constant Craving The day is spinning wildly
on its turntable, & even out
of it the vibrations can still
be clearly felt. I’m trapped in
what might as well be Mach-
iavellian Merchandise, a tent
on sideshow alley, where there’s
nothing you want or need
or can afford but still feel
compelled to spend up big before
you go. Either by the purchase of
a cutprice epiphany that is not
yet spoken for—which in itself
is indicative of its value—or doing 
a dodgy deal in wagyu beef
futures. Neither of which… But I am brought down to
earth & saved from calamity
by a track squeezing through
from the dodgems next door,
k.d. lang singing so in love, the
Cole Porter song, that acts as
axis to steady everything around.       The Greek ficcione On being told that his latest work had been rejected for a literary grant, Socrates stamped his sandal & stormed out of the Atrium in a fit of pique, muttering something about never being able to trust platonic lovers who were always badmouthing you behind your back. That there had been a mistake wasn’t discovered until a day later; but by the time they found him to tell him it was actually Sophocles who wasn’t getting any money, it was too late. The hemlock had done its work. To save face the committee of eminent citizens pretended no mix-up had occurred, expressed their sadness over the death of Socrates, & then announced they were going to subsidize Sophocles’ new play, Antigone. It was a great tragedy.  
Pelican Dreaming Revisited Today the
postman brought
me a postcard
of Venice, sent
by one of the
pelicans that
usually lives
on the lagoon
at the bottom
of the street.
“Strange to be
fishing through
a culture that’s
only a few
thousand years
old,” she wrote. “But
easy to see how
the Europeans
managed to fuck
Australia over in
just a couple of
centuries after we’d
looked after it for
60,000 years. Look at
this place. Effluent
in the lagoon, dead
fish, houses
in decay or sinking
below the water-
line. Gone to the
doges, as the locals
say. Still, it’s great
to be a cultural
nomad for a
while. Paris
last week, the
Greek Isles next. Now
& again I have to
pinch myself, just
to make sure I’m
not dreaming.” A line from Lady Gaga Some years after the
Great Fire of London,
Samuel Pepys, on a
visit to Copenhagen, climbed the helix spire
of the baroque Church
of Our Savior by way
of its external winding staircase to see if he
could see any bishōnen
beautiful youth — in the
street below. None were visible, nor could he find
any manga stockists here; so,
to pacify his needs, he paid
a visit to a production of Twelfth Night by graduates
from the Performing Arts
School. “I love androgyny,”
he said, “& the fact that Viola gets around in men’s
clothes provokes an infinite
imagination of gender ambi-
guity & quiet homoerotica.”       About the Author:   Mark Young lives in a small town in North Queensland in Australia, & has been publishing poetry since 1959. He is the author of around fifty books, primarily text poetry but also including speculative fiction, vispo, & art history. His work has been widely anthologized, & his essays & poetry translated into a number of languages.
   

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