volume three
A Letter
to Our Leaders
Luke Green-Thompson
Mr. Cele
Mr. Cele
Your incompetence has arrested you
With your hands behind your back that man Thabo has just bested you.
No your guns and militia have never kept us safe
The offspring of those caspers SAPS the hope out of this place.
Mr. Cele
Mr. Cele
I know what you would say:
"That my mother was kitchen girl"
"And my father was a garden boy"
Howu, ngiyacela Mr. Cele
Oh we're begging you Bheki
Stop making excuses
Police and protectors?
Corrupt and abusive
Accountability forever elusive
At the Back of the Throat
Caitlin MacDonald
It is an unsettled still life. Behind the body is a blackness, disturbed by thick jagged striations of brown and blue paint, suggesting the details of a room, perhaps -- the open door, the end of a table, a figure hovering at the edge of the frame. A rayfish is suspended in this darkness by some unseen apparatus, exposing a red-pink underside, an open mouth. Its pectoral fin billows and puckers, as if the body were still animated, swimming upwards, a bloodied and ugly angel. The paint’s heaviness gives opacity to the flesh. Harsh brushstrokes reiterate forms: lines of blue restate the ray’s gills at the outer reach of its fin, blood-logged shadows pool red at the bends of the body, cords of gold pull at the corner of the gaping mouth and the wound at its stomach. Viscera unspools. Intestines tumble onto a table laden with the genre's traditional subjects: a cloth, two vases, one holding a paintbrush, and a pile of apples. The fruit, unctuous and red, almost seems to pitch from the maw of the rayfish's gut; some are so ripe that they split at their core. The table sags under the scene, caving at its center; it is as if the force of the painting is pinched at the base. An apostrophe of red writhes in the air around the skate's snout.
Not All Men
ashley allard
Not all men
But fifty-one / of at least eighty-three / from twenty-four to sixty-eight / from ‘thought it was a game’ to ‘had nothing better to do’ and
Not all men
But one man on the subway / a lighter / he watches her sleeping form go up in flames and
Not all men
But the president elect / yet another rapper / that one guy who is Just Such A Feminist / that priest / that friend of a friend / your friend and
...
Queer Place
Emily Freedman
Some argue that to “come out” is to bend to the notion that everyone is straight by default. However, while the redundancy of coming out is an ideal to strive for, the heteronormative nature of the world makes coming out important— an empowering act.
It recognises a lived experience of being gay in a heteronormative context, that is, an experience of antinormativity. This affirms being gay as a political identity by affirming the existence of a political institution – heteronormativity – which acts against it.
- interview - interview - interview - interview -
Reincarnated Persian Gods, MI5 and A Whole Lot of Sex:
Dr Megan Jones on Completing Her Mother's Novel
Ash:
Can you give us a summary of the book? In your own words.
Megan:
The book is about a woman called Therese, a South African born and raised artist living in London with a difficult teenage daughter. And Therese ends up becoming the romantic obsession of a corporate type… a billionaire actually, called Sir Nicholas Tarrant, who’s very embedded in the higher echelons of the British government. And he pursues her against her will. And then it turns out that he’s actually the Persian god of war, Mithras and she is the reincarnated goddess Anahita. But Mithras has evil plans for the world so with the help of MI5-
Steff:
It’s even better hearing you say it.
No Return
The point of it all is to live and to learn.
Leave the past to settle but first look deep;
as much as you wish, there is no return.
Some lessons are simple mistakes. Hot oil burns
through skin when startled. If you break it, sweep
and bin. The more you live the more you’ll learn.
I lost one then another because I yearned
for pity, a cradle for my weeping,
tempered by time that will never return.
Inside the leaky house the silence has worn
out. Try gratitude. Try apology. Take the leap
to I forgive. There are always things to unlearn.
This grand love I seek may become a concern
for all that I give and the little I reap
will leave me hollowed in eternal return.
In November, I remember again lanterns
glowing like hope. All night I couldn’t sleep.
Wasn’t the point to live and to learn?
As much as you wish it, we can never return.
Jamie Chan
