I take the red eye from LAX to JFK writing in an extinct diary thinking about you —
after Nate Lipens, My Dead Book – 1, page 23

Joshua Edward

Pepsi —

i take the

red eye from LAX to JFK

making straight backed laps of that place for six hours,

cosmic hopes of

just bumping

striding through

endless blue grey


broken down escalator ………………… after broken down,

…………………………………………. broken down country

on the way to the city that I


love :— momentary


which, could be the sensation of bodies together


and often, rather,


(imagination is fostered without reminder)

amidst the thumping, slipping away,

your head in my armpit

where it stays because

it is

that drone counts

… that be you and i

rushing into and out of


sometimes with, most times without

but, rushing forward


i took a flight to be a loser bum in the city that i love 

and i'll take another to be a clod

(self made)

somewhere they build carskets

w/ our names


here they have

neatly excavated rectangles

this is not happening now

likely not tomorrow either

other days it feels closer,

feel that breeze too?

more an urge than a reality

more a who by

we cannot stop the lurch forward

i will be an actor in it sometimes

with its decise reality

i aid it

i sat in the damp

outdoors with two matching men smoking

a nightclub, in a hospital,

making eyes with one

i thought

can i borrow a light?

… wearing brown ankle boots

the other less handsome in the face

i ask the double, still “American”

asking boarder security how his day was:


i want to suck his cock so i can say:

thank you for your service

with my mouth full of cum. 

The first day

Joshua Edward

And on this

I fucked a stranger while u watched some lame fire show

The first day

Started with a tight pipe

There is no more mundane betrayal than a cock

You have a billboard

And a discount

Yet no legacy

I did the background check

Your family works at public schools

Your family changes engine oil

Your family lapping grease

You have no legacy

Your death; like all, will be instant and unremarkable

You will be a dusty meaningless unkept stone

You along with every other useless New York faggot mother fucker

In the earth

Trod upon

You will get the disrespect you served in life

Slapped off tables (fucking trust fund trash)

Fucking moldy bathroom bastard

Fucking blood on your pillowcase piece of putrid pipe 

You don’t rest

You will not vale

You will not transend

You will rot in the earth until absolutely no part of you remains

Your corps pissed on and pecked

Your disposal shall be imminent.

Joshua Edward

missed the lights

standing in the spit

,  thinking you said :  “im gonna cum”

tastes like me

are u on the edge baby?

, stay.

written by Joshua Edward, on occasion of Lil Palser Barto’s exhibition by the same title at Kunst Gallery
05.08.2022 - 05.09.2022


and at the end

is sharp gravel


when we are lucky

this is a pleasurable scorn

a slap from a lover

a quip


& so defenseless

on the whip of a




mother lipped

(full name)


this rock

is sedentary

lump like

groin like

locking knees

like if helium were

pushing a thumb

into the soft hollow neck letting out

castrated church choir


this rock



bitter, venous, reflective


not self so

& likely, not you either


of oil

of bone (fossil)


this rock



and that is


as is

the water amongst it

and sometimes

it is heated, like tacky roads

and often on the same day


this rock


the quarry

great slabs for rotundas, former presidents or kitchen benches


this rock



as in

‘man’ (colloquial)

solid, unmoving mass


shallow and cool inside

not to be taken

in the masculine

but rather

————basketball shorts

city related novelty caps

or giant pads on slight frames

this is not

wearing your girlfriends

lip gloss (not designer)

at 5 am

in a grass-less garden

in resavoir, coburg

or preston

neither is it

skirts because it’s hot

or anything brown

or any of its other hypobolic


or sinister actors

whose email signatures detail:

- the contentence of their bowel, from breakfast to dinner past Friday week;

- select written works in a supercut of flagalent quotes;

- & letters such as BPD and LG  TQIA+

& at once





sometimes under

heat or pressure



under time

many layers of it

being both

on and of

really small bits

that we are likely unknowing of


we do know them to be true

as we know of



the small bearded man, whittling, in his shed, untouched, sedate (non-medical)

unincarcerated by

the mall hotel

or a new town named after a new lake around a new lake named after a new town

on a rock made of mysterious dust

in truly

endless nothing.  

Come here, my love
Joshua Edward


you say

these pills

they killed him

swallowed into the big


the huge


the enormous


time kills

and i

kill time

it is all I know nowadays

this is the last letter she wrote

being sipped by that — i reach for a drink

or a hand

& stumbling forward — i realise that neither


inside the big engine


spark hard cogs

7am     5pm     12am     7am     5pm     12am

Tram    Bus    Bed    Bus    Tram    Train    Box

& I had learnt

to be ugly

to be one with the great

nullifying nothing

what a sword!

if i were somebody, i’d want to be the fool

amidst it all



images of

your mother father brother

child-parent & death

you had taught me

of being between gay, and here

as untrustworthy

but love,

love always is

having it on

having it

the tricky fear

of losing the great, lifelong jostle

& losing it

well… that is the fear of never having it again

all i remember having for sure is what i have


if everything is porn
then let your ears weep softly

Joshua Edward

there are many


wincing at women on the


one picks his nose

he reads

on over her shoulder


what I was really thinking


was the amount of times


said douche


and whilst

i am mostly scared for your


i am also

bewildered by my inherent stupidity?

like how do you stand up without


skull on cold fresh cement

twelve blinding lights

in perfect tracks to perforate the innards

and eyes which say

21 21 21

Anyway someone

went missing in the ocean?

he was an artist

he liked the slant

and to fall

“All is falling”

made me



“My body is practicing being dead”

slipping nightly

i think

eileen said also

we practice death


here it is


& cloud


she said hands

these hands

are old (maybe 32)

creased chalky paper

she says

what cream helps

i say:

accepting your reality helps most


the rich gays take PrEP

& now there’s a party dedicated to


freed from fear

rabinous gays thrash about

shoving their dicks in


because imagine



the epidemic and remember to

make nancy proud

have fun

the door person

is winking

and saying



if we can

just revisit death for a moment

there was a party on a

burner boat

but the very aggressive but hot


made the hosts

who weren’t aloud into the party

sign an NDA

about the sinking boat

and it’s burner origins

it read:



refer to the boat

as a burner boat

Anyway eroticism

can be

the passenger next door

who sleeps

pushing their

thigh against yours

small death


what do you dream of?


someone is throwing some

tired berlin party with

some tired berlin dj

with some tired berlin door policy


to be frank if I want to be fisted

id stay home and do it to myself


don’t get me started


the belts and buckles


a queer poem is

ahhh ahh

jk jk




a queer poem

is whatever you’re not




literally eating

my dick

better than any lover


soft pink


I am falling


small tumble


promise for now


we leave that behind



how easy it is to forget to love


being swallowed


& who is


but body

wrapped in gauze

shredding teeth

do you like me


waiting for the next


to blame here.

the world moves and u move and u think

this is pain now

this is rage

and you wonder where

fragments fall

and how to collect them

for you


people say reading is


i agree it’s hard to read

a whole book

like the whole damn thing?

just sit there and read it

i want to be surrounded by so many books

my favourite words

pick them up

read that page again and again

put them down

& never know how it ends


I’m eating

one meal

a day


is starving.


I don’t like

seeing women who remind me

of my


riding the train alone

I wonder where she


in her house shoes

what she thinks about

she picks her fingers

and that is home

her eyes are



but unintentionally



where are those small kisses

whispering kisses

at night

like breathing at sleep

kisses that hover above every



old lady on train


makes me want  to

hug my mum


something so devastating about strong women

powerful bodies

power to create everything and destroy nothing

and yet fading all the same

so much fear in there

fear of a world which has

Co Opted her strength

but it is there



walk outside

kiss the sky

and say it also is beautiful

for this day

it is wet in your mouth

New York

is not made for love

or maybe

different love 

but not big love

love spent

days upon days

gazing at its sheer magnitude

reading its extensive texts

Knowing it


in New York

there is a meeting at


and love must come

before or after

but not both


is a salary

taxed and taxing

in New York

you do not just get

to walk up

kiss love on the forehead

and sit for a while

eight million

and nothing left over


when you (all)

kiss my

neck and chest

i think this is small heaven

for now

to feel the air

out of nose

pushed into

the crease

of my collar

there are street corners where

kissing is made

at night

sweet & acidic mouths


how little you need to know

to know and be unknown

to unknow and be known

what makes someone unmissable?

rooms filled with dawn and bodies and something—



B & i

we like to have a drink

at night

once all the caffeine

has worn off

we — sleepy


honey and liquor

talk of things


and un—made that day

of lovers

past, present & future

about the parts of the day which poured out

and others which drag to agonising halts

and then good night

and dreams of making

the day to

sit with you again.


dyke jeans at the coffee shop

morning of


it has become my time

three coffees approaching— four

i’ve settled for being present as opposed to actively,


i have seven dollars and no job

to have no job in New York

is to be pointless without charm

—shit what will people talk about if not their jobs?

dating in New York

is gagging on the dick



whereas in Melbourne

the measure of success is really, how you manage to maintain your doll payment in conjunction with as little work as possible

in all honesty this is


more interesting than any job anyone has had—ever.

dirty glorious whiteness
ichikawa lee

my pores were quite—clogged

ground salt

garnished my forehead squeezed lemon on the coast


eye roll / short sigh


“oysters are vegan... just have one already”

she looked ‘perfect’

of course

and showed the adequate amount of interest

in me

as to not be rude, or to at least say with confidence ‘I tried with them, I swear’

of course

yes, sure, if you insist

I’ll have three glasses of your finest rosé

as Ferrari daddy slips and trips

gin pouring over her chest

can you hear that old money



we were on a rooftop—pretending

behind the darkest tint

swipe, brightness down,

low power mode: on


somber eyes lens-protected—watching

gelati shop owners

powdered noses


swollen ankles

artists interrupted

for the herald sun photographer can a photograph really capture all that is

the bourgeois

sunset draped

in colour, an other

washed in this— dirty—glorious—whiteness

Joshua Edward

I recall you as a small piece of


like a form on the soil in the earth which perplexes and ogles

you can’t move but stare and shift

—you’re shifting between it overwhelmed by some glamour, I don’t mean to say it’s beautiful but it is glamorous

and I think



soil drying in the sun, do I talk here?

do I have the mouth

and if yes, then how and what

what would you tell me?

is there something I’m sorry for

or am I just ashamed of the inconsistency I’m reconciling

you know... apologising to move past the


sweating over it and the tawdry time

but here’s the thing—

there’s so much soil

to erode before your reach the base

& with all that earth behind you

—you’re stuck

in the cavernous earth scab

perhaps you lay down breath in the dust

and feel nostalgic for the soil

yet it is there, and full of you you are


chest of soil

of nothing

of base and

how many times can you fracture— puncture

pull up the terra in to you

and around you

like death asks and wants & there’s men with noses so large

they’re pushing your hands and fists into their flesh

and it is soft for a while

calm but it is always slightly more putrid each time

and you said you regret that you almost killed your sister

asleep and she was too—

and you love her

you say in an intimate way

horrifically you wait for purpose.

if the end of one’s youth is a thin slice

of cheese i ate mine standing in that room

joshua edward

everything was pretty yellow

the sky and your heart

—and probably mine was too sitting there

sweating over books & limited time


& cheese

& bread

has made me almost as happy as you do well—that is too glasses

three—four and i’ll be a tool in the morning

and you might hate me

do you ever wonder if you’ve really fucked it? you know—

you’re looking at the ceiling

a straight couple

probably discussing their engagement

sleeping very comfortably adjacently

now i’ve stopped paying attention

body snatched

hair laid to rest


that’s how i like

it wet


cigarettes smell like toasted crumpets

i’d wondered if i’d ever love someone the way

i loved you

and i probably hadn’t

i mean you can’t love someone

the same way you’ve loved


i got the explicit sense you were

afraid of that word


and would therefore say:


care is more frightening than love to me

because i am hard to care for


i wasn’t even sure how

your cool speckled eyes


or if they did


the streets here smell like


like bubbles through a foil sleeve

riverside parkways

cat said i should get a bum bag

everyone has one here

she says:

even people who aren’t cool have them

so i did

wanted to hold eileen at the club

i liked looking at your face smoking

eyes darting

hands darting

mouth darting

figuring you

i keep thinking about crying

like in a masturbatory way

but it doesn’t come

and i remember you giving me head in a

tent when we were sixteen

and you’re dead now

fresh steel wrapped around the base

and the sent of eucalyptus

hot in that morning

your mum still writes you on facebook

i think it’s a kind of séance

i can’t

imagine sitting in that pale twilight

like she does

and i wonder how i could have earned

you with such false tragedies

clichéd romantics

finding yourself somewhere between

having and loss is a lagging loop—

being not with or without

and how do you dislodged—ungraft a patch

of something alien?

and you said you need to own yourself,

your body and the hairs on it

they are yours

depression is a parent stuck somewhere

between envy and warning

i am feeling particularly attuned to the

Sadness that sits behind the eyes of

people on the street recently, and more

concerningly there is a personal

voidence there.

i think they remind

me of my—


and i think about her death, of the

harsh delicacy of things with age.

i think of what is worth reconciling

concessions made for her


passed to children

things said, and meant and then un-meant

Having a cold is like lateral violence for the chronically ill.

Joshua Edward

you remind me of my father

it was the mustache originally

but I can’t remember if you have it anymore…

and maybe that’s why fucking was odd

and they don’t ‘care’ that I smoke but I think they kind of do but love me anyway

and when you told me off it was kind of exhilarating, I thought this is what my parents should think but don’t or did but no longer do.

regardless, there is something very endearing about being made naughty—childish and caught.

To be made bad, it means someone cares that you acted a way—or something? The tulips are tight and I say, I prefer them restless, in figures of dancing leaves just before they…. exhale.

I don’t know why I am always wanting everything to be elegant, and by that I mean teetering on the edge, kind of messy but in their place and just that: if it was a vase encasing a floral arrangement it would sprawl everywhere and finally bow it’s head a little,

there is also, something very elegant about room temperature food, like sandwiches or hard boiled eggs.

Elegance is by itself with nothing extra, nothing added. The way it is— perfect, sprawling, forever.