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.


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.

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—eve

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
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.