<3 u T-May

<3 u T-May

by MJ Cole

essence falling out the pause between suggested videos
dear boarder authority apple has my fingerprint too you aren’t special

you’ve not been caught yet

five fingers round the eye set the range of parameters
persisting secular stagnation increases the velocity of desperation.

I’ve brought some millennial labour

behaviour rhythms beat to gene samples along private subterraneans
heart rate by the shadow of a heel injury as intuition aria algorithm

you’ve not been caught yet

memory is also forgetting the rewriting of history
subtle unhappenings the future self-making in a pastiche of voids

I’ve watched you narrating

the indecent mainframe wears down the guttural fuselage
bath in the wafting rot white sigh in a frozen husk

we’ve not been caught yet

SAT 14:20

SAT 14:20

by Marjam Idriss and Frankie Mace

Soooooo I just googled Elizabeth

Báthory / Haha What did u find? / Just a lot

of torture No biggy They say Bataille was

deviant My my / Haha yeah that is her cultural

heritage rly. Lots of torture / Wild /

I mean I think she’s an interesting enough

character to feature in lots of poems So far

ive only seen her figure in horror films / It’s time

to rehabilitate her / I meeeaaan / Canonise /

Not sure she can really be rehabilitated / Like

the Marquis de Sade / Yeah true / Imagine the rage,

such ungovernable rage / Yeah ok let’s do it. Everyone

knows Sade, Báthory shld be famous too / Yes

Can we only imagine her motives? I want

to read the court record I see her screaming

in a fortress bloody as Carrie / That is

another poem again Beautiful / I’ve a gift Ha /

There was an article I read that imagined a bit

abt her life etc. for The Toast everyone’s favourite blood

countess I disagree w the toasts angle abt historical

murderous lesbians being a negative stereotype But

fun article still / What’s that film about

the female serial killer in the states? They made

some stunning actress ‘ugly up’ (Hollywood ugly) / Oh

god what’s it called again I forget The name of the woman

that film was based on is in that poem actually / Charlize Theron

/ Ha / Monster! / Monster!! No the real life lady As in

Monster is based on a true story Urh that film

is soooo sad tho / So sad I remember it felt so

bleak it sort of empties you out / But

there’s like 10 adorable mins where they r happy

together and I try to remember that bit / You are

a romantic / Like when she has some money & they

get that flat / So great / But then obv Horrible

horrible things / Then degradation, prostitution and murder

Not that I have a problem with sex work of course But

sex work out of desperation feels troubling Especially accompanied

by violence and murder / Ofc. But I mean in the film

there’s like her being a sex worker and that being ok

and then just rape and exploitation and danger

danger / I can’t actually remember how

it all goes wrong / This guy rapes her and then she kills him

and steals his money right / That seems a kind of righteous

justice / And then she treats her gf and they r

super happy so she figures she’ll stop

being a sex worker and just start killing

people & take their money instead / Ah It’s a fall into

temptation / Like in a lot of ways it’s such a male

horror story – the idea of a sex worker who is dangerous

and can kill u / So actually it’s her refusal of

patriarchal capitalism that destroys them / When

really the power is def shifted the other irl Yeah

defs And then she gets caught obv and. goes

to jail and never sees gf again / Horrible / Not

that I am pro murder But I mean / I was

def rooting for Charlize / Same

The Fold of the Land

The Fold of the Land

By Henry Babbage


A vacant building slowly reveals its presence in the bush as you move closer. Along the textured cement of the three-tiered promenade, wet leaves softly depress underfoot. In stages, you transition higher into the encroaching canopy. You’re propped up on columns among the leaves, branches and lichen on the venerable trees which shade the building year-round. Pausing, your hand rests on recumbent posts of damp wood that border the walkway and bare clusters of moss and mould. You can see how the fauna grows around the building. Fern leaves are folded up against the windowpanes. Stalks and ferns flick out from underneath the bottom edge of the door to the exhibitions gallery. From the building you still hear the clicking of cicadas, the sway and rustling of the bush, a waterfall, and a ute pulling over across the road.


Inside you find an empty theatre: office chairs, plasterboard, piping, asbestos. Display cases, MDF. Poster-board ephemera, the cross section of a tree-trunk (its growth rings marked to indicate its size relative to the date when the Sistine Chapel was constructed), A1 sized plan-drawings, maps demarcating Crown land, mouse excrement. The textured smell of the aging carpet, the sound of only your footfall, the rooms and display supports, the suggestion of objects.

In all rooms you find a framed view of the landscape outside: a corner of a room becomes an observation platform — two glass panes that place one amongst a scene, neither purely interior nor exterior. Although the view is not merely scenographic — instead, the building evokes a reverence for the surrounding forest. The displays of the museum are joined by the regional inflections of the landscape. Through Rua Kenana’s eye. The windows act as delicate surfaces that mediate a relationship of alternately protection and openness, between the natural forces acting upon the exterior of the building and the items housed within. The landscape intimately communes with the building — the museum is in the autochthonous bush.


The decay of the building is inevitable. Things happen slowly. Neglect in this case is neither overtly intentional nor unintentional; it highlights the allocation of attention and resources elsewhere. Space is a practiced place. The process of construction that necessitates built structures must be accepted as a surrender — to technologies, to engineers, to suppliers, to contractors, to manufacturers, to politicians, to occupants… to other energies. Further to this, the building is a function of its environment, co-existent with, and subject to, the harshness of natural forces and weathering. But the status of its future has been deemed uncertain; it exists for the moment in an indeterminate state. The mist is poised on the ridge of the valley. It is not so hard to accept the building is living.


The Aniwaniwa Visitor Centre once presented the taonga of its collection coterminously with the landscape that encased them. Now the taonga and objects have been removed from the space that was designed specifically for them, leaving an inverse relation to display. That is, many apertures. The museum once led the viewer to representations of fleeting narratives. Today, to see the museum without its objects and narratives is to see the just modes of presentation. In an effort to save the Nga Taonga Tuku Iho or, Treasures from the Past, a grey metal shipping container serves as a temporary storage unit where objects and artefacts have been moved gradually from the museum. The container is planted upon a clearing, in a shared makeshift lot sculpted from an earthen bank.

These objects have been treated by various modalities of conservation — some have been altered in the process of transportation or in order to adhere to a display strategy of the past. The collection here exists in a conditional context, not presented but preserved, isolated in private, and maintained in a temperature and light-controlled setting.


The museum was once only a set of plans, immanent within a thick canopy of trees. Objects were in between one generation and the next. Other custodians held the objects, facing the past while walking backwards into the future. The inception of the museum made visible one particular view, a theatrical moment. This story is a treatment of space and everything is written in the soil.



*This text originally accompanied a film about Aniwaniwa for an exhibition at a public gallery in Auckland called Te Tuhi.*

Suggestion for an add. to queer funeral liturgy or heaven bang list for T

Suggestion for an add. to queer funeral liturgy or heaven bang list for T

Words by Marjam Idriss


Virginia Wolf Sappho always looks a bit grumpy cus

Iris Murdoch

Radclyffe Hall in riding gear carries a whip at all times

Wenche Lowsow in queer heaven there’s no monogamy right

Tuulikki Pietilä Eleanor Roosevelt

Emily Dickinson Audre Lorde

Sylvia Rivera Tove Jansson

Marilyn Monroe Florence Nightingale no shut up it’s true

Frida Kahlo Phillipa Foot

Agnes Wergeland Billie Holiday Patricia Highsmith

Ebba Sparre Queen Christina of Sweden

Marlene Dietrich

Joan Crawford Greta Garbo

Katharine Hepburn my friend told me basically everyone in all black/white films ever

Edith Piaf


Gertrude Stein, Amelia Earhart, Dusty Springfield

Marsha P. Johnson, Edna St. Vincent Millay

someone suggested

Julie d’Aubigny bi fencing opera singer posing as a nun

queer vigilante Stormé DeLarverie, Leslie Feinberg, Eleanor Butler & Sarah Ponsoby

Anne Lister, Adrienne Rich

Elizabeth Bathory it will probably be fine what is heaven for if not experimenting with thumbscrews

if there’s no monogamy in heaven there’s also no judgement so the whole bloodbath thing is fine and not even true but her being a dyke is true

Aileen Wuornos, Josephine Baker

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, and so on


Featured image by Maisie Noble https://www.instagram.com/maisienoble/?hl=en

Photograph: Josephine Baker

The Beat

The Beat

By Frankie Mace



I feel for you                      sideways


out of a corner

ghost like a song like a song


or more three times but

only that even

it doesn’t matter won’t forget

it’s a weakness of mine.



can it be

simply not possible

maybe fourth of all expanse of

there’s never being home

for dinner

never cold skipping out we’re

out till dawn

sweet as ever as anything but

worrying doesn’t get anyone anywhere



life is sideways though

the beat

of it swells in glorious circles

that I have memorised for you

looking directly

at a portrait in profile

like a song it comes around

but ends always

in the middle




*This poem was also published in the Stockholm Review of Literature*

Ode to a Water Canon.

By M.J. Cole



bored light forgetting the shade

inverted flames crashing into

the rip curl stuck under the street

on this shelf is the apocalypse

on this shelf is the point of no return

pick your smoking finitude and

let the sea sketch the architecture

of the corporeal undertow

sucking sewer footsteps

guiding the annals of overproduction

exploding through palisades

tube stars dancing to oblivion

signs running lost highways

to a shotgun acropolis

where drones don’t surrender

heads tinnitate leak neck to brick

and it collapses inward as ashes do

grey matter fine enough to snort

a last will and testament to air



Originally published in ‘words work vol. 1’ (2015)

Late Summer Things Leave or Rot

By Frankie Mace




Floodlights on a back road observant of vigilance


Murmurless but for the almonds growing by the wall // topophobic


Careering beetles assault Oleaceae branches



Screen doors dustily // dusk hot and orange speaks for us


Floodlit by a porch light filled with the appearance of things


The stars weakly compete // longing chews the air it has substance



On a back road by the wall a many-scented memory graft


Yellow hills recede as arms murmurless


In a white box house separation spasms // brown limbs longly drape tangentially



Sparse lacerations inarticulating rapture


Chemically pool-blue child shriek leaps // kitchen fed olives


Chicken innards bloody flies-haunted slap flat stone floor cat laps



Here is the locale of convalescence


Reassembling in the heat // breaking almond shells with a found rock


Whirring grey Discman wires connect us nose to nose // brown arms white nails



Poet’s jasmine wreathed fecundity flavoured stickily with loss


Accumulated debris of terracotta tiles // ants liquescently uncanny weave a sun lounger


Dusk hot and orange // speaks for us



Slick smiling melon slices cut for a pool-blue brown child


Moorish blankets rough faced day beds dark cornered


Here is the locale of convalescence // four rooms afternoon quieted



Rough built stone walls // cool hot air currents soporifically muted


Old car recedes crunch skids the gravellish back road


Not a crash but a dismantling centre first // cicadas in the dust hills



Behind the box house by the wall amid the almonds and olives.


Pain is kept there as a memory // murmurless

British Steel

By M.J. Cole



The Station is printing an escalator that spirals clockwise

At point break banally raptured and as immaculate

As identity shouted down from history

Windows inhale to shatter themselves

Reveal a shrapnel portal beckoning

Forceps scalpel forearm force in fragments

Permeate the wall and drop void-wise

Nothing gets rebuilt only rebranded

Imperial facades are a kitsch warning

The preservation of a threshold symbol

Slack-jawed sovereignty compounds

While social combustibility ghostwrites

Parricidal syntax to trace the arc of survival

Potentiality pixelating into grain silos of undifferentiata

The new black is squared and the crack is cubed

It makes us stop at the border of them and us

Boiling footsteps of indiscretion as every starting car

Might shudder a prelude to an explosive sigh

Finally stones comfort as they rise

Two hundred fifty miles per hour as they rise

To spite the muscle and marrow of history

As they rise as they rise as they rise



By Caitlín Róisín


a film of sweat

washing dry

my lips apart

the heavy uhhhh

oh the heavy limbs

stuck here and here


blew into my nose

and I tasted

the grey light, also

cotton wound on dust

a warm shape gone

fraying the reeds, horses


kick the day, my toes

brush the wet neck

soiling our land our

dry mountain we

are lead out of the desert

we are sunk onto the coast

low sun

weight-ed sky

there is an arc of dryness

our wheels could click

I watch it part and



the salt licking my lips

Not All Poems Are Love Poems


Artwork by Claire Potter

Photograph by Matt Cole

Text by Frankie Mace 

I have lived within your absence

the negative pressure of your breathing a medical ventilator

expanding the shame that lurches in the cavity

forcing the exhalation at your name.

You have killed me in your sleep ————

vengefully you amputated

// the terminal infection //

that I am to you.

The knowledge of my destruction is dizzying:

expensive bombs raining        a future            a famine          a fallout.

To destroy unutterably is a fresh power

a cave full of bones, thrilling in its horror –

only debris lives longer that death.

Don’t use the word forever

luckless wreck, Medea.

The magnitude of your devotion threatens,

bruises darkly, flowering its juices.

Your shadow in an image ¦ egami na ni wodahs ruoY

I may only pale and wane

clammy as the moon on an old plate

… Surrounded by the imagined company of the dead …

That is but is not history

I have things to say that are unemailable.

You with your souks, your Maroc skies

blameless as a porcelain saint – Hero

wrenched from her Leander.

Memory has perfected for you a martyr

an old rug torn for a love of the same hook



as it


leaving a floor shadow the texture of echo

/ echo of texture the shadow floor a leaving.

Shiver out of your skin ( I will wear it )

the psychic cloak of it unique in its

remoteness and intimacy.

For then I was Circe, temptress

[Treacherous in the dark]

rival on a foreign isle

where < need springs > from desire

and claims manhood like a trophy.

Whispered dissent a poison——–delivered on a tooth

Fawned over by drugged   victims    of a    simple   magic

Which turns them all to swine.

And yet, living in the half-light of unknowing

will soon be mine to inhabit.

From the edge it drifts to the centre in @n eternal return:

I have become Penelope now

and will clean the cups and fluff the pillows,

facilitate in waves of succour

[Loving fearfully in the shadows]

To adorn a *fresh fantasy* with honey

As a patient handmaiden at a loom;;;

Prepares a new rug.



*Originally published by the London Review of Fiction*