Chris Song is a poet, translator and editor based in Hong Kong. He has published four collections of poetry and many volumes of poetry in translation. Song received an “Extraordinary Mention” at Italy’s UNESCO-recognized Nosside World Poetry Prize 2013. He won the Young Artist Award at the 2017 Hong Kong Arts Development Awards, presented by the Hong Kong Arts Development Council. In 2019, he won the 5th Haizi Poetry Award. Song is now Executive Director of the Hong Kong International Poetry Nights, Editor-in-Chief of Voice & Verse Poetry Magazine, and associate series editor of the Association of Stories in Macao. He also serves as an Arts Advisor to the Hong Kong Arts Development Council.
His flying island pocketbook, mirror me, was published in 2017.
KA Rees writes poetry and short fiction. Her poems and short stories have been included by Australian Poetry, Cordite Poetry Review, Kill Your Darlings’ New Australian Fiction anthology, Margaret River Press, Overland, Review of Australian Fiction, Spineless Wonders and Yalobusha Review, among others.
Kate was shortlisted for the 2016 Judith Wright Poetry Award, she was the recipient of the 2017 Barry Hannah Prize in Fiction and runner-up in the 2018 Peter Cowan Short Story Award. She was a 2019 Varuna fellowship holder for her manuscript of short stories and the national winner of the 2019 joanne burns Microlit Award.
Kate is an inaugural participant in the 2021 Sydney Observatory Residency Program where she is writing the beginnings of her second collection of poetry on the Nocturn, and some of the more peculiar aspects of Sydney’s histories.
A new year ahead, full of potential, energy and disappointment with moments of clarity and elation no doubt for Flying Islands poets.
Jan 1 2021
Alone. Moon brimming as she parachutes into the Nature Reserve, the estuary now a wasteland of sand and sticks and logs and stingray hollows, new lagoons formed, the river has shunted north a hundred metres another place entirely, in just a day.
Clouds slip through the fingers, the radius extreme, the movement incessant and my feet slip on the ribbed sands and I look 360, focus slips from trees to moon, to water in low tide quiescence to sky’s blooming choreography.
We are never alone. A Striated Heron flies silently across the old mouth, black on black, sounds of laughter carry down the river, a party of overnighters, seeing in the new year with alcohol, their togetherness out of sight. A golden crinkle reveals where Helios is hiding and will arise.
When he does the beam zips down the sea and along the flattened river to anoint me and my lens, my work, this solitary concord by river, sea and sky, a vast altar offering Magpies flying down to rifle the stretched beach and silver whistling fish clearing invisible hoops in the two new lagoons.
I jump ephemeral infiltrating tributaries, my right knee winges, so many people died last year, the ones I knew had cancer. None of the 1.8 Million strangled to death by COVID I knew that I know.
Life intensifies on a small butterfly flying the wrong way out to sea, its wavering flight seems uncertain, in the last days of 2020 an earthquake killed people, a landslide killed people, a volcano might have killed people, what lies beneath the soil and sand is ready to surprise.
We live in a continual state of war, war on the Coronavirus, the war on terror, a war on drugs. Vehicles killed people, and bombs, bullets, missiles, knives all killed people.
I’m alive, standing on a sleeve of schist some think could be classified as living in some minimal sense, on an island, a huge island from an aerial perspective, Gumbaynggirr stories explain the details.
Another year, a new year not really, this estuary measures time differently, by the tides, by pluralities and patterns of rainfall, climate change, human engineering ‘solutions’.
Can this text ever enter this world of magic, of tidal imperatives, bird animations and fish ripples, mollusk tracks and crabs, their hidden lives surrounding me, their sandy spoils and bings, and the stingrays’ absence?
Space written, instead of place, a hand-held camera has no sense of the text, no sense of my weight sinking into the Earth each step. I holster the machine, breathe arms out, horse stance. This year is one that will age me.
I have been to so many countries, landed here and now have no wish to be anywhere else. This enormous room is home, my strategy is a quiet life paying more attention to the intimate details, not a new year resolution.
Experience has fallen in value, amid a generation which from 1914 to 1918 had to experience some of the most monstrous events in the history of the world . . . A generation that had gone to school in horse-drawn streetcars now stood in the open air, amid a landscape in which nothing was the same except the clouds and, at its center, in a force field of destructive torrents and explosions, the tiny, fragile human body. Walter Benjamin
Walter Benjamin, ‘Experience and Poverty’, Die Welt im Wort (Prague), December 1933.
In 1950, Andrew Burke wrote his first poem – in chalk on a slate board. It was variations on the letter A. In 1958 he wrote a poem modeled on Milton’s sonnet on his blindness. Luckily it is lost. In 1960 he wrote a religious play about the Apostles during the time Jesus was in the tomb. It was applauded. He wrote some poems influenced by TSEliot and Gerard Manley Hopkins. They caused a rift in the teachers at the Jesuit school because they were in vers libre: the old priests hated them but the young novices loved them. It was his first controversy. (The only Australian poet in his school anthologies was Dorothea Mac kellor!) Around this time, Burke read the latest TIME magazine from USA. It had a lively article about the San Francisco Renaissance, quoting Lawrence Ferlinghetti who wrote: Priests are but the lamb chops of God. This appealed to Burke who became a weekend beatnik over night. When he left school, he hitch-hiked a la Kerouac across Australia to Sydney where he worked in factories, on trucks, at a rubbish dump and moving furniture. His poems appeared in these early days in Westerly, Nimrod, Overland and the Bulletin, and he returned to Perth to regain his health and joined a circle around Merv and Dorothy Hewett. A local poet William Grono hit the nail on the head when he described them as ‘I am London Magazine and you are Evergreen Review’. Long story short, Andrew Burke has written plays, short stories, a novel, book reviews and some journalism alongside a million advertisements and TV and radio commercials. He has also taught at various universities and writing centres and gained a PhD from Edith Cowan University in 2006 when he was teaching in the backblocks of China. As a poet he has published fourteen titles, one of the most popular being a bi-lingual published by Flying Islands Press in 2017, THE LINE IS BUSY (translated by Iris Fan). He is retired now but still writing and lending a hand to younger poets. A small selection of poems follow.
Going Home
As I exit, I walk by my books in the uni library. There is a shorter way but I choose to hear my old words whispering off the shelf ‘in the swarm of human speech’, as Duncan said. On my way home, in the safe bubble of my Japanese car, I take the tunnel and in the humming dark inexplicably think of my White Russian friend naked on his chopper, whooping loudly in his flight across the desert, ejaculating in ecstasy on his fuel tank. Those were the days, my friend. Now, my tunnel breaks into sunlight. The poet I visited today said, Even the poems are chatty now, and he was right: at the red traffic light lyrical lines come to mind and I hurry to write them down. The lights change and my pen dries out. Diesel fumes invade my thoughts as I drive so I turn the volume up on ABC Jazz to drown out my annoyance. That motel has been there for decades. I remember the one-eyed mother, with her baby in a cot, offering me her love, or something masquerading as that, in dusky afternoon light, a room rented after fleeing her husband, the sound of peak hour traffic slowing as it banked for the suburbs. I’m off in a dream world when the car behind me toots, and I’m on the road again. Her name has gone but her eye patch remains and the baby’s sweet snuffling. I change to a pop music station. Get out of your own head, I advise myself. It’s not safe there, the past is corrosive. At home I park and leave the bubble of car and poem with its own centrifugal force.
Have a Nice Day
Driving to the shopping centre,
Bukovski rambling in my ear,
I’m glad to be sober
and anonymous. When I was
young, all hormones and energy,
my poetic was all about
getting laid. Today I step
from my Toyota, head full
of Buk, and grab a trolley, swearing
at its bent wheels. That’ll help,
my sober brain puts in, sarcastic
as ever. I push and the old desire
to be listened to comes back
and I’m impatient at each counter,
waiting for this, waiting for that.
They’ve got machines now,
not people. Just key in
your late mother’s hat size
and, voila, the money is out
of your account and into theirs,
Messrs Coles and Woolies. Warmly
I remember the décolletage of
Sandy with the metal in her nose,
tongue and ears. Where is she today?
At the scrap metal yard?
This machine doesn’t rock my world.
It doesn’t have Sandy’s knowing smile,
asking sweetly through banded teeth,
Any fly bys? It’s a drive-by, fly by,
bye-bye whirled. Who’ll enjoy
fly bys on my funeral plan?
Buk’s buggered my mood, but he’s
dead and I’m still here, so
who’s to complain. The machine
says, Have a nice day with
a metallic twang and I
kick the trolley straight again.
The limits of my language are the limits of my world. Wittgenstein
As bit players, the limits
of everyday activity
are the limits of our lives. You are
half out the door, going
who knows where. Perhaps you can
tell us when we meet again.
We don’t expect cards or letters,
emails or texts, and only our
limited senses would ask for
photos of the other side.
Did you leave your watch behind?
I picture Sue running
after you, shouting, ‘You forgot
your watch, you forgot your watch.’
Time is only for us now,
empty arms of the clock
hold us back from joining you.
When you were sick
and tired of it all, you left. I can
understand that. Mind the step,
wipe your feet. I expect we will follow you
in time. They chisel years
on tombstones, don’t they, yet facts
are putty in historians’ hands after deeds
are done. It’s a variety show, all this song and dance.
Total it up: More love than hate,
more laughter than tears. Do you need
a torch? Or is that light at the end of the tunnel
light enough? Perhaps you can send us
a clue or two, telling us, What happens next?
Eh? Tell me that.
Taibai Mountain Poem
for Jeanette
I saw a shining moon last night
through leafy poplars and pines
on Taibai Mountain
and thought of you awake
amid the lowing of Brahman bulls.
I thought of Li Bai
spilling ink down the mountain
leaving black stains
and wondered whose Dreaming
spilt red on The Kimberley?
None So Raw As This Our Land
for Mary Maclean
Many have been more exotic places, but this
you offer us, a taste of our land. The air
so crisp with chill we wear entire wardrobes
like hunters’ furs—jeans over track pants,
footy socks, beanies, scarves. Mary’s roo dog
does our hunting: an emu caught at the throat,
plucked and thrown whole on a cooking fire,
smoke full of singed feathers and flesh
stings our noses. We wrestle with tin-canned
standards in words the wind blows away. Huddled
round campfires morning and night, we go where
the sun breaks through as day unrolls. Breakaways,
mulga bush, a never-used dam a hundred years old,
this place of bleached bones and broken glass
queries our presence, unwashed, awkward on
its unpaved ways. Marrakesh, Katmandu—tales
of former hikes, but none so raw as this our land.
I’m the author of Wave 9: Collages (Flying Islands, 2020) and Not Moving (Broken Sleep Books, 2019). I am the translator of Weeds, by Lu Xun (Seaweed Salad Editions, 2019), and co-translator (with Weng Haiying) of books by Yan Jun, Hu Jiujiu, Ou Ning, Mi Jialu and others. In addition, essays and reviews can be found in Hyperallergic Weekend, LARB China Channel, Cha, Bookforum, Hong Kong Review of Books, Asian Review of Books and other journals.
At present I live in New York City, where I work as a freelance translator and copyeditor. Prior to that I spent nearly a decade in Beijing, where I taught literature at several universities, where I met my wife, and where I found my dog in front of a McDonald’s.
Here is the poem “Parable,” from Wave 9: Collages.
Parable
the mountains open
with a very wide mouth
back then, thinking
through clarity and
saw it was
made of dried
wax
a still face
––––––––––––
arms and
legs wet
*
fruit
wet on the pavement
and from a similar height
*
basket
treacle
false answers
*
you’ve misheard
how
is?
*
as for
being alive, it’s a
wet sleep of
questions asked to
my hand, grabbing at
a rescue
––––––––––––
out
the door, I
fly up,
like a snake
*
a baby doesn’t come out in
broad daylight
*
would out
day and night
–––––––––––––
fire
and beat me
I intend to kill you
but saying it
what else
*
the bride
said:
a mistake has
become to
go, and to come back
no one had
an idea what that was
*
medicine hates passion
*
cry all night until,
having eaten enough fruit, the
illness is cured at last
a slave
builds up the
eye
we all laughed and
went our way
exactly as foretold
in the Book of Unhappy
Skills
And, from the same manuscript, this is the poem “How Can You Face Them.”
Born in New York, he lived in many countries until Australia finally took him in. He was a Foreign Expert EFL teacher in China for many years. He now lives in Castlemaine, Vic. where he enjoys the blue skies, fresh air and the birds. There were some extreme sports once; now he plays (mostly) respectable chess and pool. A Moonbeam’s Metamorphosis/The Parachuting Man (with Nicholas Coleman) was published in 1979 by LEFTBANK PORTFOLIOS (Melbourne). He published two poetry collections in Shanghai: Snake Wine (2006) and Where Sound Goes When It’s Done (2010). A Chance of Seasons was published by Flying Island Books in 2017. More recently some of his poems have appeared in The Anthill, Oz Burp (Five) zine, Ariel Chart, The Blue Nib Magazine, Bluepepper, The Rye Whiskey Review, Pink Cover Zine, The Raw Art Review, OutlawPoetry, HUSK, the Sappho Lives! Anthology (2019, 2020), Taking Shape (Newcastle Poetry at the Pub Anthology, 2018, 2019, 2020), and the Messages From The Embers bushfire anthology (Black Quill Press, 2020). When he’s not writing, he likes taking photographs. He listens to the Grateful Dead. Some days he thinks there is nothing easy about the Tao.
Some recent poems…
SPOT ME
My strength ebbs away
like a grip on the tide
dangerous invitations
I counted most important
rucking forever, battling
sunrises and sunsets
past the moments
I might’ve stopped
working up the plate rack
what was I thinking
small animals press
a hundred times their weight
now watch me blow
ants have no problem
cats vault fences
I used to measure
now measure other things
TOMORROW
Some carry everything
even their survival
dragged till sundown
just imagine it
all the food in the world
and the pockets of nothing
eating bitterness
hold yours tight
never let me go
imagine the pillow
beneath your head
the limited supply
deal with it they said
can’t eat any more
have another bite
imagine Big Got
clean clothes well fed
his children wait
the pie in the sky
sits at the rainbow
gets on the next bus
CLEANING MY IGLOO
The violence of noise
music as a place to think
the wind is howling
call it peace
cleaning my igloo
the desperate times
that are returned to
their prepositions
or call it protest
against a war
I cannot fracture
however gently
revisiting the light
From “A Chance of Seasons” (Flying Island Books, 2017)
She Saved My Ass
During an altercation
in a bar one night
she saved my ass
my back was turned
he came up with a knife
she hit him with a bottle
she was from the mountains
they believe in hard things
it was then I fell in love
big arms and shoulders
every inch of her 6 foot tall
it was such a simple thing
when we were leaving
she stomped hard on his hand
after that the graceful years
Lord she was so tender
her feet were lovely &
she loved me very well.
A Soldier’s Cough
Head sounds like a drum when it’s scratched Left ear still sore after a blow 25 years ago A throat that lost its whisper song and shout A lonely whisker creeps to just below the eye The neck that shook the bridge for days is weak The old chest looks full but the heart is hollow Old comrades say that vitamins will put it right (A pity the right side doesn’t quite match the left) Broken leg the pelvis spine back my knees and feet Sore from a million steps in the wrong direction A cough that alerts the dog who begins to bark The doctors say there will be no more fighting I climb the stairs slowly to my small apartment Grateful that my eyes can still see you waving While you hang the wind in your white clothes.
Clark Gormley is a poet and singer-songwriter based in Newcastle, Australia. He has been involved in organising and promoting local poetry readings for over 20 years.He has been published in several anthologies including Visions From the Valley, A Slow Combusting Hymn and Brew 30 Years of Poetry at the Pub Newcastle. He has written and performed three nerd-themed one-man shows, and is working on a fourth. He’s also written a bunch of wordy songs, most of which he has sung in the duo Nerds & Music. Gormley pursues these creative endeavours in an effort to counterbalance the stodginess of a career in chemical engineering.
His flying islands book, Not What You Think, was published in 2019.
Much is on my website https://photovoltaicpoetry.com.au/, including a link to my new album based on my daily Pandemic journal, VIRUS 2020.
Poem
‘Take ekphrastic inspiration by responding to Olive Cotton’s The photographer’s shadow (1935).’
Here is my effort in any case, perhaps too prosaic, too much information, a tribute when I come to think of it, to a remarkable woman and artist. I wanted to celebrate a marvellous photograph, my favourite of hers.
‘A partial eclipse ~ Olive Cotton, The Photographer’s Shadow, 1935’
I sense her finger crouch, a waft of excitement, tempered
by darkroom apprehension. At first, you would prefer the heads
to align, but that would probably appear too contrived and lose
both Janus and that touch of Bresson’s decisive moment.
‘I don’t believe it’, shouts Max, hands on his head, or mimes
Munch’s Scream in a compact composition, flat origami,
lines and blocks in graded shades. Becoming familiar
with this chemical romance I’m sure this moment took time.
Her arms are sculptural, symmetrical, grounding the image
and they echo the relaxed arms of her model and lover,
her stand-over tactics prevent her nestling in his arms.
Max flops on his back, repetition with diverse consonants.
Thirties beauty was clean lines, fashion, stylish sunglasses
ignoring the beauty Polykleitos achieved using strict formulae
to chisel male nudes, stretching and relaxing athletic limbs
to embody erect perfection. After all, the gods take human form.
The gym body is now ideal but she muddies his torso,
doesn’t care to crop a swatch of swimming trunks
teasing an everyday aesthetic, ordinary glimpses
stretching time and place, if only we paid more attention.
Bush or beach are the Australian locations. Childhood friend
and later husband, Max Dupain, famously exploited the latter
(Sontag stressed, that’s what photographs do). Both children
played with Kodak Box Brownies, Olive’s ‘great awakening’.
The subjects are well known, well, hardly subjects, they float
through history, voiceless and paper dry in this brief eclipse
yet we share their vast circumstance of sky, heat and jaunty light,
the silver presence of the gulls, our noisy abrasive ocean.
One figure prone on earth grain, one ghost in negative radiance,
heads dead centre of the body, ephemeral . . . Have we become
too focused on images? Ekphrasis has been inverted.
100 million Instagram posts shared daily need more poetry.
Look between your legs. Go on, upside down, as blood rushes
to your visual cortex a giant locust hovers and a man vomits
an unkempt beard thirsty for play, surreal, artistic and ridiculous.
Have you decided? Scream or laughter? Rabbit or duck?
We can’t control what we see, mortality, scraps of beach-towel,
one vague nipple. Saccades give the game away. Men go for
the eyes then the erogenous zones, improvising love and eros.
They both loved shadows, increasingly rare phenomena.
~~
If you need a narrative this moment passed, their shadows stretched.
They left and went home for dinner. The country went to war.
Olive left Max for a new husband and his farm near Cowra, and
for children, isolation and poverty without electricity or water running.
I feel sad because the marvellous career of the photographer Olive Cotton
kind of stopped . . . she married another guy and moved to the country.
Shaune Lakin, curator
I was very happy, I loved the space and freedom. I never regretted coming here.
Olive Cotton
Myron Lysenko began writing haiku and senryu in the late 1990’s. He is the Victorian Representative for the Australian Haiku Society. He has published seven books of poetry, the most recent two consisting of haiku. His latest, published by Flying Islands was released in January 2021 and is titled a ghost gum leans over.
Myron has run almost 50 public and private ginko since 2008. A ginko is a haiku outing in a scenic spot where a group people gather to write haiku, then share, discuss and revise them.
His poems have appeared over 600 times in journals and anthologies around the world.Myron has been writing, performing, publishing, editing and conducting poetry workshops since 1980. He was a founding editor (with Kevin Brophy) of the lively independent literary magazineGoing Down Swinging from 1980 to 1994. They then passed the magazine on to new editors.
Myron is a poetry organiser; he was director of the Montsalvat National Poetry Festival, a convenor of La Mama Poetica, and currently runs the monthly reading in Woodend, Victoria Chamber Poets.
Myron teaches creative writing at the Woodend Neighbourhood House and is the leader of the poetry and music band Black Forest Smoke who have released a CD It’s Alright.
Books:
Coughing With Confidence Pets & Death & Indoor Plants I’m Ukrainian, Mate Winning and Losing Winning and Losing Again a rosebush grabs my sleeve a ghost gum leans over
You can see Myron reading his poetry or playing with his band here:
Here is the opening sequence from a ghost gum leans over:
sarcoma
(for Lucy Lysenko, diagnosed with Ewings Sarcoma on Oct 2008)
winter chill
the GP can’t explain
the pain in her knee
compost heap –
she rings to say her knee
has been x-rayed
nectarine blossoms
the teenager diagnosed
with bone cancer
x-ray vision
a rare bone cancer
in her knee
Ewings Street
is just around the corner…
Ewings Sarcoma’s here
did the specialist say
she may not need surgery?
medical jargon
taxi to hospital
she tells me to stop
telling jokes
she sets up a tent
at the Falls Festival
new crutches
the surgeon
replaces her knee...
late summer heat
ambulance to Peter Mac
to begin chemotherapy --
perfect beach weather
Bloom Haibun
The pale and bloated teenage girl is lying in a hospital bed. There are cards lined up on a shelf above her head. The smell of dinner spreading through the wards is a warning that visiting time will soon be over. There are three elderly patients and four televisions in this ward but none of them are switched on. The girl’s father is at the foot of the bed with a cryptic crossword and her mother is standing with her arms crossed at the window. The oncologist is coming through the door.
rose petals
she begins to lose
her hair
leaves falling
in the moonlight
her nightmares
a blackbird
flies towards the moon
cancer ward
winter wind
she cries on her way
to more chemo
chemo no. 9
after her constipation
diarrhoea
she flies to Sydney
to see her favourite band
infected PICC line
her port
malfunctions…
chemo postponed
on crutches at a party
she falls onto her knee
Oxycontin tablets
low platelets
her immune system
is zero
closed pink coffin
her bald teen friends
cry together
black orchids
the pain in her knee
is still there
her kneecap rubs
against her inner thigh bone
nectarine buds
last rounds
of chemotherapy
empty bed
remission
she books her tickets
for a holiday in Europe
end of chemo party
I perform a song with a sing along
cancer chorus
six years cancer free a day full of rain
her positive results
on the ten-year check...
a new tattoo
Kerri Shying is a poet of Wiradjuri and Chinese family, publishing across many journals and anthologies.
She is the author of a bilingual pocketbook of poems “sing out when you want me”,2017, Flying Island Press, “Elevensies”, 2018 Puncher and Wattman and “Knitting Mangrove Roots”2019, Flying Island Press.
Kerri held the Varuna Dr Eric Dark Flagship Fellowship for 2019 for her current collection ‘Know Your Country” 2020, Puncher and Wattman, and was shortlisted in 2017 for both the Helen Ann Bell Prize and the Noel Rowe Award.
Kerri has been convenor of Write Up for 5 years, a free arts/writing group for people living with disability.
She lives with disability in Newcastle, NSW with her famous dog Max Spangly.
Kerri is a nominee in https://theaspireawards.com.au 2020, an activity of the Human Rights Commission, for disability activism in the arts.
Gumar
Speaking – Uncle Ray Kelly snr
what i’m doing today wishing i was
with the bronze winged pigeon cousin
she’d make me laugh the hairless cats
the dachshund made of ball bags pickled
grey pink asked her once if an animal with
hair arrived at their place would they shave it
she made that face that went back years
crossed the generations we are the arms
the legs the bodies mouths speaking gumar
spilling laughter hiding feathers
Emptying tea leaves in autumn
this half moon golden stuck
by mist along the nest side
of the yucca tree night
calls winter one quilt
nestling animals grown indoor
in weeks
books and porridge
talk to me from behind
say its time for fire
we’re waiting on
the other side
Nothing like Nimbin
suffering the climate doesn’t
lend itself to real hard scour
for the poor see the bastards
loll about in board shorts
growing veggies like the climate
eggs them on a failure
to participate is no great thing
the ferals like the old blokes say
some in every town back out where
the dairy farmers were before the soy
the nuts the milk that went the way
of lard
I’ve been running round all week
on the chase for how much heroin
it takes to kill a normal person
just try coming out with that and
they say decency
is dead
I wish it was you
before you get the wrong end
of the stick in my own defence
I have to say love is
consensual the underclass
could mind their business too
I’m knitting mangroves root by root surviving
night and day the inrush of the tides i’m
waterlogged I’m dry I’m all the decades of fringe sitting
knitting and unwinding telling keeping secrets
all the words destined to wash up this
kitchenette my laundry torn apart by crabs
sluiced to sea relying as I do on you the moon
aiding and abetting sun if they can prove it
so many other crimes I live between the heat the bats
this under over day and night the leaves the
tips the roots the air the water knitting all the time
parental advice
you can disguise the way
your past stinks
fake a shallow grave just
halve the normal depth so your decoy
fuckwittery can be inserted
as a gravel bed to divert a nose from
sin guilt shame
your belief that
others ought not look your
way
again
you
take the corpse of something small a
crime of less significance classic
is the body of a dog
to hide the remnants
of a man
let
the finding of the one account for the stench
of that it pains you to explain admit
account for nothing
