S.T. McCarthy is a new writer of poetry and short fiction. He currently resides
on the Gold Coast, Australia. He lives very near the ocean, but does not go in it.


the genius in naming our mortal weight
Monday. like poetry submissions
they collect the bins here each Friday
I�m fomenting my tomato heart
with half an avocado of Gallic faith
so 'tis apt, for a moment, to repose
dans une âme faite d'ordures et de vin rouge
& in modern English short stories (circa 1920)
old men are seldom so sane
and so unlocked up
I smell the postman arriving
and I wonder what
type of letters Baudelaire got:
Energex final demand
free massage
thai restaurant menu


the waste piles up quicker than they can
take it away.

it�s nice, in these moments,
to think it might
retain sustenance for
something or someone
some day.

but it's far from

any of it.

how 'bout some extra leg room and...

pass the ancient rust in your blood
piss it out
off steel bridges governing the

I bleat about the clouds of dreams
escaping through a loophole
in Asia Minor

you remain silent

and we arrive at music
irritably so
as our elbows clash on the armrest

there is a tension, my dear
between you and me

and it is love and it is
that other thing

there is a tension, my dear
between you and me

like first class Death
busted back to economy

asking for an extra pillow


typing out poems
there are moments
in the platypus of tiredness
drunk old dogs swim
and I am reminded of how I might
be oceanic in feeling
like standing on the precipice
of the first cry for knowledge
on the cliff edge
of the death of every
child in the
when Milton suddenly goes blind on me
& dies of gout (?)
my foot aches a little, but
I still have my sight
yet I take nothing for granted
so I start watching movies
without a TV
(I had put that in the garage
to keep my motorbike company)
the DVD player is still plugged in
I start with Seven Samurai
forgetting it has
I leave it running
it's a crazy loud cacophony
death and silence and horses
like God reading from Japanese
instructions in a DIY Deity
moment of creation, with a tube of Supa-glue
stuck in his beard
and the patterns in my Persian rug
start to double up and blur
then, a neighbour bangs at my door (presumably
to tell me to tone the racket down)
'Jack!?' they say, & bang again...
and I want to yell like Bayazid of Bistun
'is anybody here except God?'
but I remain
silent, as if passed out.

I long to remain
in this moment.

here is the night; do with it what you will

the sun has a lot on its mind, it burns
half the book always hidden from it
that must be annoying
and there�s more colour in the old ones
their words the pinholes in our dark mean
I watched Nadar & Chevreul and thought
you splendid old French fucker
and then I sat up nights
booming like the kakapo
fumbling for her in the dark
for an immortal line
the sun's anger waiting on the turn
threatening extinction for us all...

a beautiful thing extinction

it sometimes
people pay

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