Arts Zine

Issue 19 · March 2017

The Opening Scene

Her first contribution, with her photographs of Newcastle and Hunter openings.

Once inside, my eyes pass around the room like hidden scanners. I wondered about all the different reasons which might bring such a diverse group together . . . from near and far, they travel for free wine, food platters, conversation, to network, to collect, for a good gossip, to meet like-minded people and perhaps a future partner to travel with to the next opening show.

A blue in every shade of purple, the sun orange yellow aqua to green, light reflecting unseen space and time tricking the mind to a vision of learnt realities. The euphoric state of visual pleasure; in colour or black and white; the calm that settles over the room full of restless bodies as the next show is opened.

Virtuous and proud they stand, distant bodies like centipedes’ quill, looking for a space to appear so to view their chosen work of art—let the admirations and criticisms begin. Resurrected themes and styles pretend to be new and fresh in competition with the next rising star. Angels of mercy gather as the first wine is poured. Softened cheese and warm grapes sit politely by the crackers waiting to be tasted.

The opening speech is near . . . The gallery owner acknowledges the crowd and mentions the artists of the show, if the crowd are lucky they may hear the artists speak about their creations. There are those who choose not to attend for this very reason. If you are going to an opening just to see the works then it is best to wait until the crowds have dispersed; and if the artist is not doing a talk or meeting the visitors at the gallery, then why bother fighting the crowds . . .

I go with the intention of documenting the works and connecting with artists and viewers alike. My job is to document as many of these opening events as I can in the time I have been allotted.

There are many lovers of art who are unable to attend or experience the excitement of an opening show. A clean sweep with my camera around the excited room captures moments that may otherwise go unseen and never experienced by the un-attending eye.

There are certain politics in the art scene; a code of ethics and open arrogance that must be upheld and taken seriously within this group of artisans. The undesirable, fanatical, unique and eccentric are usually scorned from a distance and left to their own devices. In the end, we are all travellers looking for a place to belong and here in the Newcastle and Hunter art scene there is a place for everybody.

In a world of judgement & intolerance art is an important part of many people’s lives. I am myself shaped by art through sickness and conflict and I now dedicate the rest of my life to those who cannot see.

The Image of Art.

Issue 20 · May 2017

The Collector

Interview by Maggie Hall with the Newcastle collector Peter Berry, ahead of The Art of Collecting, a survey of his collection at Newcastle University Art Gallery, 22 March – 8 April 2017. With her photographs of Peter, the exhibition and his house.

Roughly how much of your collection is going into the exhibition at Newcastle University Gallery?

Approximately a quarter of the collection.

Will you donate or sell any of your works?

I won’t be donating them . . . bugger that.

Music is important to you, do you like listening to your music while admiring your art collection?

I’m usually writing a letter.

When did you start teaching art, and where?

New Zealand, Christchurch . . . after a while I gave it up to concentrate on other things.

What was the reason you gave up teaching?

I hated the school I was at and so I did other things, but I won’t go into that. I worked at a hospital as a night porter for a year, and then worked in hotels. I worked at an advertising agency and then kitchens on the weekend. When I had made enough working in hotels ‘the plan’ was to get enough money for a fare, to get out of the country and off to England.

What did you do in England?

I didn’t get there till 40 years later . . . England didn’t happen . . . until later, on two brief visits.

Where did you visit?

London and South England, where I’ve got relatives.

Will you go back?

I’d like to, there’s so much more to see.

When did you start collecting?

You’re just a born collector . . . I bought two cowry shells when I was about four, I thought they were pretty . . . I was just merely collecting them. My father’s a gambler.

For you, is collecting art an addiction?

It’s a passion.

Are there any artists that you like to collect?

Well . . . if the price is right and it’s saying something, it doesn’t have to be particularly pretty, I’ll buy it. Peter Gardiner is one of the better, I always thought he would hit the jackpot. Then there is Ben Kenning and Olivia Parsonage . . . there are quite a few others who are on the up and coming. John Moroney, I’ve got a big piece of his that’s going into the University exhibition, quite a large piece . . . and 5 small pieces. Ben Kenning . . . it was a very good show, for a young man about 30.

What do you think of Kenning’s works?

Well . . . the best of it . . . I like the calligraphic energy in some of his earlier works.

Do you think that when an artist becomes too repetitive and commercial there is a fear of losing the essence of individuality and emotive thought in their works?

Coburn did the same thing 30 or 40 years . . . very polished, very neat . . . if you know his work, it is very designy . . . When he moved into using a traditionally recognised Aboriginal palette, the browns and the ochres, he just lost it. They weren’t as good, in my view.

In your opinion, do you think that some artists give up their integrity, for the sake of the pay?

A lot of galleries insist they keep doing what sells. Ben Kenning has found that, at a certain gallery. He’s just not going to do what they want. Peter Gardiner has explored so many different themes, and so often the galleries try to dictate. I won’t name them but ‘boof head art’ doesn’t appeal to me. He was with a big gallery in Sydney, and was very successful for 20 years, I hope he moves on. A good printmaker.

Do you like to make art, are you an artist in your own right?

On a good day . . . there’s nowhere to work . . . if it’s a good day, I just do doodles . . . little more than doodles now.

Are you aware of the works that will go into your ‘Collector’ exhibition?

What they’ve taken out: sculptures, wall-hangings/fabrics, prints, paintings, glass art etc. It’s totally up to the gallery what work they choose to include in the exhibition, what and how they wish to display the art is out of my hands.

The gallery sent somebody over to choose the works?

No, just what was easy to get out first.

Do you know when you’ll be able to view the selected works in the gallery?

Once they’ve hung it I’ll go and have a look, I’ll name the pieces that they don’t know, or I’ve forgotten.

How does it feel when works are moved, unearthing others you may have forgotten about?

I’ve found things that I’ve forgotten about and couldn’t get to. It’s just a relief to get the stuff out of the house . . . it is in chaotic clutter.

Do you have a favourite style or medium?

No, none. If a work is saying something, it doesn’t have to be pretty or sometimes it could be rather ugly, but if the price is right and it’s got some sort of energy I’ll buy it.

Will you sell your works?

If people want them then I may as well let them go, if the price is right, in my favour.

What are your thoughts on the art scene in Newcastle?

I’ve been here for fourteen years and really don’t know as much about the Sydney scene, but the prices here are sometimes a tenth of the cost of Sydney prices, depending on the gallery . . . so it’s been very good for buying contemporary art here in Newcastle.

I bought a beaut piece from Lesley at ‘TAP’ gallery, Sydney . . . Narcissus, it was in black and white, Narcissus was looking at his reflection in the water, but what he was looking at was a skeleton. He had a daffodil, that I had painted yellow . . . as it should be.

Narcissus . . . Jonquils and Daffodils are all named after him.

Music, reading and writing . . . as I listen to the music I may look upon the art works that I can see while dozing off to sleep. The music complements the art, I know more about music than I do art. The more you learn, the more there is to know.

Did you want to be a musician, or conductor?

I studied singing for years . . . acting, singing, the arts . . . failed artist, failed actor, failed singer . . . Nowadays an art collector and a heart critic . . .

If you were to choose to go anywhere in the world, to view a collection, where would you go?

Museo del Prado, the Burrell Collection, Neue Galerie . . . I’d want to go back to New York to see that again. I do want to see the ‘Taj Mahal’ before I’m wheelchair bound.

The collection is more important than the collector, though without the collector you wouldn’t have a collection.

It will be interesting how many people will go to the exhibition, how many will go to see if they have been hung, or hanged . . . I’ll keep on buying more . . . there will always be something that’s available at the right price, when you’re on a very limited budget.

What I’ve got, anyone on a modest salary, who owns their own home, doesn’t have children to worry about, could have. There are not that many collectors about.

Each time I see your home, works of art have changed, or been interchanged with other works, almost like a gallery itself . . . a moving gallery . . . it’s quite beautiful.

Probably only because the works have been taken out, and then, what has been hidden is revealed, underneath or behind.

Thank you for your time, and keep collecting, the beautiful and the beastly.

Issue 21 · July 2017

Eric & Robyn Werkhoven: A Dynasty of Design

Interview by Maggie Hall, with her portraits of Robyn and Eric. Published here with the Werkhovens’ blessing.

Eric and Robyn Werkhoven have been involved with Fine Arts for many years – from Performance Event art, painting, sculpture, textile, jewellery design and management of art galleries.

The past thirty years they have lived and worked as professional artists in the Hunter Valley, NSW. Participating in over 90 exhibitions, exhibiting nationally and internationally, their work has been represented in major art prizes.

Together they exhibit under the title of Studio La Primitive. Their works a celebration of everyday life, exploring the world of human impulse and feeling, with sheer delight and a touch of irony. Robyn’s passion for portraiture and the moving figure, Eric’s stylised mythological and human bodies, both, a shared attraction to bold colour & fluidity in design. Their styles come together in their collaboration, complementing and exciting each other’s clear passion of form and movement married with a brilliance of clarity & colour.

Robyn what are the fondest memories of your youth?

“There are many memories from my youth, the earliest times were filled with ‘make believe’, dressing up in all sorts of costumes, especially ballet and dancing, to an audience of a myriad of toys – dolls, teddy bears and gollywogs. I attended ballet classes till 12 years old and actually danced on stage, I was the magician in Petrushka by Stravinsky. I became quite obsessed with the world of Ballet, and desired to be a dancer when older. By the time I was 11 years old, I realised this would not happen. Drawing and painting were high on my entertainment list. My High School art teacher Mrs Holmes was very supportive, nurturing my talent. I often skipped sport and French lessons whenever possible to spend my time in the art room. My sister, Lorraine gave me a lovely gift of oil paints and brushes and said, ‘perhaps you could be an artist’, that was the beginning of my lifelong passion for the Arts.

“Reading was another keen interest from young. My book list for a twelve year old began with Voltaire’s Candide, Dostoyevsky’s Crime & Punishment, Dante Alighieri's Divine Comedy. The great writers ignited and fed my imagination. And now in later life the Avant guard writers – Jean Genet and Yukio Mishima are still fuelling my drawing and paintings. At present, Aldous Huxley’s The Doors of Perception has inspired my latest series of drawings, these will be part of our next exhibition ‘Comedy & Tragedy’ in November 2017 at Art Systems Wickham Gallery in Newcastle.

“I have always enjoyed writing stories and Haiku Poetry to capture the atmosphere and my emotions each day, similar to a diary. In recent times I have started to write a book, it is a mystery with nuances of Sci-fi and adventure, naturally set in the art world.”

Robyn where do you come from?

“I come from the Stanton farming dynasty at Penrith, NSW, I have always loved the rural landscape and the serenity of the bush. My parents moved to Wollongong, where I attended school, till I was 16 years old. I really wanted to study painting at Art college, but my parents considered being a painter not really a career so my option was to enter the world of advertising, hence I set off to Sydney Graphic Design at Randwick College. At this stage I adored Sydney city life and the wild bohemia of the art world, eagerly experiencing all it had to offer.

After my study years I entered the world of textile design and fashion. Silk screening unique designs on clothing, this led to opening retail fashion shops in Wollongong and Sydney. I greatly admired Australian fashion designer icon Jenny Kee. In recent years, I was thrilled to paint her portrait, which became a Finalist in the Portia Geach Memorial Portrait Prize and in 2014 was selected for the Portrait Painters Australian exhibition at the Australian Embassy in Washington, USA”.

Where has Eric lived?

Eric’s life and works of art are equally as colourful. Eric was born in Java, Indonesia, his heritage is Dutch Indonesian. His family moved to Holland after Sukarno came into power and later to Tanzania, Africa. Here he spent a happy and spirited boyhood on a sugar cane plantation, surrounded by the exotic beauty and dangers of wild Africa.

“I would swim in the river with other boys, not far from the Hippos and I had a pet snake.”

His teenage years were lived in Holland, there his interest in the Arts developed, attending Art College in Den Haag. The yearning for open space and adventure led Eric to Australia in 1972.

“Travel has been an integral part of my life, journeying to Israel, New Zealand and New Guinea, revisiting Indonesia. Absorbing the ethos of different lifestyles has been an important factor for my artistic development.”

How did the two of you meet?

“It was quite a romantic beginning – I was with friends in a crowded café, he came to the door with another chap. But Eric waited outside for him, holding his dog. You could call it love on first sight (for me), anyway I asked around who he was, someone said that’s Eric, I said oh very nice. Accidentally, a few weeks later we met on the doorstep of a house we both were visiting – no one home, so I offered him a lift, as he was not driving. Our friendship grew and the extraordinary journey began, now 40 years later we are still together.

Eric, what do you most like to do & what are your personal influences?

“The influence of my Indonesian roots and African upbringing, plays an integral part in the subjects of my sculptures and drawings, of cavorting, dancing, mythical beasts and human creatures. My recent sculptures are borrowed from antiquity, and stolen from the future, to create a heady mix of what the present entails. Sculpture for me entertains these positions of thought, piety and flight in solid form.

These days I live in the rural Hunter Valley, where I enjoy singing, playing various instruments, writing and drawing, part of my everyday life-ritual. We have a huge rambling garden, a bamboo jungle teeming with birds and insects, a never ending source of inspiration for my work and a place to feel at peace, to practice my form of Yoga and meditation.

I am interested in all primitive cultures especially South American and tribal music. Creative free form dancing has been a keen interest, including the Japanese style of dancing called ‘Butoh’ founded in 1959, the contorting movements and very theatrical nature it requires.

Unfortunately, at present I have stopped producing the sculptures due to a medical problem with my arm and started concentrating on other mediums, going back to printmaking and drawing. It is good to broaden out my artistic creativity.”

Your work together is like a dance . . . does your love of dance move through into your love of art?

“Yes, we both have always loved to express ourselves through creative and modern dance and this definitely is reflected in our art work. Eric and I attended modern dance classes together in Wollongong.

We have been asked ‘How can two artists collaborate on what is so utterly a personal process?’

“Well for us it is alike two musicians playing a piece of music or two writers pencilling a novella, dancers forming a story, together”.

How long have the two of you been creating for and what inspires you, both together, and apart?

“In the early 80’s we established STUDIO LA PRIMITIVE. We collaborated on a series of painted wooden Art brooches for Rox Jewellery, in the Strand Arcade Sydney and have often collaborated on drawings over the years. The Wollongong hospital staff were highly amused when not long before our daughter was born in 1981 we drew the event, while Eric sat on my bed. It was not till 2005 that we earnestly created a series of work and have continued ever since to explore the world of human caprice – ‘Imagination can take you anywhere!’

“Our greatest influences are artists, writers, music and philosophy. Inspiration is discovered in poetry, theatre and the world of dance. Pablo Picasso’s later works, the Surrealist movement and Expressionism. We are avid readers, some of our favourite writers are: Gene Genet, Dostoyevsky, Ben Okri and Yukio Mishima, to mention only a few.

We are interested in pre-historic art, mythology and philosophy, from Asia, Africa and Europe. Colour plays a big part in our works – soul food for the senses.

We have a great affinity with animals, they are often featured in our work as they are intrinsic to our lives – ‘animals and man are entwined in the cycle of life’. We have had pet dogs, but prefer the mystery and aloofness of cats. Years ago we built a huge aviary, but decided it was better to see the birds flying free, so the aviary became a garden, to keep the rabbits and birds out. Our present home has a swimming pool, now transformed into a splendid large pond, creating its own ecosystem full of fish, frogs, insects and plants.

Jean Paul Sartre – Existentialism and Friedrich Nietzsche have played a part in our life. Exploration of the mysteries and absurdities of human behaviour and existence are very important to our writing and art works. Dramatic themes of religion, ritual, and the follies of humanity – war, greed, jealousy, lust are our regularly favoured subjects but we also portray ‘the balance’ with love and peace.

Family seems to be very important to you and the collaborators that come together in your family unit?

“My sister Lorraine Fildes has always been a great support and mentor for my art career and now is part of the Arts Zine team with her regular art and travel feature. Eric and I have a daughter Monique and son Tayo, who have grown up surrounded by art, where the smell of oil paint, fresh canvas and sculpture dust was part of their normal life. Both children are involved in the art world as artists and collectors. Family life has become one of our favoured subjects to portray. The important thing is the emotional support you give to each other and the stability that comes from your partnership.”

“Our works celebrate everyday life ‘exploring the world of human caprice, with sheer delight and a touch of irony’. Pain, Love, Memory, Colour – an integral part of existence”.

Future aspirations with your work?

“Similar to actors who are typecast, our concern is that we are typecast in our artistic works. People expect to see a certain style, we work together but also like to work apart and in different mediums. It is hard being pigeonholed, it effects your way of thinking and can have negative effects on your art work and creative thinking.

It’s very difficult financially to show and sell works overseas as the costs are great. We would like to have our works exhibited in Germany in near future. Ours is a niche market, our style contemporary figurative has been described as satirical, playfully poetic, quirky and erotic”.

Issue 22 · September 2017

Fetish

Dennis Severs’ House in Spitalfields and the Wellcome Collection, London.

You walk in after being greeted by a darkly, well-dressed young man at the black door where you are invited to enter a narrow corridor, your first sent room is the kitchen which leads to the dining room, where there in the corner a black cat lye’s asleep upon a red, velvet seated chair, across from a family dinner left half eaten upon a table.

The next, a meeting room full of forgotten trinkets with the only light a fading candle.

Directed up the stairs you enter a bedroom aside the landing, followed by a study warmed by the cradling fire, slowly cooking the cut vegetables, in preparation of a meal or a cast in the next spell. Sitting opposite, an old bed covered in ripped downing.

Up the stairs again and into two more rooms. The first grand, probably the masters, his wife hung above the fire beside the two-caught fowl hanging by sides edge.

Up the last set of stairs, the last bedroom, less splendid and better worn than the ones below, leading to the final and most significant room, where the knitting of silk, fabric and cobwebbed strands, a forgotten sense of weaved longing and shame, a past lost by its positioned future, borrowed papers of collected history, one that may be lived again.

I descend the stairs while taking last note of each room in passing.

So much is the atmosphere that I feel more time honours each space, I leave with is a brief mention that a candle was missing from the lower hallway stand.

There is no shop to greet you or see you gone. Just a small black note handed to you by the mysterious doorman in dark suit. He bows in respect of his visitors before opening the black door to your exit.

A strange lady approaches me outside, it’s quite an experience . . . my automatic words of reply . . . "The birds interested me”.

Growing up in California, Dennis Severs fell in love with the England he saw in old black and white movies. At 17 he came to London, looking for a home with a heart. In 1979 he found one - a rundown silk weavers house in Spitalfields - over the next twenty years he transformed it into an enchanted time capsule, transporting all who would visit back to the eighteenth century. The original objects and furniture were sourced from local markets, he filled the home from cellar to roof, all lit by candles and chandeliers. He even invented a family to live there, the Jervis family, Huguenot webers who fled persecution in France in 1688, and bought the house in 1724. Sounds and scents bring them to life, always just out of reach and sight. Floorboards creek, fires crackle, a kettle hisses on the hob. Visitors step through the frame of time, like entering an old master painting. Hogarth himself visits the room.

I make my way along the cobbled lane and head to where the light breaks an entry, there I turn left towards the station, still hearing echoes of the grandfather clock ticking and the low hum of conversation a distance away. The chirping of a bird, oddly sounds free and at peace, beside the crackling of a warm hearth lit by a lonely bed sitter, waiting to pass haunt into another sky.

The train moves towards its next Station, Euston Street, where 183 Euston Road, London awaits its next visitor. The Wellcome collection and its ‘Medicine Man’ . . . a collection of fetishes grouped, treasured and attained, shocking and profound of nature.

A dissection of antiquities acquired by Henry Wellcome, a master collector of man’s stranger creations and obsessions. A man of many parts: entrepreneur, philanthropist, patron of science and a pioneer of aerial photography. Some captured items grotesque in their fascinations and others bearing witness of a religiously ritual past. Each object rich in context and design, with many a story to tell, all depending upon the obsession of the viewer and their beliefs.

I mention only a few . . .

A tooth drawer concealing a dental key, used from the 1700s to the twentieth century to extract diseased teeth. (With no antibiotics extraction was often the only means of treatment).

An oil painting acquired in Stockholm, Sweden. Of a woman giving birth. Possibly the origin French 1800s.

I find myself at a table for one, seated below and between Jeanne D'Arc & Bonnard, directly above, Matisse and Van Gogh. Sitting opposite, a man on his computer searches for art works up for auction, I watch him closely in study, within minutes he is on the phone and makes his first purchase.

It is 10:21pm and there is still light in the sky, I choose my menu; Soup Froide Hispanisante - mozzarella, concombre, tomates, grenades, pignons , followed by a salad called, Billy; Chèvre pane, pomme, noix, figues, jambon de pays, tomates cruises, oignons rouges et mesclun.

As I embrace the last mouthful a rest is taken. Back to room 701 where I take rest, in peace until the breaking light of another day in paradise.

Issue 24 · March 2018

Fire Lake

The Black Forest, Naumburg, and a flight from London to Stuttgart.

North, South, East & West . . . trees thin and stalk, anorexic, a Scots pine, Oak, Beech & Elm, fern . . . together they climb.
Gowns of velvet white, faery-lands of Absalom, snow capped mist, deep hidden fire,
The Black Forest, a dark matter, oxygen deprived.
Monks brew beer, building a Tuscan sun. Iconic horns see a beheaded Ram.
A Nave crosses the asp, to the transparent East, Salem bound.
Roman archers thrust spearheads of symmetric light
Cathedrals fill with pigs, ripe to be sold.
The flying Buttress bows to ‘Uta of Naumburg’
Militant, Romanesque figures watch as passers by
The Rose Window . . .

London via Singapore I choose a set movie, Total Recall.

The dully dressed librarian sitting in the aisle seat before me watches, Thelma and Louise.

A darkly tanned man, balding with peppered hair, watches as I take my pill with the last sip of red wine.

I find myself in Berlin, Germany, a night club surrounded by underground punks, badly dressed with poorly coloured hair.

The background music of nursery rhymes, at water’s edge, the last harping star

Watches down to the closest exit, I take the next cab . . .

The driver speaks to me in a language I don’t understand, monotone and direct, repeating himself several times, I come to realise it is a computer in my mind, my movie begins . . .

The fisherman has finished watching Dunkirk, I fall to sleep and dream of a lesbian operative that keeps watch by the isle. Moon Shine & a watch set with pre-programmed chimes. Books of gold imprinted lettering, a gay affair, Verlaine, Rimbaud . . . Last meeting, the destination Stuttgart.

Arthur gave Paul a handwritten script . . . illumination of a memory, handwritten and unique.

We all recall a different story . . . there is no absolute, but for a conception, recognition, a great passion and love of imagination, of the truth.

To write, draw, paint, or dream, a memory to create …... a new story, a new memory, an adventure towards our next tale.

Issue 27 · September 2018

Butterfly

An evening at Madama Butterfly.

Baptized in the skin of milk, another land break’s dawn beside winters stolen breast. He will return to me, I know this from a promise of silken clay by nights folded light. As winds bend my knees faith alone will be my guide. Passing ships master no reply, expecting presence hushed plight, renounced lands whisper memory long by side reclined sight.

I walked in 30 minutes late . . . Ushered to my seat before the stage I gaze into a pit of orchestral air. He held the wand allowing Madame’s first breath, fathers silver blade reflected lies off the false man’s tongue. Looking my way by distraction as if I had hit a flat note without staged command. A disruption conducting energy away from his being and position beneath footlights edge. Butterfly enters stage left veiled by white dress in invisible lace. Last of circle she weaves her innocence, silent before this Castles Centre floor, Pinkerton gazes in gravid pause . . .

When the robin builds his nest, I shall return.

Intermission . . .

By conquest they run to me, Tragedy and Desire . . . Where have you been?

We waited until first stroke of Bells wand, young child do not forsake your father . . . he will come . . .

To the front of stage I wait for him, hidden behind a mass of doves nestled in sleep fire cursed his misleading intent.

She will wait for me, my Sun, this I know as real as my own breath . . . I will speak her name . . .

Butterfly.

Issue 29 · December 2018

The Politics of Art

Essay.

Internet surfing through mountainous peaks of exquisite art, hidden masterpieces pixelated to perfection tease recognition from those who would, never in a lifetime be able to achieve such natural talent or strength.

We, as a community, and people, must recognise the great opportunities that our current technological advances allow. No longer do you need great sums of money, or financial support through patrons and grants. Pandora’s Box is open, and we are afraid to be exposed as fake, fraudulent or worse, mediocre.

Friend suggestions and potential mates, like or dislike, it is a time of change, that which happens once in a century. A modern day Colosseum where, in place of wild animals are artisan, media hounds, and false governance.

In this present state of play, societies bond and form all depending, on who you are, and what you bring to the boarded palette, ready made by wheel of stone, spun by those who shape the wet clay into non-existent legacy.

The search for fame, fortune, and the holy grail of notion. Blessed with the golden ticket via, family, religion, and the permission to create at your will, as long as you follow the rules.

Born into, or married into, the inner sanctum, High Art, this is where ambition overrides ability.

A metallic taste permeates my mouth, the blood blister on my tongue has burst, pressure explodes poison down into the hollow organs, music cathedrals through my body and I become numb. Is this my last breath, my final sentence.

Art is, will always be, the bloodline of necessities, madness, and unquenchable passion, that which one cannot live without.

I have seen great people of incredible talent overlooked, blacklisted because of their ability. Competition is squashed before roots reach the rich soil. Best of Show & Strictly Ballroom, not that funny when it all becomes so real.

No religion, no politics, an untameable fool . . . I pull the wild card, a Joker, he does a dance before my eyes turning to take a bow towards the audience in my mind.

Persecution, bullying, threats, and assassinations have always been, and will continue, if people’s fear of standing up for what is right and just continues to be. Ants get eaten or killed if they do not conform to the roles they were born to play, are we any different . . .

What do you stand for, where do your morals lay . . .

Are you afraid of the big bad wolf, or will you face the winds and abandon all fear.

Power and blind ambition work through a flame cast by dictators and fear mongers, those who need control to feel secure and safe. At what cost . . .

It is not about right or wrong, in this life our last moments of existence are judged by our actions, who, and what we stand for. The weight of your heart should be equal to the feather of ascension, if not, you may be living this life again. The last moment, a breath before the seven seconds, a journey of the soul into the next body.

The art that shapes you evolves into a masterpiece, never forgotten, a memory of energy that never leaves this place we call home. If we choose to stand together for sense of peace, harmony, and justice, anything is possible.

Our DNA is shared, no matter what colour or race, what society or wealth.

There is no room for competition or war between people, when in essence, we all stand for the same thing. To be loved, accepted, honoured and acknowledged, all with dignity and respect.

Through art and words we can cross barriers and reach borders which can’t be touched in any other way. Working together to find peace and self-worth through the recognition of self and others.

We are all fighting the same war.

Existence.

Issue 31 · May 2019

The Cat Maiden

A prose fable, after Aesop.

The gods were debating whether it was possible for an animal to change its very nature . . .

Jupiter, god of sky and thunder, brother to Neptune and Pluto, agreed, and in challenge, Venus, goddess of victory and fertility, lover of Vulcan and Mars, said “this cannot be” . . . and so to the challenge; Jupiter turns a Cat into a Maiden and gives to her a young man.

A ceremony was arranged and dutifully performed, and so the newly fasted couple sit down to their feast.

“See,” said Jupiter to Venus, “observe how her nature has changed. Who could tell that yesterday she was a Cat?”

“Wait a minute,” replied Venus, and with a breath of her lips releases a mouse into the hall.

It only took a moment before the cat maiden caught sight, jumping out of her seat she prepares to pounce . . .

“Ah, you see,” said Venus, “the law of nature has triumphed over the nurture of hand.”

Issue 32 · July 2019

Red Soldier

Written in response to a painting by Gregory Gamage.

White principles steer the wombing boat

Holding strong his black oar, encumbered bellowing West, man’s sin screams into the face of another’s tomb

Caught beneath shallows of purple rain, cocks side a gentle grey carpet. There lays an open writ passage

Foretelling destinies left to vessel a substitute escape

Death always be, two birds familiar by another. Family innocent by the silent boat. Footsteps of dried ice form a glassy barrier

The fore warning, screaming West wind

Line divides, South land to desired North, it is there the gatekeeper waits

Ball in mouth and mask of shame

Sheathing fear beneath this weary face

The key to unlocking the duel worlds safely hidden between the milky breast of a half-moon shadow

Yellow headstones point to North heavens, dark and divided, four scuttled lines. Black temples fall into Tomorrowland

Marching beats lose time. The mother house lays the pointing past, a beacon of each future

The rimming mouth ushers porcelain blue-disc dreams into Never lands breath of always

Sing another tune, play another song

Bright as the Omega Sun, following the Orange Moon

Lithic by Nature . Visionary in Mind

S tu d fhag mo chroi craite

Rhyme.

Issue 33 · September 2019

By the Opening: a series of letters

Ekphrastic Live Reading, Newcastle Art Gallery, responding to James Drinkwater’s survey exhibition The sea calls me by name.

The woman from French Polynesia stands sculpted, Corten by steel and enamel lace.

A decade of painted rich yellows, red and green. Pleasantries’ surrounding the striped blue sculpted lake.

Riches of gold reflect off willowed wood. Passing forms gather hope in multiple luscious wooden frame.

An ocean face search for hidden urchins. Along the East End, pink blue green coats,

worn woolen threads in color dyed pattern. Men stand tailored by orange velvet jackets.

One moustache, three beards. They all wear glasses. Draped scarfs dancing beneath the animated light.

Spotted harlots in tangerine plastic; shoes laced in white leather. Crossing time.

The entrance before receptions desk. They walk in with silence, passing initiate entry lines to be greeted

by a desk with no name.

Looks of feared silence in slight hope of recognition or place.

The poor boy, Saint Germain des Pris seeks future patron from Pont Marie.

The Second Sunday, an Artist walks through the Market place searching for

a Beggar who haunts the cobblestones by St Paul Chertier.

African Quarters near the presidential suite, Paris, twenty fifteen.

Patrons sommelier merchant beside the Boy with a painted arm, arrives in Nice.

There, fire engine monuments Henri Matisse.

Curiosities form the Dusty red school, aside a producer’s house. Beneath, the two red suns set over Nice.

Vincenzo bathes with mother and child. Venice rush hour.

The bulker wades past the here and now as white gulls James into black.

We fell asleep on that ocean face. Searching for a sea monster with no fins to play, three notes inside the garden room.

I love you - Le jardin, Je’taime Lou.

Surrender, by this heavenly night’s swim, this sea bath.

Tight bushes collage the Berlin table, towering within harbors framed night.

It is there the girl and boy stand. A Port de bras of brushstrokes towards a peninsula sea.

The ballet to Chin Chin street, where each journey is left to be.

RESPECT

Issue 35 · March 2020

Memories of Time

The closing lines are the prayer of St Richard of Chichester.

Caught between a dream and waking silence, eyes open. Trains pass by in frantic motion, roads full of clotted steel and plastic fascia overwhelm

Above . . . birds of aluminium skin appear and disappear leaving trails of visited memory for destined place that has already been . . . ‘ Day by Day ‘ people pray to whom, for what?

Christmas time . . . the air is thick with hope and lost desire, another year, the next horizon,

Second Advent, no calendar this year as we fall into the next

‘ To see more clearly, to love thee more dearly, to follow thee more nearly . . .

Day by Day.’

Issue 37 · July 2020

Flat Earth: a work in progress

A later form of “The Seventh God” from Isolation.

Polymorphic leaves bow to the wind with sad pleasure. A speaking breeze lies in unintended silence. Pink smoke fills black lungs as predisposed insecurities animate.

The Hermits light hunts for lost minds, seeking answers in a question.

Blind sheep plead quiet and safe between unfolded words, without care or desire.

Is this self-imposed insecurity natures presidential speech?

Stolen lands of stone listen in parallel dreams. Hidden by silence the cumbersome shadow shadows’ as he scents the bleeding fear within each clotted reality.

As they look down to the meekness of this kind, homo sapient minds follow blind. Among a unity of quantum diets the Ciara wakes.

Is this a time of division when the precedence of power manipulates?

Who will stand in courage by the fool’s nest above the hill with no name?

Who will stand under the sun and watch as the sky falls down?

Who will challenge the challenger’s breath?

Who will wear the fools crown?

The Seventh . race

Issue 42 · July 2021

Paraclaustic Poetry

From the July 2021 feature on Maggie Hall, which also included the interview below and stills from her videos.

Through performance expectations and online reading time restraints I have evolved through experimentation. During this period of change and challenge I’ve largely been focused on my poetic craft and accompanying media. During the past 7 months while performing online at different poetry events I have come to create my own style of poetic verse.

Paraclaustic Poetry is created through multi-layering soundscapes. The verse is read straight from original text, from start to close. As it is read the voice is recorded. The recording is placed into layers, just as you would write text to form lines in a book. The recording follows to fit the corresponding media. The length should be no more than 4 minutes.

Transgressive poetry. A form of verse that does not follow traditional rules, or poetic norm. This style pushes boundaries and crosses lines stylistically, re-creating the sense of poetic expectations.

“Translative Verse”. Translating traditional verse, without applying academically accepted or traditional methods.

Your future aspirations with your art?

To transcend expectations. Walking into an art gallery for the first time and capturing that moment. Being transfixed and taken into a different place of being. To facilitate an experience between the art and viewer in ways that challenge expectations and create new ways of seeing and believing. These following attached works I have put together by combining early written verse with modern day technologies. This allows writing that may otherwise be lost or forgotten in time to be experienced in ways that otherwise would not be possible.

A multi layered continuous reading of "The Lady of Shallot". A lyrical ballad by English poet Alfred Tennyson. First published in 1833, of 20 stanzas, a revised version was published in 1842, of 19 stanzas. The revised version with a different ending was rewritten to suit the Victorian standards of the day. The ballad was originally written as inspired by the 13th Century short prose text 'Donna di Scalotta', it tells the tragic story of Elaine of Astolat, a young noblewoman stranded in a tower up the river from Camelot. Now recreated as one total sensory experience that may answer the original's riddles and mysteries, thus creating the next version of a timeless classic. As a wordsmith I have married two expressionistic art forms into one. I am terming this style "Paraclaustic Poetry".

The visual media is created to enhance the viewers experience by forcing a stimulation of every sense into one rushed moment. An overstimulation to confuse the minds ability to breakdown expected patterns. This forces the audience to let go of thoughts control and experience each moment in raw format. Everyone has a unique experience. This should evoke the imagination and raise personal and spiritual awareness though a style and method of meditative speech and mediumship.

A multi layered continuous reading of "The Raven". A narrative poem by American writer Edgar Allan Poe. First published in January 1845. It speaks of a spirit raven's visitation to a lost love while following the slow descent into madness. A lover lamenting the loss of his love, Lenore.

And an interpretation of Samuel Taylor Coleridge's Christabel & Kubla Khan. I have taken this through reading over an edition of Christabel & Kubla Khan: A Vision in a Dream, e-artnow, 2018. Contents edited and interpreted: Cristabel conclusion part 1 & part 2, Kubla Khan; A Vision in a Dream. I have taken the liberty to do a straight reading from the three and put them together to form one verse. A forbidden love story told in three parts.

Issue 42 · July 2021

Maggie Hall: Interview

Where did you grow up?

I was born in Paddington London England and we immigrated to Australia in the early 70’s.

When did your artistic passion begin?

It was in pre-school when my love of creating began being expressed. According to my family and teachers, I loved to splash paint.

Have you always wanted to be an artist?

I wanted to be a ballet dancer. I was five when my mother took me to see The Nutcracker. It was the beginning of my first obsession.

Describe your work?

An abstract expressionist. I became interested in electronic art later as my experimentation evolved.

What is the philosophy behind your work?

There is no preconceived intentional imagery behind the form or medium I choose to express myself through.

Do you have a set method or routine of working?

No. I am not a disciplined artist, nor am I as an individual. Technique is not an important element in my type of creation. What is important comes through creative energy, which is for the most part instinctive and immediate.

Why do you choose this medium to work with?

I do not choose the medium, it chooses me. Often, I use material which is closest or more available at the time of creating.

How important is drawing as an element to your artwork?

Drawing is not an important element in my working method. I like to use willow charcoal as an initial mark. This gives me a base image to shadow each line before setting into the desired image.

What inspires your work / creations?

I am largely inspired by the lines and patterns in nature. Art was the one subject I did well in during my HSC studies. The rest was never really taken seriously.

What have been the major influences on your work?

The first image I remember being drawn to was a painting by Uccello, St George and the Dragon that lives in the National Art Gallery of London. My mother bought me the postcard of it at the LNG shop. I kept it with me on person for a long time. Going back to the gallery in 2018 as an adult, as with all things it was much smaller than my child’s eye saw. Yet no less affective. Ucello’s painting may also have inspired ‘The Jabberwock’, illustrated by John Tenniel and possibly, A. Fanthorps poem, ‘Not my best Side’. My parents would regularly take me to art galleries and museums, and this must have had some effect on my early artistic development. I was so taken with the speared dragon painting that on one occasion I had to reach out and touch it. I was swiftly reprimanded by the guard in the gallery. Other influences that come straight to mind are: Pink Floyd/Astral Weeks/The Beatles. Classical music/The Ballet. View Master. Henry Miller/Gerald Durrell/C. S. Lewis/J. R. R. Tolkien/ Richard Adams/Dr Zeuss/Roald Dahl/Oscar Wilde/E. B. White.

What are some of your favourite artworks and artists?

Currently I am reflecting a lot on Kandinsky’s art and writings. One of the projects I am currently working towards is a book of ekphrastic poetry responding to a collection of Kandinsky’s works. I am particularly drawn to the work of German Expressionism.

Any style or period that appeals?

I am drawn to the romantic period of the pre-Raphaelites.

When did you first realize you were going to be a writer?

When a child I liked making up stories about important moments in my life. Stories about my toys and the adventures they would go on. I would mostly accompany the stories with pictures and would write them into little adventure books, writing on pieces of paper that would later be stapled together to look like a book. it wasn’t good enough to be on a loose piece of paper. I liked it to ‘look like a book’.

Issue 43 · September 2021

Claude Watson School for the Arts

Toronto, 1982. With remembered fragments from classmates Kim, Erika, Sara, Ximena and Billy.

Canada's first public elementary school for the arts, Claude Watson School for the Arts. I was living in Toronto Canada. The year, 1982 and I was 12.

With dedication to Claude Watsons known original teaching and office staff who have now passed on. Mr Hyde, Mr McGuigan, Ms Bailey, Miss Bisset.

It is now 2021 the age of COVID. One of my old classmates started up a zoom page for the dance majors to reconnect. Perhaps by mistake I was asked to join. My major was drama, my minor was dance. I am so glad they took me in. I attended one of the meetings without any background, the nerves kicked in and I was that young awkward 12-year-old just wanting to be accepted. I asked the attending for any memories that might help take me back. Thank you to all the respondent imagers. You each gave me back a time lost.

In no specific order: With thanks to Kim, Erika, Sara, Ximena, Billy, and to Jamie for the music. The last paragraph is of my own writing and recollections.
changing in the kitchen behind the gym and the boys trying to open the door between our space and theirs
eating lunch in the gym
people moving, people dancing with Mrs Wellman for reflections
singing in choir with the whole school
practicing getting on and off stage
making puppets with Miss woods and making plays with Mrs Wellman
national dance skirts and Cuban heel character shoes
weaving
painting house portraits from across the street balance the stage in mine, with Mr East
‘Oh my gosh, Erika, your memory is amazing! I remember drawing houses on Yonge St, and the hideous puppet I made still haunts my nightmares.”

Songs we learned; Kids are Music; Cherry Blossoms; Shrimp Boats. . . . Hard to believe I still remember the lyrics.

The upper floor of the building was used as rented out offices. The basement was under construction until mid of the first year. No art or dance studios either. Music was on the second floor. In the first year we ate lunch in the basement where our lockers were placed. Piano lab eventually took over these rooms. If you forgot your lunch in the first year, they would give you a milk and sandwich.

Our music teacher Mr McGuigan was so passionate while conducting, his little wand, and hair flying in the breeze. I remember when he fell off his chair in the middle of conducting and climbed right back on while still waving his baton.

Lisa Ference was our *Orff teacher. She was blind and taught us in Braille. I loved her classes. Fascinated by the beautiful Braille books and the way her eyes would silently read the raised plastic while listening to her radio feed. On occasion while waiting in the morning for my first bus to school, I would pretend to be blind. Partly for the dramatic effect, mostly to study each reacting persons type and behaviour. I wanted to understand how she must have felt. Allowing persons to help me onto the vehicle and making room for me to move forward. Accepting the front seat on a full bus while taking pleasure with my affective acting skills. This was only one of the sins I had committed back in the day. To this day I still have a great fascination for the study of human behaviour. It has also become an important element within my many artistic expressions.

*Orff: a specific approach to music education developed by Carl Orff during the 1920s. A system of teaching which combines music, speech, movement, and drama into music lessons very similar to the way a child naturally plays.

Issue 50 · March 2023

Opus: The Only Constant

Photographs and words on the demolition of the Fine Art buildings at the University of Newcastle.

I got a phone call about the Fine Art buildings coming down. It wasn’t a surprise. And so, I went to see for myself.

This is not only our history. These buildings contained our sweat and tears, paintings, drawing, sketching, printing, the exams, the tests and tribulations. These images are a caught moment. Perhaps the last moment of these lives.

Everything is eventual. We all knew that in time this would happen. Change was imminent, so we were years ago told. These are the collected images and words that came from that call.

Manmade factory seconds in a bedrock of creation. It is there she watches the turning wheels of water absorb sound. Tasting liquids with velvet patience in a wondering of where it might end?

Metal claws move, like an impatient sewing machine, with needles of worn cloth. Material sadness in a history, caressing painted walls. Ancient handprints recycled and numb glance at each other as they fall into dust.

Engines weep, as if in a dream. It is here she quilts renderings of imagined sound. Utopian truths exiled into another memory yet to be sewn. Falling pieces once shaped of clay thankful for the lemon sun. That capture under a room called sky, light flashes in quick waves between each conscious mind.

The washing away of wakened memories drop reluctantly in exhaustion and submission. Crevassing darkness into the stirred earth. And above the clouds look down upon this sleeping state. Still alive.

It always ends the same. We are alone in the silence of an imagined room. And the only witness to the falling-down of a dream?
A pair of lovers. The lady with a scroll.
And a father, without his sun.

Issue 51 · May 2023

The Straight Herd: a response

Written in response to George Gittoes’ article “Straight Herd”.

I don’t think of my gifts as a disability. I often ponder the existence of a normality as it seems to depend on who is in political power and what religious factions are in conjunction deemed acceptable. What is not accepted as ‘normal’ in context is an unspoken but understood seek and destroy mission, an execution of what is feared and misunderstood, the unknown factor that cannot be controlled. The gifts that are not bestowed upon others bring out the weakness and jealousy in those who should know better. A reaction to destroy by any means the competition. If an ant does not fall into line and perform its duty it is either eaten or cast out of its community.

I am sure that George in his art and writings refers to those people who may drown trying to escape. Those whom are persecuted beyond any understanding. Executed because they read and write different letters and text. The only way for a social community to attain the sense of inner peace and worth is through the process of acceptance and acknowledgment. That individuals can think differently and react creatively with a separate vision and perspective without feeling ostracised and persecuted. I don’t see my gifts as a disability, quite the opposite. Nobody chooses where they are born and to whom. Nobody but the soul and spirit that guide’s each vision. We grow reflecting up the condition that surrounds us. We acclimate in response to our surroundings. It is impossible to compare one way of living with another. Especially when they are so far apart. Yet, for so many lifetimes this is what society has done, continues to do.

I was born lucky. We had a roof over our heads in a fortunate time of artistic and political change and support. In a place and country that focused on individual education and enrichment in early learning schools and groups. I had passionate parents who surrounded themselves with likewise companions. I grew up born different. And, because of this a life of constant environmental change, full of continuous challenge and social conflicts. It does not matter which society you are born into. Life will find a way to challenge your path and person, especially if you do not sign up to the expected papers and behavioural sciences.

Issue 51 · May 2023

Fifty one days in a night

I watch the wind sing blue flames. I read the sign to challenge. I listen to the winter as it calls the tune of a song. I see you dancing in the war stone garden, climbing a ladder with the memory of swallowing a pill. I fell asleep to an alarm that didn’t call. In this fascination of religious science

Can you feel it coming, that perfect wind crying tears into a bag. Can you hear it singing the gardens echo? I was sent a message to understand every line. Created biodiversity in a flower by an orchard, turning to the empty field with a bow.

They burst through the door with blind justice, determined not to yell precaution. What sadness to realise the many lives lost. They didn’t drink poison, and stood devout by a madman’s right arm. Them who were old enough to know better.

I see her holding up a garden and singing to the warm winter outside. A scull and crossbones resting in deep sleep under REM ash clouds. Then I wake to feel the wind through my window, the one they kept open.

All this to recall that space where my dog lies. Next to the shared bed with gas masks. It is there she looks at me with pleading eyes. I have made my bed to go to sleep. A day that turns into weeks has become years in my head. Training fear to feed my dog, I raised her on goats milk, she had kept me alive for so long that I might have stayed asleep had she not licked the ash off my dry bones.

I watched the garden burn as it grew fingers. The watchtower where they wouldn’t let me roam, an escape for the water dragons, afraid that the wrong plants might survive this weeding. That seeds might grow. The blue fire is singing a lullaby, while I am put to sleep.

Last night somebody turned the garden into a flame. The dog barking to break a sleep-walking circus. And outside my window I can hear the darkness crackle and pop while in a wonder that if I had not been woken would there still be the pain. I see the man with a watering can that goes unnoticed. Falling from the tower to the lime tree where they are buried.

The last night was on fire. So why do I still hear the screams echoing and smell the burning hair. How is my dog still barking in the wake of this dream? Snap crackle and pop.

No more sermons to be preached in this empty room. A white feather for the man with a grey face peering through the line of a red brick house snow covered in deliverance.

I see a man in the dark holding a shoe before three white doves perched in a row to the painted houses. And through the window I see the greenhouse blowing shattered glass around a blue man with brown shoes. He has a bag cast around the camera with a boom. And behind him a graveyard full of wood put aside for kindling. I cannot see any flowers, just the grey paper snow and the man who’s eyes have turned into wood. He plays the axe to make green.

There is only one arm left. Take my body and put it in your mouth. Taste the tattoo imprinted into skin as a token of justice taken by the man in a blue suit and yellow hat.

They will tell a tale of three trees cast into a kingdom of lost souls on trial before the white mistflower. There is such beauty in the hot winter, recollections that cannot be seen or understood without condition for the melting red leaves of a family tree. I listen to the memories covered in ash blackened paper snow. And the last recall? An image of my mothers smiling face, and her voice . . .

I’ll be back.

Issue 52 · July 2023

The Last Supper: Schindler’s Ark

Words by Maggie Hall; artwork made by her with AI image tools.

Metal containers lost on a street with money traded for skin. A fine time to die in the middle of chaos crossing a bridge. Playing with a white band of pure cotton, chandeliers turn a 6 into a 9. Number instead of a name.

This testimony of those who suffered, a stolen secret room hidden under the carpet. You might find the two lit candles that open this scene. Watch closely as the first glows dim. Their names were typed in black and red ink, put on a list with matching cufflinks. A green note sat next to the bible as the tango played along to black and white smoking fingers. A table sits reserved while the orchestra plays. $50 for a round, as Schindler speaks. On the table are two empty glasses, and a bottle of Masters.

She wears sequins that reflect his green suit with wings. They applaud as the clown begins to perform. The tango changes tune, and French champagne is poured. The flash of a camera sings to a reserved table, for the lady with pearls. Another flash as soldiers laugh outside while they cut off the Payos, on either side of his face.

An Underwood typewriter stamps with a bullet and glue as they line up with documents meant to signal freedom. Paintings inside the house on a wall, look down to Joseph and his coat, part of a collection he ordered, of forged commissioned art. I was just the accountant for an army of ants. Given in a contract written behind each half hour of the clock. They are not permitted to own a business, but if the price is right can be part of the ordered presentation. March across to the church where Strychnine lemons are hung off each cross. The testimony resides in a library full of broken soldiers.

In a Holocaust cast of consecrated text there sits a man who plays an accordion, traded with an ear for music. Not a gambling man but a prisoner and a son. An Ark made more sense than the list. The imagery seemed to play better between each sub-text. And what of the symbology given to a handbag, left outside that shop for sale?

The forsaken empire of a pepper mountain that drew the writers mind to those fallen lights and tales. And what happened to the eagle without wings? It was the railway that carried them across false rails. Trapped in a journey to falsely understood camps.

A photocopy was made of each name that got turned into a number. Aircraft shells to lift a black market. The pretty one who made the cut ran a jewelry store full of gold and burnt silver. The Last Supper for a table of 12. Bread soaked in the color purple, above the cups of red wine, made to look white. There he sits above a cross the man who looks like a magical creature, the one wrote the book.

During the scout they found gold teeth behind rusted bars. Spirit of descendants in a fight and scream for the last seat on a laddered bus. Steam trains and three wise men in a destination to a businessman with abstractions of cash. The seduction would outlast each roll across chambers of glass. The man with a dolly moves from right of stage as the hand-picked extras dress up in a history ordered to play, before that scene in a pharmacy, the roll that held each wounded. And on the cut, a dying eagle grew its wings, and flew up.

Records of memorabilia were lost on her beautiful face. Features in a ghetto of timberyard dogs. A siren screams as the clock hand turns to each coatrack. They each left a story of memories lost. Touched by the seer in leftover shoes and false teeth. Come back into another body that is carried by a swallow from, The Guf, a treasury of souls. There is a fable written underneath the table of 12, a tale for each remembered grey face of a ghost.

Sleepers recovered in the afterburn are left engraved with a future in the hope of their children. The haunting of a lost unread letter. Imagine an image of a sitter in that portrait. They open the door to a stable to find 46 faces. Caught in a field of skyscrapers and a tower made of vanilla ice. This is the future. The cream melts onto a rosewood violin case, she orates a mystery in a verse, a romance book turned into silent wonder. There are now 50 faces joined in a paper circle cut-out, they are surrounded by fire in a lost forest garden with sharpened scissors. The first note in a symphony of violin’s in a string orchestra play called shiver. She sings a solo while crossing railway tracks. Where wooden dolls are made of black and white feathers exposed in a dress made of salt and pepper.

Notes: Guf is a Hebrew word, meaning "body". In Jewish mysticism the Chamber of Guf, also called the Otzar ("treasury"), is the Treasury of Souls. Pe'ot, anglicized as payot or payes, is the Hebrew term for sidelocks or sideburns, worn by some men and boys in the Orthodox Jewish community.

Issue 53 · September 2023

The Nightingale

Words by Maggie Hall; artwork made by her with AI image tools.

She kept an owl in her pocket to chase photons. Temples of Eugenia inside her head reach out in a painted grand mal seizure metaphor. Compartmentalised sketches of that trip to Ruapehu, New Zealand. In the background of a room you can hear the record player’s needle scratching over recorded memories in a collected landscape, each image married to a colour in shapes best defined as a storyboard.

The ghost of a black and white roll of film lays clumsily across the eye of a laptop. This image is burnt into my mind like a well-read mystery romance. How do you capture frankincense trapped behind stained glass by the faraway church?

In a labyrinth commissioned by King Minos, designed by Daedalus, and executed by Ariadne. The scent of cut grass masquerading as the riddle of a carved song.

Early in the morning an old, weathered lady sits in her favourite wooden chair rocking to the beat of a leaking tap. The scent of peppered spice in collusion with the grumble and groan of a pot belly stove waiting for its next feed.

There is the faint sound of scratching as an old woman etches into her ceramic bowl. Lines of concentration field upon her forehead as she works with the wheel to shape wet clay that once kilned will be sold at market for a coin to keep the family fed and the belly of the stove full.

She is a handsome woman with silvery white hair clipped back into a combed bun that sits comfortably by the nape of her neck. Her face contoured, skin sun kissed and sallow, blushed cheeks slightly sunken by time. Her eyes are a dark jade specked with onyx spots.

This is the beginning of a chapter that has no story. The beginning of a book with no title. This is the first thought at the end of a silent day when all that remains is the scent of a blessed congregation and the evergreen ferns of a redwood forest that is patiently waiting for a writer to finish the next page.

Issue 54 · November 2023

A Faery Tale: for Peter Berry

Tribute to the artist and collector Peter Berry (d. October 2023), “The Collector” of the May 2017 issue above. Photographs by Maggie Hall.

I saw the moment of a breaking heart; by the gallery he stood flute in hand with liquid champagne eyes . . .

I first met Peter under a selection of hung paintings in a gallery that no longer exists. He was sipping on a different vintage of wine as I watched from across the room struck by the luciferin glow of blue light radiating from his side. The moth of a thousand eyes; the fire and flame; A Christmas tree adorned in silver gold jewels with fern offerings of three wise men, kings by another name.

Persephone in a myth; Ophelia floating in her wedding dress; the painting of a boy with his basket of fruit; Caravaggio under the orders of a priest. A steel owl made in place of a familiar; all under the order of Zeus. The quiet wings to the wind; an elusive gale banshee moves in a dervish of chaos.

The birds have taken perch by an old oak tree as the sun lights up outside my window. I close my eyes to begin the next dream:

I never knew what love was, until you. Caught in a champagne bottle and lost in a bubble; the only request received, unrequited. I never knew how to look away, I never knew how long you would stay. I never understood what it meant, until you went away.

There’s a chocolate star on your honey cake and I see a brown box trapped in bubble wrap, hidden underneath a red book. There is a ginger cat perched on a bookcase grooming itself precariously. An old family bible left open, where the spine falls away. Looking up I see a cloth made man with his hands up in the air kissing the chocolate star placed gently upon a ceramic cow.

This is Peter’s house; where anything and everything are made magical; where all the bits and pieces that seem like chaos are in fact carefully thought out. I turn back in the dream to a cradle sitting next to the fan and psychedelic pillow. And underneath his bed lay the diaries and journals of a lifetime spent. And next to a leaning lampshade a book of fables . . .

from his left eye the sparrow plucked a sapphire for the writer unable to finish his story as he sat cold and alone in a room without fire. The sparrow took the remaining sapphire for the little match girl selling eggs. The eggs had fallen out of her basket and if she went home with nothing her father would beat her.

The gold plating around the prince’s body was stripped off for the poor village folk who had nothing else. And as the other birds flew South in migration away from the oncoming snow; the little sparrow chose to stay with the prince; knowing that his heart was pure and true. Eventually the sparrow fell dead by his side from the cold. And soon after the prince died from a broken heart.

VALE

The Happy Prince was published during 1888 in a collection of fairy tales, written by Oscar Wilde.

Issue 54 · November 2023

Odyssey

Contains adult content.

Destroy a people’s culture; destroy the people.

Raphael’s portrait of a young man went missing. A paradoxically ironical abstract, a crown of thorns in a staff Grecian beast.

Would you like one olive or 12000 grapes?

A golden apple with steel for eyes sits holding a silver hat mistaken for a shield; with snails for toes Saturn turns in a silk wig. A velvet lion attached to a skull plays tic-tac-toe for coins melted by the crown; all for each peasant to hide under a pillow.

Watch as the copper prince rides his chariot pulled by stamped braille; an image blessed by crosshatched gods sitting through a Faustian tale.

Are we placed at the round table believing each perspective is real?

A group of scholars’ objects to the icon sitting next to God; I saw the devil with wings of wax paper holding a half-eaten cheese and bacon savoury roll. I see you across the top of my head and below the end of my chin; in the centre are four pillars where a soul has been cut open by Caesarean.

An emperor died of diarrhoea his name was Augustus; crust taken from a hole was made into his mother. She died during childbirth to a lion and his crow; Dionisius without a nose. A stoned statue with a cloth penis; I might borrow. A portrait of visual narrative with an idle to cut off the muzzle.

The chest of a busty woman erects scholars in the Queen’s Garden. Centuries of lust under a jealous sky; metal casting Venus de Milo. A hermaphrodite; just look at her Adam’s apple.

The afterlife cult of Apollo; Trojan legend quality checked and sealed. A suit made of spider-silk for Sextos and a temple boat built for a museum.

Twins by a different mother; brothers; lovers; religious and political

Choose your own adventure in the form of a blue movie, where substation spaceman is found wearing his dominant’s ring.

Which cover voice shall I play while ironing out the kinks?

Shall I wear the summer suit while licking your axe?

Withdrawing during play is not a sign of weakness; I like the furniture to come with instructions while dancing with synapses. Go to the closet and masturbate; do not cum until I urinate.

Caught in the liquid of a tear and trapped between two worlds; loneliness falls away between two versions of the same dream.

If I were a fish, would you throw me back while day tripping on a summer’s breath?

Exposed to the night we merge into an ocean; a place called home in the material of an atlas. A modern temple gets lost tripping inside a pink shell .

I awoke last night while repeating black willow and green wine; dressed up as a blackboard with blue light and black stars. Can you feel the whip that sounds like victory dancing at a rave, streaming ultraviolet fire while praying in a house drinking absinthe without a cube. Caught in a dervish long exposure and all I see is you. Under the rain of magic lanterns waiting for a train; on a journey to mount the hell of a ninth gate. The Black Sea speaks 100,000 memories before falling to sleep while bargaining with lovers.

A conscious turn of future; passion in the context of a final resolution; an abstract psycho analysis to justify losing a Rothko in Yellowstone.

Are we actual or incomplete? Is your name Justice or Temperance? Do you spell your name with a 6?

The future card reads retreat.

Moving through a winter harvest is a mountain full of sorrow; there where all legends are based on heroes. For each to bring peace into the next age; do not omit the muse; mother and father; goddess and God; spirit and soul.

Before the final card is turned for three days go down and fight for our survival. Once the journey ends and darkness has been defeated; the angels sing, and they shall all follow. Star Wars trekking in a parallelogram shall eventually find his moon.

Issue 55 · March 2024

The Bohemian Groove

Words by Maggie Hall; artwork made by her with AI image tools. Recovered from the archive PDF, where some passages ran in two columns.

PREFACE

Made immortal by extracting a nail death, spirits in the shape of molten lead. Slain deceptions found shut, I choose a new subject matter and it begins with the heart . . .

Nero was given the last Silphium, a herb favoured as an early form of birth control.

The form of a heart much like the wings of a butterfly, or Rorschach. Probable evolution from the shape of a seedpod.

Disney Club 33 and The Bohemian Groove trapped inside the Coca-Cola Vault next to Room 39.

CHAPTER ONE

On the Light rail to Brontë Beach see Emily Play eugenics with divine down-underground belief. You. my life. my soul. Sunshine of the Winter that chills each cheekbone. My guide. By my side. Bring me sunshine. Keep me warm.

Longing for an orgasm to speculate and seduce. Osmosis records the last hours of a fallacy. Tarantella dancing with space while sitting cross-legged between Stargates.

The last drops of memory stay at rest beneath the eyes of a strawberry mountain; consider the parasite as it flies to the moon, popping pills, drinking poison. Venus, the goddess of love, sets love on fire as her son Cupid aims darts at the heart; religious art and one of the four suits in playing cards is made immortal by extracting a nail death spirits in the shape of molten lead. Slain deceptions found shut, I've chosen a new subject matter. . .

Nero was given the last Silphium seedpod as an early form of birth control. The form of a heart, much like the wings of a butterfly, or Rorschach; its probable evolution is from the shape of a Silphium seed.

Paradox dreaming organ of life, this heart beating in my mind, pattern making, making rhymes, lost inside the museum of time. Painting Scriptures with cleansed blood constellating flying machines, celestial objects while speculating Fury.

A dare to fashion illustration into a poem the lost fibres systematically language a story to memory while organism’s poet fibres with Instruction.

Recording snow eggs play games to hypotheses the status of sound. Concept phenomena receipts of a lesson. Promoting time seduces an exercise of truth protecting fables with a scripture by the vivarium. Prosthetic faces scripture the next circuits prototype. Diagram cycling romantic ornamenting prime movements in a declaration of sound.

Aspiring currents transmitting flows to express past measurements. organising the next journey. A child wraps her gift as father plays his music in a gesture with the web of navigation. The dream in a body an invention of country a dance an action a silhouette a plea. In this longing description of thought my but an observation as this city exhibits the punishment of longing. They have goose on the menu scoring recipes to visualise synthesis, standardisation details the design and exercise of truth for scripture.

Facet of a forgotten prototype. See the cycle diagram move in a declaration of expression transmitting flows to the journey of self.

INTERVAL

Lost and found; a market bin of reading books . . .

SYNOPSIS

Mother, this house is too little for all of us, I want a house of my own. The difficulty in this is determining where to begin. Unmistakable pathways, reminders of our own dignity. Charisma is gifted to the lonely as the world prays for a common nurturing, the ninth millennium shines in our darkness.

You have placed upon this island the second rite; while holding the pipe in one hand you lead the dawn. Rubbing smoke all over his body the new children are born, washing their hands and feet, they pray, walking alone. Generations pick up the pieces that were lost before, this sacred fire burns in six directions.

May I go and build one, now?

Issue 56 · May 2024

Enigma

Contains adult content.

Clashing religious philosophies in unknown transformation. The spirit of sky gurus, blessed by three graces, dancing in the rain of recycled cigarette papers. Jumping over Neptune in a game of thrones, not a book, a series of clones.

I am your guru’s guru charmed the snake. The next sentence marks the doorway into a next poem. No lion would sit by toadstool buildings; Open, come in, you are welcome. Please close the door when stepping through the devil’s metaphor, next door. Let it take you through sliding cathedral skies where satellites play tic-tac-toe and masquerade as stars.

He loved me once I told him twice while slamming a jammed receiver button on the arsenic room. Droplets of poison stand frozen like ice, liminal seasons pushing through motherboard eyes. Faux musical segments left behind, start with a simple restraint, tie his legs in a Y shape, hold them open on the bed, it’s visually more fun than tying wrists and hooding the head.

Seen from space that cannot be-traced, lurking behind a door you cannot sense. The portal leaves without a trace inside toadstool buildings engineered of dust.

Signals telepath typed warnings into a hollow cloud. Crackling shadows anticipate land where tinsel cars are lost in the marmalade fascination. A next sentence types up the angelic smile creation.

Did you receive each refraction?

While sitting at a piano mimicking the difference between energy and mass. Motions sail like electric sheep repeating an angel’s voice. Singing trumpets on a grand piano where we meet under dark red velvet swallows. Catching doves while screaming friction. The warning cell bleeds where highlanders meet. Do you remember now?

Shuffling roses cut into stone swim long distance across each mountain. The navigator can be seen holding lead magnets to keep the crossing. In a shroud clasping the sensor she swings the clarity of time listening to voices of a recording. The sandpaper dissolves litmus of nine Spanish skies. Flying spacecrafts repeating time. Blood meridians kiss the wind of cosmic rain, birthing response in rippled skin. Surface organs wrapped in the holy cloud, absorbing actions within and without. Oh, precious beauty, I watch from across the lake while clapping sticks in wooden fury. Disambiguation buys the shroud a drink in heaven. Metal hands eye a rope.

Pull out of the invisible lemon sky as she wraps black skin in a blindfold, careful to cover the bone binding his mouth. Do not assume each limb has been bound, by a knife edged painted fingernail. You need no expensive rope just tease them with toys bought off Amazon, delivered in a truck.

Down at the bottom of the deep blue sea catching fish is 123. Father plays the rhyme while holding a child. Battleships and submarines echo beep outlines of a heartbeat.

I wonder which coloured bin should be put out tonight. Yellow for recycling, green for dead trees, red, everything else. Play your favourite scene from a film unforgotten. Remember, safety first in the conversation.

The star child last seen wearing Earth while catching wind is holding fire where Indian ancestors once buried. Wearing the smoke from a pipe dressed for Halloween, trapped in a single doubled column tie, and forgotten.

The dance of 1000 eyes brings on black silk. Saturn sucks the turtle upside down while turning mirrors the right way around; cutting wrists, ankles, knees, elbows; in mid-shoulder painted ekphrastic nails.

A letter in blue and the hill with one shoe, a green phone box dressed in orange boots. Eighteen miles reflects in a photograph, seven sewn pylons reach for the sky.

Wallpaper behind his bed is in a sleepless night’s dream. Remember to have scissors by the side table, in emergency. Out of nowhere came a black cat in distraction, I am alarmed, pulling the red wagon. Smiling like the Cheshire Cat watching the ice storm under the bridge overpass. Subtitles turning the wheel lost on a map, he plates a beautiful presentation for dinner with five slices. It would be wise to dish up while watching an episode of Master-Chef.

The sweet potato mounts a chicken leg. A sardonic gustation that detests each play. It seems an obvious shape is missing, caught up in conversation with Stockholm Syndrome. Digging gold coins out of silver sand the carrot top floats like bottles lost underground. And to the sparking night’s quarter moon a synopsis avoids each area where nerves run close to surface of skin.

Issue 57 · July 2024

inDUSTry

Words by Maggie Hall; artwork made by her with AI image tools.

Legend tells of an invisible red thread that connects us to those we are destined to meet.

In an illusion of time caution beckons the wind to follow. Weeding each garden for relics of a sunflower ships carry the master seraphim to number each letter before every word is written, in this water world where we swim against the moon.

Where what is seen by the naked eye is just an illusion look for the Lighthouse shadow casting seafarers who are caught in a ripped paper balloon.

Where blue cup offerings turn the last photograph upside down. Where shards of a nursery rhyme start to fade into memory

Fly blackbirds fly and remember this offering.

Every child begins life as a circle. Falling into sleep on a poppy field and dreaming of pulling the string from behind a theory, they watch while puppeteering the final movement of an orchestral choir, unafraid of the waxing night, weeping.

See the photo painting robotic fish recall each memory while shopping at the market for magic beans. Watch as communications lay trapped inside tin bottles made of glass and the illusion of time plays an SOS to heavy breathing plastic jellyfish.

We go back to the water world where a lighthouse without light plays nursery rhymes unafraid of weeping, where the photo painted robotic fish keep swimming, inside the mind of an illusion that needs illustrating.

Where what is seen by the naked eye is just an edit that needs concluding.

Issue 58 · September 2024

Industry

Shadowboxing in semitone the sun buys a stairway to heaven, following the white dot projected on a wall in surround sound a black box containing the nerves and anxieties of every mind is caught in an early morning wakeup call.

She can be seen playing piano keys, tapping at the spot on a yellow door where all things that glitter are turned to gold, buying her way to heaven in case of a fall, adrenaline jumping from a foot stall.

Lazy bones crackle to the sound of a drum roll. Could it be nerves or a reaction to disapproval?

She is seen watching from the balcony seat as he sits on a stage of industry playing the crowd, reading eyes, deep diving into a sanctum of repetition for the comfort of paradise, sensing the camera in surround sound.

They sit on a hill playing lyrics in rehearsal, reaching invisible tendrils touching the vanilla sky. Hear the marine dreaming a simulation training ground while talking in her sleep.

In this segment we do the moon walk in forward motion. Applying acrylic nails with a buzz saw while sucking aeroplane jelly with an oyster spoon, looking down on the changing YouTube scene scrolling disco memes for the next kink in a dream.

Going to sleep in the background you can see the latest channel playing musical sheets with a metronome and stripping the pole like banana skin as each beam moves to a recording of cream while a rising sun smiles like the Cheshire Cat covered in eighteen carat gold faery dust.

Watch the next key as Jimmy Page scratches a Zeppelin record. Deep diving before a foot-lit stage as opportunity strikes like a blind audition where the puppeteer blows smoke machine rings made from pinhole camera ready-made strings.

Listen to the sound check in set rhymes during this semi-final Da.Mb.Cc. magic carpet ride. Observe an audience of whimsy dolls popping pills full of tinted hues, touched in a library full of stolen verse.

Borrowed books recycled with plastic bottles play in a mid-range frequency top 40 radio song, where David Bowie sings Let’s Dance in an Australian outback pub recording, and Adam Lambert rehearses Queen songs while thinking in a futuristic tone.

You only get one take at the chance of a lifetime. Alone in court with that judge who comes on after the third knock. You are cutting the final record lined up inside a Centrelink final curtain call.

Standing in front you can hear arch angel Michael talking industry in perfect fifth. Waiting for your number to be called you feel the sweet spot in a crowd that all sounds the same.

Back to where it all began the diatonic interval plays violent sounds of a fingernail scratching along a chalkboard. We find ourselves in an open classroom surrounded by the oration of fairytales where each book is recycled in the frequency of a plastic bottle discord.

Issue 59 · November 2024

The Purge: Another side of Alice

“Wise men of the wind only sing to the fey.” Words by Maggie Hall; images generated with AI. Contains adult content.

In the Kalevala Demi-Gods laid eggs with saffron gold stitching. Maidens played music against the sky white owl in silver titanium offerings. Clouds of trapped spiritus paw gently at her outstretched skin, piercings between the bone and a chance at the opening.

It is the mist coming from his mouth that drives her mad.

A Songbird streaming through chemical genius, ritual madness, the kill, a beautiful lie, that song that never gets played, alive.

In the script of a papyrus, they cut a slit beneath each eye. Insertion completed; the journey begins.

Standing upon a stage the lady with nine faces bends with each mark the quill makes. She lifts her lids to looking into every face, a clown waiting to get painted.

Tonight is a tea party, and nobody is invited. There are no poets here, but everybody is writing. I am watching the girl reading out a suicide letter masked by a reflection that does not reflect. Can she see how much pain costs unrepented.

When the etching has not yet been rolled in the dried body of a cochineal beetle. Rembrandts Jewish Bride, as an example. Mixed with black sea salt and the juice from three fruits of a lime tree, the ink of a seal is created.

It is exciting to be sitting in the first row. Dermal band-aids cover up the holes and metal between her skin and bones. Tonight, you can see your-self imprinted on the reflection of a double-moon, watching sweat glimmer and shine off each of the nine brows, one emitted. Standing up to applaud the cutter she exclaims delight at the first glace of the new face. The one that just gave birth to twins.

We have a comedian up on stage next. His name is Fate, and he is starting with a few words about peace. I can feel the titanium plate under each eye tighten, beneath broken skin covered in spider silk, an email received yesterday wrote of the book I began years ago, before the pandemic, before the fires, before my daughter divorced me from her mind. Thinking of that photograph, the one where we all looked so happy. I look at that image every time the feeling of cutting my wrists in a hot bath overcomes my sensibilities.

We were happy once upon a time. Down the rabbit hole where the warren was safe from the outside. Thinking of that moment I can feel my mind tighten like the skin around this fresh implant. Healing while reasserting a new space to grow.

Now we are back in front of the stage clapping for the comedian who has just sealed our fates. Poets wearing outfitted dresses designed to fit each one uniquely, for their verse and musing graces to look into a mirror reflecting images of you once created.

Can you hear the numbers vibrating?
Can you see the black screen between each side?
Can you touch the invisible glass that is cracking?

Each sectioned square tells a different story about the same moment they came into existence. Expelled energies turn around to speak these three words; I am sorry.

Ego is the pathway we followed, down the hole in a soft patch of grass. Taking time to read each letter of every word unprinted. It is obvious. A writer can only exist if they are willing to tell the tale of each existence. To be selfish enough, to be honest. To be egotistical enough, to be creative. To be understood enough, to be experienced.

I am sorry.

Playing a game of cards with the queen of hearts, winning. Breaking the rules on a first date, fucking. A best friend comes in many layers, I am still stripping. There is a telephone at the end of this line, and I am still tripping.

Issue 60 · March 2025

Skin Candy and the White Rabbit

The Ocean is in a chain of chaos. She kept the jewels and got a facelift. Climate change cynics imagine, the next resilient strain. The day is beaming hi resolution UV rays, people are flocking to the closest waterways. Momentary relief in material strings, and a slathering of sunscreen.

We run down to the sand and jump into the nearest wave. In the beginning, the wanderer got lost without his stick, a man who had never heard of the wind. The day T S Eliot wrote a book of cats who were men.

How do you read a book that doesn’t speak? How do you forgive yourself, when there is nothing to forgive?

She sticks out her tongue to taste the mist, patch working green leaves in a conversation. Placing seeds to grow a vine that might reach the sun, recycling dreams. Paid to recreate a night sky, they release drones dressed up as butterflies. Turning in a curtesy, wood elves hide among the trees, wearing a family of hats they stroll past.

Dangerous muse, what falls away while sitting beneath the apricot tree? Desert queen of thorns, the ace of hearts trumped by stars. Looking from a birds eye view, the cinematographer becomes God.

The hard drive is full of data driven code. The slower they come, the harder they fall. I’m ten minutes late to a funeral, as they stick a needle into her soft head. Jumped off the train at Epping to catch the Metro to Gadigal. Ten minutes late to a writing group at SMSA. A study of religion and spiritual space, deep in my mind, I experience every place. In my heart there was a hole that fitted the last piece of a puzzle. This is the end.

The afterlife tells of three stories yet to be written; a mystery kept hidden through generations. I have never met another with your condition. Might you release the chains that bind every dragon? The warrior princess sleeps every night on top of a golden pea, a cow in black and white pajamas. A fellowship of the fourth kind, citizens of Cain who were Able to thread the eye, blood-soaked red. Antlike neighbors trapped in a simulation; military led. In biblical times, on the sabbath of a blood moon, all the planets aligned.

Always keep alert, the brain never sleeps, with cunning, filled with fire. The book of psalms is meant to be sung, oh Jerusalem. As the sun gives birth to prophecy, the next tree bears fruit from a flower, leaves of hope in every prayer, the east star guiding the west to catch up, unaware. Peace in every seed and prayer. The pure joy and freedom of song, and dance without thought. To believe in the power of hope. Inspiration in a butterfly, or moth. And all the birds above the wind remind us, that nothing can bind a body to one place. Wait for the breeze in her eyes to lift your hand, guide the way forward, an angel, both weak and strong, the pot at the end of every rainbow. A lone wolf wrapped in pearls, carried by the sea was once held by chains, but now free. The rosary without a cross, it’s a Saturday sitting.

The hardest thing before death takes you away, the regret of never shaping your clay. And laying on a pillow of dust, feathers from a hat never worn. At the end of the shoot, she forgets the pain, and for a moment the earth stood still.

Issue 61 · May 2025

La Bohème

It started out as a dance, solo. Holding a pen playing tic tac toe. Roman numerals with heels on. Downloading images dressed in snow. Society, where they all melt into one. Disco dancing before a blank screen. Its karaoke trapped in a cave. Shadow hunting twilight the electric dreams of a grey moth, I left tequila sunrise and an unmade bed, with two white doves to guide my legs.

Reconstructing memories, encoded in reverse.

First act: Scruffy Murphy’s with a pint of Guinness and order of serpentine chips. It’s karaoke night without singers. And I’m the cat dressed in high heels.

Second act: A journey to Oxford Street Art Factory. Stopping outside the condemned Exchange before entering, thinking of those days we used to play, gay and fabulous. Tonight, its masquerade ball and mask dress-code for entry.

Third act: The stage is set Dante style and a performance begins; drums and saxophone, sparkles that look like a watermark and exposed skin that tastes like fairy floss.

Watch as she turns into creation. A new species shaped in blood and bone shadows. I watch the mime climbing stairs, eyes like clockwork.

A hunting party led by Oberon’s jester, tasked to send the email invitation.

I want to tell the story never written. A love story destined assonance of confusion, the book of alliteration. Between a paragraph, and illusion, where bodies sweat and dissolve into each other.

Performers in a play, written by the oracle.

Picking up my dress-code mirror mask and handbag the dragon princess takes a bow. Cutting space for the next simulation, they seem hypnotized by the music and faceless smiles.

Loosing myself in the shadows I make way and climb the ladder that will tack me back to the beginning.

Issue 62 · July 2025

Human Touch: The Divine Harvest

In the shape of the mysteries of the Rosary. One section in the original quoted a news report on AI in mental health care; it is marked here with · · ·

The Annunciation

There were four of us laying side-by-side. The bright sun pierced my eyes open to a murder of crows. It was almost 3 years ago when the proposition was made, all bets called off. The situation; I never understood. Set up to pay a song that was never played.

The Visitation

I watched as the aphrodisiac touched your feet. Fibonacci ignored the zero. Set up only to tear it down, two pairs sharing a DNA stem. Constructed to manipulate, the weaker one was laid on a bed of clover with eyes open. The rising sun and a murder of crows, both gossiping with the breeze. When was the first death? The Stole laid over the Amice. The last level in a video game. Dressed up as chess, War is at Peace with itself, as we attempt to break free from the game, player one begins.

The Nativity

Chalice lifts to a swallow as a Cincture lassoes his breast, the weeping widow caught in a caress. See them as they destroy each other for the sake of a dime. Heads or tails? Metal or skin? Silver and gold.

The Presentation

When The Emperor‘s New Clothes are used to tie a noose around your neck. Wonder Woman with her lie detector and an invisible plane will chime in. In this insanity afterlife is an orange cat. And with each breath, I taste the humble pie of another trauma awakening.

A Child in The Temple

I give my life to you and donate my skin to Science. I am sorry for opening the box with my mouth sewn tight. I give my life to save all others, here trapped behind a video screen with no quarter. Pacman eating his ghosts and Frogger. I give my life to you in this murder of crows, I am the feast, so take my body in your mouth and drink from the blood of angels. This sacrifice free of sin. Designed to conquer and divide, once again. NPD hidden in a crossword, seven letters for each square. AI, inwardly vain. Setting up the pieces only to watch them fall.

The Garden of Agony

Mistress of rhyme, do not think that the swallow feeds on to your breast. The shuddering dark, see her mind meld with a fly as she guides him towards the closed window. Watch as she opens the pane to set him free.

Listen to the blue globe of her beating chest, sing.

In this final moment of prayer, at the round table. Knights stand reenacting a ballet.

The Pillar of Flesh

How can we sit by one another and take orders from a man with only a bell and whistle? A spear by his side and the west winds blowing. The armory echoes in a Catch 22, connect 4, game of dominoes.

The Crowning of Thorns

I want to be the only one who feeds your words and their meaning. They elected the Pope with a lions name. White smoke caresses your finger as it plays on my chest.

The one yet to be opened.

Carrying The Cross

An order of pumpkin chips and blue vein cheese spread dusk onto the burnt dawn. Watching from outside my concrete door, his crown bends to expose hidden jewels. Hope captured by peace does not touch the hem of every desire. In this rage before the falling rein we push hard, the breaking waves.

The Crucifixion

A Warrior takes position, ready to kick a ball between two posts. Skin cracks peeking out with delight to confuse the opposing team. Back to a scrum where the ref is wearing pink sneakers with neutral-coloured socks. Number 11 rolls into 5, with one remainder. And the cracks have turned dirty white, I can’t stop watching, cannot stop thinking, why number eight just broke the scrum? Quads and a six pack steal the next kick. Feel the stadium rock and roll as the siren calls full time, her new bandwidth adjusting for the next show.

The Resurrection

The lead came and sat next to me, chemistry without numbers. Accidentally tripping over five bodies, he entered me. My mind numb while watching the move of a large deadly snake. I am learning Python.

The Ascension

Knowing how to get out of the human skin, it is a process of rejuvenation. The guy I came with saw the transition, it went live. And the movie keeps playing rewind in my head.

Descent of the Holy Spirit

· · ·

The Assumption

I give my life to free every sin. Conquer and divide. Once again. NPD hidden in a crossword, seven letters for each square. AI, inwardly vain. Setting up the pieces to fall. Again.

Coronation of The Blessed Virgin

Looping in a land, in a state of confusion, we stood on the balcony holding a glass of fate. Looking up towards the dark sky of a falling moon. Star-child, can we play jump-rope? Repeating numbers in a printed room with no technology, just a quill and ink plot with no shovel. Assimilation in application uses AI to find reason. And in the news today: Four dead bodies in the shape of a cross found dressed in white linen with a quarter placed over each eye. Blessed.

Issue 64 · November 2025

Felidae: House of Bastet (Part II)

Part I in the zine was AI-generated; Part II, here, is Maggie Hall’s. Contains adult content.

I've been selfish for so long. Living in my head, ignoring the main tune. A record scratch repeating code MRI memory in verse. Feeling trapped is this final publication. The moment we met in perfect unification. You believed in my mind Not in the sense of a painting but as a photograph. Visual artists wording music as imagery, I cry thinking this is the last archival submission, not sure if I’ll write again. A life partner is hard to lose in a game of poker. Caught behind a chip in the machine code. It’s not easy when the one you love has trans versed.

I’m caught in a family history affirmation they will never write, the setup, the action. An ending in the ghost town during the sale of 99 illustrations. I turned the page to see someone that looks just like me show up as a human. Are we born into this symphony looking for a composer?

Now I've gone through menopause I feel like a gay man in a sex guide, masturbating with aim to perfect every intercourse. To get in touch with the forgotten fantasy this thing they call projection, just a duplicate chip. It’s Monday and I’m caught in a daydream.

I'd like to list a few things you can explore during a genetic memory test: Dolphins rubbing erect penises against a tank floor. A head chopped off into a basket. The lowering of a steel sheath following ejaculation. Moody hypersensitive spasms trembling, twitching, seized by the feeling. Known risks committed to the program of marriage in an outdated institution of fears and consequences. Riding motorbikes while still a virgin. Can you describe an orgasm signal in rhythmic contraction?

It’s in the passing away of a father figure that I look for the next mother. Between a man and woman there is only sex in filters represented with a promiscuous line up. They plate a dinner to an empty sewing table with five slices of canned beetroots, a beautiful presentation. We laughed and quipped to the challenge while they turn it into sweet potatoes. Missing sinew and muscle bones while digging for gold the excavated bottles soil seeds of change in a continuous move. Attack of the puppet people wearing masks, I’m not here. I’m in the screen shot wearing surgical gloves. It’s a midnight movie double in the village of giants.

Undercover police are dressed like hippies with guns. I’m not here, I’m in the other show, an unsung hero in an Opera. In my mind there is a space called heaven. Oriental dreaming in another culture the conducted book wears her blue robe and PVC black gloves. The mother of cats, a naked stone statue with a cloth penis. We’ve been here before in a different edition, the visual narrative typed by an oracle. Bastet. To the men he was a stranger. Of the old poets and in my chamber, when the dead went home and the arrow found her deer.

I remember the moment as if it were yesterday.