Poetry | The ordinary poem
there is a place more real than desire as real as a train or a brick or a sarcoma, words are cleaner there, swaying whitely like feathers in warm air, where dignity whispers like silk skirts.
there is a place more real than desire as real as a train or a brick or a sarcoma, words are cleaner there, swaying whitely like feathers in warm air, where dignity whispers like silk skirts.
If robot philosophers were to ever turn that lens on themselves to contemplate their existence and their morphology, they would likely realise that their ancestors came to value the technological semblance of humanity higher than the vast majority of existing humanity. I wonder if they would find that ironic.
All our lockdowns are different versions of the same restrictions, from flats ringed with police to suburban houses and beyond. We’re trapped with each other without the possibility of solitude. As the online world takes over many of our social rituals, we are also lonely without privacy.
The ABF has insisted that no refugees or asylum seeker will be transferred to the Christmas Island facility upon its reopening, but only ‘those convicted of criminal offences’. Yet it has also indicated that moving higher-risk detainees to Christmas Island will allow the redistribution of other detainees within the network. This is a cruel development, and the human and economic costs will be considerable.
The truth is, there remains much capital – both political and monetary – to be made from security theatre and ‘law and order’ policy, particularly at a time of acute public anxiety around the social and economic consequences of COVID-19.