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The publication of photographs of American soldiers posing with the body parts of dead Afghani insurgents has provoked a lively exchange of opinion in the media. Just as in Afghanistan, American and Australian soldiers fighting the Japanese saw themselves pitted against an opponent who acted by a different — inhuman — set of rules.
Let me have things about me not thrown out! Reminding things are made by hands, spent from the earth. You can't take any with you, that is sure, nor likely leave behind. But when they ask, 'Do you have a widget, a grommet, a poem by ...?' yes, I have.
When I'm with you, I take off my rings, unlatch my watch and untie my hair. And it's so quiet, so so quiet, like a film without a soundtrack.
Bush towns settle into their landscape. The galvanised-iron roofs and encircling verandahs squat with a certainty and a determination that only nature at its worst — fire or flood — might disrupt. Coastal towns, conversely, know all about the uncertain nature of existence.
Anthony cleans gutters. Some people give him money. When he has enough he buys himself a piece of chicken. 'Where is your mother,' I wonder, 'who roasted fat chickens in our oven, and cooked giant pots of meaty bones for our dogs, her brown arms pitted with burns from our kettles?'
Every night the devil gave birth to roast chickens and jacket potatoes and gallons of wine which it swilled and gobbled, sucking the oil from its fingers. It shrugged when the man and dog refused the steaming food. They always refused it, for they knew where it came from.
America, my country, is teetering on the edge of a dark future. We cannot continue in this fashion, or we will enslave our children and grandchildren to ruinous debt; we will twist their lives in unimaginable ways, because we would not pay our bills or reduce the luxury with which we lived.
Sao Paulo Fashion Week has come under criticism for its absence of non-European models. But the absence of non-white faces is a near universal standard in high fashion. If fashion wishes to be considered a legitimate art form, it must interpret and transform the world it reflects upon.
Prayer has not prevailed. She sits silent without lover or friend: she slumps in her blackened skirts: she slumps in black dust: she slumps in her black that was green.
It is raining. The ball has doubled its weight and is like kicking a basket of wet washing. And it's slippery, like grappling a live fish. The boys have kept this bayside game going many years, but I've only rocked up in the past couple. A ball hurtling towards me from on-high raises a new set of fears.
Below the waterline, a rufous mud dishevels the purpose. Above the waterline, struts and rooves stamp rectangle chequers onto the place where community can no longer gather. Two dogs look out from a corrugated raft.
Someone now cast in forgetfulness, out cold – dumped down in a sleeping bag moulded like a burial mound. And by their side neatly aligned, threads of an abandoned bedside.