TEXT poetry


Stuart Barnes



Cradle of a mountain, coolly cocooned
In a hollow

Worthless as a church
In this drift of snow,

Blackening fingers and toes, words
Deformed, like embryos

Pickled in thalidomide:
Deathblow. Frostbite, this mind

Glutted with the black, the red,
The yellow of night,

Never again will these hands write.




Stuart Barnes writes in a green Melbourne suburb. He's recently completed A Cold Decade, and is currently editing Songs to the Sphinx, his first collection of poetry, and plotting An Octopus's Garden, his first novel. He is content.

stuart barnes sstu808@yahoo.com


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Vol 14 No 1 April 2010
Editors: Nigel Krauth & Jen Webb