#instagramazine

Superman really dreams of being a lion, and lounging in yellow savannah. Even superheroes have aspirations. I close my eyes for my own.

Shh! The jewelled owl hears all!

Of course on the last days of International Zine Month 2015, finally start to get my act together for some srs e-zining...

Anyway, soon there'll be two (yep!) new stories up - one already is - it's six photos/captions and has no official name but I like the codename (Colling + El)wood-town, oh-ho, see what I did there? They're (in reverse order) on the Instagram feed. 

The second one does have a title and it’s a series of four photo-caption thingies called ‘cats & weeks’, a semi-celebration of introversion, cats and how certain types of affection can reduce you to schoolkid embarrassment and awkwardness.

Erm, also, it seems like ‘Icarus and co. part 2′ is yet to go up. Getting siderailed by writing/doing all things poetry and having it appear in places is no excuse for updating here regularly, hear that self?!

The initial idea for this was that different sorts would take photos and/or write captions and you could do either/any and not have any experience. 

So...fancy sending photos? Or captions to photos? Or both? Full credit is given to creators and it’s not a paid thing, though if you’re local (Melbourne, AUS), I’m more than happy to shout you *insert preferred beverage here*!

Thank you to the readers who say kind words about what’s appeared so far...it really makes my day <3

We met in a gutter, your head upturned. It's not right, to look so lush, like that. The decapitation must've been recent. It didn't feel right to leave you there so come, perfume this unfinished study in a house you might recall. You'd been sick again, but still checked on me. The blades wouldn't stop singing, why not Whitman's grass, my mind's voice looped. Come back soon, I won't snotrocket any articles of clothing, promise. We do our grieving in private now, or with flowers.

a photo by Gemma Mahadeo, posted for @ig_ezine on Nov 11, 2014 at 7:31am PST

Hours later, failed hail kisses the windowpane. Days earlier, the heat here made us feel faint. The flowers don't care. Rain continues, dissolves into humid smog-flavoured candy floss. It's good to be home. You look forward to home. Where is home, I whisper to an expired passport. Don't be childish: it never answered back.

How does nature reconcile survival and selfishness? These stubborn, displaced flowers had the stroller wondering. Her steps quickened so as not to think too hard of where else this resembled.

You sounded homesick, or perhaps it was culture shock. You were always my emotional better and it pained me to hear you were counting the months till home. Home - you have one. These flowers shouldn't be here: they spoke when solace and stillness was needed. Someone will kill the weeds not realising they are not what we should be afraid of.

a photo by Gemma Mahadeo, posted for @ig_ezine on Nov 11, 2014 at 7:31am PST