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Art Underground is the brainchild of Aaron Kirby, Arrin Chapman, Fiona McLeod and

Lauren Harvey.

It is an open mic night held on the 2nd Friday of each month at Beyond Q in Canberra.

It is aimed at encouraging artists of all different persuasions and levels of experience to perform

in a fun and supportive environment.

There are also sometimes parrots.

For more info visitwww.facebook.com/artundergroundopenmic

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Contents

Opposites poem - All of Us 4

Song for my Valentine - Marianne Scholem 6

My Tongue - Melea Vera 7

To the Centre of the City in the Night - Marcel Berthon 8

An Ontological Declaration - BJK and Gerald Keaney 10

Heroin - Ethan Norman 12

Groupie - Jaqui Malins 14

I Would Do To You What I Did To The Potatoes Yesterday - Rapheal Kabo 16

Just Musing - Abhi Gupta 19

Pictures by Fiona McLeodFront cover photo by Adam Thomas

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Opposites PoemAll of Us

A flood of doves dries up the war slithers down the floor bounces up the room dancing in the basement sleeping in the attic. A crowd of insomniacs burning up as tired lakes sit in solitude as they wake as crashing waves their breath is garlic and prawn tails suffocating in the sweetness of the anemone’s head.Release a sour sting. Keep a sweet kiss. Give away the tweets amiss holding secrets quietly.With rambunctious abandon their mysteries revealed obscuring the truth - freedom’s reserve. Chains encircle the earth; the false is a moment of truth, lies melt from the remains of a once-great monument. The sweetest of dreams that have now become perverse; brand new nightmares, expunging poison time-old fantasies,silently sweet and the future is maliciously loud. Angel of heaven lies fallen, sits squalid - smoking bong, man on the street sips from his brown bag. Spits into his blue bucket splits and sees red in vein, hiccups vision together again forever wishing to be enfolded never even dreaming of being set free, able at last to be a prisoner until I break free of these damn chains and before you tie yourself to me. Untie your mind knotting your emotions into a rubber-band ball

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freeing your spirit to the skies crushing his chutzpah underground uplifting her spirit to the heavens walking around like nothing happened sitting around like everything happened. Squatting in the residual shallows Contemplating the parameters of the mind Denying its infinite extension Consuming its limited, tiny and confined shape.

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Song for my ValentineMarianne Scholem

There are a million love songs out thereTender, full and soft.So what’s the point in adding to the pile of hearts aloft?Felt you whisper in my ear “I’m crazy over you,”Yet there’s still one thing too scary to say - though it’s true. So I’ll sing it insteadBetter now, than in bedCos it wants to be saidI love......... cheese.Yeah it’s delicious, and quite nutritious! And there’s a special day each yearTo celebrate this joy.We can choose just how we do it, cos I wanna make traditions with you boy.Standard roses, chocolates, cards and cutest fluffy toys;Only symbols of the depth of feeling I enjoy. So I’ll sing it instead Better now, than in bedCos it needs to be said I love......... dogs.And to be honest, I love cats too. They are so cute! Since the risk of blurting it outGrows with every day,And even moments of my passion Threaten now to give the fact away,Think it’s time I put my fear aside once and for all - Cross my fingers, toes and arms And hope for no shortfall. I love...........you so.

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My TongueMelea Vera

My tongue is thick and it moves in my mouth wrong,It sticks to the roof of my mouth wrong, And curls at the edge of my teeth wrong, Words sluggishly stutter and pout wrong, They trip and they skip and they come out wrong.

My hands are weak and they hold wrong,They grasp, and they clasp and they grope wrong,Fumbling and sweating they grip wrong,Words shakily smear and they spout wrong,They smudge and they stain and they come out wrong.

My heart is grief and it feels wrong,Blood thunders, and races through valves wrong, It breaks in my chest and it beats wrong, Words shriek, and they cry, and they shout wrong,They yell, and they weep, they howl, and they bleed, and theyCome. Out. All.Wrong.

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To the Centre of the City in the NightMarcel Berthon

You have come to the city as you often do to spend the night talking and experiencing together the joys that the city centre has to offer. Only tonight it is not going so well for you. Some malicious force is drawing your attention to the things that your friends so often say that are silly or mundane and against your will or better judgement you are beginning to hate their guts. If this isn’t disconcerting enough one particular chap is really getting your goat. It’s not that you don’t like him: you do. He does however have the unfortunate habit of saying and doing vulgar shit to fish for attention and its working. Even this does not get to the heart of your dissatisfaction which is mainly caused by the reality that this tactic would never work for you.

Passing through the artificial gardens and soda fountains you exchange words always aware of the complete inadequacy of this form of expres-sion. Some remark of yours that is purely sincere and cutting in its sim-plicity will always fall short compared to the playful shoving and physical humour of your friend. You are wearing all black and your hair is slicked back coolly you think: how is it that your remarks could fail to touch the profound? Time is passing and the clouds begin to set in obscuring the lanes of sky-cars and the tops of tall building lit up like Christmas trees. Your friends are sitting in a kahvila sipping drinks and your friend is talking to three girls. As much as it pains you, you know that it would hardly be fair to think of some derogatory comment for this champion of the ladies. Now your party is continuing its journey toward the centre of the city.

This close in the streets become crowded with people all heading in the same direction and it is not long before you notice other people you know. You group begins to grow and change and suddenly you are saying goodbye to your friend who is leaving, dissolving into the crowd. This close in the sky is lit up like day and your body is filling with anticipation. Tonight something will happen. Your friends and the city lights are a se-cret combination. And in the centre of the city someone is saying come in to the library! And now you’re standing there on the pearly marble floor gazing in wonder at the gilded elevator doors. But now is the time for decisions because the doors open and your friends are walking in and to commit yourself would mean the end of your night and then you notice her inside. You follow her into the elevator which rises quickly giving

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your stomach that tickly sinking feeling.

‘Hi there, I’m pretty sure the funeral parlour is down that way’ she re-marks grinning slightly as you notice the elevator is set for floor 500. You can barely respond but in the end you make it and now you are talking to her all the way up. When the doors open the view is unspeakable in its decadence - what with clouds forming a glowing carpet and the thin neon lines of sky-cars. Against your will and better judgement you kiss her on the neck and she kisses you back: on the cheek. You are glowing and it seems to you that she could be any kind of thing that she wants. You walk together along the panorama view corridor to the room at the centre of the top of the library, although you can’t be sure of this. And now you are entering into that room with her and all the other people that for a brief while you had forgotten all about. She kisses you: on the cheek. You are aware suddenly that you have no idea what is inside. On the door is a sign that reads: The Crying Room.

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An Ontological DeclarationBJK and Gerald Keaney

this is

An assault on the flat surface.

A proclamation that everything is pitted and scratched, including the pittings and scratchings, all the way down.

An attack in favour of porsity, as to be found in the underlying paper

A dedication to Alcmeon

By the reduction of prosity in the cause of the prous - ink usually just fills in the wholes like a black cement

like tar in the lungs

like crude oil on a bach.

Pores are not just structures of language or the mind, but must BE FALL-EN IN TO .

The void is coloured black

We dismiss the pretensions assigned to the ebony sheen. Emulsion of the unspeakable.

We hate the page, the 2-D. We nuked Flatland.

Moulding building blcks across a shattered landscape of thught we dis-slve.

Also: coming at ya

A trap of inclusion from the inside

We are The Enemy within a page

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A poison of the toxic language fundation.

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HeroinEthan Norman

Heroin

We all know what it is. And we are told early. That drugs will ruin your life. We complete assignments on the effects of ice, and meth, and co-caine.

Heroin

Thinking these substances are from another planet. That the people who would even think about using them are derelicts or, dare I say "fucked in the head"

Heroin

I would never do that, I would never touch that

Heroin

As I mature with time, my mindset morphs into something else. I become more open minded when I puff my first cigarette which quickly turned into a joint

Heroin

Soon, I step it up a notch. Popping pills at a festival, being told that it's 'ecstasy'Buying alcohol with the shittest fake ID you will ever see. Trying to sneak into casinos and run ins with the police.

Heroin

In a position where I never thought I would be. A bag of cocaine sitting in front of me, a friend crushing up lines of coke with a rusty razor blade on a glass table. Where I was given my first ever nickname“Half-line Norman”Due to me being scarred of doing a full line

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Heroin

Complete disregard for the standards I set at the beginning of the night.“Oh I wouldn’t EVER smoke weed or do drugs in front of people at a party”But here I sit, inhaling from a Gatorade bong infront of them

Heroin“Oh this will just be a one time thing”

Heroin

HSC year, the most important year of my life. Asking friends if they know where I could get some heroin. Targeting the ones who would have those sort of “contacts”. All of them think I’m joking.

Heroin

I will be able to stop. I know I will be able to stop. It won’t be me.

But then again, isn’t that what every junkie once said?

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GroupieJacqui Malins

I sat, rocked back by the force of her wordsThat flew like birds and missiles.Compassionate facility,Passionate delivery,clarity, physicalityHer rhythms drive us to new horizonsHer verbal punch triggers my visceral crush.She is so – her.She says the things I want to say – but betterLike she could reach into my head, heart, gutsand distil the essence of thought, feeling, beliefBut not just for meShe drew common humanity out of the crowd, andHeld it up to show us, so we could know us.

I queue, speechless, after the show, to buy her words and take them homeTrawling the depths of my shallow soul to find something to say that could cement our ‘profound connection’…I want to thrill her with the vanilla of my suburban middle-class public service existence…Where, I fear, I dance to a dull, dumb, hum drum.I compare and find myself wanting, Wanting to swim with ease on the edge Frolic in the glittering kelaidescope fringes of her world, I want to meet her toe to toe as an artist,Not fawn like a gushing schoolgirlI want her to recognise me as a kindred spirit,I’ve heard of that happening, you know…

Real words fail meBut artifice would be the antithesis of her thesis,So I say – can you sign my book? That was amazing! Really - I ball my fist at my solar plexus to show our nexusShe smiles, says ‘Thanks for the support!’Not even your support!Does paranoia talk, or do I see her think, another stalker….

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Away from the glare of her charisma, I see my desire to speak is kindledIt flickers, licks at my own edge and ignitesSo here I slam,finding my own words.

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I Would Do To You What I Did To The Potatoes YesterdayRaphael Kabo

I would do to youWhat I did to the potatoesYesterday.Slung over the sink likeA machine, teeth and skin,Scrubbed each one cleanTil it shone like bronzeDripping water from everyHeavy curve,Held its ready weightIn one hand, brought it downOn a green boardLike a bed made for itAlone, took the knife, flashing silver,Split it to chips.AskedFor mercy.They were myLife, for those hours, myLove, my dance and prayerAs I made work of eachBrown roundness.Oh, love, I would do to youWhat I did to the potatoesYesterdayAnd more - I have not saidHow I cut the cabbages,Hearts opening to purple flesh,How the egg sizzled whiteFor me, how the breadBrowned, I was a symphonyAmong kitchenhands.Though, love,To you alone would I doWhat I didTo the potatoes yesterday.

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Just MusingAbhi Gupta

Just Musing: Been a long day yet it still isn't over, In fact, plenty of time remains to Indulge my mind on the brink of Explosion, for too long it has refrained, to let out A deluge of verses, That now courses uncontained, You see the rapids before the rage. It seems that failure is the basis And I find the floor lies now where my face is, No honour, integrity, status Just a pauper who can't get a job or graduate. I just like to rhyme, I avoid real world prose As I hate the way it delivers blows, A right hook, uppercut and a liver blow... Gray clouds and horrid weather, But as long as I salute the tenth letter, My outlook on life becomes better.So I undergo a transformation, and as I exit my stage of chrysalis to realise that I exist, and that it is indeed possible for the devious, mischie-vousness ideas in the mindscape to break free of their bonds, go on, and escape...?Can't quite put my finger on it, But it seems ironic That I dream so fondly of movement but do not Act, at the crack of dawn For it is only in fantasy where my will is strong In reality momentum never truly carries on, It's just a jumble of the weak and the strong trying to get along. It's all hopeless, I "won't do that", you "won't do this" Unaware of our own hubris. But if we sit back, relax and theorise, We would realise, That complacency is the enemy And if any of you agree, You would make a good friend for me.