Kicking goals and taking names

You thought we were dead, it was over and we may in fact have looked down. You were wrong

It has come to our attention that the copies of the second issue, currently floating about the city, are offending the older generation.

Our friends at the Ginger Lee Cafe were kind enough to keep a few copies of Melbourne’s least favourite zine in their quality establishment.

What a great thing for a local, progressive cafe to do. We thank them for it.

However, it was brought to our attention, by an older same sex couple, that Don’t Look Down is simply too offensive to exist. Fuck them.

Here is the poem that they found most offensive (thanks Terri, you’re the best):

Twisted, Fucked & Ripped to Shreds / Terri Louise Kelly

You tried to bend me round your little finger,
I tried to force you round the U-bend.
Let’s call it fucking quits,
flush it down the spit hole;

your poison infiltrates my cistern.
My angst peels your skin
scabies isn’t true love,
waving blades at one another
amuses the law & order crew.

Nine stitches & gangrene,
STDs & vodka chasers,
sex in a piss-stained bathtub,
rubber, leather, stainless steel;
the sound of your voice
reminds me of casualty,
the reek of anaesthetic,
the death of consumption.

Go ahead & fuck yourself over,
I’ve got the scars as mementos.
Your bloody handprints on the urinal,
a whole album of degradation & anarchy
to ponder, over sleeping pills
& ripped sheets . . .

Release!

Alrighty, you bastards, the wait is over.

The second issue of Don’t Look Down is back from the printers and looking better than Lara Bingle in a very serious car accident.
You can scout around your favourite local dives to see if we, in a drunken rage, have left a stack on the bar, or if you email us, and are extremely rude and demanding, we might be able to send out a copy or two…

The .PDF is available in Don’t Look Downloads.

We’d like to thank all the contributors and various hangers on who have helped us get this issue of Don’t Look Down together over the past few months. We will be looking for submissions for the 3rd issue soon. Watch this space for details.

New Feature, fuckers.

That last post was some what of a downer, so after much thought we at Don’t Look Down have decided to make the first issue of Melbourne’s least profitable creative venture* available to anyone with a computer and a brain.

Cast your eyes upwards, ye ignorant masses, and behold the glory of the site’s newest section!

Don’t-Look-Downloads.

Now you can download past issues (issue… singular – ed.) of your favourite unknown zine. We’ve posted two versions : with printers’ marks and without. This is for those die hard fans  who want to print their own copies to use as cheap gifts.

Current restrictions imposed by wordpress don’t allow us to upload .ePubs. We have asked our technical advisers but they only bored us with nerd-talk concerning mega rams and gigamegs, so for the time being you will have to be happy (grateful?) with the .PDFs.

*excluding anything that has ever happened in Federation Square

Annnnnnnnnnd we’re done.

Well that’s it for the submission period, we’re done.

We have gotten some right smashing poetry from some assuringly smashed poets, and we thank them from the bottom of our hearts.

If you missed out, you missed out… until we open submissions for the next issue.

All successful poets will be notified within the next fortnight.

 

We’re still here

And just when you thought it was over…

Don’t Look Down is still looking for submissions!

You’ve got the best part of a month to get off your arse, fatty, and submit some poetry to your almost sober friends at Don’t Look Down!

Tagged , ,

Submissions Are Open!

Annnnnnd we’re off!

Last night’s promotion and poetic pulping at passionate tongues went down a treat, signalling the opening of submissions for the 2nd issue of Don’t Look Down. We’ll be there again, so come and say hi and buy us a drink(s).

And here it is, the submission flyer you will be seeing a lot of as dld litter the already filthy streets of Melbourne with the brilliant yet simple design of the greatest submission flyer known to man.

To Clarify …

Alrighty, so there have been a lot of enquiries about the next issue of dld: Can my mum submit? Are you trying to steal my work? How did you get this number? Do you publish poetry and prose?

The first few enquiries are not only hilarious but also mad fake, with this in mind I shall endeavour to answer the last, least funny, enquiry.

Yes we do publish poetry and prose. However, for this next issue we are only accepting poetry.

Why? Why only publish poetry?

We are only publishing poetry for the next issue due to our current printing model that only allows for 18-20 pages per issue. If we published prose then we could only fit in 4-5 pieces. You wouldnt like to read an issue of dld that only had 4-5 pieces now would you? Idiot.

We are working on a way to print a much larger book for the next issue, but between the drink/smack/hookers we just cant get our heads around how to do so while keeping dld free.

So send us your poetry and hold off on the longer pieces until we’ve got our addictions under control.

Mavericks / The Grand Frog

Stanley hands me the soggy paper bag full of mushrooms.

‘How many are you gonna take?’

I don’t want to get wasted. I’d rather a mellow trip; a full bodied appreciation of existence, as opposed to the sensation that there are UFOs landing in my mind.

‘About half a dozen I guess’.

Stan grins and swallows his first. We take turns nibbling them. It proves challenging to keep them down, but the nausea passes after about half an hour.

I survey the corner of nature we have nested in for the night. The mountain air is growing cold. The sun fades behind the tree lined ridge, which borders the creek next to us. We have a short time to collect firewood before we experience what is commonly referred to in the literature of psychedelics as the disintegration of the ego. We are at a crucial stage of caring for the fire. Once darkness descends and we lose the ability to connect thoughts with actions and construct narrative, relighting the fire will a mission far beyond us. We hurriedly strike out into the bush.

Unlike alcohol, mushrooms don’t bestow one with recklessness or foundationless bravado. Stumbling through the bush, up a steep hill, in the inky blackness of a wintery night is frightening when you’re straight. Mushrooms cause one to break out into fits of uncontrollable laughter at the slightest provocation. The difficult task of hauling a fallen gum tree back to camp is made nearly impossible by the seeming hilarity of…everything.

The bush around us, already idealic, has turned into a wonderful flowing fairytale forest. The tops of the trees frame a rich picture of the cosmos overhead. Back at camp, Neil Young grooves steadily with Crazy Horse on the car stereo. My friend and I dance along and play air guitar to those mind blowing jams from the sixties – written when a generation believed in the potential for significant and positive change.

A different kind of masculinity inhabits this scene. Scrofulous long-hairs, we seek the truth of being by ingesting naturally grown animal-plants, that in times long past were worshipped as divine. We play guitars and sing, and talk long into the night of moral dilemmas and times past. With every passing minute, our appreciation for the natural sphere, and our satisfaction at being a part of it, grows. We gaze in wonderment at the crackling fire, perceiving a microcosmic blueprint of the stars above. We are full of indignation at the absurdity of the illegality of a substance that reveals the genuine beauty of the world, and one’s connectedness to it.

We’re Mavericks, and we don’t play by the rules. We are driven to experiment by the uncomfortable acceptance that materially, we are obliged to be part of a system that is destroying the earth. In a world partitioned by artificial, abstract boundaries; in which natural resources are pillaged; in which mystery and romance have been destroyed by the aimless blade of science; in which nature is on the run; in which life is wasted on the unfulfilling pursuit of possessions; in which there is an apparent need for a body to eat, drink, sleep, smoke, fuck, fight, build and work; and in which freedom is defined through what we consume, Stanley and I are pursuing ultimate liberation: freedom from oneself.

Sonnet II From Stupid Sonnets / Tara Mokhtari

Her granite-black streets soaked

mist abound at every gutter

floating above sidewalks, boots and cloaks,

coffee brews and voices mutter.

Gothic shadows wake from dreams

of European romances and Rioja wine,

oak-tree hems and tram-track seams,

regular rhythms and sporadic rhyme.

Lime and lemongrass emanate from little Bourke lanes,

beats and riffs pulse underground

through dark hours the warmth remains

she holds my hand and walks me ’round.

She holds my heart, delivers her poetry

and inspires mine – Melbourne, my obsidian city.