Luke Macaronas18 September 2017
This story ends with a girl whose hair is too long for her liking. Seven new songs, unwashed swimmers, and a pair of luggage tags for the flight home tomorrow. She has a lump in her throat that’s been there for two months. Everything’s tasted bitter since September.
I found a tube
Half used and congealed in the cap.
I wore it overnight on the pimples I keep picking.
Bhenji Ra stands on stage in a bright red bikini, with gold-sequined flames stretching around her hips and across her chest. A pair of red boots lace up to her knees, as she flicks a red fan in front of her face. She has been dancing—dipping and spinning along the runway—but now is still.
Encountering Justin Shoulder’s Carrion—the shape-shifting “cybernetic demigod” with limbs made of decaying bones and hair made of Apple headphones—is deeply arresting.
Luke Macaronas talks with Benjamin Law about gay voices in journalism and hate-fucking politicians
Luke Macaronas talks to interdisciplinary artist Archie Barry about queer performance in a binary landscape
Luke Macaronas speaks to Jean Tong about writing, upcoming works and her recent ascension to the Australian lesbian canon.
Luke Macaronas on Ash Flanders’ slippery theatre
A boy in a red t-shirt and high-waisted jeans stains my mind. My memories are haunted by Gordie Lachance – his dark eyelashes and silky hair, his faintly freckled skin. If you had asked me even a month ago, I would have told you that I didn’t have a gay childhood. I can’t describe a sense of ‘knowing’, I had no primary school sexual experiences and no childhood boy-crushes; I have no memory of being gay.
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