“Shame on you, Duncan!”: Students and staff rally against casualisation at Melbourne University

University of Melbourne staff and students rallied outside Vice-Chancellor Duncan Maskell’s Parkville mansion yesterday in opposition to the University’s growing casualisation of teaching staff.

Students and staff say no to the Robert Menzies Institute

Students gathered on South Lawn yesterday to protest the opening gala of the Liberal-backed think-tank Robert Menzies Institute (RMI).

An open letter to all student politicians

As sleek Facebook frames are slowly being removed from the profile pictures of university students in their early twenties, and social media feeds are returning to normal from constant ‘vote for me’ c

"Please don’t ask if we’ve tried yoga”: Students fighting for disability support

Despite the University’s push to make learning accessible, through programs such as SEDS and Access Melbourne, there have yet to be endorsements from students that these programs are appropriate. Inst

Cinemas Buckle Under the Weight of the Netflix Empire

Will Hollywood blockbuster-type films continue to use Netflix as their outlet, or will they return to their rightful spot on the big screen?



Last Girl

content warning: references to alcohol, drugs, mental illness

Stepping on possum shit in my backyard under a midnight moon,
I smoke a cone, she naps in my bed.
She puts on my t-shirt so she doesn’t smell like bong water
on her way back home.
We are in love but I am not satiated.

Hearts so full, fingers interlaced. It is Halloween,
spent on sandy sheets with socked feet—dampened, dangling.
We smell like gin, petty crime and speed walking up Brunswick Street,
the cologne of our Uber driver.

This chalice is half full—
a diet alter ego, Coke Zero of sorts is fronting,
it is on the tip of my snowflake tongue. Saccharine, semi-hydrating,
she doesn’t drink soda.

A scratchy top with a hole in the sleeve
that only just fits her is passed onto me.
Cobwebbed black lace, dug out from the depths of gentrified discounts.
It is soaked in cheap perfume and all-natural deodorant that does not work.

Intensity and lustful friendship, going to Thursgays to eat gozlemes in boob tubes.
Seeing some radio-friendly indie band live.
Forgotten texts on early mornings,
we get day-after-drinking shits.

We move in together and she spills shiraz on the carpet trying to impress a boy.
I scrub the shag carpet, bent knees stained red.
She gets the room with the wardrobe I could live in and a balcony,
and I drop a shameful cone piece off it at our housewarming.

Her best friend called Kensington the ghetto and
I don’t know how I feel about a white boy saying that.
She says she hates it in this house, in this lockdown.
Outpouring of tears, mental illness. It smells like teen spirit and depression.

Cat piss wafts through narrow corridors onto unmade beds, mildewy carpets.
She eats pasta naked in her new bed and I put the dish in the sink,
romanticise our lives on Instagram while we drift apart,
cry into her shoulder, ask for a hug and never speak again.
We were in love. At least I was.

Farrago's magazine cover - Edition Three 2021


Our final editions for the year are jam packed full of news, culture, photography, poetry, art, fiction and more...

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