“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?



The Foggy Shores of Our Bedrooms: "How the f*ck did I end up in tiny mug-village?"

vanilla softens my lips. muscles curl around the handle, resist the weight, heat, then roll into a touchdown, tea drops spattering the wall of mugs.




Peat leaves and creme water
Tuesday’s delight.
Tea-time warmth through spoutway
After-sip of midday’s saunter.

Tannination; great sky face sips up,
warm air of Afterscone down.
It almost scolded us, this blow.
Unusual—neighbour’s handle drawn overtop.

Not tannin storm nor racing,
Something a-scraping and fumble,
Fumble soaring as shell floor thunders up—

Tidal built tidal froth
Ringing silence of the coarse scratching,
Split leaf, mirror surface.
A figure stands at the backspout.

I try to sign, wave, wait in fear.
Conscious of pride, straight tea-spooned back,
Hand grips the strainer
Five fingers for five openings.
Eventide-scratched t-shirt steps forward.

“Get back! I do not know you!”
Lid off the boiled dew,
Face all round, pimpled, scared.
“Supper naught with your sort!”

Pieces and blocked shards a-glint,
Hand here and ear there.
My eyes still see it, nervous shivers.
“I am neither spoon nor grater, but Cottaric!
Move your hand, step back.”

Blow froth to close cracks,
Pleasant, watchful steam to thrift behind them, the girl.
“Sweet wanderings, careful treads ‘afore Stool. Welcome to the Cottaric.”

She looks so calm to be half naked and half welcome.
She could clay cracks, serve drinks off-handle.
This one might last.

The scalded, steaming tides, destroying lives?
“Yea, may our spouts stay empty!”

A quake too familiar.
Rushed clotted cream suit to the basement.

I must not cry over spilt milk.





left-behind leaves stick between my teeth.
tannins cling to my tongue like
shame, like old tea hardened in
contour lines around my writing desk.

vanilla softens my lips. muscles curl
around the handle, resist the weight,
heat, then roll into a touchdown,
tea drops spattering the wall of mugs.

the surface breaks upon impact.
lamplight splits into tiny stars,
rapid and seasick, stringing together
the taut smile of a ghost-face.

in the falling tide its features sharpen,
enfold me in accusation.
i draw myself tall as my periphery darkens
and porcelain scrapes underfoot.

air thickens, ground sways, i stumble against
something metal. between its bars, streets unroll— rows of half-dissolved sugar cubes,
windows of polished faces, and the stranger,
smaller than before, all wispy hair and trembling knees.

“i’m sorry—wait. i thought you brought me here.”
his face is smeared with vanilla clouds, and
in the foreground, my own crumpled brow—
“a spoon?”

i stand pantless, penniless, perturbed.
“i’ve nothing to give.
it’s clear i’m not welcome, so—”
i turn to watch the backspout, the opening, dissolve inside a dome sky walled by mountains.

quivering, i curtsy, he nods his head.
a jagged ray of gold skims the six-o-clock ceiling,
as steel people re-emerge
to gossip and water their kelp.

the people of the Cottaric trade in goods and joy,
shake and hold hands over the fence.
“i have little to offer, but i do make a mean cup of tea.”

the wash of a tide
rattles over the southern hills.
the floor tilts.

a heaviness settles on my wrist.
a drop of cold tea meets my tongue.

sediment leaks into lines of ink.


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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