Art by Jacques CA
FOREWORD
Thank god it’s here.
We are so back with Issue 2. I feel so lucky to be doing this all again, & I’m infinitely thankful for the artists, writers, illustrators & readers who have made this possible. I’m so proud of the fundraising efforts of Edition 1 & the massive support we’ve received from so many people.
Somehow, Unite Zine Issue 2, ‘Fight’, has been over a year in the making. Thank you Oli for doing everything to make this happen, even though it took literally everything out of you. I think you’ll find that we’ve gotten pretty decent at this whole zine thing, & that is thanks to the efforts of Oli, whose design is always worth the hype & maintains the ability to overcome my inability to articulate what I want & manages to always create something worthwhile.
I’m happy to say that this issue is not like the first – everything that was good in Issue 1 is great in Issue 2, I trust you’ll agree.
This collection of words, stories & images is produced on the lands of the Wurundjeri people of the Kulin nation. I acknowledge that sovereignty has never been ceded & this land always was & always will be Aboriginal land.
Thank you for flipping through, – Stephen
4-5 6 7 8 9 10-11 12-13 14 15 16 17 18-19 20 21-22 23
ringing by Lily Knight with art by Evan Goulios
Joy! Rally! by Vivothée
Caramelised by Thirangie Jayatilake with art by Spencer M.F. Rodrick
Seducer’s Sonnet by Jessica Rijs with art by Evan Goulios
Sorry by Jessica Rijs with art by Chelsea Pentland
the rotor of a blink by Tim Loveday with art by Joseph W. Hosking
Stormfront by Lorence Beaini
Shower by Lauren McKenzie with art by Joseph W. Hosking
start at middle c by Stephen Zavitsanos with art by Chelsea Pentland
Untitled by Vivothée
òran Sabaid by Eartha Davis with art by Charlie BB
the prisonhouse of language by Jessica Fanwong with art by Oli Jackson
Resilience by Eleanore Arnold-Moore with art by Myan Nguyen
gloves off by Monique Gilham
My little warrior by Brie Bartleet
there’s a ringing in my ear, and an ache from beyond my door. there’s a ringing in my head, and my clothes are spilt out all over my floor. some quiet could be nice, some calm would be preferred, but it’s okay, i’ll get used to it. that crooked little noise all prettied up and poised, i’ll get up and find some way to shut it down, i’ll get up and finally manage to turn it all around, or maybe i’ll just find my way back to sinking deeper, to falling cleaner, to diving neater, beneath that soundlessly soft, and restfully darkened underground.
by
Lily Knight
with art by Evan Goulios
by Vivothée
Missing hairs in the dryer again,
Same spiders dusting peace into my roof.
Skin shed the last it held of us, brushed open as blood, it barely leaks! My arm’s for proof.
Still look the wrong way crossing wasted roads,
Hair still sews its way through every rue in cells shedding through nouveau episodes
Joy! In your flakes of skin folding into my waterbottle, coffee cups et clopes.
Boots fall apart, and lips adorn the steps, Shedding into winding escalopes.
Joy! A city graced upon two necks.
To pace in what I knew, in cycling of these cells Rally! For strands and all our touch,
To wreck the dryer doors!
by Thirangie Jayatilake
with art by Spencer
M.F. Rodrick
i Mangoes ripening, still sour, still in a race
Which ones will reach ripehood, which ones will not
Which ones will be eaten, which ones will fall to the ground
Green mangoes, unready to be eaten
Sampled by little squirrels
Some days I watch the sky, some days it watches me.
Where do clouds go
When do associations begin
When the air turns ripe and cackles brown
How many rupees does it take
To bury thoughts underground
Seducer’s Sonnet
by Jessica Rijs
with art by Evan Goulios
Keep your mouth closed and open those pink lips.
Lift up that cute chin and swallow my spit.
Bare those teeth for me, don’t make a sound.
This won’t take too long, there’s no one around.
Something is wrong, my special seducer, I reach right through my strong, simple suitor.
I burrow my nails through your chest, claw clean into your heart to try find where I’ve been.
I feel through the flesh, but fail at my task.
Round your heart my talons tighten their clasp.
You look so pretty, red, and delightful.
Sorry, my dear, but you’ve made a frightful mistake lying to what’s proven to be the nastiest witch, yes, little old me.
by Jessica Rijs
As I carry the milk of your sins and house tenderness in my bones from your strong hands
I wonder if this is what my foremothers died for If they would have fought as hard as they did for as many years as they did knowing I was who they were fighting for Would they have given up packed their suitcases and boarded a ship to an island of matriarchs because dying for someone like me could never be justified
The shame I carry hollowed out undeservedness
I cannot claim the divine feminine I kneel in lust and beg for mercy
I drain my blood to clean it
Mothers, I am not your daughter
Allow me space in the world you created I cannot even say I am sorry I cannot even say I am sorry
with art by Chelsea Pentland
THE
by Tim Loveday with art by Joe Hosking
yes, i have spoken of this certainty : how a house is nothing more than a shelter in your gone-days. how morning murmurs the cotton breach of a mind unwilling to accept a shape as a pillow. how i dream of you not only in technicolour, but in the camera obscura of light that slits an eyelid between the rotor of a blink…
but this does not make me innocent. i fear i have promised all of me, while knowing i am patchwork. some sum of infinite decimals in an equation yet to be recognised. pin pricks in a sheet held up against the night sky –do i search for constellations in stains not light bleed?
yes, i can be infinite in this second –but how long will this linger? is this the shape of your wanting? is this the well where i store my hunger? the echo chamber where i recite promises? is this primal?
or pre-historic? a small piece of glass found in the back of a cupboard… is vinegar water when thirsty?
of course i want to whisper words like forever – both for your sake and mine.
i am done with this searching. i am done meeting myself at crossroads. i am done investigating tiny encounters - hands brushing on the tram, an apology passed through a smirk – as if each were a bookmark before the affirmation at the end of the self-help book. i am done, truly . but to say this and mean it, i would have to open the cupboard, take out all of my clothes & wear them – paste these pages to my body.
i would have to see myself not only in an abstract, in desire, in a crystal ball that we hold between our hands like cradling the glass-flecked world. i would have to see myself as you see me: one mark on the canvas, the start of the new . not the stroke already lost to the swirl.
by Lorence Beaini
after waking, water flows through fingertips fingertips to thighs, to ships that sail along cresting spine, to toes that curl, withstand a burning out of ends, of eyes red, sleepless night sores, thinking of hands, of dirt under nails, wrinkled vision, dirt from dreams, running, reaching under blistering mist, melting city lights, soak crimson flags, on thighs, worn, a statue of green, worn, at the breasts, worn, from the oil of hands, gunpowder drips, now lie still, and dry.
by Lauren McKenzie
W. Hosking
with at by Joseph
by Stephen Zavitsanos with art by Chelsea Pentland
START AT MIDDLE C
his song hangs like a poised raindrop–
a shallow whoop, a booming hoot. he finds her–his partner –her whoop & hoot joins his in this morning song–
a vocal duet of two who mate for life–rainforest percussion made in throat sacs,
felt in dance. those who can adapt song to each other. whose love is made in each intersecting whoop & hoot.
Oran
They say body always returns to herself, then pushes off — sketching tree wing, constellation, little loves lifting worship to the heart / body recalls distant mountains / her song sleeps firmly in earth’s fist / we are all brief flesh / & they say river revives body / offers honeyed pastures, an autumned warmth / to be a body is to be your own psalm / & then: to be a body is to gather the dawn’s breaking / thread it with birds / Do not let go of her
by Eartha Davis with art by Charlie BB
Resilience is laying down your faith to the idol of who you were and who you thought you were going to be.
It is sleeping so, the lessons of today sculpt your understanding like your body does the mattress.
It is not kneeling to endurance or repenting for change. It is not what you can hide with last year’s smile or how close you can come to yesterday’s laugh. It is not a Groundhog Day of becoming what you have already been.
It is butterfly to chrysalis every other week it is stretching around survival, scars a mural of adjusting.
by Eleanore Arnold-Moore
It is living the myth of your future in the aching present. It is living the time-lapse of metamorphosis second for second.
It is living with injury, muscles slowly building around the brace.
with art by Myan Nguyen
gloves off
by Monique Gilham
You get on a tram without thinking twice about it. Move to find a free seat and if there’s none available, you simply stand. Legs apart, stance strong, free to take up as much space as you need to maintain your balance. Nobody dare questions or critiques it. You are given a wide birth without ever even realising…
We board the tram with our eyes alert, body already guarded. A series of quick checks must be completed before we locate a seat. Where are the men? Are they alone or clustered together? Are they noticing us? We are conditioned from childhood to take up as little space as possible. Whether standing or sitting, we shrink ourselves down.
Truthfully it’s more than just the physical that is policed. The way we dress, the way we speak, the way we move — all of these things are observed, critiqued, compared… and they wonder why there’s all this anger bubbling up under the surface now. They wonder why we don’t “smile more” and why we’re suddenly so distrusting, often prone to thinking the worst…
They wonder why we’re less likely to be out after dark, why we move in packs to the bathroom, even in a crowded place. Maybe because anywhere, anytime, anything could happen. The difference between a darkened lonely shortcut home and a party filled to the brim with dancing bodies isn’t really all that vast… bad things happen in either setting. Whether in the shadows or right under everybody’s noses.
Now we’re suddenly told to speak up, to share our truth, and to air our pain. And they wonder why we’re so exhausted, trying to keep up with the latest instruction manual on how to behave, trying not to suffocate under the weight of so many mixed messages.
All these contradicting rules about how to exist within the world. All these expectations spoon fed to us from birth coming from people who don’t know what it’s like to live a day in a woman’s body…
They don’t know what it’s like to witness your baby sister hit puberty and start taping her thighs to make them appear slimmer in her jeans… or what it’s like listening to your best friend change the way she talks in the company of the opposite sex and realise she’s dumbing herself down to be liked… they don’t notice your mother flinching as she passes by the hallway mirror, the way she pinches back her skin, trying to erase the laughter lines.
They don’t understand the myriad of ways life sets us back right from the start and how it never gets any easier. They don’t realise that if you haven’t been abused, assaulted or stalked by the age of twenty one, then you’re one of the lucky ones.
And yet, they’re still surprised by our anger?
Still surprised we are kicking down the walls, climbing up on tables, starting to finally find our voices again.
The idea that every single day is a fight sounds pessimistic, too sour for their fragile egos to comprehend. The idea that women think twice when moving within a public space is so far removed from their lived reality. And yet, they’re still the ones throwing their two cents in about abortion rights, joking that if a woman can’t keep her legs closed, she’s the one who has to deal with the consequences.
They’re still denying their involvement, denying the ways their behaviour, their opinions, and the way they move within a public space — is all very much part of the problem.
They’re still playing dumb at what’s caused the fight when really they’re the ones who threw the first punch…
Art by Brie Bartleet
UNITE ZINE
ISSUE #2
Editor
Stephen Zavitsanos
Designer
Oli
Jackson Cover Art
by Juliana Neild
Contributors:
Brie Bartleet, Charlie BB, Chelsea Pentland, Eartha Davis, Eleanore Arnold-Moore, Evan Goulios, Jacques CA, Jessica Fanwong, Jessica Rijs, Joseph W. Hosking, Juliana Neild, Lauren McKenzie, Lilian Knight, Lorence Beaini, Monique Gilham, Myan Nguyen, Oli Jackson, Spencer M.F. Rodrick, Stephen Zavitsanos, Thirangie Jayatilake, Tim Loveday, Vivothée.
Tim Loveday’s ‘the rotor of a blink’ was originally published in Brushstrokes 4, The Ros Spencer Poetry Contest Anthology 2023