DOWN THE PAGE THERE ARE THREE INTAGLIO PRINTS BY RON McBURNIE PLUS A DRAWING BY HEATHER RUSDEN yet more STUFF by Timothy Bocquet (earlier sections of this long poem were published in earlier editions of CHEWIE) AND STILL THERE IS MORE TO COME. AND RIGHT DOWN THE BOTTOM A SELF PORTRAIT BY HARTMANN WALLIS      CONTINUING THE PASSENGER NOTES By QUIET THOMAS SLADE MATHESON BOTCHY       These cement boxes are cold, a life sustaining tomb. One could say a despondent requiem for life. Reeking like beer injected piss, old sex, and men who chose to retire from the world. Got a real good night planned- it’s Friday and I’m going out, I’m going to get trashed like a dumpster straight off the production line. I’m going to take a flight like a sea gull in the path of a beat up truck. I’ve got no money except for rent but until tomorrow I’ve lost that illness. & a quite young girl is only happy when she’s drunk other wise she’s just polite. Stability is frail- unsteadiness thrills. Inside my love is a heavy boot left by a night of a week long gone. Nobody drinks anymore, not since the hallucinates were removed from absinth. Who wants to be chic?  Who wants to be holy? Different worlds collide in your personality & you don’t have much. Listening to the show I caught your smile, it wasn’t flying around in my direction but I captured it none-the-less. I’ll fill it with car tracks and sell it to the dealer, it will hang on a wall in the house of a doctor who went to Italy once many years ago and will tell you of the waves on the shore. She has travelled since but still misses those waves. I refuse to judge. For I am no better.  She makes me laugh with tales of a trashcan philosophy and Hendrix’s 7th trip.   *   Man wakes up. Looks out of window. Doesn’t realise he doesn’t care.   *   Parasites on ash float like the snow on leaves falling in autumn. Bacteria connecting with artist pedestrians - eyes closing to dam the tears and stem the sleep - where is the spine that made them? The $, the $, the only true influence, the only inspiration, a renaissance choking on paper both forged and true, a movement slipping on the polished coins fallen to the floor, stack them up like the Berlin wall and graffiti them with slogans of freedom. Behind my back you say nothing, not even worth cleaning the blade that would stab me between my shoulder’s. Only the cars driven by the taxing soldiers make a noise as my stomach kicks itself with hunger. ‘Fit for an emperor’ a statement with no truth, no linking honesty and not even a breath of conviction. In any painting you see fantasies that you are in ,look at it and see what comes to your tiny heart’s prayer. Even the gallery reeks of piss and caffeine. Remember when smoking was a pleasure not a privilege? I’m having another while I wait for the faulty sun to flush into the west. I’ve never had anyone die in my arms, never seen life’s final exhale, does this mean that I haven’t met love? Does this mean I have no poetry in my life? No, a good and lucky life I lead- show me death and what’s left to write?   *        ROMANTIC IMAGE BY RON McBURNIE     NÄNIE (that’s a German term for FUNERAL DIRGE) by Friedrich Schiller Translated by Hartmann Wallis   Even the beauty must die! Gods and people defeated, Nothing softens that iron breast of Zeus. Only once did love melt his stony stygian heart, Yet, on the brink, still, he called back his gift. Not Aphrodite’s beauty could staunch the wound Cruelly ripped in the boy’s flank by that wild boar. No, an immortal mother, a divine hero, could not save him, Even falling at the Acaean gate, his fate fulfilled. Yet she is rising from the sea with the daughters of Nereus, Lifting loud a lament for her glorious son. See! While the gods weep, so weep the goddesses, That the beautiful must pass, all that’s perfect dies. So lament that to be the lover in that mouth is wonderful; And recognise that that is common goes down unsung.     ROMANTIC IMAGE BY RON McBURNIE  ROMANTIC IMAGE BY RON McBURNIE  HEATHER RUSDEN'S  PORTRAIT OF HER FATHER                                                                                                      HARTMANN WALLIS SELF PORTRAIT   AFTER THE HEART OPERATION LOOK AT THOSE CLENCHED FISTS! JUST SO DETERMINED TO TURN OUT MORE POEMS, ISN'T HE?  POEMS, IMAGES, WHATEVER ALWAYS WELCOME AS SUBMISSIONS FOR CHEWIE'S CONSIDERATION. NO PUBLICATION FEE PAID, WE ARE AFRAID. BUT, OH THE GLORY, CONSIDER THE GLORY, AND ALL THOSE BIRDS UP AND OUT THERE ON THE WING. SEND TO robcrab@bigpond.com