Kate Maxwell - Astral - Live Encounters

Maxwell LE P&W JULY 2025

Live Encounters Poetry & Writing July 2025

Astral, poems by Kate Maxwell.

Astral

Instead of too much wine
and mediocre
streaming, tonight
I’m drinking in the sky
searching for stars.
Refused a screen-lit
shrieking lounge-room
bare arms offered
to the breeze as I shiver
in this unbricked
evening. Hum of hidden
frog or beetle
small things scuttling
in leaves, an argument
at number five —
Told you fifty times
already — accompanied
by groan and drip
of loose-hinged drain-
pipe, leaking gutter.
Dark is thick, unrelenting
pushing back at city
glare with matte black
frown, reserving
diamonds for another
maybe one on mountaintop
or wide grass plain
who might marvel
at the unencumbered
heavens. Here, a stubborn
star or two blinks
some small resistance
fighting through suburban
shroud, weight of way
too many with a dull, wan
flicker. Hunched upon
cold concrete steps
curving neck to sky, I leave
the day, so long and loud
and wish into the night.

Even Though the Revolution was Televised

With apologies to Gil Scott-Heron

It was the morning of the press conference when the body — offended

once again, by three triple scotches, a glut of carbohydrates, and salt

consumed the night before — decided to revolt.

All night, the gurgling of stomach acids, itch of night sweats, mutterings

of schemes had robbed it of rest. After yet a few more after-breakfast

shots the body’s outrage peaked. Ageing and weary, you could hardly blame

the body for insurrection. It was the vessel spewing out trash on a soul-

sapping loop of lies and spin. It must have been exhausted by the owner’s

addiction to buzz and bluster. Credit should at least be given

for the body’s stamina. It had endured years of neglect, the humiliation

of the comb-over years, and now: this. Debate still rages about the exact

source and trigger for dissolution. An endocrine system, already compromised

must have reached threshold. Spill seemed inevitable. After an hour, standing

in polished shoes without arch supports, bright lights blazing, saliva drying

in the mouth, the sweat glands began the mutiny. Expunging body odours

and fluids was simply not enough. A statement was needed. A visible signal

to the world that the body had ceded and was releasing itself from the owner.

A sovereign entity, so to speak. Dark rivulets streamed down sallow cheeks.

Hair dye — or maybe just mascara globs —began to melt from the temples

like blood from an icon’s eyes. Hairdressers have since defensively claimed

that hair dye won’t drip once the solution oxidises and colour adheres to the hair.

Damn fool must’ve applied too much mascara to his old white sideburns.
However it began, and of course, hairdressers cannot stand accused
the body obviously acted on its own. With no accomplice but its own

internal furies, bubbling and hissing at such mistreatment, the body
took protest. Yet, while the world watched and mocked, shame and contrition
were emotions unfamiliar to the owner. A life led under flashing lights

and self-promotion adapts to the sweat and grime of carnival ways.
So, even though the revolution was televised, deniers claim a simple sleight
of hand, a digital distortion of the truth, even when the screen reveals.

Kate Maxwell is a poet and writer living in Canberra. She has been published widely in journals such as Cordite, Meniscus, StylusLit, Rochford St Review and Books Ireland. She has work forthcoming in The Threepenny Review. Kate has published two collections of poetry, Never Good at Maths (2021) and Down the Rabbit Hole (2023). Her interests include film, wine, and sleeping.

Kate Maxwell – Astral

Astral

Even Though the Revolution was Televised

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