How Do You Justify Test Driven Development?

On test driven development, opinions vary So let me give you some advice for the wary Performance? It’s easy as to convey You can run some numbers and see what they say UX? It’s subtle but quick to effect And you’ll get lotsa smiles from the users you met Following a style guide and conveying intent? You’ll see straight away mismatching indents! But how do you teach how it feels to be free Of staying back late to fix bug 93? How do you convey in actual words When the software you write actually actually works?

What Is the Skin In the Middle of Your Nose Called?

Amelia Canning: What’s the skin in the middle of your nose called?

I want to say phylum but maybe that Is some Greek sex toy or some Roman hat I want to say innex but it sounds kind of wrong Like a preppy bayarea nineties dot com I want to say pilaf but it sounds too delicious I want to say nostrum but it feels too contritious I want to say snotwall, it’s the funniest name I want to say bridge but it’s already a game And a thing that you cross to get over a creek And hey! it’s already a part of your beak All my life, my nostrils it separately kept ’em What? Septum? Ha ha no, it’s definitely not septum

Eat Me Like One of Your French Fries

her warm chest, against my back. her arm, it snakes around me. an empty cardboard sleeve in her,




golden arches on a jaunty red. i inspect it. cardboard reflected in my,




i want you to eat me, wearing this her lips touch my ear. silk drapes billow, softly.




Bitchy Resting Face

Paulina’s Question: Why do civilisations rise and die? Word: Bitchy Resting Face

Hot oily Egyptians Got frisky with Christians— Cleo’s dance card was full. But she turned around And sadly found That her temples and libraries were burned to the ground.

Catherine the Great Left things in a state That nobody thought could be better. But her empire got sick With Archdukes, Bolsheviks, And BAM, became a soviet socialist republic.

Tzu-hsi’s dynasty Was in dire need Of a great number of modern reforms. Her people revolted, White men got assaulted, Then a lotta white armies showed up and she bolted.

See, in each of these cases, It wasn’t the traces Of bitchiness in their ruler’s faces. The reasons were strange, And the rulers got blamed. The only thing that’s constant is change.

How Do We Decide What Is Moral?

Question: How do we decide what is moral? Word: Peter Principle

Yesterday I had a performance review, And seeing as how it was long overdue, I got a promotion to “Ultra Pooh Bah King of the World and Importantest Tzar, Ruler of All who Doth Canst See-eth Me (And Decider of All Morality)“ So now that I’m the headest honcho, The strippers and booze that you said, “Had to go”? They’re by the book, they’re protocol now! Oh don’t look like that, you silly old cow. All your boring old rot about equality’s not How the world works, besides which you’re not even that hot.

Deny Everything

I can’t write a poem every day, no way! I have things to do I have bills to pay. I’ll starve, I won’t make it down to the shop, To buy food, you know? I’ll be sacked from my job. I’ll be sweaty and dirty unshowered unclean, And I’m sure Geoff will be uncharacteristically mean. He’ll write hundreds of poems, with little more, Than it takes me to write just one metaphor. His similes like noses, poised and ready To detect my stinking prose and depose it With elegant rhyme and wicked enjambment. Damn it Geoff. Why’d I agree to this gambit.

Daddy Love

layla layla layla layla         williamstown, melbourne australia you are your mummy and daddy’s parts         arms legs eyes face hair hands heart


Question: Are there more fish in the sea or is it all a big lie? Word: Balustrade

dose me again this balustrade i cling to is love is a fool     is facade my eye is danger is cavernous night is elevation is haunted sight like the one from the top     of my topple down stairs hard blood wood pinched short baluster pairs

from this crazy high up i can see     well love, just the bottom of the stairs where i’ll be


Write everything you know about dying.

rupture eclipse snapping pain white light such a glorious sound! such a colourful sight! i’m jealous. i am. i received my death blow before you were born—many years ago.

How Can I Hold All These Limes?

Question: How can I hold all these limes? Word: Flesh wound

When the battle starts my friends, be fast Hold them off with your shield and your staff For if I sustain but the smallest flesh wound I will have to make a saving throw Or drop these limes to the depths below Then how will we season our drinks, hmm? And how will we make pancakes rise? And exactly how will we add a fruity tang To our next pad thai, do you surmise?

So, I'm Like, Really?

Samakaza: So, I’m like, really?

Angus: Shazam, Rad, Kissin’ and fightin’.

A midnight wind, a fiery street A mass of twisted chrome, our feet Our trench coats, gloves and furrowed brows The heat in our shaking hands, our frowns.

She stands over the cooling corpse All smoking gun and no remorse, Inscrutable face all milky white, Ruby lips all pursed up tight.

“Shazam!” she shouts, “We nailed his ass!” Seriously? No gravitas? “Bam!” she shouts, “Shinga linga ding!” I’m finding this rather embarrassing.

“He’s totes dead now!” She kicks his spine. A fiery slump punctuates the line. “Hot diggity dog! Let’s loot his cash!” I stare unconvinced at a pile of ash.

Crystal Cold Air, Grey Library Carpet

Flickering madly on my screen There You The words you shaped in a place     with different light

I wait at the desk for the door to open Here Me I can’t, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t      stay my drifting eyes

Your Hands

What were you thinking In that dim light? I wake up in the night sometimes. To see your hands. Did you know? Pale, full fingers, always moving, Drawing pictures on my ceiling. I look up at them.

Trickles Retreating

Trickles retreating through grooves in park seating. Petals unsettled by wide crying skies. Fleeting feet mark out wet footsteps.

You know,

    Except for that pair of lovers there,     Nobody’s enjoying this cold wet air,     But their camera’s pulled out and their teeth are bared;     Their shivering smiles to be captured and shared,     With loved ones who’ll try in earnest to care.

    And that is all very nice, I suppose,     But it’s a life that I chose to give up for the road,     That has led me here to this very wet seat,     I can sit on and watch my failings repeat.

You Are My Very Favourite Thing

He rushes with her Hand in his. With jangling ragged breath, He leaps up stairs, into fresh daylight. He turns to her, cheeks on fire, “Behold! my heart,” (now slowly) “all of this, And everything else that is mine, is yours!“

He casts his eyes delicately, At the surrounds of peaceful streets, Church steeples, nestled in between Trees, and trees, and distant trees. The peace in his eyes, Glints back at the dew and The smokey colour of the hills.

He turns full circle and back again To the warmth of her gaze, that never left him. And silently she says to him, “Love, You are my very favourite thing, You are the best this world has in it, And I can see, the things you see,“ (Now slowly) “All reflected in your eye. And there, they are everything, They ever were and could hope to be.“

Stenciled Sugar Brown Hotel Journalism

Use these 10 words: stenciled sugar kind brown woman hotel tumbled change momentum journalism

What happened to you Dear heart? Your life was Thrown in with the colours And you pulled the door shut behind you. After all,

Tumbled was better than being out there.

But how disastrous! How unkind! The ideas in your pen ran out in the wash. Your momentum changed, and rearranged Into chaos and darkness.

When at last, heralded by the helpful chime Of time being up, You emerged a woman, Smaller than you were before.


I am sitting alone, But if my eyes wander shut, Just as my eyelids touch each other, I feel the warmth of your shoulder, Folded into mine, Your hair, brushing my lips, Your voice at my ear, In intimate tones, Mourning the hour, And the commitment you made to be elsewhere.

Your embrace has lasted for days.

Ghost Story

I always hear the same song now, No matter what is playing, Because a ghost I met one time Kept praying, praying, praying.

She sent me an enchanting word That set my soul in motion. I returned, all folded up, Across a midnight ocean.

Dark colossi, frigid winds, Trees trussed up with lights. That ghost I met, I met again Where impossible just might.

I looked in her impossible eyes, Steeled and amber flecked. Not all the strength God grants you, ghost, Arrives as you expect.