on Saturday, July 13, 2013

v for victory

the basilica dome
is obscured by various antennae,
leads laced and looped/ hanging
down the apartment block like vines, or
jackets thrown listlessly over shoulders
and bird-like legs
traipsing down an alley as the sun creeps in,
cool and pink milky-blue.

colours running out

on Friday, July 12, 2013


happy end

Route 655

Stoke Newington, January, 2012



a study on shapes and dreams

heads just moving; circling, pushing. daisies quiver in the grass, gravitating, reaching toward one another with little stringy-petalled limbs.

they are silent and gentle/

their fingers interlock above them. clench
and then slow and still again, a pond.

i watch him in the side mirror. my thumb is stained with a band of green. his eyes are deep and blue –

i am full tonight.

lisa smit

on Saturday, May 11, 2013

Who are you?

My name is Lisa Smit. I am twenty and two years old, born and raised in the Netherlands and currently residing in Melbourne.

What do you love about Melbourne? What do you miss about home (the Netherlands)?

The thing I love most about Melbourne is its inhabitants. All the people I've met during my 11 days here are beautiful. They are one by one lovely, friendly, genuine and extremely open-minded human beings. For example: today I went for my first bike-ride and my tire went flat, but other cyclists immediately came up to me if they could help me out. Who doesn't want such helpful people around? Speaking of bike-rides, I kind of miss the Dutch cycling lanes a tiny bit...

Your favourite book?

 "On the Road" by Jack Kerouac. Or maybe "The Catcher in the Rye" by J.D. Salinger. It's a fifty-fifty.

What is your typical travel camera setup?

Depends where I'm travelling to. Preferably just one camera.

What makes a successful self-portrait?

"The" light. Always the light.

Have you got a blog, or any other websites you'd like to mention?

My portfolio, my flickr, my blog.



you are
perched on a stool, with one ankle
propped up on your other knee.

your face is covered in curls.
maybe you have a pair of purple shoes on,
laces dangling for the ground like long fingers
raking across sand.

somebody is stacking plates in the kitchen.

i sigh, and rearrange my own legs on the couch.
when you are around, they become a pair
of wonderful flamingos.



we’re lying in bed together and
i’m shopping for swimsuits. i

read your receipt rolls; but
my breasts were too large to fit into that



on Friday, May 3, 2013


they pressed you face down
and pulled you in tight;
a marigold, between weighted pages.

tufts of hair lingered like
dandelion seeds

your green corduroys were flat and hollow,
a sucked-out stem -

all of the life had
swarmed to your irises.

the cats of castelnuovo

tabby ones, grey ones, tiggy- striped-tiger ones.
tiny undernourished ones. squinty, sleepy,
glass-bottle-green eyes, electric-shock hairies that
recoil at your breath. ones so black that you only see
their eyes in the night time. and a pair of pink milky ears.

nut-brown, bony man
strokes and swirls with them, tails twining,
cigarette smoke salsas on the breeze. a
wooden ballerina in jeans and check,

tangoing on the cobblestones with
the cats of castelnuovo.

Part of an ongoing documentation of the cat colony living in Castelnuovo di Porto, Italy.

roller-door restaurant

on Thursday, May 2, 2013

Man smoking

One of a number of impressions of Palermo briefly made intelligible while leaving on a bus.

the smoke of charred carcass rises from the alley in plumes;
the roller-door restaurant is open for business.

he deftly guts the octopi –
thick, worn fingers push into the orifices, tentacles draping
over the hairy wrist like lover’s legs,
eyeballs disappearing into the bucket
of miscellaneous sea-creature pieces.

he plunges it into a bucket of water,
first cold to rinse then
boiling, then dismembered and curled about spaghetti or
straight onto the plate like a puppet,
steam rising from the suckers.

bird formations

sometimes bats
sometimes arrows
sometimes, a paper plate.
sometimes a flag, beaten in the wind
sometimes the span of a pair of hands.

sometimes, a fly on its back. sometimes
the speckled exterior of an egg. some
times a barrel of wriggling minnow. sometimes 

black protein spots, sliding
across the film of my eye
straining and reaching for the pallid sky.







on Saturday, April 27, 2013


the lilikoi vines pull themselves
through the windows, thieves feasting on the stench.
this house festers in its own loneliness
and releases itself back into the world -
there are no children.

now, you are doled out here and there
soup and bread for the curious  
in a box of photographs, gathering dust and
dried up millipedes.

you leap from the aircraft,
shoulders pulled over themselves, and
hurtle toward the land, divided into
infinite identical squares.

gravity leaves you






sand on skin


scooping wet sand in cupped palms,
it trickles between fingers, treacle i
rub it across my skin, white and
pink and goosepimpled like
supermarket chicken breast. inspecting
the particles, black cream brown and
transparent cubes, sticking to me like
so many limpets; forearms, calves, the
small of my back. the fleshy fields
on the inside of my thigh.

sinking back into the sea they
leave me, a galaxy of microscopic meteors;
a salty surrender.