From nineteen thirty eight when you were born
out of the mulch of pinus radiata drawn,
your pages clean and crisp, yet to be torn.
Hard press machines, the scent of ink
Get your monthly copy in,
Printers deadlines, censorship.
Fat Freddy stalked your pages in the 70’s
alongside tips on bombs, concern for trees,
Mao Tse Tung, and nuclear freeze.
Brunswick found his glory here.
Anarchists, you filled with fear.
Even good in Eastside with a beer.
Hate mail from Chinese,
Critical Critic bought us to our knees
To my heart you hold the keys.
Till twenty oh eight we find you here,
the magazine you still once were.
Toilet paper, bible, accelerant,
you are still salient.