I’m getting a new (secondhand) fridge and selling the leaky old fridge-and-freezer twin pair I inherited from my grandparents years ago. There’s a whole story about why that’s happening now which was going to be the subject of my next post to you, my lovely patrons, until I rediscovered the fridge poets. The reason for the upheavals in the kitchen will just have to wait, because there are poems—little gems of wit, wisdom and wordery—about to die unless I save them.
At least two of them, or at least parts of two of them, are by me. But I ran an Airbnb room here for four years—there were hundreds of people through. And before that I remember random friends and housemates’ friends at parties here sitting on the kitchen step, moving the words around on the fridge. These poems are by anyone and everyone—a few drops in Sydney’s stream of consciousness.