'‘I have the best job in the world,’ said the man who hanged himself in a hotel in Northeastern France on 8 June.
'It is 2014. Two years since I swore off Australian poetry: a couple of years earlier, I’d wandered into an erotic poetry reading in Brunswick, where an older white man patted himself on the back for fucking a local sex worker in Bali. I was the only Asian-background person in the room. I walked out thinking Australian poetry was unsexy at best, creepy and racist at worst.' (Introduction)
