One Day

Reading the papers monitoring the media and i came up with this. maybe the moral is to not read the papers :-)

---

It's been a hards days genocide
    Maybe from years ago - over 100 know
        When King Leopoldly tort 'em how to cut off
        Their hands and this was used for payment
        Proof that the work work was dun

Ancient MacEdon grace farme yeard 'ouse
    6K yearn olden thyme
    Fity ate quare metres
    Long fore Mégas Aléxandros stud ant of 
        The Philo Sofia
    So Lucian called it 'now insignificant'
        (But dis was somefing like 5C yearum ladder)

Panikd celling on the bourse
    Flesh of the Purse
Murder on the big board Corn
    Hide of the  Purse

And the Aethiopian executes the ones
    That trumpet war, rise up the young mens 
    Blood and sow set arm against arm
        Those who propagandissse form warm
        Those who make war seem rational
            Natural 

Those who woulda - if they were able

      (Not too old or  
                   like sum naught to high)

TO FIGHT & TO KILL

At West Point - betrayed now (AT LEAST) twice
Ready to strike at a moment's notice 
In any dark corner of the world

    The UN Charter tells us not even to threaten war
Not even to threaten 

        Refrain
            From the threat 
                   OR 
        Use of force

Toofor

The City On The Hill

Watching the US elections with interest. But i am amused by the left in America wanting to take back the country - to make it what it once was. And what was that? And when...

---

When was that time? When was the City on the Hill?
In 1619? When African slaves first landed on those shores?
When, during the over three hundred years after that time?
What of the City on the Hill?

Scent of magnolias, sweet and fresh,
Then the sudden smell of burning flesh.

What of the Trail of Tears - what City on the Hill?
Burnt beaten raped - their lands taken from them.
Diseases accidental or intentional introduced.
Planned - the systematic destruction of wild buffalo
A plan - a table full of men had to agree had to decide
This is how we can deal with these savages - starve them
Kill them - Kill the buffalo - no more to eat - no more...
Gone from the lands that had been known for generations.

Seventy Five armed interventions since World War Two
When was this City on the Hill? - When the Asians
Were legislated against, to deny immigration,
While the African was brought in chains,
And uncountable Europeans promised untold riches
Given only grinding poverty and rotten.

When was this City on the Hill? When was this time?
This Arcadia? What of this so called left - liberals
Who despair "what has happened to my country?"
My question is simply - when?
When was this City on the Hill?

The Country Passing

This poem was written feb 07 - so close to 2 years ago.
I don't know (the space between the urge and the result)
it seems to me it is about escape.

a common enough dream for a proletarian.

---

She would often ride a bus. From Eden
Across the land to St George. Away the demands
Of life away the demands of work of family.
It allows me time to read. Time to alone think.
Cold coffee brewed days ago. Bitterbrown oiled.
Over dry gullies. Virginia Wolfe spoke of her
Well heeled friends needing a room of their own.
I must have a bus of my own. She chuckled
Silent. Uncomfortable seats. Over dry grass
Gullies, Cabbage Tree Road, Alligator Creek.
Always clinging ironrust orange dirt
Countless footsteps across airygray mountains
Tangled every shade of green imaginable.


Maybe this journey will see Spinoza read.
Over thin gullydustred bones of animals.
And back home again Eden with the Southern
Oceans Upwelling. Whales breeching. Embracing love.


Bah, these poets these days - they know nothing
And they feel even less. Pitiful examples they are.
Falsespouted words, useless in this age of history.
They dreamhope to fly over the sun.
The sun that softens the wax.
The sun that hardens the clay.

Get Up Rally

GetUp.org people organised a rally today in canberra - at parliament house. So we took the kids out and had a fun sunday afternoon.

Come to the Bolsheviki...

    Here by the parliament house (sunny blue clear)
        Here we have a dervish of deceit
        
Don't go past this point people...
Don't going makin' your point.....
People

Don't make no political yammerings
Past here.
           (volkhaus)

    Caws the coppers will arrest ye
        Can't have no politics in parliament
            'Cepting it bein' of the right sort

No right to strike - the stat'll fine ya
Take your house offya - No boycott
Use the power of the state
Control of the senate
    Company can sue for loss of revenue
        Wool growers were happy

On bended knee

Cool Bossa Nova
    Please Kevin
    Please Malcolm
Be our climate change
Heros

    Bloom it all! tawt us -
'Tis the love of heros
What got us into this mess.

But now we can po-mo see
    The revolution is
A dinner party eh -
    Or at least a cool lounge
Cocktail party. Cossack partly?
(Not the festival of the oppressed)

And a cossack rode out of his squad
On the other side of the square
And cut down the lieutenant of infantry
And that was the revolution...
         as soon as they named it.

A sausage sizzle.
    July 2005:
    Physics World:
        "The animules we eatUp emit 21
        % of all the CO2 that
        can be attributed to
        human activity."

And then there is the land degradation
The compacting of land the overgrazing
Erosion spreading salt rising...

    Canna cutta downa alla trees. yeah?
    These limestone plains and 'pect it
    Rain rain.
    
A-knowin' the elephant
Vast filled with carps of dervish desires
    Shilohs

One chance to save the world
And Da Stern Banker he a-spoked on it
    "Economies what go green - dem be the ones
Way up in front lah!"

And how much CO2 will be released
If we burn it all down?

License

Y da oot? She
    Cried out inna
    Da nought...

ἔργον - τέχνη

Intimacy

    White seed fluff
A-flurryin' telopea
Park

    Legendary Whitlambs
To the slarfter...

In the end, the ergon is out of the hands of techne. (Heidegger)

Oct 10 2008 went to the Canberra Contemporary Art Space,
in Manuka.

The exhibit was called Intimacy. A solo show by a Canberra artist, Kat Barter. The works were broken up into three groups. A series
of paintings that were hanging off fishing line, a set of
paintings stuck directly onto the wall, and some textile work
which hung like giant dreads from the ceiling.

The textile work, to be honest, did not interest me very much.
But I did enjoy walking around the giant woolly dreads.

The woolly things, and the paintings, both hanging from fishing
line, and stuck to the walls were coloured using natural
dyes. Most of the pigment from onion skins. This process allowed
for the interplay of chance and art, in a manner reminiscent of
surrealist experiments.

This type of painting allows the viewer to stare dreamingly at
the work and create his or her own interpretation. In my case,
I amused myself thinking of ancient Chinese maps describing
the far west of the country. With the second set of paintings I
thought of Flaubert's novel 'Madame Bovary', and how he urged
his work to evoke the mouldy yellowing wallpaper in the corner
of a certain room. These paintings, so intimately tied up with
chance and reverie, allowed the viewer to gaze at the
faintly purple and brown designs and the pale yellow shapes
and forms and dream of one thousand and one nights.

Yellow Wattle

This is something i wrote on the bus at least a year or so ago - just tidied it up a bit - so i thought i would pass it on.

In the morning she was gazing
    Here was warmth, there was radiance
Magpies calling and sheep grazing
    Yellow wattle fragrance

Blooming wattle bleeding
Wild potato dreaming

Big fat rabbit - craven
Dogs - red and white pigeon
Shiny flame eyed raven
    (That has learned (and once learned passed on)
    How to avoid the toad's poison)

Dress the new dregs style
With a hope and go hog wile
A scrap of torn dress (that was scrimped)
    And up the woolen troopers jumped 
    Out one two three smile

Along the planes of downs
    Where free leaping roos yawned
Rugged worn tumble brown
    Rows of ills and beyond...

Hell Mouth

Poets love trips, or so i am told.
wrote this looking out the window driving to bateman's bay.

And before hellmouth; dry plain
           and two mountains
EzP

  The entrance
To the drainage
  System
  Dribbling syphilitic
Water algae carpeted
Green
  Rusty water
  Aqua morta
Thin-oiled rainbowed
  Surface.

An old metal fence
As much rust
As paint...
Thin strand barbed wire
  Rocky dirt road
  And a muddening
  Puddle evaporating
  Covering half the road.

The orange tire tracks
Barley perceptible.

A cleft in the face
  Of a towering rock
Cliff.

A broken torn open
(By goannas) anthill.

A knot banged out of a fence.

A vacant ramshackle
  Old cottage falling
  To ruin.

The dry creek bed
  Under the heat
  Absorbing dual carriageway.

  The hollow burnt out
Broken down dead tree.

A thick gully cold
And humid to the touch
  Over grown with
  Nettles and ferns
Dicksonia, briars, brambles
Thistles and trestles.

An abandoned burnt
Out car.

  The open wound of
The dead innard-exposing
Animal beside
The highway.

Exiting

And here we pass data to the process. The process manager can then verify that the user has the privileges to act upon the messages.

Exiting it fine

And reading and writing

Are an aide to power
Not to knowledge.

Or so says the midwife.

Wealth must be created
Socially - but wealth is
Appropriated individually

Appropriated individually

To make one's own.
The making of a thing
Into private property

And we
Appear torpid.

From the standpoint of a higher economic society, private ownership of the globe by single individuals will appear quite as absurd as private ownership of one man by another.