Tuesday, October 27, 2009

Along Ho!

Writing poetry on the bus and thinking about how the media controls everyday life, i came up with this. And how the military learned some lessons from Viet Nam and did not learn others. Seems they learned more about domestic control than about defeating insurgents.hegemony it is sometimes called.

Enjoy the free wallpaper. click on the picture to open it up and then copy it using your favorite method.

Along Ho! Whale of amore
Came inaudible from the valmy
Eart myself. Being there low (like
The worry songs of Ella Peartz).

The sound waves profited true
The grind, true the winds stone.
The greater maker moundy muddy stoney,
Sandy stone, Limey stone, the sanity
Wound looms aboit the ground water.

Torn and striped and exploded
And poisoned. Gaia criet
Out and amid the noiz of
The city state rapid in Tet valleys
Band snuggly bunny hard again the wood.
Earth embracing seas poy signposted;
Ore the chitter chatter of the cafes,
Slight clinking of gripe and mendacity
And shite - eat it all up gringos.
Father forget them and all such like
Christ like quotes and we canny let
The Wymen Volk out front army front
And centre line. And if it is so

The jarring clashing coin upon coin
Ringing all around falling dead
To the ground. Counting, amounting,
Not many here the cries and thems
That dew, well they are all
Marginalised, spat, vomit upon.
The power of the stated airwaves
Of the opinion stages.

Wednesday, October 21, 2009

Every telling is a taleing

here is a recording of joyce reading 'Anna Livia Plurabelle'

Sunday, October 18, 2009


Went to the coast and stood on the beach and thought about calypso's island. I thought it was a good poem when i first wrote it, but now i am not so sure. Anyway have fun with it...

Sly eyed Odysseus sighed seven years.
Longingly the salt sea breaking waves.
Eons of pebbles and broken shells
Run tumble up and back the beach.

The unprizable sun relentless
And the blinding burning sand
Fuels and fires wasting sorrow.
His longing for his wife, his son
His home, his place...

Dissembling tears. On the foam embraced sand,
Fair braided nymph, enchanted island, she sings
Songs as sweet and light as the Bell Miners call.
And the air is dusky dim with aromatic dreams,
Faint spices of cypress and eucalypt trees.

Tears for Penelope
Tears for Telemachus
Tears for long dead comrades.

The All-Seeing Slayer
Ungracious gods! with spite and envy cursed!
Still to your own ethereal race the worst!

Did ever goddess by her charms engage
A favour'd mortal, and not feel your rage?

In the evening,
As when the sun goes down, the rosy-fingered Moon
Outshining all the stars, her light spreads
Over the salty sea, over the many-flowered fields.
Odysseus returns treacherous
To the daimon and her enchanting haunt
Her soothing oils and calming wine.
The obscure pair
Clamor'd the livelong night.

And with the child of morning...

And so away wretched man
You came here half dead and alone!
It was I who raised you back to life gave you
Health and strength gave you love
And two children. When Zeus mocked
And scorned and cursed you, when
Zeus killed all your crew, alone,
Forsaken in the wide sea, it was I
Who brought you back. Now Zeus relents.
And you! Fie! on Zeus and Fie! on you.
Go I say, be on your way.
Back to your puny wealth, to your
Flocks and herds to your wife and women
Skilled in many arts. Back to your men
Skilled in rowing and destroying.
Back to your blood feuds and your vanity.

Zeus Penelope Laertes
All goad you into hate. It was I gave you back
Your tears and sighs your silent whispers.
You could have stayed with me.
We could live forever never weakening
Never forgetting or trembling gray.

Go back to your loom loosening wife
Now near forty and gray and tired.
I foretell only death and killing,
A great massacre in your house.
And you shall teach your son, barely downed
With whiskers, to kill in anger, to slaughter
The giggling chits, and you and your son
With be coated with blood and filth
And you will win your puny crown.
And Heros shall gain renown and be
Sung of and down through generations.
For what?! A splash of ribbon, a lie
Or a plot of land. It is absurd!
Odysseus you may be a many witted man
But you lack imagination.

Free and forever
Together as One
We could have lived
A bower of bliss.

Go I will not stop you, it is commanded
I shall give you all assistance I can
I will give you food and wine and fair wind.
So take this not as a curse, but rather
A vision terrifying of what I see
For I can see your future devious man
Forever and ever on shall you fight
Over nothing and kill over illusions.

Insatiate are ye Gods, past all that live,
And it were the Americans what parked
Dear tanks by the flesh pots
And tar pits burning of ruined

Saturday, October 3, 2009

The Ball at the Moulin de la Galette

Was looking after the little girl (soon to be three) on a damp cold wet early spring sort of day. (woke up to the baby crap of the century!!) we watched a short doco about this painting on telly. i was thirsting for an opportunity to be even more derivative - and so this is what i came up with.

The location of the beer garden in the painting is very near to where the French army buried the many massacred after the suppression of the Paris Commune.

The painting itself is an attack on all that came before. The very idea of painting outside, the way colour is used (there is no black for example), the eccentric perspective, the play of light. It is a very radical piece, and one that does not mention the squalor beneath the surface, the poverty of the lives of his models. Renior was concerned with Beauty, In this way he was able to forget the many dead buried just near this working class locale.

The afternoon yellow light sun
Falls through the trees, through
The leaves, through the thin woody
Sprays, the strong wooden boughs
Dividing and quavering the light.
The afternoon light yellow falls
On the corner of the table,
Flashing an emerald green.

Ambiguous sunny Sunday afternoon
Of carefree dance and sparkling
White wine like electricity garden.

As the crouching stalking domestic
Cat follows and chases the small
Brown mouse or twittering yellow
And gray bird, until she loses
Herself in the thick scrub and
Wild grasses of the set aside
Nature reserve. As the young child
Chases the bouncing balloon caught
In the light breeze, or the teasing
Wagtail, until the child loses itself
In the wild grasses and thick scrub
Of the reserve over the fence.

Even so do the dancers of late
Afternoon carefree yellow
Sunlight youth forget
Their day to day cares,
The endless listed payments,
Pointless busy work waste.

Even so
Do beer garden dancers
Forget themselves,
Their history.

Friday, October 2, 2009


Hephaestus, the greek equivalent of vulcan, was the 'god' of technology (if such a thing can be spoken about). he worked with fire and metal, and made a great many fabulous things, including some robot helpers. he worked with his hands, and was lame. he was rejected by his parents. i thought to myself, is this a way of seeing our relationship to technology? all this working of metal and etc has made us lame, unloved, unlovable. following on the poem pretty much wrote itself....

Hoplites. Attic black-figure lekythos, 510–500 BC, found in Sala Consilina. http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Lekythos_hoplite_Petit_Palais_ADUT01575.jpg

Cunning limping god, born without fire
Borne without father, aegis riding sky
Who brings life along the surface of the
Sea, aegis riding sky holding storms.
Unloved son thrown from the heavens.
Forced to forge the manacles to confine
The fire sharing mild of light. Forced to
Wed the copper eyed lover of laughter.
Unloved child, cuckold husband. Thrown
Down from high, falling full nine days
And at the windy time of the of ninth
He landed alone an unknown island.
Into the world, cast aside his parents.
Born by no father he was abused by
Dread son of Cronus, false fabricator,
Suckled of the goat, fed honey from bees.
Storyteller, inventor of lies.
When he landed, shattering his legs,
At the going down of the sun, and the
Spreading into all places of shadows,
At the windy time of the day, after his fall,
At the meeting of women, his wounds
Were tended with virtuous plants,
And his pain was eased. All the night
The hoplites, danced naked, clashed shields.

The rock flamed and made liquid magic.
Thin arabesque of gold and silver,
Rings with sparkling precious stones,
Tendriled undulating arm bands
Of sharpest copper and shiny bronze,
Chains of purest gold as fine as spun
Silk and worked with tender scenes,
Gold as if from hay spun into threads,
Terrifying neck piece of power and diadem.
To bejewel his wife. Countless vast
Spears and arrow heads of dread orbit
Flew deadly true, chains and locks
Equal revenge and justice. The red hot
Metal into the icy barrel plunged.
The steady rhyming of hammer blows.
Painful memories. Legs broken and swollen.
His feet back to front, his mothers taunts.
Nine years cared for nine years in healing.
Cunning limping god of roaring rearing flame.
Lame and hunchbacked the forge, with anvil
And adamantine hammer, that forged helpers
Of metal uncomplaining to assist his work.
The clear uncaring flow of heat and sound
And constant pain made him halting and
Slow of speech. Those that scorned him
Despised not his creations. But with gold
And precious things he fashioned a cage
Of mind forged manacles, down the ages.

Over time, over time, over countless sleeps...
The few grew, more and more, over time,
Became many and put nature on the rack.
Tore out the smoky secrets of the caverns,
Mocked the sun and sky and moved them
In portion and rank. The technique passed
Down and over the generations. No longer
Divine, no longer sacred, known but a few.

And this new extracted knowledge spewed
Wealth and greed, mendacity and ignorance.
Towered cites grew and spread, tendrils
In all ways and time, an incessant hum.
Until even the far off terrible mountains
That border Sinia have become polluted
With the detritus of a restless knowledge,
That knows no soothing slumber, no holy
Days for home and meditation. Only more.
The busy hum of children men and women
Flitted across the lonely Sahara dunes,
The cold windswept plateau of Tibet.
The rough groans and piercing screams
Of trucks and chain saws echoed the giant
Tower trunks frail wild rain Amazon.

And so the gods retreated, turning their backs
On nature, on history, and on the logos.

Even the fiery mountains have grown cold.