Friday, March 20, 2009

It's a Heavy Rain...

I went out last weekend, (weekend of March 13 2009.) Had some drinks, met up with some pals, heard some music, and heard some new tall tale, cock and bull stories. All in all an unexciting, pleasant evening. (had a notebook with me, taking notes like a mossad agent).


From obsessive readings of Pound, I have learned abrupt, almost nonsensical changes of mood, place, tense etc. This piece is lousy with s sort of damned quantum jumping.


I have tried to jam pack this piece full of shite & onions.


Some parts are from the letters of a certain young sailor who used the moniker of E**** M****. Quite a bit is pillaged from the B__d of A__n.


An overwhelming question, that does no ask what is it, is the questions of poetical transcendence or visionary power through a "long, intimidating, immense and rational derangement of all the senses."


Drugs alcohol etc all do this. But so too obscuring nyx and our sign posted civitas. The sounds of the automated world, the nightmare glare destroying the zodiac. The hypnocritical power of epilepsy music, constant emotions of rhythm, falling from the open trance doors of the clubs splicing sounds onto the pavement.





Ennui

A very pretty salon
With a piano

Sun light smashes
On white wet tea leaves
A rainbow spans the East.

A continuous
Spectrum Quantized
Multicoloured arc
Red on the outside
Violet inside.
Rainbow apex will form
Roughly 42 degrees
Above the location
The antisolar point

Science tells me this.
Empirical. Repeatable.
The conditions to predict
A rainbow I know and I can
Then
Point out to the children
Where a rainbow will be...
Any less precious?
Aphrodisias space
Dual Banded Alexander.











Kicks & Beatings

We are looked after by
Four poor ships boys
Scurvying the night
Crusty letting out the air
Of four wheel Drive tyres
Shutting down petrol
These dirty bludging
Throw away children
Are the one who will...
And these children that you spit on
Immune to your consultations
Ecstatic feral ones you despise
Whose training consists of
Kicks and Beatings

Murderous of public
Cursing a rout of rebels
Opinion air ways Rage

THE RABBLEMENT:
Whoreson beetle-headed
Flap-ear'd knaves!
Rascals senesless villains
Caterpillars lentil-fed knaves

Away,
You whoreson upright rabbits
Away!

Loggerheads, rascals.
Malt horse drudges.
Dogs! I will Blast
And give 'em all a
Great galloping
Dose of 'ows your farder...

Hang, cur! hang
Insolent noisemaker!
How now Brown cow...
You whoreson peasant!
Where have you been these
Two days loitering?

RABBLE OF MODERATION:
Rebels, traitors; (let us) scourge
With haughty arms
This hateful name.

All this carry-on
Tut tut...
(What hempen home-spuns
Have we swaggering here)
They seem to do their
Cause more harm than
Good.

And so to arms, victorious father,
To quell the rebels and their complices
I assure you it makes
Them remarkably obedient
Think, thy slave man rebels
And by thy virtue
Set them into confounding odds
That beasts may have the world
In empire!











Nausea

Bunches of blossoms
Bloom the corded branch
Butter shiny after the rain
Arousing all insect manner
Winged and crawling...
Dark to the West
Glowing
A man running
I was, I am
Horribly sea sick

Empty Bus Station
Lonely of an evening
Reflected blank windows
Office Block. Brutal.

Dense fagends of saliva agenda.
What matters the orthodontist?
Who is inconvenienced, hindered,
Annoyed? Car tyres let down.
One billion One dollar a day.
Three billion Two Fifty a day.
I really miss the comforts of home

Mysterious brown thighs
Of breakfast and long narcotic
Languor Workday Afternoon
Whiskey soda water and ice
Crushed.

Small silvereyed birds
Chorus unseen. An umbrella doubles
As a cane. Coughing Spitting
Shaking the ground for support.











Radiant Nemesis

Shining Adrasteia
Black glowing laneway.
Nyx bare deadly dreams
Nyx bore the implacable
Executrix, lover of hooded
Bloody sanded fighters.
Old, ancient, old
Long before the gods...

Squalid cord of dirty mirrors
Sloppy spilling of college age
Friends of the band
BrokenDown old
Half rail way
Shot gun house.












All Art is Art

Swinging bare iron mips
Of trenchtown roots rock
Sea & Sky always the Same

The cooling after rain
Of outside. It's Stupid. Slow
And Fuzzy.
I wont die for your lies
Mother Fucker
I wont die for your greed
For you failures for your
Power tripping
Mutha Fucker

I wont kill for your lies
Mother Fucker
I wont kill for your greed
For you failures for your
Power tripping
Mutha Fucka











Porco Dio

The constant electronic
Metronome flash of security
Hypnotised W/ music sounds
Of one hundred conversations
One thundered luvers dramas
Metal porcelain Nick
The Stripper shells
Ecstatic porcine jugs
Fill flame shabby ideas
Upon the shelved walls
Piss pot toby mugs into
Down his hatch one more...
Last bunk bush rail outta town
Phornographic flash and echo
Far truck thunder. A rational
Disordering - take apart
Put hence together senses
Sonic boom blast room box
Lift lit with pale stinkly
Mobile fone LED. The moon
Lint courting noble fire
Fly Lighting doodle bug
Phrenzy. Six nose Ate
Coopers Gaurning the
Buttress oil rum drunk
Daemons padrone. I etch
The lost bunch multiple
Drammes of lite disordered
Sensations of beaming and
Followed hard upon by shadow
Toddle and balance lost
Following her bat wing ass
Door her long hare swaying
Full 85% moon tat waxing
Or more and the harsh
Mudern Lite...











And
This evening
The sea
Was

More phosphorescent
Than usual...
The boat seemed to be plunging
A SEA OF FIRE.

It was quite

Beautiful.


















Monday, March 9, 2009

Dreamskip with Hunter

This was entered for a contest. One had to use the word "home" in a poem, I guess cause they rhyme. The was my entry. A dream scape with Jagger. And the song i was listening to? Pretty lame in all, I guess it was why the poem was not published :-) It makes me smile.





Oh me Oh my - In the dark and the chill
I'm falling I'm falling I've fallen
(It's so very lonely - you're MM lightyears...)

Hungry Ocelots Massacre Everybody
Orggressive Militarists Emaciate Hellopotamia
(From the swerve of the Trigger
to the bend of the Oesophagus)
Maddening Emperors Hail Oligarchs
Everywhere Happiness Opposes Money

With the light comes the warmth - I'm Rising I'm Rising
I've Risen - Back to my home - your beating hot.

Wednesday, March 4, 2009

Ashen Overlord

This was written a while ago, maybe i was thinking something, but i can't remember what. This one had a heap of edits to make into something legible. (The $ sign envoi is a BASH variable construct, I do like shell programming, it is in many ways the epitome of reuse) When you do something on the UNIX Command Line, you should ask yourself how can i abstract this, how can i script this and make it generic?







He wore a pulverised hard rock
Pluto ash silt soot. Froth gray
Ember in the industry. Cinder gray
Was whats tarn locos what says.

Describe the colour
Fat deposition copper
What sed, settling spit
Lees on his lip...

The colour of cancerous
Old man a Juno wag
A wagging might.

And I thought of my old grandpa
Gold on the kitchen table.
Sitting up straight Dead Eyes judging
And his lucky Club Polo shirt
Fume, dross and faded washings.

The skin was blind cloudless
Flat now dead granpa smeart back
The kitchen table. Eyes open
The tearburn smut suit fifty
Dollars that shop the maul. Dead.

And the unknowing dog sniffed
And licked back his hand dead.
And muther charsed the dog
Out the kitchen. Jimmy Jimmy
She screamt aloud - taken
That cur outside eh?! Take him
Filthy beast and tie him up.

${For the rest of the day
the dog howled and bayed
her opposition to the leash}

Sunday, March 1, 2009

Feb 2009 SLAM @ The Front



Went to the Front Cafe for the monthly poetry reading/slam,
the first slam for 2009. Actually was quite nice fun night out 'cause there were a hole heap of new faces and verses.

Omar won (again!).

A new poet started off the evening with a wondrous poem about the stages of womanhood. A powerful piece, which if she had stayed and allowed the poem to be 'judged', would have doubtless won a prize. Alternating spoken word and snatches of thin sung chorus lines, which worked to link the stages, this was the sort of work which makes one ashamed to be a man. A sharp biting work on familial and sexual relations of power. (unfortunately i was not prepared with pen and notebook to take notes, so i can not remember her name) Some other new faces, and faces not heard for several months.

It is a universally accepted truism that art is a religion and that the museums are the cathedrals for this religion. If we follow this metaphor into a conceit we can see the front gallery as being a consoling chapel.

Moving (beer in hand) into the adjoining gallery. Three artists were on show entitled 'Three in a row'.

"Three lines are necessary to enclose any space and three dimensions are required to form a solid"

The catalog stated:
"There is unity, oneness and harmony, in our concepts, manifested in our work in the shapes of eggs, circles and dream lines.
Individually our work is fundamental, original, and primal.
Our work shown together as a whole is elemental and organic" I could not disagree with these statements, and the unity is shown in all the works.

However I would have to say that the "unity is a complete interpenetration rather than a mere harmony".

One wall was filled with works of drawn eggs. Simple, still on the white canvas a thin red wash crossing the front of the piece, very simple and very powerful, calm and mediative like a Zen painting or a Rothko.

There were too few textile pieces by Lyndy Roslyn Delian which were of a very high standard, as fitting so important an artist.

Some prints were on display which subtly captured the organic shapes of the Australian environment. (I enjoyed trying to pick out the species of plant represented in these monochromatic collages.)

And my favourite of the exhibit, were some small pieces made out of glass. Like fantastic maps to a unknowable city, they captured my attention with the simple radiance of the creations. As was true of all of the objects in this exhibit, these glass works created an meditative air. And as the catalog spoke of harmony and unity and of a spiritual connection and quality, one can only say that all of the works in this exhibit succeeded. Even if like myself, you hold a more materialist view of nature, it is hard not to be moved by the mediative quietude created by this exhibit.

Following on from this evening of humbling art the mass was called to order. The readings, like in a dissenting church, were all from the laity.

i read some stuff - some of which may have been posted before - but now they are posted again in a different format.




Poem One: (It's 1977 and i hope i go to heaven, ive been too long on the dole and i can't work no more) (The mystical revelations of Crasstafari)


The Welfare State


Cause all property is theft
Cause all poverty is theft
Or y cunt dem drakies unterstate
Weeeeee stolet fairdinks an squire

The black state awe wite pauper
Blanknife salted feta pepper
She strands the waide open systhyme
Frails downdy do onto her kneeck


Do they owe us a living?
Course they do
Course they fucking do





Poem Two: (Another day at work, and i wish i could die)
Parking Lot

Voiceless tatters of paper, bits
Of confettied leaves vortext
Across the grim (picture of our future)
Parking lot. Slight mist of dust raised
Brown mixing shattered underfoot drought
Dry grass flowering. Hot - It shall not
Rain, the wind from northwest bays.
My heart is empty. Our lives are empty
Alien. No more, no more, evermore.

Futile.
Ugly and futile is this world.

She sighing gulfed away the ice
Melted gin and tonic one desperate
After drunkenness veil of anonymity.




Poem three: (For Patrick White)
She sometimes wished she were dead
Riding on the bus after work
On the way home, with smashing
Slashing lighting crashing the middle
Distance. In this twilight of dusk,
Ach! she thought one can have these
Sentimental ideas, these silly adolescent
Ideas. Fearful of home with her uncaring
Husband and piled bills and tasks
Of cooking cleaning maybe she thought
This idea is not so silly after all.
Listening to them on the bus, inane
Chatterings of sneezing and sniffing
And coughing on the bus with mobile
Phones and plans for the weekend (plans
She knew went no further than getting
Drunk) Overlistening to them
She felt like a spy - like a spy
Who wished only simply coldly to die.




Poem four: (a mash up - or just an old fashioned collage - cutting it old skool)

Remember to Kick It Over

Emancipate yourself!
From mind forg'd mental
Manacles of Slavery.

Stef, she tapped her head,
Her forehead, with her hand.
It is here we must kill
Both Rome and Babylon.

Faces in the street
From marks of Trenchtown
Ghetto woe to Gaza's white
Phosphorus tv bombs.
To London's charter'd street
To the beat of weary feet.

In here, again she tapped
Her forehead, inhaling deep.
Speed thin sheen of sweat.

She inhaled and coughed...
Can I see another's woe
And not be in sorrow too?

Emancipate yourself!
From mind forg'd mental
Manacles of Slavery.

It is here we must kill
Both Rome and Babylon.



And then i were done and 'twas time for transubstantiation. i spent the rest of night (and part of the mourning) transmuting beer into pretense and forgetting the banal hum drum of working life. SUBSTANTIA EST FURTUM.

Vomitoria