Sunday, March 28, 2010

Metal Box

Packing the house - and just the general day by day. things come into being and then pass away.

The metal box pops and cracks
Early mourning son warm wealth.

Disturbing dreams. Injured children.
Black night black dog slaughtered
Sacrificial meal.

Nectar gathering bees buzz hum
Pleasing flowering vines.

Mislaid keys hiding keys
Dog harness whispering.

Belly bulging moon mother
Mother to All of the Gods.

And needless they support the troops arguing
That freedoms are advanced by murder.
No No No. For that thank the dissident
The ones who stand up and out, who face jail
And worse flying the face of the old ways.
Where were the soldiers of 1967?
Where were the coppers the Day of Mourning?

Squat brown and black gargoyle beetles
Meander and plumb the extravagant
Exposed floral genitalia
A new bud appears. Faint crimson hint
Held tightly folded protective embrace.
The wide brimmed artichoke leaves wilt and droop
The worrying, the eviscerating sun,
The corrupting sun, the humiliating sun.

Black wound licking dog. Crone aware black dog
Howling meating place of many roads
Grandmother of the threshold, the crossroads,
Protector of pregnant women. When black dogs
Bark and wander the night, she is close at hand.

A raven verifies from north to south
Vision and fast and low she flies
All the while imitating the cries
Of a nearly born infant.

Before sunset - before night falls
The bulging moon smother.

A tiny leave falls, or a piece of a leaf
Falls transforms into a butterfly
Or a moth and the fantails piccolo
And posture display shattered clods move
And expose the expectant moon.

Harsh the echoing house is empty
Quiet is the clanking clattering kid sounds
No more are the triggers to memory.
The house is empty.

Thursday, March 25, 2010


Packing up the house. and the process of making live a poem. the external to the internal and then externalised again.

I guess Amy Winehouse will not
Sing for the returned cosmonauts
No! No! No!

Clear night dropping down high pressure
Shimmering Scorpio. Orion,
The Southern Cross. Too soon to see
The Milky Way. Wrong time of year.

Rhodomontade - vain and empty
Vaunting over perfect morning
Giggle & Hoot; Bubble & Squeak
Boasting Faustbuch. Many colours.
Hunger eased. The Waste of the West.
Western waste. Rapped up ding shan tithe
Wise she undresses the shower.

Close a wasp flies. Far off a plane.

In the mornings of plane delaying fog
The mist rolled blanketed smothered closed hugged
The land frustrating false public servant
Passengers. Come the forenoon the fog rose.
Dreamy blue sky. The scattered staggering
Line of plants spread and arced to the Eastern
Sun rising light and warmth. A single rose
Red at the summit a purple collar
Flush of leaves. Shocked red stain. Jangle of green.
Symbolic fraying and browning edges.

Too am wake up calling standing
The back yard steams of breath fading
Thin clods mixing to dissipate.
Old bills old receipts warranties
Household product old purchases
Old cards and paper mementos
Acknowledged measured examined
Sundered unto the steaming tip
Heat generating money mount.

Repulsive gnome faced polyp want
A croaker gargoyle champagne
Add victors vomit froth misery
My telly lie box bone dig it all
Sex set tip top. Elect trickily.

Tuesday, March 23, 2010

Meandering Shelters

selling packing the house - delving with lawyers and banks and agents and all sorts - it's a bourgeois town. got a copy of 'The Golden Bough' for the trip. so we are almost there - just a few days to go.
this is, like all poetry, an autobiography. the last few days in a few lines.

I - Rex Nemorensis

Early Morning
Patty cakes &
Car tunes
Slight aroma
Burnt edge
Burnt toast
Butter Honey
Thick rich scent
Coffee's on
Blurry growl
Opens her eyes
Closes her eyes

Kookaburra sings
Chattering braying jackass
She holds enfolds the snake
The serpent in her strong beak
Breaking bones upon the branch

Deep dewdrop night
The trees show
The first blush
Of autumn

Butterflies spread
Their wings


The dog sits
East West Axis
Sphinx wise


No scanning of prison staff
And they are calling all the time
To see if we are okay

II - Laughter none

Puddles of bubbles and sinks
Of slops of last nights stew

Dreamy blue sky
King of the wood
Runaway slave
The mirror lake
Mortal combat
Forest husband

The purple bloom of Iola
The crimson crush of rose petal
Spilt blood and fleeting beauty
Point to an ancient
To a deep sorrow

A sad philosophy
Goods of the spindle

III - Violet Stained Dawn

Admixture is more everyday than Purity
Purity is blockage a dead end
The way of death constriction
A closure a resolution
Purity is a narrowing
Purity is delusion
Admixture is the everyday
The contact which brings

Thin clear night wine stars electric sky

High Pressure System
Clear clear jet clear
The earth gives up heat

The hollowed out immature dragonfly
Hangs Christlike across the fine
Lines of the spider dew drop web
Early morning low angled sun
Refracts the drops of water
Forming spherical rainbows
Around and about the corpse
Allowing the spider
To live another day

The light and the water mix
And rise and form a billowing
Blanket over the creek

The night time gentle weeps
The crimes of day light.

Saturday, March 20, 2010


not much happening here - just walking the dog and thinking. the pic comes from

The closure of the naval
Communication centre
All cordoned off
After last years cull
(400 killed)
The new developments around
This end of town.
Even so gray roos
Now mob the covert.

A flat thumping sound.

Extravagantly exuberant growth
Phalanx of grassy hedgehog
Flower dactyl spears
Haphazard racing embrace
The sun. Rays fall through
Afternoon oblique curtains
Angles drop indirect light
Formless the wall
Over her bed.
Above her head.

Acrobatic bull fighters
On the delta wall.

Detritus of last
Months heavy rains
Dirt pacted path
Of years of home
From work walks.

Snapping wing sound grass
Hoppers taking flight
Far off the prop thin
Sound of a slate sky
Obscured plane
The wind rattles the dry
Leaves imitating
The watery flowing.

Green drought
Just dig
Your hands
A little bit
Dry as...

Friday, March 19, 2010

Merry Round Go

When my eyes watch
The solid pavement
I look up and feel
Like I am falling

Tendrils of mist twist
Above the small creek
Symbolic gyre of new day

And round and round
Of antebellum St Kilda
Skittish sea shield caldera
Depression of 2 thousand
Year old isolation isle

Packing this packed age
Of my life - rolling
Knife and spoon and fork
And cup and dish newspaper
Political gossip everyday
Tragedy sorrow

Weathered and silent

Smeared fire smoke cloud
Hazard reduction

In her dancing dress and
Her urine soaked under things
She loves the evil ones.

Monday, March 15, 2010


with the kids at the beach, thinking how full of crap are the theists. how bereft of
imagination are there small brain pans which can not conceive of millions and billions of years of evolution slowly twisting turning the world into the one we see now. the grandeur and the depth of the universe, the smallness of our existence. am i to really belief this is only 4000 years old? but how can one argue when it is of course satan who planted fossils to cause us to doubt.

Low tide as clouds of sand rise the wind
Whirling across the face of the beach.
Dripping of wet sand warm from my hand
Clear green soda bottle transparent waves
Roll swell and fall onto the slabs of black
Basalt millions of years ago laid down.
High tide and I recall a childhood tale
From Flinders earliest fossils found
How the thin fingerling of cyclonic
Rains sauntered far flung Carpentaria
Down the rising gulley wadi dry creek bed.
Crashing the water flows over the rocky
Tableau blocks, actualises countless
Tide rolling and surging back timeless
Tiny rivulets of miniature fractured waterfalls.
Constant like this for millions of years.

Friday, March 12, 2010


Apparently there is a disconnect between our desires and the external world. this is clearly seen in the realm of the commodity, how all things are engulfed the cash nexus. seems like i am adding nothing new to the discussion, and yet it needs to be said over and over again. or maybe the poem itself is a Disappointment, i know i am not very happy with it.

Woolgathering mornings of coffee and shivering
Inane frail sunlight. Overcast of overnight rain.
Playing sing song episodes of fancy. Sun and shade.
Pale mild eyed lotus eating of melting butter
And viscous honey milk swirl of slightly smoky bread.

Days of rain mean the creek behind the house is in flow.
Fingerlings pierce and dart the bent over shore side grass.
The sun falls in parallel lines alternating light
And dark as the surface constant flowing blades shift.
Fluffy clouds disperse and evaporate the afternoon.
The wild new green grass over recent hillside fire.

Walking with the children in the humid afternoon.
The others in wide directions of moving one two
Three four, unknown unknowable. Dirty shiny clothes
Sweating and puffing to never again see never more.
No response no acknowledgement no feelings social.
This is how commodities freedom communicate.
And the row shelves of tin canned packaged food and drink
All worldly goods bear odious white paper labels
Of Arabic numerals and laconic symbols.
This is how commodities are presented.

And in the library excitement of knowledge fails
As story time lack of imagination and funding
And smug narrow minded babbittry of risk averse
Satisfaction scrimps and steals from future generations.
And the rows of books collecting hundreds if not more
Years of human knowledge and striving, numbered and priced,
Odious and laconic. A type of rationing
As strong as any program of war communism.
Frayed and torn covers, splitting plastic jackets, brittle
Cellophane tape, mouldy yellow brown of Bovary,
Seeking approval unsteady underlines of students.

This is how commodities are presented
Disappointing in the particulars.
Disappointing in circulation.

Sunday, March 7, 2010


Next year marks 100 years of International Woman's Day. The text of the poster says:

"8th of March is the day of rebellion of the working women against kitchen slavery
and "Down with the oppression and narrow-mindedness of household work!".

From a recent report by Australian Bureau of Statistics:

The Australian Bureau of Statistics (ABS) figures show that while woman have taken on more paid work, they still do about two thirds of the housework, while men do two-thirds of paid work.

or as was written in 1844

"The change in a historical epoch can always be determined by women's progress towards freedom, because here, in the relation of woman to man, of the weak to the strong, the victory of human nature over brutality is most evident. The degree of emancipation of woman is the natural measure of general emancipation."

From the Sydney Morning Herald today:

In a separate study by the Inter-Parliamentary Union, Australia lags behind countries including Rwanda, Sweden and Cuba and is on a par with Afghanistan, coming an equal 32 in the percentage of women holding lower house or single house seats in parliament.

Saturday, March 6, 2010

Soft Blue

the bus the botanic gardens the recent rain. and sum idears i have bean kinking around - a type of cinematic flatness & the multiplicity of aspects. the object alone.

The unschooled children squeal in delight
At the copper tarnished eastern water dragon.
Intent on observation she splashed the water.
After recent rains the plants green riot grow.
Piecring sun absorbing new green growth colour.
Yellow tinted spreading open simple rules,
Red shading around the edges, best for acute
Angles of twilight morning evening. A leaf falls
Mute on the floor of the elevator. Rich, almost
Indescribable, green the listless shiny shoe gray
Invested carpet. One single leaf repose.
And the bus stopped and three passengers got off.
One young man boarded. Endwise of three passengers
Bump jostled shoulders the novice. And turned sudden
In anger, greasy dirty look thrust, knife quick flash.
Mournful mother her face away in sorrow
Eyes open of prominent tears and trouble.
Flat white clouds too thin to puzzle the sun.
Hooded long hair. A nod and sits. Did you seee that?
Flowers rising from ocean flows of comet chaos.
Howled kitchen faults across a wall, grappled Da.
I told him to get off me. To get off. You fat fuck
I said, and he kept wailing on me. I had my knife.
Brightly coloured rags of commerce flutter red yellow
Green beads of water on the blades of grass blue.
Terrible as an army with banners. Mist shrouds the gully
A place gray of shadows and damp quiet darkness.
Triangle torso scratched into the burnt brick wall.
Acquitted. Mental problems. Could not remember.
Damp down gully, childhood prophecy episode.
And it was five months fuck around with remand and bail.
In the end I got off. The old man slouches makes himself
All homewise and invisible wholesome chews around
Poured aggregation canyons of efficiency.
It was the style. A grammar of disturbance.
At the time. Fought in the kitchen. I took my knife
Out its hollow. If you do not get off; let me leave,
I will open this. Stick it in your gut. He backed away.
Tales of chemicals prescribed and street bought.
So they called the cops and I had to go to that place
Behind the old library every week, it was...
Near the old school? No the other face. Oh yes I know.
Had to do a pee test every week. For six months, I had to...
What, for drugs? Saluting feeding the beggar birds
Two buskers play guitar, a fountain, fast food
Cooking, cigarettes, short denim pants. The old woman
Drags her tartan sundry trolley and curses, the old
Man uses his cane to activate the traffic lights.
Tried it the once, it was too intense, I gotta go...

Tuesday, March 2, 2010

The Grammar of the Lotus

Came across this book when i was in the local library, and i just loved the name. The Grammar of the Lotus: a New History of Classic Ornament as a Development of Sun Worship.

Written by William Henry Goodyear (1846 - 1923)

London: Sampson Low, Marston, 1891.

It was easy enough to find.