The Dead Bee

Waiting for the bus and noticed a dead bee in a spiders web.

---

A dead bee in an empty web - 
(Weaving as he goes) Appears at first glance
To be a magical levitating against all 
Rational thought sort of thing.

A closer look - I can see the thin
Strands invisible in the shadows 
Holding the dead hollow creature. 
(this is how it ends?)

A fine architecture of wealthy lies
The structure of our modern endeavour

And she was but a child atop the crow's nest
- The exulted call of the carrion eaters! - 

Suspended in a web above Gaia's child
 
   ((Meandering Mother) (Incest Lover)
   (Murderer of the Piercing Serpent)
   (Water Dragon of Chaos) (Demon of Envy))

A sprig of myrtle - And scattered salt
In her hair - and the dead hovering bee
At the bus stop - 

   And as she fell (with a whimper)
   She thought of far away green 
   She thought of her love.

Joy Delights In Joy

This is about how people who believe in god heaven/hell afterlife can kill with ease. let god sort it out, they say with a grim good humor.
A joycean pun on shakespeare and the opportunity to rhyme broken with bourbon.
Too Too Fabulous!

---

She dowsed him sweet knocked him flaton the ground
She regained he stood on his feet and yelled
In rage and snorting nonsensical sound
Head bone to bridge of nose and she he felled
Sweets with sweets war not she through blood spoke clear
And I moved forward sensing our weakness
Where stops the bus there shop I - laugh my dear
Once last time her blade plunged into my breast
Charming flashing red and blue filled the room
Still flashing splatters of blood and broken
Flesh and splashes of sorrow sadness gloom
And fuming anger soaped carpet bourbon

He can end as well she slays easily
Are we all not bound for eternity?

Virus

I was going somewhere or meeting someone - can't quite remember. I went down the town and was waiting in the square by the Legislative Assembly Building.
so that:

---

Virus makes satin for poison 
                          slimy liquid
Venomous sap spa
Melting away a gwy by the blutful

Language is a virus is a rose is a poison
                                       PHARMAKONS

Remedy
Poison
Charm
Drug

Numbing time mind of memory...

Watching the trees and 
               The leaves as they fall...
Fading light
Dull sleepy weepy blue
Gray bottle pink nose.
An empty fountain turned off 
After hours. An empty piazza 
And a statute shrouded in metaphysics
On Mort Street, banish mother of lain death,
Three AM drunken gibbering. A young family.
A young lesbian couple arm in arm in love
Turn and walk past. (The love that dares not
Erode all values.)     The space around the words
Is empty.    NOTHING.     Australian
Bird contrary not so much screade as sing song
Torn stripped long list of torn clothe.
Harsh calling forth the going down of day.

Lane way of heartless public arte,
A moth drowning, Death struggling listless
Water rejecting accents of light. Tip Tap
Tip tapping song riddim of a woman's shoes.
She has tied her hair back. 
                                        Her lover takes a photograph
As if affection    and the all at once    proof.

I sit on a bench and charm spells from outta lies.
Ancient plant so ill famed.    CRIMINAL.    And yet?
Leaf page cartwheels wan empty space. 

    Well Fed.
    Well Watered.
    Warm in house and dress.
    Vanity of giving. 
    And yet refuse to help.
    And extend three electrical cheers 
    For dem rulers what ax so little
    What allow 'em to be cruel, as they wanna be.

The rapid clicks and clacks
Of the bicycle tyre. A low growl
Electro dance rumba ramble.

The red of her land
The yellow of her sun
The black of her skin.

The Stoned Bus Station

One of a seemingly never ending series about public transport. it is all true.

---

The young women
The bus station

Stoned

One was wearing a hat
Made of a lactic bag
Torn and twisted into shape
Drunken DaDa - On her head

One giggling (and nothing more)

The third woman a vacant mark
On her face -
Absorb her own reald

Be Realistic

Be realistic demand the impossible, an old slogan from '68 days.

Also from 68 Je suis Marxiste, tendance Groucho

A slogan painted on a banner and hung from atop the HQ of the french football league
Football belongs to the People.

Football does not belong to the multinationals.
Football does no belong to those who initiate focus groups and vie over naming rights, the ones who buy and sell our teams and move them if it suits, destroying communities, breaking hearts.
Football does not belong to bean counting suits who force a change of jersey every year, so that fans get on a never ending cycle of needless purchases.
Gotta make money they say.
It is just business, they say.
Etc etc etc...
Blah fucking blah.

Murdoch tried to buy up rugby league, (rugby league started in australia in early 1900's after starting in northern england a few years before.) he failed, but damage has been done.

Do not be afraid, brothers and sisters!
The world is hurtling to disaster and we are constantly told "We can not fix the problems, global recession and all that."
What the bosses lack in imagination they make up for in avarice.
The bosses will destroy OUR world for a few bob.
Let us not be so constrained.
We have nothing to lose, we have a world to gain.

---

(Every political failure is 
A failure of imagination)

For the old men and old women
In the factories ten twenty thirty
Years on the same production 
Line. Knots of knuckles contorted
Twisted arthritic pain
Constant missing digits or
Fractions of digits
    Burnt - cut - calloused

Be Realistic -
    Demand the Impossible
Why not free buses?
Why not free health care?
Why not free education?
Why not no armies?
Why not no racism?

Woden

gotta love bus stations all of life in one block. must have written this on a Wednesday.

---

Fragile underneath old-timey 
Wan god of war and leftist lover
Of pale poetry

Pilgrim bus station - 
Dressed all taffeta - drunken
Police Methadone 

Today the nameday giver of poetry

Wending my way northwards - to hell - 
Windy the modern onset - underground -
Twisting and turning now facing East
Now Vespers - Now the roaring clotted
End of day

       Now the reedy couple - 
       Junky rushed - Screaming Desires
       
  Thrown packet of cigarettes
  Into the face -

      Obscenities hurled 
      Along the platform 

Young woman on a bench makes 
Herself small, not easy to see
While screaming they care not 
Only intent on each others failings
And so ignore as she sends messages
To her friends

A thin silver cross 
Between rounded breasts.

Afternoon

I wrote this sometime. just over a year ago. looking over some stuff and i thought, i like this one. so here it is.

---

In the laughternoon
    The settling son sorrows
    The thousand and one 
    Bosoms of Artemis
Away walking
The slight blush our ladye's
Waye away lousy deer!
Away you Elders!

Sway away - false economics
From the lien of the loan
To the bust of the bank
The surface is beautiful 
Dazzling - but underfoot
Only corruption and death

The view from here
    Seem limitless
Far into space
Far across the future
But when one looks down
Everything stands on a motion
Of death - a motion to despair

Or the jenny sister would 
Mouth it - Windmer day
When all would speak
    And be taught shame.