Cosmonauts

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

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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.

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.

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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 
Warming
Themselves

Chauntering 
Chattering 
Singsonging
Obsessions

The dog sits
East West Axis
Sphinx wise

EMERGENCY ISSUE RESCUE FLAGGED

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 
Renewal

Thin clear night wine stars electric sky
Sparkling

Overnight 
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
    Regeneration
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.

Roos

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

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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...

Merry Round Go

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Disorienting
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.

Disappointment

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.

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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.

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.

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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...

Weather Poem

Some do not like poems with rapid changes of tone and scene. This is an attempt to show that rapid kaleidoscopic shifting appearance is in fact an accurate shadow of reality.

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To build a collage centre:

Purple embraced downy dawn
Releases nights sponge of frost.

Spinning, unquenchable, sun spreads.
Golden green energy spreading.
Life giving bond splitting answers.

Fleet whistling wind fury.
Mottled sky curdled gray.
Lashing of rain. Silent.

Birds second chorus false dawn.
Dripping green golden sun light.

Until the afternoon swung round,
Now round and hail stone ice spreading,
Blanching and endangering all.

Vast, rapid state tumbles
Paint formless landscapes.
Ever changing silence.

The Utility

Global financial crisis and all that goes with the new global village. and to much is being unsaid

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(The greatest happiness for the greatest number)
And to hear the hope boy bubba tell it,
In the main it has been positive.
A rising tide to float all boats.

Twinty sicks to none:
Bouncing and yheaving.
They loaves and fishes Oztralia 
Eat factory meat three times a day.
Of arid they have nothing to say.
Except to chortle on them immigents
Who are speaking too loud, taking too much.

And pollies twist and weave
The hot aired farting burst 
Like stringy bark hanging 
Off the swampy gum tree.

And the ute, with blond hair and a tan,
Curly capped teeth smile, sniffles
At deeds and reads the stella 
Stunna version of the breast
Feeler, a quaver as well.
A swell.

Poetic Fragment

Some times it is so damned hard to write anything, walking home from the bus stop, through the park. And I had a vision of something or other and when I got home the kids just attacked me. So rather than write I wrassled with them. When I finally got to the keyboard, this was all I had.

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The neighborhood kids build houses the thicket
The small patch of trees in the ground past the gate
Yellow knickers over a tree branch illicit
The hand crafted bong, beer bottles may relate.

And the children build imaginary castles 
In the grove of trees growing hard the power lines
Springs and summers of long afternoon idylls
And loud pushy dreams find unknown dread entwines.

Tales news services homeless children eaters

Symbols of the Dreaming from the Chaos Void

Went to the launch of an exhibit at the Belconnen Gallery in the
surprising named Belconnen Community Centre .

The exhibit was of a young artist by the name of Joabie Lovett. As
described by Professor Margot Neale (ANU), in her opening remarks, his
work has a singularity and integrity which one often fails to see
these days. There is a sense of the work being done for the pleasure
of the artist. Here we must pause for a moment to understand and
describe the pleasure of life as being the understanding and self
expansion of the self. So to rephrase the sentence. There is the
feeling that the work is being done for the personal understanding and
expansion of the artist. This seems to be a prime motive.

This is to be commended. There is no pandering to market or public
fads. The work itself can be described as a catalouge of a spirtual
journey. This is a wide ranging and catholic journey. Striding over
Buddihst, Christan, Hebrew, Egyptian, Hindu and of of course
Indigenous spirtulaity and iconography. The canvas is seen as a flat
surface for story telling (like the blank page for the poet), not so
much a mirror, or a creation of perpective illusion.

There is much to see and think about, there is much to admire. The dot
painted and cross hatched backgrounds are layered with simple yet
powerful images and painted words that extend the narrative. The use
of color was at times subtle, at other times exuberant, but never was
a unfriendly effect created.

As each of us can only speak from our experince, I was disturbed by
the godleness of the exhibit. I feel that a strong beauty and art can
be found by looking over the wide tradtion and picking the persons and
ideas that sought to free us from all idealism and into a word pure
world of nature where human history and nature again can become
one.

But that is just my personal feeling, and like the vast majority of
white people in Australia I have lived a life of relative
privilege. If anyone was to ask I would tell them to stop by the
Belconnen Gallery and judge for yourself, even if you were an old
school atheist like myself, you would find much in the exhibit to
captivate and exicte the imigination.