Pedesis

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This is not any sort of a critique. it is impressions and thoughts and feelings over the course of an evening. i was lucky enough to see Televison play at the Void Bar in Hobart's Museum of Old and New Art.

Pedesis, or the night I saw Television.

Down distant shadow extending
Mountains to the flat marshes below.
Egyptian valley of the dead kings
New Yawk art dirt scene garage.
Dug and torn limestone walls
Hand sharp scraping nails
And the light and the colours emboss
Expose surface weird shape faces
Billion year old dead ocean floor
Catacomb tunnels, a history lesson.
And always falling slow below
Rain - democratic rain of atoms
Swerving Brownian epicurean rain
Sewering onto the gluttonous mire
Maladetta, fredda e greve.

And the light!
And the light!
All things are built light
Rolling thoughtless waves
Fade away and radiate.
Long tunnel building light
Sex cramped sardines. Alma Venus.
Dancing billion year dead abyss
Falling rain of generations of fish shit
Tiny calcium carbonate exoskeletons
Patient rock cliff gouged hand and mind
Falling rain like the atoms and swerving
On the heads of the many onto the floor
Of the insatiable sea.

Harsh camera flash belch -
Acid turning oceans
Tiny shells corroding
Not forming - like an atom bomb
Lisping fractal recursion, play old man
Old man, too late, ah christ be double fucked
I am discharging. Cicadas on tree branches
Climb and sometimes sing.
We gather bars, talk endless.
Solitare joy of pure thought
Contemplating pedal steel
Endless rhythm building
Climaxing disorder of sound
Ah! Tis a pretty death!

Band art Faraday cave cage.
Cool outside away night air embrace
Smoking assassins, scientists, and artists.
Old friends chat, new ones stumble.
The celtic bard opines advances moots
Looking at his watch “There was a time
I would not be drunk enough to go out
This early.” Monads muttering
And stuttering, sweating, anxiety
A chance remark serviles me
Battered I fall rain limp,

Atoms in the void,
Unable to catch each other up.
Contort yourself one time
Turning pleasure into fear
Society into isolation
Contort yourself two times
Vortex of anxiety and self-loathing.
Bright police lights
Terror driving home
Country star exposing dark
Unloved unlit country roads.
And high beams make wallaby
Shadows of road side shrubs.

An Imaginary Review

Artist have only interpreted the world, in various ways; the point is
to change it.

I am not an artist, at least not a visual artist, so of course my
views do not count much more than a hill of beans, a bucket of warm
spit. Well maybe they count a little, as anyone can study - perhaps in
spare time between working and children and the invariable quest for
transcendence, and through patient study understand several of the
received wisdoms about art. One may understand and still be unable to
create art themselves. My concern is to review with having any actual
art works involved. I am not so much interested in 'attacking' an
artist or a single work, or group of works. My wish is to use this
essay as a skeleton. A skeleton that I can flesh out with my obscure,
unloved words. A skeleton I can use to conceptualise a review.

Driving in the car, damp, overcast, drizzle. I heard part of a static
interrupted interview on RN the other day. An artist, a photographer,
had created a series of black and white photos. The works were tidied
up with care, framed and put on the walls of the gallery with price
tags and a catalogue. The smoothness of modernity. The exhibit, as
they were by all accounts accomplished and beautiful works of art, was
a success.

I parked the car in front of the independent bookshop where I work,
and having moved from family car (a penis shrinking Tarago) to shop, I
switched on the radio to catch the end of the interview. I thought
about what I had heard long into the afternoon, as the blue skies of
spring wrestled with the early rising clouds of slow to leave winter.

More than any actual art works, which I had not seen, and most likely
will never see, it was his interview that I was interested in. Here I
am on sturdier ground in my ability to add anything to the
discussion. Specifically I was moved by one small sliver of the
interview. When the artist described her work as probing the
boundaries of art & photography.

The word probe was what caught my interest and prompted this
confessional. Our verb probe comes from the Latin probare, which has
several meanings. Which is understandable seeing how Latin was spoken
for many hundreds of years over the, at that time, largest empire in
the western world. These meanings can in the present context mean To try,
test, examine, inspect, judge of any thing in respect of its goodness,
fitness, etc.

I started to write this is the darkness of night, when windy sleet and
rain pelted down on the roof and windows of the wood fire heated
house. I can also see the word probe having a weaker connotation, in
the sense of an army probing the defences of the enemy. A section of
the army will move forward and test the enemy and gather
information. Usually they are ordered not to launch a full scale
attack. They just move into contact, find information out, and then
pull back into the relative comfort of their trench line.

Others will of course disagree with me, and that is to be expected. I
have a particular point of view, and a particular ideology and way of
seeing the world and our interactions with the world. Many will say
that probing and trying to describe and understand the world is
enough, some will go further and say that is all art can do. In this
they will argue against the idea of didactic art. That art should seek
what it wants and that it has no need to go further.

Again let me reiterate that I do not wish to be seen as attacking any
art works or any artist with this article. What I am saying, and am
happy to say, is that art needs to go past the probing of the
world. As the world moves into a dangerous new era. To paraphrase from
The Will to Power 'For some time now, our whole Western culture has
been moving as toward a catastrophe, with a tortured tension that is
growing from decade to decade: restlessly, violently, headlong, like a
river that wants to reach the end, that no longer reflects, that is
afraid to reflect.'

In short, in prosaic words, we are going to hell in a hand
basket. Never before have we had to ability to wreak global damage on
the planet. We have been able to destroy little bits here and there,
the over farming of Libya during the time of the Roman Empire, the
cataclysm that was Easter Island. Now we are able to create universal
catholic destruction. Gaia is seeking to shake off the poisonous
bacillus that is humanity.

Now is not the time for art to describe the world, not the time to
engage in art works. Now is time for art to stake a claim, to chose
sides and not look back. The goal is no longer to probe
boundaries. Art must become part of the dream factory, the imagining
of a new and better world. The borders are well understood, as are the
false dichotomies of male/female, black/white, right/wrong all of this
is understood. The boundaries are meant to be overstepped, erased. As
the chalk lines after a shouty and hard fought sweaty football match
fade and dissolve into the ground with the rain and dewy mornings, so
should the boundaries of art erode and wear away into the meaningless
dust from which they arose. 

Now the time has come for artists to gather their courage and storm
the gates of heaven.

Penna Mona Penna

---

The three girls were sick, that left us boys to go to see Theatre of the World at MONA by ourselves. Nothing too bad, just colds and general sleepy day dreamy lethargy.

I had no reason to set the GPS. I did it, more than anything, out of habit, and a childish love of all things geek. When I glanced at the clock for the first time it was 12:34. Adding to ten this is my favourite time of the day. A cheery wizard omen. The theatre of clearing and forgetting. The second part of The Beatles White Album looms exactly to fit into the ride from Penna to MONA. From Birthday to Good Night.

And the divine divide is almost as beautiful as the study and the seat of the Muse is in some ways more beautiful, less beautiful, more disturbed by human hand, lest disrobed. Clear and disturbing obscure as uncensored night time visions. Coal Valley. Duck Hole Rivulet. Grasstree Hill Road. Sad jet faced microbe slow eating constant chewing fat black daughters of Hathor. On the side of the road they strand watching dozy dreamy wise the cars slowly fade into the past. The valley rich in sheep . Dull brown native hens greedy scratch at new sown fields green. And the valley rich in grape vines opens out from the crest of the ridge bright yellow and belligerent green new and fertile sweet and rich in abounding mechanic fields of industrial onion and lettuce and potato and the shiny green glade of fresh shown newly rained rapidly will to power to the sun loving grasping striving unto the sun and the former and shaper of life one earth and we are but interlopers and the wind through the trees and Henry Reynolds tells us the cries of dead rattle the trees. Without integrity...not a nation , but a community of thieves to listen to Xavier Herbert.

Mountains rise dreamy sheer a curtain wall of fear of multistoried green multihued mystery winding gear grinding curves of wide sweeping turns from the bend of the cutting. Deep dark gullies of eternal winter cold and damp and moss and the hilltops open to the warmth and the hilltops are drier. Round and round slow and lazy like time to observe and reveal all things hawks gliding to the swerve of the rising warm air and helical. And she missiles down from out of the sun talons extended and flashing bright and shinysharp and uncaring to kill the rabbit. For the weak must die. She has her own fingerlings to consider.

The factions and parties and elements are slipping apart and some called for civil union but equality like the call of accretion must be universal and absolute, or it shall not be at all. There can be no second rate no back of the bus no separate but equal and some brag of more or better morals the antiother.

Down down downity. Down shifting the hill glistening of the engine car ear aware of the sounds of human hand and mind made solidreal. The latest and the greatest. Down to Risdon Cove flat spongy sword beach of genocide invasion landing place. Flat past the sea historic ghost storey whipping post Richmond captive fictional Ikey Fagin named Artful Oliver oil twist and my baby girl not five years old was too scared to visit the gaol winding roads whaling rows windy ways sky sea sandy land matrix free hand mountain line steam smoke nickel smelter steam snow mountain cloud gathering oaken river wide and windy white capped waves  medieval tortured winter mandatory grapes cut down to silent size put in their prayerplace Mt Wellington gloomy table top overseeing Father cape town stern block head wooden top Pertrloo hero fire and smoke and soft spreading bullets tearing. And as we climb down the hill helter skelter the thin smelter yellowing mould wound in the corner of the we got trouble river city. The glue turns dry and brittle and the wall paper comes away from the wall and extends slow slowly. It lives. A nightmare of history. Unable to awake.

All for one and one for all for we are the mighty talon mighty  extending sweeping eagle eyed from silent down the sky unseen unheard hawks. And it all went off down urine one sixty pint of glumness rock on and bright orange vomit sort of an evening now a night of the book and a book of the night. Of dreams and absurd history culture 20 000 years and more and we are now fine again awake. The heartening of dreams and forgetting of horseshoe crab nightmares and turtles and stuffed open mouthed talon flashing fury of idioms messaging owls and glassy eyed Whiteley stare starting out opium calendar bay blue laden whirly surrealist shapes and pig cashable Normandy battle brash smooth stones loved. Hunks of hacked hair felt and simulated. Conversing with a stranger passion and the bluest cobalt blue excitement.

The Beatles White Album, the watusi second half from Birthday to Good Night almost the twist exact equity the time my house to old and new. Walking running playing dafter and son giggling imaging extending the iron work cement truck and here is where the rockets go. They make the truck go fast. Waiting Ticketing. High ceiling entrance. Down dark circle cycle stairs descending Dantesque subversive divine adult Disneyland comedy the walls hewn from bedrock the sewage tunnel hallway. Dystrophic future exoplanet factory setting. Addams family Gomez Cara Mia Crimea love house of rooms and arsenic and old lace old timey duchess and cabinets milk and ice cream mixed merchant seaman ti jean would scrapyard understand garage sale helter skelter football pell mell bob tail and tag rag and bone man Steptoe Sanford salvage and sons big fat timey wimey wibbly wobbly of next to next of side by side contrast and compare kaleidoscope that got away from me...

Radical harkening back to old stool timey museums set commode of the muses receding the circles of hell deep and deep dark dank past Tantalus...dug the ell-square pitkin. Poured we libations unto each the dead. Ply upon ply. Speaking to the shades shaking afore the shadows of what once was shades of long gone languages and spirits and gods and spirits and nymphs and each one alive and with a soul the river the tree the rock the prey the corn plundered gold rush the rubber terror or the sheep's back land grab given away not legal and the sealers mad the whalers and sooners and guano diggers and the carpet bagging money grubbers seizers of power and diverters of language. And now no more, so much no more. Never again. No more stories nor dreams. At the heart of this terror of smallpox gonorrhoea the bible bile and the boozy beggar bottle cheater of the ruse flag of the crafty one. No one despondent of Calypso pour libations and for the great king of the world of the world of protective mother and wavy cephalopod love unto fiery death no more and the pope sits in the frozen circle plug of icy cold hell as the mutinous angel Lucifer squats and farts for all time. No more. Gone for all time. Theatre of forgetting and bringing back to life with blood and wine to dialogue and which hand held this and painted this and concerned this. What maker?

Old skool nauseam and sacred silent place of dreamy wavy gravy chaired learners with pinned horseshoe crabs from boyhood home and crucified butterflies and great busted open shingle crystalline random slabs of geology and taxonomy on mortified branches well practiced taxidermy twittering birds of shimmering garish colour. The ordered shiny bugs the squatting ghouls and luck bringing fetish. Next to the this very afternoon up to date.  The cataloguing of the rapidly changing diving world the voice stifled the songs no longer sung. The craft left to gather dust of disuse. Lonely in drying drawers of humidity contoured basements. The counting and cataloguing of bumps and blemishes and gall shaped wounds to separate the ocean from the insane. The moving forward.

Dark and sharp labyrinth. Dedalus crafty artificer. The beast born of god ordained insane bestial coupling. Dedalus built wide shining apparatus Pasiphae Hathor white armed fine ankled cow eyed Hera. Kandinsky abreast side by side by Sondheim. Limestone CO2 hieroglyphics magic writing who carved and penned and concealed sanctified symbols and independent totem colour. Here Picasso and his mistress Dora Maar are the unwobling pivot. The masques of differing volume and intent and the modern up to date.  Rootless? Nihil tradition bebound to Beefheart repeat or to Stardust shock or simply to bore Joe six pack. Glad dark not glade gas candle optic illusion. Illusory sphere of light to passion and to touch to put out ones mind hand. Cretan octopus sarcophagus motif wide brawny curvy lines likes the roads that curve and wonder and switchblade jack knife through low hanging fruit mountain cutting hills.

Countless flies stuck to canvas thick and glittering bright in the light french polish of beetle wings cracking gold like the flowers like the darling daughter of Psapfo. Three photos put together a naked man lining down. Headless. A tiger on the prowl Flashman glaring at the Victorian viewer muggings ready to pounce. A group of world war soldiers shooting at an unseen enemy. The shoddier comrades all behind a quick thrown together barricade. Haystacks like the ones Monet painted, now lit by rifle shot and the angry flames jumping from seventy five millimetre hell mouth rapid fire cannon. A foot stool of a young woman crouched foetal ball disturbed the boy and resulted in a quick move to view the hand made Mercedes Benz  inspired coffin.

Cackle my unknown subscription to the redirection pleasures binary and cuneiform next to next face to face toe to toe heart to heart lumber up limbo down absorbing the beauty with my locked embrace stumble round eyes. Ancient some 4000 years ago what hand held and made what school boy held the stylus and when did she cut the shapes and words meaning numbers Krypteia secret codes of the precision caste. To dominate and monopolise knowledge of things that are and are not.

Tales of the ATO MONA send the messages atwitter and face book abuzz with abused bit and bytes and I let my small voice be heard in supporting the gallery.   And this. For the exhibit spoke to many of the things I hold close. The Greeks Joyce Hegel the helix the making of connections the tendrils of chemical interplay stretching and grasping one anointer skipping and sliding away and deforming in an instant and voices like my name being called in the wind. So the drunken liberal rush of drooling words and the droogy eruptions and wandering cul-de-sac rocks and the curves and the winding roads. This should not be viewed as criticism, I am not in a position to discuss the works from any sort of a mechanical point of view. However I can embellish the passage I made with my son through the gallery. I have tried to use words to dissemble the key features of the exhibit. This is a document of my impressions of the exhibit. The words are meant to convey the synaptic freeing of firing connections, to show the ramshackle exploration of making. Content and connection yet lacking in context notably a political narrative.

The grand knock 'em down fight to the finish no hold barred nature nurture. For we are, the philosopher wrote a species whose nature it is to be artificial. The great and melancholic Dane, sobbing into frigid Elsinore blasts. Down the generations down the centuries. if at the foundation of all there lay only a wildly seething power which writhing with obscure passions produced everything that is great and everything that is insignificant, if a bottomless void never satiated lay hidden beneath all -- what then would life be but despair? It is up to use to make the connections for ourselves, Theatre of the World invites us to, nay compels us to make connections.

The nine year old boy was able to pronounce the exhibit wizard.  As the mind of the child is still growing still plastic and striving after connection, how better to wander an exhibit of connections, but with a child.

My concerns are small and relate to context in the main. No political thread to allow us to return from the depth of the Minotaur born of sexual perversion and madness entombing labyrinth.

None to follow. The artists have only interpreted the world, in various ways; the point is to change it. We are left wondering, what is to be done?

Back to home threading the narrow town streets helter skelter smelter and the bridge and the airport and the pitt water and the mountains reflecting the sunset lagoon pinks and blues and browns and greens blurring the marriage of heaven and hell.

---

Night Lights

---

I go outside
Into the night.

To doormouse feed my head
And relieve the black dog

Black black sky peppered
Countless twinkling stars

Look into the darkness
The emptiness, I can not
Even see the mountains.

A car, alone, a single car drives
Down the highway, out of the
Small town, heading inland north.

The trees the sided of the road
The fence posts occult the lights
Of the pitching rising car.

The head lights throw a flickering
Shadow pattern onto the bricks
Of our house.

On the next night
I come home late
The sun has set the darkness
Has settled over the wide slow
Ancient old valley. The whips around
My face is stung the teasing
Mist of rain.

On the autumn rain sidewalk
A single red maple leaf
Introduced.

Reticulum

Into the Heraclitian fyre. Reading a book on microbiology, specifically about the structures within cells. It seems the endoplasmic reticulum has taken on more roles than when I was in high school; well it is good to see talent rewarded. Reticulum is defined as from a latin word for network, more poking about gave other meanings and uses of the word reticulum, including the stomach of a cow, a constellation, even a snood. So I jammed all these fragments into a notebook poem. Entered it into a contest and did not even rate a mention. So here it is...

---

---

Upon false bridge, above the bloody sand
Trident fisherman taunts and turns vaunting twists
While sea monster fish men fight clumsy.
Thrown, the weighted net expands and flies
Across the distance, bringing victory
And defeat. The one event contrasting.

I take the dog for a run in the dawn
Twilight early morning and the red sky
Burns and glows the bodies of sinners
Stoking the deadly judgement fires
Beyond the obsidian smooth lagoon.

Shallow filled of the retreating ice,
More ten thousand isolating years ago.
On the shallow ridge line to the south,
Red lights blink automatic guiding planes.
Surrounded always a thin spiders web
Network of roads and highways of commerce.

The brush again and over again rolls
Thin net long hair covered for service.
The tides roll daily back and forth gentle.
Hungry and exhausted flights of sea birds
Rest rare salt marsh fringed glasswort and pig face
Winged far Siberia. Calling in the night
Feeble and tired and the tiny sea star
Ejecting live surprising birth only three
The entire world and across the waters
Low and flat toxic algal bloom lagoon
Ignoble west flank black line barrack causeway
Blinking away dreamy sleep lights Sorrel.

Low in the south west sky the rhombus
Thin hair cross hairs of an eyepiece.
Cattle low and wander the green pasture
Eating and fourfold digesting unknown
Cattle thoughts as myriad folds catalyse
Blind countless transactions and combinations.
Endless the surface. Wide transformations
Are performed and the suns energy released.

Waking the first light frost of morning
I arrange the kindling and split logs,
And touching a match bring warming fire.
On the pitted surface the suns energy
Forges frothy warmth and cosy home house life.

Driving visit historic Richmond gaol
And the rooms of punishment that brought
Civilization the land without the fall
And the wrist binding tripod cat o' nine tails
Extended the love of Christ and the shorn
Hair of the women fleeing rape and the coffin
Sized black rooms of silent aloneness.
The children are too fearful to enter,
After almost two hundred years of silence.

Kioloa - Bega Valley - Eden

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Moved from Canberra to Midway Point in Tasmania - wrote a series of poems about the move, thinking about Ginsberg's Fall of Ameria - Poems of These States So I called them Songs of This East Coast. Not as good as Ginsberg but hopefully you will like 'em. This was updated and extended. Maybe for better, maybe just to be more pretentious.

---

Kioloa - Bega Valley - Eden

Sunny days and half moon nights
Redundant tree left on the flank of the navvy cut
Bright iron rust red wound wound scar rots and crumbles
Into damp dust bits of chiseled hand. Slowly eaten 
Slow death realizing life of moss and lichen and fungi.

A thin new young shoot struggles to the sun
Smooth young growth raises holy sun embracing
Tendrils twisting out dread stump dead heart
Magical wood over full vigorous life force.

Young big capital town couple exorcise
Annoying cash card buying and celling
Love new day sun dog walking dawn and dressed
In like mien them that weak heard parlay hard
From top to tail poseur. Two flitter boys scouting
On by past and stop. Query and examine
Mob of kangaroos round floret emerge.
And the locals despair mostly their need.

Black burnt slated serried gum trees 
Resting cows black on curds and whey grass
Vine and creepers out of control.

Day dream word flow spewed disorderly mind
Too too many as that possum would say 
Adjectives to disturb flowing ideas
Allowing gain of prizes and praises
Pound for pound swimming burnt and piled high
Slabs of ply upon ply interconnected
Images punning on board joke grouchy
Variety. Disoriented mind.
Accreted images growing coral wise
Turning back upon itself again again
How long the coastline? How long a piece of string. 
Constant flux and change the coastline moves each day
With the pulling shape of the sun and moon
With the winds and waves. Pointing peninsula
All islands and blocks of land in constant
Change and constant growth and regress. Even
The way to measure changes the shape and size.
And the mountains erode and the hills erode
Turn into sand and dirt and rolling down 
And the waves scour the shore and tree fall
Into the tidal swaying sand rub forming.  
One connection to encounter one more
Firming tap turning of random collage
High speed global digital network village.
And then back home to begin again again.
Forced mental state transformed into a lie.

Corrugated chicanery runs
Schoolboy sick from calico visioning.
Mottled cows knee deep mottled weir
Brown and white. 
                 Knee deep of beer stained ochre
Hathor desirous of killing all
Drunk with slaughter too drunk to stand
Sun encasing horns murderous mourner.
Drunken mother sleep. Rainy sun showers.

Uterine matrix of land and sea.
Oyster farming bogs knife sweep scuttle.
Egrets mating plumage white brown regret.
Fiddle pint roofs. Dust clods destroy weeds.
Old propped up frame farm buildings fading down.

Bell miner chiming forests.
Temperate rain forest.
Turquoise water menstrual mud flats 
Interzone play of here and now.
Puddle of ponds. Ducks and bitumen.

Patterns of leaves through light
Falling seizure on dot and dash
Drowsy and nauseous afternoon
Rain eroded flanks of hill 
Gully scars smoothed over time.

Infinite perspective
Objective scar high tension
Lines receding vanishing point.
Retinal eye burning green. 

Merry Round Go

---

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.

The Aboot

The scarab is the rising sun.
As WSB says - once one becomes one whose head expands, and the cut up method is applied directly to brain, den furniture summer times comes earl well gushing wise inn. dissa one was ywrit served a copra yearns ago. agony, and now seams more kneaded.

---

Abort the abbot about NOW.

The internal interval of the integral
Integer (digit insertion) --

And how bored bone she stood stand
Stock drip drab still earing
A fainting swooning swan lub dub
From the Lord Kelvin plutocrat
FROM HELL
Or this pitter patter of
FATHER


Debilitatingly boren
Abound a browned
Boreal forest of
Bubbling methane bog
Tyger sorrel soup sup
Orbit
Obit
Mob gym gun dodo doco
Spinish dock DUCK.


My stoma ache
Be horn dance piping
The hokey pokey
And my nik nak neck
She be cloak clocked.

The Child's Memento Mori

There is matter in motion.

---

The Argument.
    The worms crawl in 
    The worms crawl out
    They crawl in your eyes 
    And out your snout.


Stilted over night intimacy white rye seed
Wry white fluff swirling and flurrying 
Telopea parks bench of cold hypothermia minus three.
Woke with the taste of disputation in my mouth.
With clear sun burning mist, legendary ham fisted
Intro slaughter starter, walking lame, fog rising
Cold or wet, tired you bet. All I'll soon forget.
Beach mommy beach mommy beach cheery mom bomb
Withered echos of the panting summer killing drought.
See how path, beaneath the trees, is still wet.
Once the trees are gone, that's it, all she wrote.
The withering shall enlarge.
And my feet be too big bedwise 
Sew eye dig me some talkin to the sun
And I 
      Dolt like disa way you got things done.
Only the universe full of outa space
Dint never ever talk back.
Beach Mommy Beach Mommy. Beautiful. It's a cycle. 


NON ESSE:
         I am left alone on my own.
The flowers of disappointment blooming 
Bud blood insatiable Gorgon. Outlandish.
Scared children huddled wooly foolish down.
Sob sob sobbing. Dig dig digging.
Beach Mommy Beach Mommy Meach Bomby.
Jump spring clap clap jump. Beam Mayhem Comb.
And the spring springing sprung out door
Of happy dancing flipping children.
Spring jump clap jump. Beach mommy, Beach mommy.
If I seem broken and blue, walk on by jump spring.
Dark slack black ringlets shimmering
Bounding cool Christmas jazz night lights. 
Left alone amid the limitless of time and
Expansion. I am alone. Across countless 
Generations there is only one. Ever. Alone.
More precious than all other things, more precious
Than gold or emeralds. Greater than greed
For things, is our uniqueness, our collaborative
History. There is no god. There is no rebirth.
No resurrection. No reincarnation.
Only accidental bringing into being
And dispersal. No gods parcel out 
Justice, no rewards nor punishments.
The spiral tongue of the butterfly.
Wanted Julio's slimeskin a vent.
Doshed as a law liar. We sprayd rifle rounds
At a cool blunt of cold smooth marble to mark 
A statue. Colourful beetles of poison crawl
Around and about and under out caverns of 
Mounding handmade vanilla home bean. 
I scream about shattered ice cream. 
Larva that chews living infant eyebones.


Clay clay clay. Beach Mommy Clay Girls.
Clouds of butterflies unroll coiled 
Tongues, absorbing minerals. Coiled
Prehensile tail. Gray and light and scattered
Blue slate gray curtains falling rain - windy
Mountain rains. And my wife and children
Have to go fly, non est. Holiday borderlands
With Robby the peg and some faceless others
Curdle hurdle the windy hills and Robbi
Must visit some brand of specialist quackster.
I started the scent of disputation in my mind.
Wild wind whipping, tree bending, lip chapping
Football weather. Jump spring clap clap jump
Clay girls oee clay girls oee. Necklate?
Ancient civic honour swept rightless oi polloi.
We argued, my eldest and a friend of hers
Abort nothing, about how much heatache  shrieks
In the grand earth quake stream of Karmic justice.
I felt embarrassed, lieu i had lost control.
No justice. Non ens. Heavens. The young Mother
Who allows herself to die, who is allowed 
To die to bring forth her child. There is 
No special place in heaven. There is drear waste.
The child busted at teh first, the husband,
The parents, maybe siblings orphaned.
A family, extended, destroyed, all at once, all
For naught. There IS NO SPECIAL PLACE in heaven.
Only corruption and decay, flesh rotting past
Of the no longer loved actress. Peeling paint...
For saintly sainted souls jumping beach martyr.
Jump jump clap spring jump clap flip and feet 
Landing sort of blue weather of bright sun
Olive shaded gum leaves down faced the blue
Emptiness of nothing but space in all directions.
For all time. Rock drive drill home.
Dancing tall spirit of grape and the spirit
Of rich loam capture spin shining sun ball
And turn all that into this. Sad slow wild rides
Of wild scheming, grave her forth dreamt
Of the one dog chewing on the other.
Hag skin blood mouth hanging, so unleashed to end
One weak of giving away. Clay jump girl spring.


Well I'm be damned here comes your ghost again...
No est; nothing. Ourselves alone. No eternal 
Life. And so within more than five billion
Years we pass some sixty or so years.
Disawon disawon. jump clap jump spring.
Cause I need some of that vagueness now.
Gas bagging shooting shit passion time
And old black jazz many to a type and the 
Other cat nameless, faceless was bald
And sweaty. Latter I watched these eyes
Of jazzman shades. I hipster headed watched
The gaudy vested day glo council workers
Footpath fixing with instant fast bitumen. 
Clap clap flip flap. Jump and spring worms
Crawl in and the worms crawl about and out.
And that is all, passing by the homestead
But the once. In all that time and space
We are nothing. Life is a precious accident,
Each one equal and unique. We have ourselves
Alone this world to organise and band together.
And moribund dead christ chewers balk at 
The immenense distances of time and space.
Fearful they retreat and i larf. "No i do not",
I laugh agin and sign, "I do not feel the need to
Respect your fiend who lives amid the clowns."
Just substance, and a ritual of tears and dirt.
And all the organs rotting safely underground.
Gut no need for 'em, but selfish take 'em.
I awoke with the flame of discouragement
Ringing across my long dead child ears.

All there is; is expanding friendship and 
Forging our minds in all ways. This love
Of friends, of human thought stands astride 
The infinite. All we are, are plans of
Love and friendship. Rock drive drill hammer.
Paving warm too and fro they ramble warm
Frothy beer into the windy process gutter,
Maybe groping along lines of grouped stars. 

Et Tu

Starting with an unix command line invocation and tumbling through swinburne and various verses of non meaning, and ending in nothing more than vice. an experiment let out to hang and you can like it or not, myself i am ambivalent, but it does have some nice patches. and anything has to be better than the non stop wall of lies we get to read. (or the high level design documents i get to write day after soul destroying day)

---

find . -name "*txt" -exec grep -li nterfa {} \;

Metronomic:
Reading Byron is like programming in C

Biomorphic:
While Swinburne is like programming with lisp

Standing on the headland, the waves breaking,
The howling wind lonely. Vast entire heavens
Above, a new world unseen in front.

Entrancing dream chanting moral
(All busyness) meaty walk wall
Brick younguns and dumb oldest
Bolshie timber and the boldest
Plumpy rump stake rare of regal length
Seedy sperming foam of sailors strength
Ding dong dangling off the sharp punt
Auf herr faeces. Drip dropping hunt

Wile sly spiral frosting attends
Both of her chesty corf pop ends
(The friction rises; indeed falls.
A snerring of cataphobic calls
And expulsions). 
                 Flick! Flock! Fire!
Trunk grinding forth a series entyre.
Big bags of benders and scant fenders,
Grate damp triangulation senders,
Heartz mimic, heat radio waves,
Ipod, you pong. Now five dollars saves
The householster from starvation.

Pleasing piss around frustration.
Off weep sleep apnoea champers
Out, about grousing, high mugged pitchers.
Rugged jugs of milky white fright
Fair ran off to desert night fight.
Peeling sand off heat haze fliers
And he satayed burning fires.

They pair plumped the debts each notwake
Up and down the intersolar fake.
Fecal dragging bran strum malstorm
Storm broadcast each and every form
Mine and maul dub bub header listens
Up around storied building glistens
Raising bablewise to even stevens
Falling begin again white covens.

United techno choler raced.
Wild the river cistern braced.
Not unknown, for the sentries round
Her the radar, once was lost, found.
The missing aeroplane and crew.

This then here must assured true
Be stated that all wealth generation,
And not the fine dust substitution
With and obsession of death, to all
Who, of course, consume sub micron small
In seize seas size and deep into
His her lung fishing love of flashing loo,
Trimp shrimp and save trip dividing
And sub devising schemes rising
Fractional down a fraction of tubes
Tubal (like a hi ho spread danube)
Until terminate and stay resident
(Tetcork). 
            
            And hell took ill and ailment
She thrushed and slushed agreed fever
And her wife took ill and her child heir
And his her grund chill lil fill ill in turn
No pill about for to ill back death spurn
Well will into health - not the lamp
Of the smokeless fire that first clump
Nun clear never hospitality,
And duo beer crapped diamond stinky
Unto her bend lent out to knights
Tippelary 'twas her turn to clack
The rattle tattler of her back
Two pound day of groat sweet turtle
Tut tutting a groin of fysics battle
In great con fluemence - What is It?
    What is it?
    What can it be?
    Why? How? When?

And the injurt tugged up your bed
He croaked covering own owning head.
Bleed Blood
    Drips Dropping
    Cords Snapping
    Chips Chapping
    Flips Flapping

    Aryans okie doking to grown
Gown mushy zimmer
    Farasi - Nononono sososo bad banned rejerct
Floor ever the brown boomer
    Winstonian newtowns arrow panes
Buts and strife the fluxing pillagers
Look at them skitter scatter he boomps art
His lacateous treat mick in the booming
Kow tow boarded boy wanna be as bing
As all outdoorious vice.

For those who see only lack of meaning

Of the three poems submitted this was the one i thought the best. My affection could be because the poem has some mock lisp (a programming language) in it, so what is there not to like.

---

The Argument
What we cannot speak of we must pass over in silence.
     Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus.

I
Breathless grunts and bedspringed groans of desire.
Infant babble drool crafting the alien.
Technically sweet perversions of precision.
Alive ghetto nuance of generations.
Tangled reused active spaghetti goto.
Mad man made jumbles of mad made up playstations.
Vast creole sprawling pidgin archipelago.
Tearshaped confusion of demented fire.

II
Argot languages cant jargon misery,
These are a few of my favourite things.

III
NOT
Mocking bitch of a god spelled backwards is Dog.


(defun Envoi
       (if (> love hate)
           (Non dulce et non decorum est)
           (GENESIS 11:6))
)

The Starvation Army

The salivating army doles out
(So so sad) poor chook chook feed 
To all the free cluck cluck peepole.

Furious Orlando (king of this island of flours)
With a click and a stroke 
Of his tutu pigpen is a-macon
Such Christian chair a tree ill regal.
And the pissy peon smurfs cuddle
Up with such pow pow power
Sifting through the lies

Knowingly
Finding the ones to best match
Narrow prejudges

He said She said 
Down by the sea sure

The New World

This is, for some unknown to me reason, called The New World. I guess it is about science creating a new world and then the tension between the new world and the old. I guess.

---

Interface between the surge 
And the Christ
    Alone on the bus -
    I look out past coverts
    Of trees an 'arsh eroded
    Gullies - maybe 'alf a kay
    Away or so.  South west.
    
Two men bored digging
Old yeller faded plant
Her the interface
Of tech wild add the mild 
(man made - artificial)

Interface - Eaterdeath
Enter fade - Over & OUT
Yes interface of Air and Breath
Huh Interfrance of fist and flesh
Life and death - crunch and munch

And your  everywhen
All around is torn down 
Mangled spindled ripped
Apart asunder.

    Rold at in a trinity 
A tree facaded milky chai 
But even tree into won is not holeisit?
Rather still pater linear
    The Father = The Past
    The Son = (obviously) The Present
    Spiritus Sanctus  = The Future

Unknown unknowable

    And the interface of the old
(Accent on the first dare) and
The new (modern as tomorrow
afternoon) - One is ground to 
Powda (mode red-mixed with bland)
And high nigh into the sky
To girt girl wide contact
And flutter bye baby bird down 
Slowly over all days covering
The world with a thing coast of 
Dust, O'Halleron, California,
Texas in QLD.

A single tree growing 
Cork screw wise - a single 
Three from one base (interface
The dirt and sky) spreading into
Throe equal and coexistent breasts.
    The tree of the serpent (forever and on
                  you will toil for your food)
    The tree of the trinity

A hill rising up - rusting with 
Thrist - striving with hunger.
The rage - interfraud of land and law
The surface is the interface with
The devil. 

The double.