Showing posts with label po mo. Show all posts
Showing posts with label po mo. Show all posts

Saturday, May 15, 2010

Kioloa - Bega Valley - Eden






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.


Tuesday, June 9, 2009

One Hundred Lies One Should Hear Before They Die.

Three poems submitted and not one accepted. With each closing door comes an open window. The 'theme' was CUSTOM/MADE and the contest was to write about the writing process, near as I can tell. I think I hit the mark pretty close.




One hundred times the artist bounces
The red rubber ball.

One hundred times the child dances
Round the cherry tree.

One hundred times old man speeches bring
Forth endless slaughter.

100 odes, 100 lyrics,
100 tales, 100 novels.
All is bent, pulled, twisted into the
Pliers of societies fires...

The whole world hurtles a future
Of unimaginable violence
And seriousness is spat out
The hard tasteless shell.
Enthusiasm is slapped down
An old diseased whore.

Praise be to the processed.
All Honour to the bland.

Saturday, May 2, 2009

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.

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.


















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}

Wednesday, February 18, 2009

Birds


Stains on the black typtop
Two th'ole womain flappyn
Her earmes. Curdle ill fittin.

Closeted rubble shifted
Blaudy scyrte uninformed
Woe men.

The kinder spoke and cursed
Egre radiant busstoppian.
Abort.
Thrown.

Fallen out into the world
Swirling neglected melange
Flung colour and sound and cents
Linked the latte whaite cent of ma
Ore hunky whiskey baccy sents of pa.

Echo Narcissus rides blind desire
Caeca Libido

Angel angled for d'answerve...
Pimply piercings a turbid see
Of unquenchable desire.

Pink clowned Skye of days
Faire oaf reign falling (THE FALL).
Busted arse clouds maken
Whole into spacious blue andless
Why Where - Bardic playtime
Whey Watt - A fawling throngin'

Stroung contradictions
Or
Bubbling in wondrous acidity
Womit trwon out other
Exiled (Like the kindle above?)
Profane Spectacles.

Avante!
Logica, rhetorica, & dialecticus
Dance bafflement afronte fences of
Fecal presst forthe dissemble
De state.

A half dead sleepy diptera
Lights my earm and crewlen
Claws an entire world whole
My Flesh, generations of empyres
Rise and Fall unseen unherd
Unknown. & I and I gauze into hair eyes
What do you know of the world?
What poems and songs sung?

Life mawking saw bones
Lust handing pornographer
Fall Fell Melding
Symbiotic
Subordination.

Whorl of metal & plastique
Fubar.

Oui cancan corn
Felt conficker viral...
Our blind failings.
And bland fallings.
Never felt desire.

And we know not what Victory
In the gwot will look like...
But once work becomes play
We will know Revolution

Has been one.

Saturday, January 24, 2009

His true Penelope was Flaubert

"What seems beautiful to me, what I should like to write, is a book
about nothing, a book dependent on nothing external, which would be
held together by the strength of its style, just as the earth,
suspended in the void, depends on nothing external for its support; a book which would have almost no subject, or at least in which the
subject would be almost invisible, if such a thing is possible."
Gustave Flaubert, Correspondence.

Substituting poem for book, I find this quote very liberating to how I write. However some may say this is a very bourgeois manner of
writing. Setting myself up a straw man for the sake of this
argument. Let me try to explain how I oppose this idea.

One of the definitions of the word bourgeois is one whose interest it is to support the status quo. It is this usage of the word that is of most interest to me in this exercise.

It seems fairly obvious that the ruling classes control language and
that they use this control to entrap and downpress the working
people. One of the uses of language is the relentless demand on the
narrative flow. This counterfeit river that flows from A to B, that
moves from rags to riches.

Life, however is a much stronger stranger than this simple narrative
arc will have us understand. Language creates consciousness, and it
follows that this bourgeois hegemonistic control of daily life and
culture controls and moulds language and art to suit their own ends
(indeed this can be seen as a definition of hegemony).

It is this bourgeois control of language, and therefore consciousness, that creates the mind-forg'd manacles of our oppression. It is these manacles that we must self consciously over come and over throw. For it is precisely this mental slavery that causes the great mass of working people to think that without God there is no morality, that without work they will have no identity, that without coercion there will be no happiness.

Language, a poem about nothing, a poem that hangs with no support in
the void. This is what I am striving towards, this is what John
Kinsella and Tracy Ryan
refer to when they say "every poem we write
should be a form of resistance, an act of linguistic disobedience."
This is what will allow us to write "beyond good and evil", this is
what will allow us to move beyond imperialist ideas of ownership and
coercion.

Time, history, relationships are the matter of literature, and in some ways literature is greater than nonfiction or even philosophy, for only literature can talk about how life really is, how life should be. Time is not, history is not, the straight and narrow journey from breakfast to lunch to dinner, rather it is the dream distortions of Finnegan. History does not have as its horizon the simple Aristotelian unities of the television studio and of market based book publishers, but rather a deeper understanding of history and relationships can only be found in the convoluted signature of Shandy.

I write, as do all artists, mainly for myself, but also for self aware proletarians. I write in a way that is often called pretentious. (A label I am happy to wear, for to be pretentious is to pretend, to play, and if a poet can not play that what is a heaven for?) I write in a way that allows me to survey all of the history (natural and human) of language and appropriate for my art all 'that which being seen pleases me'. I write in a way that, in defiance of the petty academic poetry cliques, is not direct nor aimed for 'working people' (all of which is code for banal and trivial). I write understanding the unity to be more than a mere harmony, but rather a complete interpenetration. I write in a manner which says proudly, 'let the common reader be damned'. I write knowing that the artist is meant to be something more than an entertainer.

Vomitoria



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