The Crisp of the Crackling is in the Chawing

I wrote this after reading something about pig farming. It always shocks me when i read about the incredible cruelty involved with this sort of caper. It was hard to find solid numbers about husbandry and water usage, waste etc so all these numbers are quite conservative.

The title is from Finnegans Wake.

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    ABS estimates up to 320 liters
Of water used
    Per kilo of beef.

38 percent
    Water is for livestock
    And pasture.
10 percent all grains
    (Including rice)
Only 3 percent grain
        Alone.
Another 6 percent 
On fruit and veg.

The vegescarians are out 
Inforse - sending the willy 
Billys up them spine bone
Of the conifers. Thus who
Are haphap happy to divers shout
Lick spittle lips of breezy
Distended belly moan
Falsifatted lies to unscrew.

130 times the amount of waste 
Livestock to humans. Mostly untreated.
Exempt from regulations.
    How much shit would a piggy shit if 
    Piggy could shit. (23 litres (on average))
                      Hobbled and feverish...
    150,000 of them crowded together.
     
Abducted liver of duck duck goose,
Brains of sheep, the lungs of lamb,
Holes of hungry cowboys
Filled with textured tripe and sinew.
(Finger licking, down chin dripping juice).
Or still silken knickered jam
Tart of firm tofu.
Scorning boosers of greasy spew.

Antibiotics by the score.
    Deforestion.
        Desertification.

June twenty two, 
Nein ten more than,
Phortie Won.
Invade CCCP - reinforce
Militarism - Democracy 
Can not survive. Like in 1792.

"From this place, 
And from this day forth 
Begins a new era 
In the history 
Of the world.

And you can all say that you were 
Present at its birth."

Crackling open rich farm land
Commune bones and vampyre wise
Drinking down the rich marrow
Dripping greasy chin.
Cracking open the bones.
Rich stem cell providing 
Marrow.

Sordello

Considered by many to be the hardest poem to understand in the English language. Make of it what you will.

---

Pounding Allen

Allen Ginsberg and Ezra Pound. The old and the new. The racist and the Buddhist met in Italy. Many people have told this story. This is my version.

---

 
High High High Hare

Queen Jane visits uncle Ez
In Venice.

Playing Sad Eyed Lady of the Lowlands
For him.

1967 
Viet Nam
    A dozen or less
    Months afore 
    Police riot
    Daley windy city.

Who prophets from War?
Cherchez la cash...

Depressed
    Down. Silent.
    Sad. What is a life?
    A handful of 
    Moments, maybe a chiler 
    Or twain.

    What is a life?
    A gutful of lies.
    A phraud.

Very sad to look back...
Il poeta
Too late
Too late...
    I arrived 
    The certainty 
    I know nothing.

He rolled a spliff
She called him
    A big lovable dog
    Hairy with sloppy kisses.
Want to wash your hands?
Do you need any money?
He replied.
    And he passed on the pot.

Hare Hare
Krishna Krishna
    Deepening
The sorrow
    Fading aquamarine.

And after all this 
I understand I am 
A MORON.

Follow the money.
NOT the jews (not Naomi).
Stupid suburban prejudice.
But...
    Follow the money.
    Who profits from war?
    Bankers Usurers Parasites.

War
Profit
Litany.

...or shells fragmented to 1000s
Of flesh piercing needles.

The Double Thunderstroke

The US Army works with Hollywood to 'advise' on war movies. Stallone met with Kissinger and changed the tone of Rambo movies. And on and on it goes, and we all know how it turns out. In the west we want to be able to do what we want when we want. We mistake this for FREEDOM. In the third world our individualism leads to negation to the point of death.

---

The epitome 
Of bourgeois glorification
Of the individual
Reaches it's direct opposite...
    Total contempt
    For humanity.

In the cinema,
A one man army
Kills without feeling,
Without restraint.

Made actual.
Millions dead,
Sent to the grave.

Fragments

A series of short sharp little bits of poetic fluff. Written quite a while ago. I am estimating they are at least 15 years old. Was doing some tidying, and was able to fit these onto here. Which is handy as I am working on something which takes a lot of my time, so I am not really making any suitable new poems. Lucky I was able to pull something out from the vault.

---

Nothing.
As insubstantial as a monsoon.
Naive,
And as obsessive as a child.
It rains.

In our way of life
Even the lame, the obese,
The disfigured, have their place.
If only as the butt of jokes.

The hot summer nights
Drove the man
Who could hear the bats
Insane.

The evolution of the sexual act.
From the one celled creature,
That moved away from itself.
Two lives come together.

The symbiotic creature
Painstakingly eats solid rock.
Slowly spreading, unfolding ,
All mud and culture.

Nothing.
As insubstantial as a monsoon.
Naive,
And as obsessive as a child.
It rains.

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.

---

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

---

(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.