Do not claim,
June 30, 2009 at 6:24 pm | Posted in antihaiku, memoirs, sheer selfindulgence | 25 CommentsTags: calibans whiskers, outrageous moustachios
Do not claim to be a musician
in other people’s eyes
nor insert rhyme nor reason
if you cannot improvise
the way the surf breaks now and then,
between ocean and sunrise.
when the meditation fails
June 29, 2009 at 6:42 pm | Posted in australian poetry, contemporary poetry, poetry, sheer selfindulgence, writing | 17 CommentsTags: Art Tatum, contemporary poetry, poetry, writing
and the melancholic lady fully medicated
sleeps
and he forgets where the tiger what
it was
he shuffles half asleep into some
nightmare cupboard
of whispers and enemies lurking
by firelight at solstice
simply to imprint some unique mark
puts on his brown bowler hat
and says where’s Art?
Collapsabubble boxes (for Brad)
June 28, 2009 at 9:48 am | Posted in australian poetry, contemporary poetry, poetry, sheer selfindulgence, writing | 11 CommentsTags: poetry, studio ghibli, the bad guy, writing
the funniest thing is to ask a serious poet
her funniest poem
yes my friend the cosmic joke
that someone has to be the bad guy
no plot cold and empty and deep
the funniest thing is that cliches
become cliches cos they contain
a perfectly expressed truth which
humans repeatedly stumble over
stubbing toes and swearing
landlubbers you gotta love ‘em.
where’ld everyone go son
caliban waking in his cave
scratching his arse
peering into the still pond
yeah, Squires but we already noh
that, saw it in a magazine
did it up in Lulu
and posted it to Studio Ghibli
where hopefully
the cleaning lady will find it
and give it to her son.
Don’t Do That, Squires
June 26, 2009 at 6:35 pm | Posted in genre isn't dead yet but it should be, links, memoirs | 9 CommentsTags: hello peter!, pirate poem, the drunken cartographer, the drunken cartographer ponders his navel
not right now. It’s Friday night
he said, not again, squalls approaching
loves me a pirate poem i do
in fact if you don’t write one right
now this cannons pointing
at you.
Been a long at time at sea. Haha,
Sir! We have received orders.
fuck, release the vodpod he says
scrambling for his trousers
some other lame excuse
will have to do
everybody on the one,
June 25, 2009 at 6:51 pm | Posted in antihaiku, poetry, sheer selfindulgence, writing | 9 CommentsTags: bootsy collins, orchid room, poetry
Standstill, if you leave a little space
between breaks a sandhill
there’s room between running late
and the desert, son,
he says putting his arm round my shoulders
smelling of salt fish and a sparkling
perfume there’s a reason
for the Cocoyea then lead bass guitar
and for an essential anonymity
of the artist, says Bootsy
handing me his sunnies and
lighting a big fat one.
The Scrub Turkey
June 23, 2009 at 6:51 pm | Posted in australian poetry, contemporary poetry, poetry, writing | 20 CommentsTags: courtship poetry, poetry, writing
apparently obvious anyway
why hide he makes the mad
mistake of going on display
and scratching out a dance
rearranging undergrowth
and raising dust balloons
which once released and let to fly
will always wonder why,
The Plague Of Idiots (in F. Major)
June 21, 2009 at 5:38 pm | Posted in memoirs, writing | 15 CommentsTags: F.
When I was growing up, such a carefree and curious child, I wanted to be all sorts of things. I cycled through pilot, poet, gigolo, sailor, farmer, and professional kite flyer. And then, just as I was about to graduate with my licence to inseminate, the idiot plague hit.
Worse than the swine flu, it was. Zombies everywhere, spread by contagion through sound. If they would just shut up and listen for five minutes the cycle could be broken but the side-effect, constantly hearing their own voices repeated back to them like an echo meant the idiocy implanted itself deeper and deeper.
The job of creating a silence fell to me somehow. This should be a tragic paragraph about how a sensitive soul became deafened to the delicate arabesques of harmony in order to save the world but the truth is, I enjoyed it. I was made for it.
I took my inspiration from the greats who came before me, Van Helsing, Bukowhiskey, Bon Scott, Squires, oh excuse me, he said, putting his half-empty glass down on the piano, there’s one now. See him? Waving some document and claiming that he is that which comes after that which came before. You know, son, he said patting me on the back, sometimes I still feel sorry for them, shrugging his shoulders and cracking his knuckles. I looked down at the piano and the only thing I could think to play was,
The Puzzle Box
gingatao, the podcast- Soraya December 6, 2011
- Teethmarks November 25, 2011
- the gentle art of soft landings June 29, 2010
- The Australian Poet Laureate
- another quote from Robert Adamson January 31, 2010
- Three Quotes from Robert Adamson October 22, 2009
- The copyright question (2) October 7, 2009
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