Taking stock.

November 17, 2009 at 6:34 pm | Posted in memoirs, poetry, portraits, sheer selfindulgence, writing | 18 Comments
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just because you believe time is not linear does not mean I didn’t used to write this piece as a slightly drunken father on a starry night round a fire, a blur of his tattoo, an English flag long forgot on his forearm round his son saying,

there is still the past, both recent and distant, line them up. Look up boy, you’re always looking at your feet you should be looking for friend or foe, the pass, the defender, the ball rolls by itself. He was alive when they won the cup, ’66, so I was three.

He was a submariner at sixteen and Welsh coalmining stock.  Stocks which someone had spent some time building.

Protected: Pam Brown agrees with a drunk bastard.

November 15, 2009 at 1:50 pm | Posted in blogging, contemporary poetry, memoirs, writing | Enter your password to view comments.
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The pianoplayer plays “Ham and Cheese Sandwich”

October 10, 2009 at 9:37 am | Posted in australian poetry, contemporary poetry, links, memoirs | 9 Comments
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‘Surprises and Apologies’ perhaps reminded of ‘Ornithology’.
Sometimes he just drifts around til he finds a boat
But I remember saying over and over that you rock those

and paddling around on a flat sea without an  F# is quite boring.

Boing splat, some semi-aquatic half amphibian, ripple e dee, I have decided it is best I never arrive in Melbourne.

But any time you are up in Brisbane or perhaps in some New York basement nightclub art gallery with a black baby grand
I am going to do what ever I can
to get you roaring drunk, Pam Brown. Cin cin,

a nice suit (for a peddler)

September 30, 2009 at 6:45 pm | Posted in australian poetry, memoirs, poetry, writing | 10 Comments
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something purple with lapels, flares and sharper angles,
a little abrupt but if you write a parody only to reveal how little and
surface is your knowledge of your subject then you shall be exposed
to ridicule from the gallery, vegetables
rotting which later can be gathered
and fed to the beasts
lurkers in silence most discrete

it was a foul and pestilent land
and one i am proud to have abandoned
and left ruined in my wake he said turning to me the scent of salt fish and speaking french i think originally or dutch these europeans, one never can be sure.

Review – Squires in Performance

August 29, 2009 at 9:00 am | Posted in australian poetry, memoirs, poetry, sheer selfindulgence, writing | 18 Comments
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The idiot said in his twitter the only way he would perform his poetry for an audience was naked. Pinched the idea from giggling Ginsberg,  but then realised that if he breaks one promise the entire universe of cards half carefully arranged in Buckmonster Filler’s master plan in triangles like a diamond midfield, Scolari.

So I turned up thinking well, he makes a big noise on the net, we already know he’s ugly and that there will be at least one pirate and one tattoo poem, just for cliches sake, he can’t help it. And he will be doing that pathetic little Monk dance all night, when Monk’s not at the piano, and might jump up and down on the x marks the spot aerobically saying Oh Art Tatum. The bouncer in the foyer is a big bastard but I didn’t see any cops on the way in. It’s only poetry after all and they don’t shoot poets, do they old Orca Lorca.

I tell you what though if he does penis puppetry while doing the Ganeesha poem, I’m leaving.

First Vision of Lord Ganesha

August 24, 2009 at 6:30 pm | Posted in memoirs, writing | 13 Comments
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For obvious reasons. (neither guilt nor shame, despite what some would tell you, adjusting the hem of her skirt) In my late teens and early twenties, when I was studying at the University of Queensland, there was a strange synchronicity. I followed a ‘trane of thought into ‘the ontological status of fictional characters’. I think I ended up there by trying to figure why revolutionaries became existentialists, but I believe in the complete unreliability of memory. It isn’t verifiable, Mr Quine.

At the same time I had a kind of psychological collapse which was most probably a ‘schizophrenic episode’ although I never sought diagnosis from a paid professional, having seen them teaching the ‘static brick’ theory of mind complete with diagrams. I am glad of this because I believe it was the ten or fifteen years it took me to figure out my own cure that forms the basis of all things good in my life.

Sometimes I lie under a tree made for climbing and think of that perfect fusion of moments as a singularity from which my life emanates, a kind of instantaneous shattering of frog on glass. I have practised all kinds of meditations, methodologies for dissolving the boundaries of self. Excuse me, if I begin to sound like Rimbaud, beginning lines of my poems with a capital I, although it’s true i am most loved when in e. e. cummings mode.

Representational versus Utopian Art.

August 2, 2009 at 6:08 am | Posted in links, memoirs, poetry, writing | 10 Comments
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Maxine,
I write the title and then the thought is gone. It’s all just/
explication.

No, I remember now, violence.
Is the difference. And there is a pornography
of violence. That come be of some/
use.

That Guernica is the best work of art to
look at if you want to see the
Twentieth Century and what
those bastards were up to.

George Grosz. Somehow requires a
belief is some thing. Not God.
Each other maybe, some lamed wufnick
tale, spies wandering Eastern Europe
jobless now the cold war is hot again.

Mercenary traders in a world of anti-semites
is how they’ld like to see us.
Again.

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