F tattoo (in G, is for horses)

July 4, 2009 at 9:04 am | Posted in australian poetry, contemporary poetry, genre isn't dead yet but it should be, poetry, writing | 16 Comments
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Fear. and freedom from it.
looking in mirrors and startling

fantastical modifications in form
with no apparent function

p is for pointless alliteration
without contrasting consonants

F is for free
to give it all away

and go sailing.

The Plague Of Idiots (in F. Major)

June 21, 2009 at 5:38 pm | Posted in memoirs, writing | 15 Comments
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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,

Somewhere there.

April 8, 2009 at 6:30 pm | Posted in poetry, writing | 8 Comments
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Reverse connecticon between F. as Walt Whitman, played by Ray Winstone making some careful entrance in grey finery and slipping somewhere near between is me. I had two hands become pick-a-card and the hang’d man made three.

the great and sad song of
earth turned against its will
recurs and  even trees tire
of their requirements
when one child aspires
to farthest branches and
one lies curled beneath

taking it seriously…

December 15, 2008 at 6:21 pm | Posted in poetry, writing | 3 Comments
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taking it seriously, hmm, doesn’t necessarily mean not having any fun, Oscar, no need for the quip not quote nor lurking behind some clever practiced turn of phrase. I’m sure there’s a drunken haiku in there somewhere, let me count thy silly bubbles and an obvious line
break. He say’s, slightly slurring. You upperclass twits makes me wanna, well I’ll tell you a story.
Every artist’s voice is an artificial construct. You see that word, ‘art’ificial. You wanna live in some prosaic explanation why listen to birdsong all day. It’s a job of work and it’s a long voyage he said, putting his arm around me, stinking of salt fish and absynthe, all you have to do is play, keep her there in the room.

I looked down at the piano and all I could think to play was Stormy Weather,

Life is too important to be taken seriously.
Oscar Wilde

Seconds Out,

December 3, 2008 at 6:44 pm | Posted in poetry, writing | 15 Comments
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What a life that was
lived in the key of F.

Sliding into town, Jimmy Sharman,
bit dodgy round the hips, a strange
limp closely followed by three quick
shouldered free spirits lured and kept
under wraps on a vague
promise of travel.

Fifty bucks to go three rounds
in a ring in a bar with thirty men
but five women. Why not,
I’ll do it
again
in search of a vague end
ding,

the gentle art of forgetting,

November 27, 2008 at 6:27 pm | Posted in writing | 11 Comments
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Once discovered, the need for the gentle art of forgetting, otherwise immortal, he said chuckling, shrugging on the long cloak Takeshi had given him and locking the door behind him. At the other end of the alley a limo was waiting but not for him. I remember the recruitment he had boasted earlier after winning at cards, watching the older boys march so straight and proud and everyone giving thanks. Was it Spain that time, a flash of silver? Or Guatamala when a flower burst sudden red? The music was long and strange and high so perhaps it was east of elsewhere, gathering the chips. Which is where we ended up anyway distort statues bleeding in sand and tank tracks winding off into the heat. Later he put the drink down on the piano. Fuck it, son. I don’t think I can face another one. He turned the corner into the street just as the limo door opened and another opportunity emerged.

Caution – Live Thought.

November 25, 2008 at 6:23 pm | Posted in poetry, writing | 14 Comments
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Reasserting the primacy of rhythm like
some monkey in a tree, not so much a screamin’
jay hawkins way but more a Sumedhian garden
complete with statuary
Keith Jarrett style.

not some strange code created
to prove he is smarter than i
don’t write poems about poetry they say
to witch he replies every poem
is about poetry, just as bees define
flowers by colour in a dance,
some synethesiastic metaphor an
image conjured with more than words,
which resonates,
it’s not hard, he says putting his glass
down on the piano and leaning into me smelling of
vanilla and cigar smoke and hissing, here she comes,
play,

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