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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Letter to a young poet.

April 3, 2009 at 6:59 pm | Posted in australian poetry, memoirs, sheer selfindulgence | 12 Comments
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With all due respect and so as to bury the point deeper under unnecessary verbiage.

How to make a magazine.
Pick a name, Jacket or foam:e or Cordite. Maybe not them, I think they are owned already, then select a template, find a techie who loves to fiddle with computers if necessary or just start with a free wordpress blog but spend twenty bucks on getting the dot wordpress removed. Ask your friends who presumably can write for submissions and throw links. Ask them to write cool stuff about how hip your magazine is and how cool it is to be in it. Silliman is only famous because he and his mates namipulated the grooogel algyrhythm. It works by weighting links, not the traffic that goes through them. A good internet writer can write good links. And what a cool job, man. Wherever you are bash out a bit of citizen journalism or poetry or plain old fashioned bullshit, like Silliman whilst sitting on a beach drinking beer anywhere in the world. You are all too prissy and poetical.

Haha, Friday night. Anyway staplers and photocopiers are dangerous and when a kid wants to know something about poetry he googles it. Create your own careers you lazy cynical bastards. What do they teach at universities these days. Did you see Tao Lin, selling shares in his publishing future? Haha. It’s not hard but you gotta be smart, smarter than me cos I am too honest. Have fun. It’s the only thing that works, my friend, if that is  not a premature assumption. Oh, and write everyday if you can and put it in public, it is good for your writing.

How much did Goethe write, by candlelight,
(A response to this brilliant piece of writing by Derek, Mr Motion.)

Hawaii Limo Exit.

March 30, 2009 at 6:15 pm | Posted in memoirs, poetry, writing | 7 Comments
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If you don’t play for high stakes it’s never more than jewellery and empty scented envelopes, she says.
Every story needs a bad guy, I just wanted it most.
Oh escapes some rounded sweet pink lips,
I’ve never been on a literal red carpet before.

You don’t spend five years inside for having a big mouth
without turning learning taking a trick or two hanging up the phone
stubbing out another obvious cigarette prop.
Never mind my dear his arm around her waist
and never fear, when backlit by a spotlight moon,

and Mamu accelerates away

More bizarre experiments in nonlinear time,

February 24, 2009 at 6:48 pm | Posted in links, memoirs, podcast, poetry, writing | 4 Comments
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This podcast will literally self-destruct with a tiny whimper in 3- 30 days and counting.

(subtitle, submission to Overland)

2mins 20secs

The Mythology Of Robert

December 20, 2008 at 5:27 pm | Posted in memoirs, writing | 9 Comments
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The great achievements of the modern age, post-Pharoahs, were rarely singular. Generally they were bought with the sweat and blood and lives of ordinary men and women, driven more by need than desire for immortality. You expect me to tell you there was some nobility in their honest poverty but that is a myth designed to comfort you and keep you silent.

There were lamed wufnicks, of course. A beautiful image of the wandering innocents, a handful of redeemers with no thought for themselves, unaware of their purpose. Should one realise their state they would die and be replaced.

And the star vampires of H. P. Lovecraft who consumed not only your life but all trace of your being, memories, mistakes, til the world becomes just as it would have been if you had never existed.

I told her on the telephone that Andrew found him blue. She said I’m sure you did all that you could do, please never contact me again.

I lived by the ocean in a wide bay of mangroves and at low tide vast mud flats stretching off to two horizons, one the line of the shore and one the line of the sky and in between the vast welcoming silence of the sea with ospreys for companions and my shock.

(The story behind the second last paragraph can be found here. A True Story.)

A True Story.

December 12, 2008 at 7:22 pm | Posted in memoirs, writing | 18 Comments
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which happened a short time after I had my heart broken the second time. The first time I walked in on my best friend and my first love (and I should point out in the interest of full disclosure that I have no brothers and my father was emotionally absent but I despise Freud.) I was a lonely and difficult child, to see them and here we apologise for our divergence into the hieronymous poetical, fucking
I woke up in a stupor and saw it and wondered if I had encouraged it in some mad fantasy of Berlin in the 20’s vintage which devolves into a drab Catholic graveyard, a grieving mother and us, like his pack, shuffling our feet in the dust in the background.
I don’t know why that war started but I don’t blame her. We just are and things just happen. I said, mate, a shotgun will make so much mess, he said, i love her, i said, mate. His brother, Andrew, found him blue on the toilet floor. Later that night I woke up, in a stupor and saw them sleeping and thought fuck, that’s not the right ending.

Independent Publishing.

December 9, 2008 at 6:44 pm | Posted in writing | 17 Comments
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Squirrels hoard apparently. We don’t have squirrels, we have possums. Sorry, little in-joke there. Independent publishing, as in independent films and independent music, at some point every writer of anything other than cookbooks will consider it. Especially these days. It’s free. You can get a high quality book out on the market very quickly.

The only problem is that people who were schmoozing their way up the food chain will sneer at you without having read your work or your blog. The first thing they will do, is check your publisher and if it is Lulu, they will ignore you or steal from you. Can you believe there are still people in the world who call it ‘vanity’ publishing? Vanity is holding on to it because it might be worth something someday.

Personally I didn’t want to wait and I don’t care how many copies I sell. Just opening that package and holding in my hands something about which I had fantasised for twenty years was reward enough for me.

I’m hopeless at social networking. The chances of me getting published before the day I told some over-educated young ‘editor’ with an MFA that I know better than they do because I spent twenty years writing it? The limit approaching zero degrees.

That’s cool. Have a simply fantabulous day full of tiny miracles like unexpected fields of tulips bursting into joyous spontaneous splendour. I am off to the post office to check for a package.

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