Velazquez Tattoo.

August 24, 2008 at 9:48 am | Posted in pictures, writing | 14 Comments
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“If you think in a certain way you may feel better,” said the old man, it’s not a question of belief. But it is innate in human nature to question, to seek. It was one of the primary reasons we became so successful as a certain type of creature. The old priest tucks himself into his cassock. I am tired of preaching to the converted my love. He has a photograph of himself as a young man with a painting by Velazquez tattooed on his back. He is standing on a beach somewhere and you can’t tell if the sun is rising or setting over the ocean. The tattoo is all he has to show for some adventure. He is dripping wet and in his hand is some dull object too blurred by the sepias of time to be identified.

Besides, he says putting the photograph back on the dresser and looking up into the mirror, silence is consent and people are still dying. Outside is the clatter of swords on horseback and a sudden silence. He waits for the knock on the door.

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starlight tattoo

July 29, 2008 at 6:44 pm | Posted in poetry, writing | 19 Comments
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one pope’s in as one pops out
each moment eternal
radiates
once again confabulates.
star light is real, boy, he said
it left before you were here
and after you are gone
it continues
one pope’s in
and one pops out,
some they sing
and some just shout,

So i said

July 25, 2008 at 7:08 pm | Posted in poetry, prosepoemthingy, writing | 13 Comments
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to him, Terry, mate, you are supposed to be creating a fucking revolution not whispering in the halls of academia. Fuck’s sake, man, get a grip, haha, said F. placing his frothy glass immaculately on the centre of your belly where despite the many tides and storms stays immaculately upright, though tilting, it’s good to be home,

Haha, I am back, my love, I have a gift, he says, leaning down and kissing your nipple like tasting a strawberry, a new tattoo, it’s a crouching tigger hidden dragon tattoo, schimply schplendiferous looking down at you,

the drunken cartographer has a comet tattoo,

July 18, 2008 at 7:19 pm | Posted in poetry, writing | 14 Comments
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oblivious to the sailors wails
deep inside the heaving bowel,
somewhere south of here, he
ponderates, then jabbing with
his quill like some ostrich on a stone,
pontificates,
central somewhere far from here,
t’was warmer and some star
from yonder shone,

meanwhile spotlit by some streetlight
moon eternally smoking beneath
a grey fedora doesn’t ponder
simply waits,

a piano player is tinkling
Chopin
as she lurches sudden starboard
and they flee into the night,
a billion tiny souls like some
cloud of moths ignite and
rush into the moon urgent
to delight,

Unable To Afford Even Regret.

July 17, 2008 at 7:08 pm | Posted in writing | 12 Comments
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Mate, mate, have you gotta minute? I just wanted to ask you a quick question. I seen you around and you’re not like them others, fucking suits, and well, I just wanted to ask you, do you know where I can get some of the good thing happening.

“Well that would be largely a matter of definition, I imagine.” I said looking up from the backs of my hands.

Mate it’s just that I thought you were familiar and that ink, it’s old ink but I bet it was done by Little Mick. That’s a Little Mick leopard.

“I’m sorry, I’ve heard of Little Mick but he was always kind of legendary to me. Did ‘The Rebels’ ink for them and I think he did Tex Perkins’.”

And your missus, mate, I’ve seen her around. She is somethingelse. Those tits. Is she still working?

There was a long pause while secretaries and accountants and receptionists with their lawyers on leads all hustled by the corner not even seeing us as if this was something happening to ghosts,

Anyway, like I say, do you know where I can get on to anything? You see, fact is I remember you too he said scratching the back of his hand and I know you shouldn’t be walking around, if you know what I mean. I remember, well let’s just say certain things stick with you and she didn’t deserve that, man. Maybe she did love you but you shouldn’t have walked into that room right then. Not even a moral question just plain fucking bad luck for everyone, he said.

“Except you. Until now,” and slowly slid my hand into my pocket.

Eastern Horizon.

July 15, 2008 at 6:55 pm | Posted in writing | 15 Comments
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You see, son, a true sailor is never becalmed for long. As long as you got breath in you you got wind, the old blowhard said smacking me between the shoulder blades and lurching off into the night waving his dragon tankard. Dawn was flirting red fingernails over the long horizon and the last two stars glittered reflected in the gentle rolling ocean like a slow cascade of dark curls unfurling, and it was in that moment I fell in love.

Heh son, he said disappearing down the hatchway, next port, Shanghai, I’ll get ya a mermaid tattoo then turned and mumbled into his filthy beard, that’ll fix ya,

Japanese wave tattoo.

July 11, 2008 at 5:46 pm | Posted in antihaiku, writing | 13 Comments
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The Japanese pornographer crossed her long legs and smiled. He won’t go a cent over fifteen thousand she said.

Hector was dead by the time Simon got back to Brisbane carrying the suitcase containing both the film and the fifteen thousand.

She had fingernails he slurred at the Brazilian stripper later that night and each of them had a different animal carefully embroidered.

He woke up in a different city in a room with just a Japanese woodcut of a wave over the bedhead, there was a knock on the door and that was that then, he said, as I reassured him, don’t worry the warden has seen fit to provide a brand new kit given the incidence of sickness, so a Japanese Wave tattoo, as his veins swelled, there must be a story behind that,

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