Soraya

July 1, 2010 at 7:45 pm | Posted in memoirs, sheer selfindulgence, writing | 7 Comments
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Soraya’s new toy came in a lovely package. There really are no other words to describe it, nor are any necessary. I wanted to write something that I had never written before, new adventures as it were, but only those two sentences came to me before I was rudely interrupted by a brusque knocking at the door. It was the debt collectors. They had come for the previous resident but one of them recognized me from the club. They saw the open bottle of whiskey on the table and it turned into a bit of a session.

Half way through and quite pissed, I told them of my plan to write pornography but from a female perspective as a kind of challenge and see if I could get away with it. One of them wanted to back the project and the other said it was disgusting and left disgruntled. I doubt I will ever be able to look him in the face again. Still, that is the price you pay as a writer. There is always a certain risk involved or you are not doing your job properly.

The next morning I woke up on the beach, alone, and wearing my four hundred dollar Hong Kong suit, covered in sand, the occasional small crab exploring my hair. I remembered the plan and thought about Soraya, how much trouble she would get in to, and how little chance of surviving it she would have. Went back to the motel and wrote this instead.

the gentle art of soft landings

June 28, 2010 at 7:28 pm | Posted in australian poetry, jazz poetry | 11 Comments
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Suddenly his hands forgotten,

Take one moment to see my work he said breathing dirt
and holding out an open hand tis true one develops
a heart of stone when one sleeps rarely
and only in certain uncouth company, yesterday
a gilded cage
then under bridges
fallen

Sketched you in Morocco
standing naked hips tilted,
at the window in the morning
thinking about breakfast.

with a twist on ice, if it’s not too Dean Martin, omerta
principles with an end to occam Picasso was an immaculate
draughtsman before he was a Cubist without
being sweeney practiced my grammar, recap
italising the ‘I’ and using ‘one’ as in one may assume?
between the keeping of secrets and the breaking of promises
insert ocean metaphor here teddy as I explored your consent
to my manipulations of the roots of language and gloried in my power.
remember that car exit bridge alternate endings either way and both shot down
left you standing by that river shivering and her dying
hyannis port, white sails blue horizon,
on the occasion of another passing
found at the centre Matsuo Basho
giggling over a still pond no frogs nor
the sound they make when they land

(composed to the music of  Joseph Tawadros -“Hand in Hand” which you can listen to here, with Alister Spence (piano), John Napier (cello) & James Tawadros. )

(written as a first attempt at the National Jazz Writing Competition)

liberation

June 22, 2010 at 3:46 pm | Posted in ekphrasia, poetry, writing | 9 Comments
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would that it were possible
to write pure instrumental lines
an imperceptible dissolution
into a henry moore shaped whole
like grass pondering dandelions
or two children holding hands
light variations
to untie the sublime from this humanness
of language, the moral, the spirit,
tethers which dull the glisten
of wordless beauty vaulting
the harmonic between open sky
and the softness of skin,

faith is not required

June 5, 2010 at 7:54 am | Posted in poetry, writing | 18 Comments
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between the it is (always) dark(est just
before the (dawn) of her
blink andthe
busyness bustle of
mind the day
there’s an infinitesimal
time the sky
,exact

blue
shade of smiling
eyes

life is desire

May 27, 2010 at 6:30 pm | Posted in poetry, writing | 15 Comments
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I don’t think

there are particular
unusual unique monsters
just that the depths of my mind
are closer to the surface

underocean rivers of contrasting warmths
mutually curled in constant motion
carrying sunken pirate craft
rising to the dawn

I don’t think

just name traces of
curlsound occasions
tiny snippets which fit
the thought stream

very lovely lunch sitting
in the sun where the
babble bubble breaks
on the shore of a quiet mind

Summer Assortment in Wicker Hamper

May 24, 2010 at 3:58 pm | Posted in poetry, writing | 9 Comments
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With a volley of other eye words like aye aye capitan
we shall plot the demise of all rhyming silliness
and make a point west, or east, or at least
apply the principle of parsimony.
After all, one without the other? Absurd like a star
without a toe turned pebbleward and if I was less
than imitable I would not deserve your attentions
my darling, I shall spend my days concocting
drunken cartographers from whom we can expect
an endless source of unique ridiculousnesses
carefully arranged in wicker hampers
specifically designed to conflate integrity, pastry and influence.
And whilst I rue the lack of subtlety, tis true,
a perfect tune, these babble of voices, instigation,
echo, interpolation, lull, anticipation and reflection
cannot help but sing your praise and praise your song
and leave us unconditional.

Napoleon Hat, Long Johns and a Box of Chocolates

May 19, 2010 at 1:01 pm | Posted in ekphrasia, writing | 9 Comments
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It would be a relief to resort to jaunty nonsense and lurid wooden horses turning circles on an infinity merry go round or perfectly encoded details of a mundane life, ashtrays and nature poems described by one sleepy reviewer as ‘somewhat transportational’ but alas the responsibilities of leadership leave us oblivious he said disentangling himself from the inextricable, emergent. What wild rapids, grinning.

Perhaps we can reconstruct an empty architecture of nouns without verbs, less destabilising of the Takeshi Kitano Nexus, Sir? fers to the sound of ripples revolving round pebbles, sshhh, My life is very smooth these days, my job is easy and well-paying. I have a passport and two bank accounts. I am no longer concerned with the voluptuousness of time (which after all looks after itself as it follows its own tale) nor with vansquishing the inexplicable. Curvature, magnificence and innumerable immaculate details around the hallowed abundant atop however,

Pop. Not so much getting older as homeward bound, oh those tiptoe sounds how they remind of a maypole gyspy wedding dance… still enjoying the gigglest apology, my dear, buttoning his lips and reaching for his hat. Now what’s all this tit tatt, The Who Nexus? The What?

(Dance Of The Veils, Pablo Picasso, at The Hermitage Museum, St Petersburg)

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