i am taking to my bed for three days wake only to piss shit or drink a beer after i will be refreshed, able to go on for a little more as prescribed by Charles B in an interview, I watched yesterday the hand rolled cigarette on his lips was flattened wet with spittle fingers dyed with smoke sucking in twin poisons daily he reached a conclusion people are pointless he said
When I am able I will high tail into the hills take my footsteps with me. My heart composes its own songs my throat opens my voice sings as if tomorrow may not be another day. To rely on the moon for guidance was a mistake as it has gone into it’s own dark house. If I am the instrument of God why can’t I feel his hand upon me? Is it 4.17 or the rain and wind or the middle of things that uproots me? Airborne is the truth of it the tempest has teeth. Don’t follow me I am mapless.
They say light will make a comeback. But I see no signs at this unholy hour when monks and nuns wake in silence and begin to pray
“I’m feeling rather funny and I don’t know what I am – BUT Round about
And round about
And round about I go—
I think I am a Traveller escaping from a Bear;
I think I am an Elephant,
Behind another Elephant
Behind another Elephant who isn’t really there …” from Now We Are Six by A. A. Milne
i told my husband i was suffering from Sylvia Plath Syndrome Sylvia Plath, poet mother of two or three wife of a coldly ambitious husband put her head in the gas oven. She made a mistake. She thought she was roasting dead meat.
i found myself curled in a ball of terror on the carpet the hair on the back of my neck was raised i was cold and covered in sweat.
i made a desperate urgent phone call. you need chemicals to get you out of this one i cannot help you - it was my best friend.
i clothed naked bodies i filled empty mouths i kept dirt and disease at bay i healed open wounds kissed, consoled, calmed, cajoled until i screamed and frightened my children
my friends left me alone the phone slept in it’s cradle i rang everyone i am lonely i said
i put my self in the hands of a young professional she listened to the symptoms i described she saw a sick woman in the chair she didn’t see me she seemed to think i was too happy made too many puns my dress bizarre eyes wet with tears body fading away i could not care for myself i had no-one to care for me.
in the presence of a pink consulting room a stone faced woman in a black and white knife pleated skirt offered me a natural substance to be injected into my veins – daily for the rest of my life.
running I tore flaming hair from my head I called upon the earth the sun the moon the stars heal me i cried heal yourself they replied
at home Grandma cooked, ironed, mended.
time passed in my brain chemicals re-aligned themselves nasty bits blotted out pleasant parts illuminated patience returned my thoughts grew wings.
And then in a gentle breeze one kind afternoon, I began to soar!
Published in “Private Entrance” Editors: Diane Beckingham Mary Hicks Samphire Publications Subiaco Western Australia 1990
Last night we witnessed the birth of a new god. His muscles polished jet. His hair a viperous crown. He strode, he leapt, he grasped stars. Flung open victory’s door. We rose as one and shouted his name. “Nic Naitanui! Nic Naitanui! Nic Naitanui! Save us!” With a flick and a twist he kicked another goal. Our heads thrown back, mouths open, we drank the sky.
My hangover was in it's third day and I can't cook the longest hangover in history grumps son as he knives chicken breasts into the tiny pieces he loves not careless chunks I cut after relentless years of sating daily hunger
my brain stops on my three day hangover number one daughter drives me to shop new to town she forgets the way and so do I why am I doing all the things my mother told me not to? I ask as I wave goodbye in my socks in the rain.
on the third day of my hangover words are dead rats from my mouth long distance daughter scolds she should be the one going to pub poetry being deafened by boy bands
The band members
milk fed virgins soft in obscure message T shirts
and jeans ironed by mum their equipment unscathed straight from dad’s well swept garage.
The real question is:
Where are the slim hipped working class boys lean as pack wolves willing to share
All night the antipoet has been in my bed awake in my head rewiring my brain.
Black beanie low on his brow Jeans disintegrating from the ankle down Recycling back to soil shoes with the hole in the sole connecting to the mother of us all Tearing up his poems and giving them away Shouting meaninglessness in the city streets Haranguing the crowd with nothing and silence an eye for the beautiful and an ear for the false failing failing failing into a well of his own success ear and wedding ringed placed by his woman to warn off girls who want to splash in his genetic pool Stripped bare the antipoet has no arse worn his glutimus maximus to the bone in front of his computer screen, newsprint, parchment, calf vellum, ink slinging, quill driving, two fingers typing, leaky biro writing, a manifesto, modus operandi, copyleft philosophy Art a conduit, force elemental encompassing the earth squirting out his fingers in super hero filaments after a quick costume change in the confined space of his male brain much bigger than mine sprouts three day growth from his face being the dude, the man, the legend who wrote and wrote and ripped and ripped and gave it all away. Meshing his audience in a bird net of thoughts and images that will become the Noah’s flood of the world that flick flick flick like demented like like like demented demons Penises cut down trees vaginashome for the homeless breasts wet nurse to the dull eye of television Feeding into the one great stream of consciousness washing out corporate greed child slavery
oppression multi national battery hens
shit for brains if you don’t get me The Them The They and leaving only Us toking together on home grown and living in HAR – MOAN –EE until the worm feast. Connecting them all for a fleeting moment
to his world
him self Moulding them into one like Allah and Buddha and Jesus and Kurt Cobain turna the phrase revealing the ash grey face of the dead gay god of love ensnaring the collective unconsciousness in his poets net fisher of men like Jesus shepherding the sheep like Jesus A mob which needs protection from the suppurating festering
purulence of corporate
multi national miasma creeping into the global suburb wherehome alone dogs howl
at a bone white stencilled moon
on a cold blue winter sky.
There are those who say he is an old fucked up hippy But to me he is the antipoet Colossus of modesty/integrity Astride my page.
Placenta known by many names within the earth curved belly a swell in the amniotic sea afloat and tethered to the jeweled shield pillow and spirit raiment the becoming being partaking of the flat cake feast grow me flesh grow me feelings grow me bones enmeshed molecular exchange cytoplasmic life charger at the ignition of conception magic in mother’s hormone stew build within one flesh another flesh become become become a he a she another risk all in the pulsating flesh quake to be. write in blood the exultant the warrior woman cry Mother! I multiply!
The placenta speaks: bury me below the bed
near the hearth beside the step under the cherry tree save me from the needle teeth of cats rip and tear of wild dogs repast the evil eye barren woman’s stare witches potent brew. Allow yourself one small taste to staunch the post partum flow prepare a little as a protein feast a mouthful will halt the demons of motherhood man and woman together place me once more in the arms of the earth take me the jewel pillow shield flat cake feast return me to the earth to wait.
Naked the born child grows alone into the transient whisper the smudge of ecstasy before the inescapable return to the ancestral home completes the circle to begin again begin again begin again begin again begin again begin again
Walking home from a movie I texted a friend, the reply contained the question "What ya see?" Thinking the friend wanted my poetic response to my surroundings I spent four hours writing before I realised the question being asked was what had I seen at the movies. Such is the inadequacy of language.
Black banked clouds refuse to release rain backdrop to the stock exchange swallows swarm to chase the sun cars burn up the Paleozoic era my feet wrapped in nimble workers’ fingers sidestep human shit soiled black underpants impact mining carpet world technology pty ltd and sons my finance your finance let me steal from you finance hung dead ducks haiku sux dix graffiti is a contact sport yo! yo! yo! one lost glitter shoe built to dance derelict BBQ cooks up rust puff of pink balloons off to a party old man lifts a door mat finds the front door key trains stuffed full drunks shout goodbye at the sky beneath a bridge a sandy hollow where someone sleeps alone on a verandah a man in sunnies creates a smokescreen mother’s terminal illness closes Kennedy Corner Ryan loves Cat cemented in Central Ave glue sniffers’ paraphernalia congeals in the gutter attached to frayed leashes arthritic dogs
limp limp cock legs Barbie’s mutilated arm abandoned in the park mum teaches her kid to play with the family pup shopping bag of autumn leaves floral lounge suites
Through the thickness of night we sleep side by side in the red and gold wedding sheets from China.
When we bought them our interpreter, Tian, whose name means sky, told me about red. The luckiest of colours means fertility, happiness, harmony. I know it is for sex, war, blood. Red is for sex. I said. She stopped surprised eyed as if she had never heard of such a thing and flushed red.
When we were at the museum, Tian, whose name means sky, told us the Chinese were more highly evolved as they had less hair and were therefore less apelike. We told her that all races have a common ancestor. Hair was a response to environment. She stopped surprised eyed as if she had never heard of such a thing and flushed red.
When we were at the temple of the wild goose I began to chant ohm mani pad ma hum. How you know this, Tian, whose name means sky demanded. After she interpreted the story of a wild goose falling dead from the sky to indicate the spot where the temple was to be erected. She mused: How can this be true? Maybe it isn’t. I replied. She stopped surprised eyed as if she had never heard of such a thing and flushed red.
In our red and gold wedding sheets from China we are lucky happy harmonious until we are savage with sex and war and blood.
I went to the movies with my friend Dianne. She just had time to watch one movie before her radiation appointment. They cut her cancer out. Now they are poisoning her pelvis to make sure that no feral cells will ever grow there again. After the film she turned to me and said “All those women in that movie were beautiful. Now I am older I have an eye for the beauty of older women.” So I told her about the morning in the bathroom with my husband after I finished with the moisturiser and he was drying himself I said to him, “Its hard watching your beauty change from one kind of beauty into another.” I said that because I knew he would not want to hear me going on about my aging neck. On the train home three school girls were giggling because one had chip crumbs on her face. I thought that there are years in your life when almost everything is funny, followed by years in your life when almost everything is sad. The schoolgirls stopped laughing all looked to the other end of the train to see if Adam was on the train. Then they could not decide if the boy they could see was him or not and if he had a mono brow. A discussion followed about all the Sam’s they knew. Snobby Sam, Skateboarding Sam, Sam who has bad teeth and that other Sam they met on the train the other day. When I got off at my station I felt the bite of the summer sun I wished I had my straw hat or brolly. Both of which I bought at DJ’s when we were in the money. I walked past the house where the guy deals in motor parts out of his front yard. He is grey as he is permanently covered in a thin layer of oil and grease. He wears a blue shearers singlet. My daughter calls those singlets wife beaters. But he has not got a wife unless she is tied up down the back like a dog. His house with a sour sob garden shows no sign of a female presence. It has wire mesh on the windows in the place of curtains. From the outside the interior looks black as if it is covered in grease too. We call him Mr Escort Agency as there was a time when he was only wrecking Escorts. Now it seems to be short wheel base Toyos. I am writing this in the style of Amber because I like her. I want to know what it feels like to write in this way. Some say it needs editing but to me it’s like being hooked into someone’s brain following the path of their direct thoughts. If anyone asks me why I am doing it I am going to say I am finding my voice but I know that is bullshit. What I am really doing is trying on the style for a while to see if it fits or if I need to let it out or take it in like a seamstress. On the other hand I could steal it. I am descended from thieves.
If I were a disease I would be incurable HIV my hair would be black I would live in Cullen Bay Darwin where the houses sink into the sea cafes are overpriced neighbours pretentious no need to worry in a tropical clime I can drown my worries in beer VB - which beer are you- a working man’s pint my pathetic score of 0% how well do you know men has me headed for a loneliness this is supported by the Rorschach test which reveals I am tormented on a long and painful trip through life I am Mallory Knox a psychotic bitch sweet and as tough as nails think men are slime I seek revenge, infamy and unruly angry psycho bad boy types don’t care about dirt on my hands my eighties band is Motley Crue no excuses for the things I do shout at the devil, child of the beast
I’m a liar and that’s the truth my porno tape is coming out soon how annoying are you? –result incredibly make others cringe internally but who cares my future job is a sports star and I would start a fight in a bar my periodic element is gold a boy scout loyal trustworthy my spirit animal is Eagle although tame my wild spirit remains difficulties in expressing my inner most thoughts as an Aussie I am true blue. My disappointment lies here
Jesus doesn’t want to hang out with me He thinks I am a lazy shit.
At my aunt's funeral I recited the 23rd psalm, King James version. After the funeral I was approached by a woman who said she had never heard the psalm said so beautifully. She thought the Lord was standing beside me.
I was on the train going to the launch of "Between Touch and Intent" when we went through the East Perth tunnel. I saw my self reflected in the opposite window on which someone had scratched the word NICE. As it happened, I arrived at the launch late and they had run out of copies of the book. Nice!