Saturday, June 27, 2009

trinity

You choose rails Dr Phil
Middle path chants the Buddah
Only love redeems so sayeth the Lord.

i am taking to my bed

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

4.17 am

4.17 am

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 Think I am a Traveller Escaping From a Bear

“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

i almost shout

i almost shout
to God
i love You more
than my life
i love You more
than my breath
i love You more
than wind and
rain and sky
but i am afraid
of the pure and
perfect love
of God

i am afraid
of the love of God

Journal Extract, June 28 2009

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.

try

She did not put forget him
on her list of things to do
she only put try.

Friday, June 26, 2009

summer bedroom

mid winter -
under the bridge
the summer bedroom
furnished with a nest of blankets
and a shoe
has gone

my mantra

my mantra
stuck in my throat
until
I heard songs of birds
then it poured from me
like warmed honey

Thursday, June 25, 2009

the yellow line

my father never went to war
he stayed home
to scrape the blood and bone of a child
from railway tracks
i remember this
each time
i feel i want to cross the yellow line

Tomorrow

Yesterday I walked in
rain until wet. Today I
will do it again.
Yesterday I cried in
rain until wet. Today I
will do it again.

Wednesday, June 24, 2009

Real Question of a Three Day Hangover

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
at the back of the pub
bulges which strained
in their grease stained jeans
with whoever dared?

Tuesday, June 23, 2009

3.13 am

What wakes me
at 3.13
the bleak hour
of labour and death
when both are denied to me?
Whose hand
shakes me
from sleep
to face
my dark consciousness?

When others dream
can't I dream too?

Monday, June 22, 2009

the antipoet's disciple

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
starving Africans
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
his thoughts
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.

Thursday, June 18, 2009

A Poem to Bury a Placenta By

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

Tuesday, June 16, 2009

Sunday, June 14, 2009

One Hen


It is the evening
when I take
the eggs clutched in straw
one hen follows
into the gloom
and watches me
with her orange eye.

I know she thinks.

I hope she does not dream
of the chicks
that ought to have been.

Saturday, June 13, 2009

Sometimes When

Sometimes when I am sliding towards sleep
the poles reverse
my north becomes my south
you live
I love
and we are skin to skin again
I smell your body musk again
I feel your exhaled breath again
Sometimes when I am sliding towards sleep
I forget to hold on

Friday, June 12, 2009

What Ya See?

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
take their ease
retired on the verge.

Thursday, June 11, 2009

Red and Gold Wedding Sheets

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.

Wednesday, June 10, 2009

I am Descended From Thieves

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.

Tuesday, June 9, 2009

Portrait According to Facebook Quizzes

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.

Monday, June 8, 2009

I Feel Lost

I feel lost
in the land
of the universal human being
where love is essential.
But I travel on,
taking notes with my poet’s pen.

Sunday, June 7, 2009

He was present

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.
" He was present." she said.

GOD IS REAL







Friday, June 5, 2009

0%

I spent a whole week
to try to write like
Amber Fresh
from behind her fringe
of washed hair
neat and quirky.
But I blundered about
with my sledgehammer pen
blunt and dangerous
know nothing about boys
see my 0% score.

Corrected

I saw the word sadness on my computer yesterday.
I had typed it with two D's.
It flicked itself free of the second D
and stood corrected on the screen.

Thursday, June 4, 2009

If You See Something Say Something


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!

I Killed the Fly

I killed the fly
which drank my blood.
It was the fly's last drink.
Taking life is easy
much easier than you think.

Wednesday, June 3, 2009

Fool

Fool is fruit
scalded, stewed, crushed,
mixed with cream
served hot or cold.
She’s been done both ways.
Never learns.

Monday, June 1, 2009

on the cycle way

on the cycle way
I walk past the spot
where a boy
was murdered
because it was 2.13 am
and he was on foot
with his wallet and phone
someone has tagged
the wall
with the word
- GORE -
on a nearby pole
sprayed
red paint
is arterial blood.