Monday, August 31, 2009

last day

last day of winter
my nose begins to twitch

One From None - Rollins

I'm ok but my heart is stupid.
It goes places I would never go.
I have a leash that I keep it on.
Doesn't always work.
Never learns from pain.

Friday, August 28, 2009

This Week

This week
been sitting sadhu
in a cave watching
my friend, the butterfly,
fly away.
It’s been fun
listening to 96FM
kind favour
of the fucken brickies next door.
They swear.
Indulged in a bit of cyber flagellation -
see me privately for further details.
Read “One From None”
bought at the Save the Children Fund
annual second hand book sale
$1 on half price day
Bargain Betty!
Hand written inscription on the front inside cover
News was
Ms Gilllard saved the day.
Tony wants to have a go.
Ted went to explain to Mary Jo.
The crops are gonna fail
and if rain don’t come next week
we’ll all be rooned.
The mighty game
received another body blow
and Ben came home.
In the trenches on the emotional front,
I cried.
My friend the deconstructed post modernist said:
"You cry when you see the Truth."

That’s it really.
oh and I wrote a poem……

after all

what makes me so
fucken unlucky
in fucken life
in fucken love
jesus i hate it when the pathetics hit
its not even poetry this shit
could have passed in the sixties
the problem is
the problem is
the problem is
i have been bobbing up and down in the same spot not swimming not drowning
for fuck i dont know how long
fucken years
the same
the same
the same
fucken mistakes
saying the same words
over and over afuckengen
the psychobabble
is right
its a pattern
but the pattern has to hit me in the face
with a dead fish
fifteen fucken times before I get it
fucken non stop slow learner
at least the train tracks have lost their gleam
that route no longer appeals
no cunt notices isolation
so thats a waste of fucken lonely time
too old to do a da levy
now everyone is poncing around being artists and poets and fucken anarchists
filling each others pockets with piss
out-quoting each fucken other
armed with their fucken non stop genius
i hope the revolution comes soon
i hope they string me up first
maybe i could be fucken lucky
after all

Thursday, August 27, 2009

Death Rant

You really think about death at fifty six because your friends and rellies start popping off like pop corn in a hot pan.
One morning your eyes open suddenly you hear ringing
It is too early and your head doesn’t function
and the voice and name association bit of your brain hasn’t kicked in
and the disembodied voice is saying Uncle Mick is dead in hospital or Geoff has been found in bed cold
and then there is an explosion as all the senses kick in together
and he told no one he had cancer
and it is a shock
and the next thing you know you are wishing you had told people you loved them last time you saw them but they were asleep or you felt embarrassed
and now they are dead and its too late and nothing can be done
and you spend days crying
and you are wondering why you bought a box of tissues at the supermarket a week ago because you never do that
and was it just the design on the box or did you know subconsciously
or have some sort of premonition
that you would need something to mop up
your grief for your dead relative or friend
and you burst into tears as you unpack the dishwasher
or load up the washing machine
with laundry you wore a week ago while they were still alive
you cry because you were wearing this shirt
or that skirt when you saw them last
and your grown up children are disturbed when they find you against the sink in a slumped sort of way with floods on your cheeks
sodden tissues clenched in both fists
and it hurts all the longing and crying
and it goes on for days .
You wake with wet eyes and go to bed sobbing.
Your diary is a splatter of ink and you can’t read it anyway
you stop writing and become numb
and the tears dry up
and now you are in a daze
and cold sorrow turns into hot anger
against the person who is dead from the secret cancer, heart attack or crash.
You start yelling questions like
Why did you do it?
Shouldn’t you have told us?
You should have driven carefully.
You selfish old man!You stupid boy!
Don’t you know how you have hurt us?
At last you go to the funeral
and it might be your uncle but it is someone else’s father,
and it might have been your friend but it is someone else’s aunt
and it might have been your sister but it is someone else’s lover
and the dead are in a coffin in the ground in a beautiful box with gold handles and a crucifix
or hand painted with pastels by artistic sisters
or being turned to ash in a furnace.
It doesn’t really matter they are dead
and you are not
and the sun really hurts
and the sky is a mess
and the stars are all blurred
and although someone says the dead are in heaven
or being reincarnated into a butterfly
you don’t know how that works
and you are finding it hard to believe in anything anyway.
after all this the ceremony is over
and you have read a poem you have written you don’t know how
and it made other people start crying
and when it is time to shovel in dirt you cry out in a loud voice
“Fill it in boys!”
and “Dance on dear Thelma!”
or “Love goes with you baby James!”.
and you are glad it is all over but of course it is not
and you go on with it all still inside you
and so it will be until you die
and you think about death at fifty six because it is real
and it you know the voice
and you and death are practically pals.
and the more life goes on the more death seems to pop around like a visitor for afternoon tea
and you think about death at fifty six because you can’t change the default settings
as there are no other options on the drop down dead menu.

Wednesday, August 26, 2009


I wish I had seen this land
Before Ripper Burnacelli hooked chains behind his tractor
And brought every tree to it's knees.

I wish I had seen this land
Before the booted foot kicked the crown of a hill
And saw gold.

I wish I had seen this land
Before they came at dawn
with guns
to the camp
shot the dogs
woke the people
And ended the Dreaming.

I wish I had seen this land.

Tuesday, August 25, 2009

text affaire

da levy: part of the problem is that the other shore IS HERE, NOW and we are someplace else

my rapture is text
music for my loneliness
beamed wireless
blue back lit words
seared into my eyes
from someone
whose face
I no longer remember
consolation prize for restraint
homage to fidelity
winner of the monogamy hurdles
covers the distance
regret rides side saddle

now the problem is
I’m someplace else
as I read a message
from the other shore

Monday, August 24, 2009

Maybe Leda


A sudden blow: the great wings beating still
Above the staggering girl, her thighs caressed
By the dark webs, her nape caught in his bill,
He holds her helpless breast upon his breast.
How can those terrified vague fingers push
The feathered glory from her loosening thighs?
And how can body, laid in that white rush,
But feel the strange heart beating where it lies?

A shudder in the loins engenders there
The broken wall, the burning roof and tower
And Agamemnon dead.
Being so caught up,
So mastered by the brute blood of the air,
Did she put on his knowledge with his power
Before the indifferent beak could let her drop?

William Butler Yeats

Maybe Leda

If he was the swan
I would let him take me
in the night
as my husband slept
beside me.

My breast
feather pressed
enfolded in wings
urgent ruffle
between my thighs
if he was the swan.

Saturday, August 22, 2009

the train i could have caught has gone

the train I could have caught has gone
i never had the fare
he was just another man
who was never really there

i put him in my trophy room
i polish his engraved name
shining in the galaxy
of stupidity and shame

i turn from the love-less path
littered with the dead
abandon communication
leave everything unsaid

i burn him at the cross roads
i burn him at the dawn
i burn him once
i burn him twice then i burn him more

i drown him in his care-less-ness
i drown him in his pain
i drown him once
i drown him twice then begin again

i cut him from my consciousness
i cut him from my heart
i turn away
give up on love and wings which tear apart.

Thursday, August 20, 2009

Arriving From the Garden

Arriving from the garden,
drunk on sunshine, compost and fresh chook shit
blunder into webs and broadcast their SOS in staccato bursts of static.
Or after hours of head butting glass they are found
brain damaged and dead on the window sill, hairy corpses dry and crisp.
Or punch drunk they drown in dish filled sinks and float out cold with the congealed grease and discarded lettuce leaf.
Or dizzy with joy crash backwards into a cooling cup where they kick their legs in the air and continue to spin creating tiny tea whirlpools with their wings
Or struck by chemical warfare they dive bomb the evening meal
Splash down in the gravy,
pump maggots from their convulsing body,
completing the life cycle at the dinner table.

Wednesday, August 19, 2009

gift cup

take this. a full cup. a cup full. a cup full of love. as ye shall. a cup. drink it. with this cup. a full cup. offered. given. drink from the full cup. sup it up. the full cup. blood fills the full cup. drink from the offered cup. take the cup. hold the cup. the love cup. your cup. a gift to you. drink it. love cup. lips on the love cup. hold. contained in the cup. spilled blood. drink the blood cup. blood brother cup. hold the blood brother blood. the cup of your mouth . the mouth is a cup. drink from the mouth cup. lip on lip. mouth cup on mouth cup. this is my blood cup. in your blood cup. my blood. take my blood in your mouth cup. fill your mouth. blood in the cup. cup in me. cup me in. cup in blood. in the blood. blood in blood. love blood cup. gift cup. love gift cup. brother blood cup. do this. remember. love cup. given. my blood in your mouth. full. blood full mouth. love blood mouth cup. cup lip . mouth lip. lip to lip. drink blood. as oft as ye .blood love. shall drink it. cup. offer. love. in remembrance. your mouth blood. of me. my blood to you. a gift. take blood. gift of blood love. held in a cup. cupped. cup cup. cup. cup the gift cup. take it. a full cup. a cup full. a cup full of love. gift cup.