blood glues the broken

blood glues the broken
to the road
one wing
rises
rises
falls

born into country

those delivered on sand are born into country

red dunes drift under the high sun

rust is a slow burn in desert dry air 

night calls of mopokes in praise of dead wood

red dunes drift under the high sun

all of the stories are written in starlight

night calls of mopokes in praise of dead wood

lizards soak long in midday sunbaths

all of the stories are written in starlight

skin and bones worn by bare earth

lizards soak long in midday sunbaths

my blood tie dissolved in deep sea water

skin and bones worn by bare earth

a hoof cracked the crust of old land

my blood tie dissolved in deep sea water

rock pools hold dark water still

a hoof cracked the crust of an old land

pink sky unfolds blue into morning

rock pools hold dark water still

wind torments tree tops new growth

pink sky unfolds blue into morning

lashed with hemp knots I bled into white sand

wind torments tree tops new growth

clawed paws of malu imprinted on claypans

lashed with hemp knots I bled into white sand

rust is a slow burn in desert dry air

clawed paws of malu imprinted on claypans

those delivered on sand are born into country

karl kurla

if
i was born black
i could call this
my country
but
i wasn't
i can't
it isn't

take a voyage

take a voyage 

on the rolly polly

honkey nut sea

bougainvillea fills gutters

replaces rain

- a crimson fall

i want to hear if it can be done alone

sit

don’t stand

be aware of emergency exits

things someone said

i can’t

i am sorry

i am sorry

i can’t

things someone else said

you don’t think

i can do this

i don’t think

i can do this

you don’t think

so much empty

so much no meaning

so much not here

it’s about more into less

it’s about nothing i know

it’s about being here before

when clouds part

stars become visible

outside

i am fallen

stones grind my bones

twigs spear my side flesh

blood is silver in the wound

my open mouth fills with moonlight

i swallow

rain begins 

tell it right

when i look up
its only the ginger plant
scratching at the window
but here alone
deep in afternoon
reading your lifes reason
it could be demons
sent to make sure
i tell it right
sent to make sure
i dont forget
the pain the love the pain

dark n'stormy

he drank Dark n’Stormy.

not very subtle

i said

dark and stormy

untitled

crucified himself in secret

seeker with a  hypodermic

hammered dead to the bed

ran to paradise

separated body and soul

as promised by seventies rock sages

the golden years

bop! bop! bop!

not living to sing the tale.

Really, the urge to write has gone...

if it is to be

18 September 2010

Really, the urge to write has gone....

man in the menzies pub

man in the menzies pub

wears minimum dress requirements

orders his drink

then sips

stares at the pressed tin walls

built by someone forgotten

painted too many times to be counted

looks into the bubble patterns in his beer

his fingertips imprint the frost

his dog waits outside

but his woman was long gone

counts the hours by the glass

Saint Mary MacKillop Muffins

The Miracle of the St Mary MacKillop Muffins:

While talking on the phone to my daughter on her birthday, 13 October 2010, I had a muffin epiphany. A recipe appeared in my mind and I knew I had to bake the muffins on 17 October 2010 to celebrate the canonisation of Sister Mary MacKillop. The dark bitter chocolate symbolises her difficulties with the hierarchy of the church in Australia and the sweet white chocolate the purity and love of God. Brown and white were also the colours of her habit.

Wet Mix

1/4 cup butter

1/2 cup sugar

2 eggs

1 cup milk

Dry Mix

2 1/2 cups self raising flour

100 grams white chocolate

100 grams dark chocolate

Method:

Preheat the oven.

Prepare the muffin pans by greasing them well.

Blend thoroughly the butter and the sugar.

Beat in eggs and then milk.

Carefully mix in the flour taking care not to over mix.

Stir in the white and dark chocolate.

Place the mixture in the prepared tins and bake.

Bake 200 degrees for 20 to 25 minutes.

Saint Mary MacKillop Muffins Coral Carter © 2010

one dollar doesn't buy much heroin

one dollar doesn't buy much heroin
one dollar doesn't buy much
one dollar doesn't buy
one dollar doesn't
one dollar
one

at the menzies hotel

at the menzies hotel
bikies on the stoop
their black leathers sheen
dulled with road dust
hold empty jerry cans
wait for the bloke
in a strained stained
t shirt
to bring keys
for the pump

inside wearing
minimum dress requirements
the local
moans
into his beer
his luck is out
no gold today
only snakes

untitled

fast food
takeaway
roadside customers
crows

i wished for this

i wished for this
empty house
empty days
my mouth opens
says nothing
the blank grey
sky presses
on me

i saw him leave
coat drawn
holding scraps
in
coat drawn
hiding shattered
splintered
coat drawn
against cold
against dark
against night

karlkurla

the bush broods
on the edge of town
woodland dreams of comeback
when the gold is spent

outside today

non stop birdsong

which one

is what one

and

what one

is who?

non stop dog howl

pack animal

cries when left alone

bottle brush blooms red

against the sick green pool

tea bag half sunk

in the milky ocean

i soak and bathe in the sun

heat love bites my neck

warms my sweat made cold feet

cars prowl in the front street

low note growl

menace in the throb

the invisible neighbour

whistles deep in his rusty shed

an ant spell checks my page

cabbage moths

against the smother – me – in – summer blue sky

chart erratic flight paths

outside today

the summer sky blues

strikes me eye blue
arch over me blue
smother me blue
stun me blue
always blue
painstaikingly blue
perpetual blue
unrelenting blue
blue blue
blue blue blue
blue blue blue blue
yes mate it's blue
blue again blue
without doubt blue
fuck me blue
don't tell me it's blue
i love a sunburnt country blue
head for the beach blue
run around after balls blue
sunbake until you are red blue
no cloud blue
air con hum blue
beer o'clock blue
swimming pool splash blue
all compass points blue
morning smoko blue
lunch barbie blue
knock off blue
long afternoon with blowflies blue
only crows in the sky at midday blue
snakes out and about blue
when will it end blue
this blue
never ending blue
wake me when it's over blue

today i had the urge two

today

i had

the urge

to draw squares
and colour them
green
yellow
and black

The Angel Card

I am given the blank angel card.
The begining.
The end.
The circle round.
I am
(say all the signs)
ready to be the one I was born to be.

The blank angel
holds her hands with palms up and open.
(I have everything I need.)
 Her halo is a rising sun.
Wings are aflame.

today I had the urge

today
i had
the urge
to draw circles
and colour them
       pink
       blue
and black

Country Viewpoint ABC 2007

I have lived in the city for the last six years but sometimes my senses are tripped by the smell of sheep on a livestock transport, or the sound of crows in a blue sky and I recall the fifty years I spent living in rural and outback Australia.

I still have a house in Merredin, the heart of the Wheatbelt, in Western Australia. It is a manifestation of the hope that one day I will return to live in the country.

I was told by a local history buff that the house was transported from the Eastern Goldfields early last century. It sits with dignity between its distinguished neighbours - the town hall, on one side and the court house on the other. A direct path through the roses and past the date palm leads across the wooden veranda to the front door. The door is decorated with panels of textured green glass- the light from which gives the wide passage a cool underwater feeling.

From here, fung shui principles are thrown to the wind, as the house was designed for the arrival of the summer cool change, the Esperance doctor, the air conditioner of a bygone age. The doctor could flow unimpeded from front door to back, cooling all in its path.

This house has a welcoming and generous feel, felt by all who visit. The ceilings are lofty and changing a light bulb is a serious business. No standing on a handy chair. A ladder must be employed. But it is the walls that make visitors gasp. Four of the main rooms are decorated with pressed tin, a fashion from the 1890’s, and each room has its own design and a contrasting roof. I often wonder about the woman who chose these designs. I know it was a woman as the most beautiful and feminine example is in the main bedroom ceiling. Wreathes of daisies are the last thing you see before you fall asleep.

On a recent trip to make repairs and in between tenants I was able to live in my beautiful house for a short while. I recall sitting on the back veranda trellised with grapes, a mug of strong tea cooling beside me, my thoughts absorbed into the silence of a country town at dusk.

ink missing dream

I dream. I am reading poetry, published by bohemian male poets with beards, in an apartment supplied by their rich parents. The room is full of collected treasure. Skins of hunted animals on the floor. Icons glow gold on walls. Glass cornucopias spill tribal jewellery and cut gems. The font of the book I am reading is coloured, Times Roman, with uneven ink pressure as if it had been printed by a typewriter. Some of the letters are not printed at all but are an indentation. The word ‘this’ could read his and ‘here’ could read her.

this his
here her

Awake. I want a type writer to write poetry without a ribbon. Invisible poems. Invisible words. My invisible poetry. Half written. Ink missing. Meaning hidden.

in the mirror
at the foot of the bed
i am a blur

untitled

late afternoon
long shadows
bar code the road

less than five seconds ago

less than five seconds ago
the post woman
arrived bearing gifts
(vain hope)
visit the letter box
under a gloomy sky
find bills – advertising
and one from her majesty’s service
less than five seconds ago

untitled

cloud press grey light
still air cold limp
spent
spent
limp cold air still
light grey press cloud

cloudcloud cloudpress cloudgrey cloudlight
cloudstill cloudair cloudcold cloudlimp
cloudspent
spentcloud
limpcloud coldcloud aircloud stillcloud
lightcloud greycloud presscloud cloudcloud

presscloud presspress pressgrey presslight
pressstill pressair presscold presslimp
pressspent
spentpress
limppress coldpress airpress stillpress
lightpress greypress presspress cloudpress

greycloud greypress greygrey greylight
greystill greyair greycold greylimp
greyspent
spentgrey
limpgrey coldgrey airgrey stillgrey
lightgrey greygrey pressgrey cloudgrey

lightcloud lightpress lightgrey lightlight
lightstill lightair lightcold lightlimp
lightspent
spentlight
limplight coldlight airlight stilllight
lightlight greylight presslight cloudlight

stillcloud stillpress stillgrey stilllight
stillstill stillair stillcold stilllimp
stillspent
spentstill
limpstill coldstill airstill stillstill
lightstill greystill pressstill cloudstill

aircloud airpress airgrey airlight
airstill airair aircold airlimp
airspent
spentair
limpair coldair airair stillair
lightair greyair pressair cloudair

coldcloud coldpress coldgrey coldlight
coldstill coldair coldcold coldlimp
coldspent
spentcold
limpcold coldcold aircold stillcold
lightcold greycold presscold cloudcold

limpcloud limppress limpgrey limplight
limpstill limpair limpcold limplimp
limpspent
spentlimp
limplimp coldlimp airlimp stilllimp
lightlimp greylimp presslimp cloudlimp

spentcloud spentpress spentgrey spentlight
spentstill spentair spentcold spentlimp
spentspent
spentspent
limpspent coldspent airspent stillspent
lightspent greyspent pressspent cloudspent

cloud press grey light
still air cold limp
spent
spent
limp cold air still
light grey press cloud

he told me

he told me
his ache was rib caged and pacing
he never found flame - only ash
his pen was inked with dust
something is wrong
something had gone wrong
something was never wrong before
he told me
ache caged
flame ash
pen dust
wrong
wrong
wrong
never wrong
never wrong
never wrong
before
he told me

not there

have i held you

man upon the stair

man who who

who wasn’t there

have i kissed you

man upon the stair

not there not there

what man where

i saw your stare

upon the stair

man not there

not there not there

i saw i saw

a stair stare

a not stair stare

did i see you

on the stair

not there

i saw your stare

upon the not there stair

i love you

stare man

not there man

upon the not stair

i saw i saw i saw

not here

not there

not not not

not on the stair

not anywhere

i held you

long upon the stair

i kissed you

upon the stair

i loved you

upon the stair

not there

not there

not not there

not not not there

man kiss held love

not

kiss not

held not

love not

there man

not there man

not there

not

man stair

held him

kiss man

love

not

there

at all

at all

at all

Pearls

Someone fingered my pearls.

Said they were crazy for pearls.


Pearls are for tears I did not say.

Tears and the moon.

The Woodwoman

The woodwoman and her helpers stack sawn jarrah sleepers against the back fence. One hundred and twenty dollars for a six by four. They had no change. Our first transaction and I wasn’t feeling generous about a thirty dollar tip. So Macca and Animal sped up the lane, with malice I thought, as the trailer swayed in a spray of stones and dust. Hannah, the woodwoman, stayed and talked about the ugliness of palms. Stupid trees long and naked with no shade potential. The people who planted them didn’t realise what mess makers they were. A hangover from the eighties when everyone was mad for them, but this desert town is no place for a tropical palm. She hoped it didn’t rain as the red mud was ferocious. Glued itself to boots and shoes and didn’t budge except onto any indoor surface. She reckoned her kids believed she was created to clean mud off stuff. She was in a hurry and had to go to work making pizzas for hungry bastards. The men came back from getting the change. Tried to break the land speed record down the back lane.

3.23pm.

Someone is drilling.

A kid is in trouble “Morgan!”

My shadow chases my pen.

Cabbage moths love dance across the sky.

Crouching clouds begin to creep.

A leaf hobbles across the pavers.

I prop the gate open.

Look at the new neat woodpile.

The sawn red ends of wood.

I photograph the wood and the stupid palms.

My cup is empty.

Incense burns low.

As I preview the photographs,

I see my reflection in the camera screen.

Wrinkled and white.

That’s me now.

I say to myself.

Get used to it.

I see an older woman

I see an older woman
on the other side
of Graeme Street
older like me
but
hobbles
hold me
stop me running
stop me grasping her
stop me hugging her
stop me inviting her
home for a cup of tea
a chat where
steam rises
spoons tink
sugar glints
instead
I tell the dog at number 27
don’t bark
just don’t bark

i poke it

something crouches inside
curled
furled
i poke it
unready
asleep
something crouches inside
unborn
unmade
i poke it
rolls
to the corner
of my brain
half baked
soft in the centre
not risen yet

Mudlark

If it picks insects from my back lawn, is it mine?

crow

crow
freefalls
one wingspan
from tree
to cemetery fence
jumps
fence to ground
cocked head
listens for bones

reminiscence

remember when...
you seized my words
stole my tongue?

since then

frozen rain
larva flood crawl
butcher bird
blood love hymn
crows carrion wail
desert winds
casuarinas moan
twenty five
dead moons


waiting...
for the song
words i can't remember
tongue stolen tongue

if i dump it

if i dump it
fresh
blood wet
with pulse
i cant leave it
to bleed
into the page
i must
mop it
clean it
mend it
prop it
before
i drive
the sharpened
goose quill
into flesh
and wait for
screams

Woman Overboard!

DON’T DO

ANYTHING

STUPID

the green stick it note

from my screen

gusted away

out on high seas

mast gone

absorbing danger

through all pores

anything on the agenda

stupid flag

easily hoisted

At Auskick

At Auskick.
Its:
Down!
Up!
Down!
On the ground!
…and up doggy!

Mac, the kid I hit in the head with the first footy I kicked in forty years, is being instructed by the coach. Lets go! Mac! Lets go! After the ball hit inattentive Mac he ran to his mother flung himself and clung like the creature in Patricia Piccinini’s The Embrace. Nearby coach told me not to worry. Don’t worry we do it all the time. But I did worry it was a hard direct kick. The kind of kick I had taught myself in games of street footy when wiry boys tried to scare me off by kicking hard. Any tips from my father were casual. I was never going to make the team, never win fairest and best, never play in a premiership side, never be man enough to join the boys’ club.

Mac’s father arrives. He uses man strength to try to detach the child’s limpet grip from the comfort breast. In this tug of war he is loosing. He bares his teeth, snarls and growls. Mother raises her arms, surrenders. He peels the child away. His voice machine gun fire, an axe, an ancient sword recites

The Manifesto.

No sooking.
It is not the way.
Son now clings to him.
It is a shock he didn’t see…
What did I tell you?
To the boy
the weeping boy,
Keep Your Eye On The Ball!
Stop!
Listen!
This is how you do it.
When hurt you cry for a bit.
Then say OK.
It hurts but it is over now.
You get on with it.
This is how you be a man.

Message to the Boys
Beat your wife.
Drown your kids.
Kill the cat.
Kick the dog in the soft warm guts.
But don’t cry.

Above us the sun
is veiled in cirrus
but not enough
to stop the sting.
It burns.
Sun burns.
Men don’t cry.
Silent trees crowd in.
A woman crochets in purple.
Complains to herself.
Boys’ voices are still.
Half time oranges.

bucks flat
crow continues the story
men make business with ellipsoids
trees strain forward

distant

i eat stars
my eyes full
of cold
white
dead light

walk without glasses

banana skin
mummified mammal
spine curved
lungs caved in

stump in a lawn
dead cat’s
last crawl

distant workman
with ladder
first alien
invasion fleet

just married
helium balloon
the moon
falls
slumps
shrunk

drive home

woodlands mid winter
low moon, a bent gold coin - breaks
among black branches.

i am my mother

 i am my mother
on hands knees

i use my  body
as machine

smooth polish
into wood

jarrah gleams
blood stain red

narcissus searches
for reflection

Boulder Pioneer Cemetery

 

 

 

 

 

She is gone like a flower cut down in full bloom
From the sunshine of the earth to the shade of the tomb
But death cannot break the chain of our love
Or steal the fond hope we shall meet her above

untitled

warm day cools
crow calls stop when darkness falls
fire unlit wood uncut

Ripple

silent escape from pond central
onto cave floor sand
spreads to embed rock surfaces
folds through foothills
runs through desert dunes
solidifies in glass
grows in petals
leaves of potted plants
arrives on boot soles
invades kitchens
freezes in ice cream
waves through raspberries
and marble cake
steels into sliced vegetables
knits into patterns
embroiders edges of tea cloths
luxuriates in lace
follows icing fork tines
out into raked paddocks
gathers on winds
surfaces in half ripe wheat
flies through cirrus skies
and ripples across salt lakes.

rapid creek northern territory

while i sleep
fruit bats
scream in
palms
green ants
weave
leaf nests
geckos practice
skirmishes
full blown war
rape
something barks
as
coconuts
fall
fall
fall
through
blue
black
black
night
and
stars trail
streams
of pale light
across the sky

sand

sand
a page the snake belly writes upon
embraces my naked foot
flows blood hot
travels with the wind
binds the spinifex circle
heart beat red at dawn
sun blanched by noon
silvered red in moonlight
this sand will take me in
this sand will hold me.

regatta bistro

in the torrens
a fountain sprays
the waiter cannot explain
the ingredients of the sauce
sparrows bounce bounce
and whirr
in crumb battles
ice water tumbler
with black straw
is still life
my scarf
a pile of woven blue
my phone
connects to the absent
a perfect beer is poured
sediment does the larva lamp float
jet streams make geometry on the sky
sprouted beetroot
sprouted coriander
are heart shapes
in the salad.
last night
i dreamed in poetry
debeaked owls
paper cut out kisses
tea cup storms
lists of the blooded
my name among them
down by the torrens
a fountain sprays
the waiter cannot explain

at your house

1.

baked beans on toast

new born song

cups of tea

lovers right

lovers wrong

the dying tree

catching tears

at your house

2.

licorice tea

feta cheese

quince jelly

wild garden

grows green

festival bees

flying dog

forgive me flowers

at your house

3.

under a shedding tree

leftovers

dry dam

black rock pool

wet sand

duck tracks

brown eggs

roses bloom

at your house

damaged

Not Intended to Hurt

Another Friday arvo

the sun strikes four.

Small birds

make sharp sounds

as they kill.

I sit in soft light

my back aches

my front aches

tea is beside me.

Traffic streams

not bubble/gurgle

but rain sodden thunder.

Trucks and utes

and buses and bikes

and vans and cars

and twin cabs

and and and...

An orange headed ant

bites my toe

and I let it.

I ask,

Why you are biting me?

It stops.

As the sun falls behind a tree

hits the glass table

shatters light into my eye

sprays warm on my face.

twenty eights yell

farewell

across a faded sky,

I talk to myself.

I am loving hating you, I say.

I want to drive us both

over the cliff,

off a bridge,

into a life taking tree.

How would you like that?

I smile.

It is hard

to determine

a response.

No one is here.
No one is there.

No one is anywhere.

ALL OK

OK.OK? OK.

Thanks for this Liana,

Invisibility has its consolations
You see, perhaps,
the folding of skin
You do not know
the rich and secret
dolls within
I’m every age I’ve ever been
while you are merely
young and thin

Liana Joy Christensen

MAKE SPURNED LOVE A CRIMINAL OFFENCE.

Clare Valley, South Australia

Blenheim morning
magpies territorial battle cries
swallows whistle in the hunt
plump thump of roof dew in downpipes
galahs! galahs galahs!
blue winged parrots argue in squeaky toy voices
distant dogs make no entry statements
suspended water spheres flash blue/green/red/orange
light cipher from the lawn
tall gums rattle leather leaves
leaf free mulberry a grey scribble
wattle birds misbehave
feathers graze air in aerial dog fights
crows deliver caw caw messages to far off relations
where are you bleat of lambs
over here response of ewes
smash of blue sky against green curved horizon
wood smoke scented air
breeze shivers in the agapanthus
moss settles the slate stairs
climbing native and windmill embrace
rose covered brick dunny
sunlight shafts the wood shed
curved stairs beckon beneath the pepper tree
lead to a military march of ants
along the signed back gate
BLENHEIM.

sucks

aircon sucks
the curtain
against the window
time on my hands
time in my head
time is lump lead
in these white sheets
patched with cum
white walls
door white
in the mirror
my hair
clouds white
blue curtain sucks
against the window
in the mirror
something
sucks from
my eyes
too

name calling

cunt too powerful
prick does not cut it
weed fits
noxious
is a second skin
fits tight
just right
noxious weed

cheap

 

its been  

daytime television

washing machine beep

underfoot stair creak

tiled floor cold

for me

but now

at four

friday arvo  

knock off

street roars

hoons are out

claudia

& candice

tonights

attraction

at the inland city

hotel

two dollars

to drop

their tits out

cheap

Beachside Kiosk, Semaphore South

Ham, cheese onion toasted on brown and a weak latte.
"Weak! Weak! There is nothing weak about you Coral."
(A friend of mine who does not know the Truth.)
At the beachside,
"Here's -Your - Sandwich - Love" kiosk,
Semaphore South.
Raw onion is an angry Danny Green in my empty stomach.
Worst sandwich ever. But $4.50. Instant friendly service. Complaint - petty.
Coffee is half latte and half foam. It is not weak.
I go for more milk. The man fills my mug.
"That looks good. I love you now."
I tell him.
Coffee is bitter! Bitter! Bitter!
The other patrons, (should that be matrons), two women talk.
Surf boards in the family room. Territorial dispute.
Garage! Garage! Put it in the garage!
The sandhill is pock marked with footsteps.
Clouds? Yeah, there are clouds.
Isolepis Nodosa do it for me in the wind.
Kids balance in the playground.
DOGS ARE PROHIBITED IN THIS AREA.
A man and his sixties pony tail remnant
brings his Mum.
She holds her cardi against the wind.
They came for ice-cream. The choice is hard.

Run

I wake.
Sit on the edge.
Look at my phone.
No messages.
No one loves me.
Pull off my night clothes.
Sit naked.
Stretch.
Massage both breasts.
Round and round.
The little lump is still there.
Find my ungerdungers.
On the floor.
Sniff.
Wearable for another day.
Or until I shower.
Find my T shirt.
Shorts.
Socks.
Runners.
Pull.
Tug.
Roll.
Them on.
Scraffle the hair.
Grab a key.
Run.
Out the open door.

Quote

Enchantment

Be not afeard. The isle is full of noises,
Sounds, and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not.
Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments
Will hum about mine ears, and sometime voices
That, if I then had waked after long sleep
Will make me sleep again; and then in dreaming
The clouds methought would open and show riches
Ready to drop upon me, that when I waked
I cried to dream again.
Shakespeare - The Tempest, Act III

outside the window VIII

the crowd clamours for truth
she kicks off her yellow spikes
her bow tie hangs red undone 
she 
stands
walks
leans
outside the window

where suns moons planets hurl across the sky clocks strike three five seven messages cut on leaves fall boil to sludge soil quivers cloud banks crash rainbows turn to blood doors bang glass cracks sewn lips tear eyes slam shut ears lock down psychosis breaks out obsessive love tags behind rashes run pus creeps fires burn cold a world spins bottle broken no end to it

she 

draws 

the blind

Thinking About You.

I think of you

as always,

it seems

- lately.

I don’t count years,

                      tears

                 or beers.

This is the doozy year.

The year of make

break!

live/die

burn all bridges

grow-year.

Lets fucking do this…

I’m in.

Count me..

Hand up here!

Note to Reader:

Three people seem to have put their hand up for the self improvement course at the TAFE.

I am not sure which TAFE that is but I can find out and let you know before the interval of twenty minutes.

I am pretty sure that course works. I have seen people go and noted changes.

There are two schools of thought:

It Is Possible To Love Yourself

              V

Don’t Try - It Might Work

School of Philosophy

outside the window VII

the woman in only
a red bow tie
yellow spike heels
smiles
drinks tea
eats cake
she has buried the remains
the headstone reads
HE LIES
HERE
HEARTLESS
outside the window
the lawn is wet with autumn
the sky is
sun-yet-to-rise pale green
this colour replenishes your xi
says Zan
a seagulls rasp
rips through birdsong

outside the window VI

the moon falls
a giant pearl
into the ocean
waves slap
sloppy kisses
onto the sand
outside the window
a woman in only
a yellow bow tie
red spiked heels
bends
to scratch
a message in glass
"TAKE YOUR POISON"

YOU

Do you want me to label each word? This one LOVER, I was giving to Janet or Anne or James, someone else and the one I can't remember. Maybe to them all, I am not sure.
OCEAN was a reference to ablution, absolution. MOON, I actually thought heavenly body as I wrote or do you need further explanation? But I wasn't writing about YOU, someone I know intimately. There are many: YOU. YOU. YOU. PLUS YOU. Which one is YOU? Go ahead point yourself out.

outside the window V

i need my lover to be here
the one i dont have
the one denied me
the one who crashed a hole
in my imagination
the one i cant speak
the one i cant touch
the one i cant dream
outside the window
waves flop
fat wet puppies
johnaton livingston seagull
mashes the wet sand
with his pink webbed feet
then
joins the breakfast flock

outside the window IV

pegs bite the clothes line
trees dance
very far
a dog barks
closer
parakeets party
on pine cones
outside the window
in a tree's moon shadow
a man weeps
he has lost his Love
and can't tell
where
to
find
it

At Writers Week

Oh shit! Oh shit!
I dont fit!
Hair is neither
blonde nor bobbed
straightend or coiffed
my Sydney
designer coat
has a hole
no jewellery
makeup
forgot my
sunsmart hat
gold trim sunglasses.
Lucky,
Adelaide
has a share
of lovely lesbians,
there goes one now...
fairy floss pink mohawk
I LOVE CUNT
tat on her tit
she might spot me
and fit my empty hand.

outside the window III

adelaide
breeze blows
daylight
saving
cool
red wine
winks
outside the window
the first leaf
yet to fall
a caul of cloud
covers
the new born moon
on pause
before the dead
rise
discard the shroud
and breathe

outside the window II

At 38,000 feet
Felicitiy's plump
jelly bean
pink lips
glisten.
Her skin is
stroke-me-smooth
cream pale
punctured once
beneath her
bottom lip.
Grey wolf eyes
stare into mine,
Can I help you with anything?
Outside the window
the sky is
slap, bang
in your face
blue.
Clouds
dazzle whiter
than
washing powder
advertisments.
February ends.
One of us
is in trouble.
I tell it
the only way
I know.
Face autumn with the
Legions of Love
at your shoulder.

Outside the Window

Journal extract

4 February 2005

In Melbourne with nothing to read.

Outside the icons of Melbourne ting! their little bells. Overhead planes are on the business of coming and going. Ting! Daughter Hope snores on. Her phone vibrates.with messages.

After a week in the Fryers Forest community with compost toilets, and minimal water supply I have had my first shower and brushed my hair. It was showing the beginnings of a giant dread lock. I am clean. ting!

There has been a huge storm in Melbourne, the Yarra flooded, a boy swept away, a tree fell on a car and squashed a man, branches fell, electricity failed, ting! banks broke, back yards sank, front rooms filled with water, leaves flailed from branches, ting! trams water bound, cars piling up.

It is chaos, a friend of Stewart’s phoned.

Why would you want to come?

Stay away!

But my brother believes the news makes it sound worse than it is. Ting! Cath wanted us to cancel

Don’t go today. she said. But I wanted to go and now alone in this white modern city accommodation I wonder why I decided to leave their comfy house so early.

We miss the babe and the vibrant boys. We are sad and have to eat ice cream to seduce our loneliness ting! I text them and they respond. “Hazel has been miserable all day and the boys went to bed crying.”

Outside the window is a grey brick wall and flocks of European birds. Starling, lark, dove and sparrow. No more the plover, rosellas, galahs, crows wrens of Stewarts hippy house in the forest. When Hope and I see the feral sparrows we remember the cute Mongol sparrow flocks digging in the snow fluffed and plumped out against the cold. It was only then, seeing the sparrow in its own environment we understood love for the tiny bird and how they were missed by the first colonists.

We are surrounded by apartments but we see no one I watch a window where dishes are stacked. They did not move all day yesterday but this morning different dishes have taken their place and the door onto a balcony is open. I saw the pink outline of a body through the opaque glass. But other than that no sound no sight of human habitation. In Mongolia ting! you only had to look out your window to see the lives of hundreds of people and you could always hear someone shouting, crying, laughing, fighting, working, all night long. From my Ulaan Bataar apartment I could see into dozens of other apartments, people playing cards, cooking, cutting up meat, drinking vodka and tea, watching television. From six stories up I could see them walking below outside warming themselves in the winter sunlight, talking in groups, staggering home drunk. But here in Australia nothing. Roads and homes appear empty. The footpaths are deserted. No one shouts to children playing or greets their neighbours, the milk man does not call “Soo Araa” and no one goes outside with their jugs to be filled for breakfast.

The trams have stopped ting tinging and a crumpet pops in the the toaster. My daughter’s phone clicks and beeps as she messages her friends.

It is nine o’clock.

untitled

my censored pen leaks
a still born dream
a reptile tailed tooth grin
a gutted insect crawl
connection extinction
drug framed existence
don't search
the black strokes and curves
for meaning
there is no gospel
no testament
no this is your life message
memory raises
pitted bones
under the sun's broken rays

cat-o-nine

his cat-o-nine tails
left no mark
he takes aim
at the love filled heart

he whipped mine
whipped mine
till it bled
lashed mine
lashed mine
drained it
of it's red

his cat-o- nine  tails
he takes it
as his leisure
with little understanding
of where i find pleasure

proof of god

there is a god
he created sunday
put iron man comp
on the tele

Untitled

This morning
the sun rose
in pink sky.
The moon sank
like the cold
grey stone
it is.
The last full moon of Kay's life
was my thought.

instead of doing tax

She is polishing instead of doing tax
sweeping instead of doing tax
cleaning instead of doing tax.
That girl is afraid of doing tax.
All those
numbers
bits of paper
statements
getting it wrong
loosing stuff
not knowing
where she filed
things.
Accountants with
long noses
look down.
Nose through her
bad filing
see her
untidy
slutty
nature.
Next door
the electricians
use a saw.
She listens
instead of doing tax.
In the kitchen
the kettle boils.
She listens
instead of doing tax.
The clock strikes
twelve.
She listens
instead of doing tax.
If her lover were here
she would fondle him
instead of doing tax.
If her woman were here
she would lick her
instead of doing tax.
She would even try
to write a poem
instead of doing tax.
She hasn't written 
for forty days
instead of doing tax.

 

This is what cities look like when you burn coal and manufacture everything for the rest of the world.

Lanzhou, Gansu province, China

Dust on the Clothes Line (Agricultural Protection Board house, Southern Cross WA.)

Bare earth is the garden bed.
Birds caged.
Dogs chained.
Trees all dead.
Barbed wire fence.
Concrete path where no leaf falls.
Tap drips dust in a pool of stones.
Only green is painted walls.
Here Dendro Phobic the farmer lives.
He only takes.
Never gives.

gone

layers of skin
once
felt your
touch
now
rubbed away
swirled away
down the drain
gone