WaddaMyDoinEre

squeaky wheels

2011-11-30T16:37:00.000+11:00

I am surrounded by
Squeaky wheels
Getting greased with
My blood

But nobody notices my
Pock-marked skin
The barbs of these
Prickly bushes around me
Tear at my skin leave
Noxious residue behind to
Fester until
Coming to a head
Ichor release offends those
Who caused the
Infection

Yet those squeaky wheels
Cry out for my blood
Not recognising the
Two way street
That they travel upon

uniformity

2011-10-07T13:44:00.000+11:00

The pants of my
Suit
Are a
Little
Too tight

In the morning
When I put it on
At work
I breathe out
Just a little
To button my pants

At my desk
Other people’s problems are
Investigated
Managed
Or fixed

Demands are made
For errors to be fixed
By those who
Made them happen
Responsibilities of
Other’s
Laid at
My
Desk

Next to my
Impersonal
Workspace a window
Holds a view of an
Outside world
Continuing without
Me

When the time comes
And my computer is
Shut down
And my work day
Draws
To a close

I take off my
Suit put my
Home clothes on
And breathe in
Just a little
Again

An aroma, more than a flavour

2011-06-02T16:18:00.002+10:00

My dad died in his kitchen
Collapsed in a heap in
The corner near the kettle
Vomit on the cupboards and floor

Outside a patch of driveway was
Dug up to prepare for
Inlay of nearby bricks
His mattock carelessly dropped
To one side

The paramedics and cops
Think he felt a twinge
A bit ill
While digging
Went inside to relax
Grab glass of water
Too late

But not me

On the table
Next to his armchair
When we cleaned up the next day
After the coroner took him away
Before our mum could see
We found a
Single chocolate biscuit
His evening with cuppa treat
He was making a cup of tea
Died doing something he loved

Meeting (2000)

2011-04-08T16:23:00.003+10:00

transfixion not an option but a mandatory state of being as my eyes meet yours, as i look into them, fall into them, your soul's windows locking me into orbit around you

we talk, converse, learning of each other, every word issued from between your lips, those lips, a tiny hook, piercing me, drawing me towards you

uncontrollable muscular spasm deep within abdomen, shiver down spine, as body responds to delicate touch of fingertips on fingertips, idly playing together, a herald, a prelude to a further physical connection

lightning's fire of energy burst as lips first touch on lips, saliva sluicing pouring down parched throat at first taste of each other

and eventually, finally we are alone

and it is time

the world around us ceases to be, clothing discarded to reveal our true raiment, exposed to touch of hand and of gaze

kissing again, my fingers in your hair, arm around your body, the tension, anticipation, hunger in our bodies obvious as i hold you against me

our hands reaching touching tracing exploring stimulating every area of skin we can reach from this embrace

my mouth finds neck, and shoulders, and throat, as we continue to explore each other’s geography

in time hands gentle caress of your breast, response to touch digging into my palm and then my tongue as mouth follows hands lead, downwards

over ribs, across abdomen, tongue in navel, teeth on hips, fingers inside thigh, play with soft downy hair, feeling heat against hand from prominent pubic mound

font at which i now sup with fervour best described as religious, sweating, head swimming in your musk, momentary loss of coordination, shock waves of pleasure racking my frame as you respond in kind

and finally without cue, as if instinctively knowing it was time, we break from that embrace into another more complete, a merging of bodies, a physical penetrative joining so intense it is almost a metaphor for how much we are becoming a part of each other, you are as inside me as i am inside you

as we move together, rock together, entwined around each other, moving as one in ways so intense, so complete, so complex, as to rival the Gordian knot

until we surmount union's pinnacle at which we reach out, cry out, let go together and i orgasm with intensity greater than that of when first i held pubescent phallus in hand with curious intent, and slipped out of consciousness

and beyond, not withdrawing, not loosening in the slightest that climactic embrace, as one being we float nameless on oblivion's lukewarm sea

My Meeting with the Guru (1999)

2011-02-16T14:33:00.001+11:00

At Uni as the 80’s drew to a close I met a man who
Taught me something I’ll never forget

I turned up at a party at a house near campus
Dropped my beers in the bath full of ice
Cracked one open
And went to mingle

Wandering through the familiar pungent smoke I felt slightly out of place

Having worked for a year before going to uni
I was a year or two older
And slightly more cynical
Than most of my peers

But I had a few drinks
Chatted for a while
Stopped for the occasional toke
And listened to whispers of a guest at this party

I heard tell of his genius
Of how enlightened he was
And decided to head for the room where this
Giant was holding court

As I wandered up the hall the smoke
And the alcohol
Got the better of me
I had flashbacks to Apocalypse Now
Felt like I was heading up river to see Kurtz
And I wondered what this meeting would become

I found the room
Joined the people on cushions
Passing joints, listening, asking questions
And talking to the man

He was a wonder to behold this
University
Guru

He looked as though someone in a lab
Had tried to cross a hippy
A surfer
And an American college professor
And had failed
Producing a look that those around me
Members of a generation with no solid identity of its own
Thought was pretty cool

But was basically a 30 year old art student in bad 70’s retro

And I with my budding biology degree
Learning how living things function and interact
Sat talking with this man of letters
This man who had spent 12 years at uni learning

Things

We talked of philosophy
Of literature
Of psychology
We talked of many things as we
Sat in that haze of smoke and alcohol

And he showed me that he knew
A lot about
A lot of
Things

And he blew the minds of those around him as they
Sat
Rapt
Hanging
On his every word

And I took something from that room that I still think about today

A decade later

As I wonder if somewhere on that campus there’s a
40 year old
Art student impressing
Teenagers
With the things he’s learnt

As I wonder if he remembers our meeting, the
Flicker
Of uncertainty that crossed his face when I said
I know who you are

Or the smile of relief and satisfaction as he
Misunderstood
My explanation that he was the shepherd
And these were his sheep

If he remembers me saying that he’d taught me
Something
And that I must thank him
The glow of self-importance that
Came over him
As he inhaled my thanks

Or the self satisfied grin as he asked
What did I teach you?

But I doubt he remembers my answer

That he’d taught me never to confuse knowledge with intellect

Shelly's world

2011-02-14T14:31:00.002+11:00

She was walking towards me
on the street
and she was beautiful
her hair
make up
entire ensemble
immaculate

made me stop dead in my walk
to the tram

do not misunderstand
I was not on the pull
did not wish to talk
her into tryst
or otherwise

but when she passed
I stopped
and said
“darling, you look great”
paid compliment to
pertinent aspects
of her apparel

her reaction was one
of such indignation
and aggression
I may as well have said
I wanted to violate her body
right there on the street
when I was done with her mum

and I was displaced
misplaced
within shelly's peach melba hat
except that it was the subject that
berated me
to point of calling police
for crime of simple compliment

in face of her tirade
I held up hands
confessed that while I was
inebriated
my comment
was not meant to
initiate contact
I had not asked her name
and I was heading home
in opposite direction

but that i'd thought
that she was such
and obvious effort made was such
that pause for simple
appreciation
was warranted

and moving on I wondered
why
and I wondered
when
we lost the simple
capability
of simply paying
compliment

and then I remembered shelly
and the snow drop kid
so many years before

and mourned for a time
I am too young
to remember

Big man sings my blues - for Rory

2011-01-20T16:39:00.004+11:00

Some parts of this may be a little contrived, but if ya don't know his music, you won't get it anyway. (http://www.roryellis.com/)

The unsheltered part of the beer garden
Is near empty

There are various groups under the
Covered part loudly
Playing pool
Watching the footy
Listening to the juke box

But I am out in the cold
Slight rain
Waiting for the big man on the stage
To open his throat

He does not disappoint

He never does

My voice is a waterfall
Pouring out along with his
A smile hurts my jaw

I only notice the rabble
Between songs
In the quiet anticipation

He hits a blues chord
And two lone dancers
Hit the floor before the stage

He’s leaving again
Touring the UK where they have
The taste
To know his work

This is his last gig in
My town for a while
But I smile knowing that
Some day
Some way
Some where
I will see him play again

But for now he battles
The racket
For there
Is
Love in
This war
Against the juke box
Sport on the telly
And the locals talking
Over
The few of us
Here
For him

For the music man

Consummate professional
Continuing to tell the stories of his music
Put his all too
Human
Face to the songs

Right at the end
The crowd realise
What I’ve known
For a decade
And hit the floor
Request encores when
He stops

Now understand as I do

That when a voice a big as
His heart
Rings out I don’t need
Two feathers

I know how to fly

And I realise that
I’m not out in the cold
After all

Form

2010-12-23T15:40:00.000+11:00

Your existence encounters mine
Minefield of potentiality for intensity
Intensity of gaze as eyes meet, meld, colours mingle, borders blur, see as one
As one our hearts beat in unison, unity, tandem pumping of life’s fluidity, voluble valvular, virtuosity, virtuality beyond reality
Reality of hands held, palm in palm, flesh on flesh
In flesh I experience you, feel you, within, without, withholding nothing
Nothing hidden from thoughts that float across the rippled waters of our minds
Mindful of the path we tread down the long dark corridors of idea
Ideals unattainable but never to be forgotten
Forgetting that which was in our path on the road to where we now intersect, introspect, converse
Conversing, conspiring, not tiring
Tiring of your company not considered among the possibilities of this world
Worlds colliding, colluding, alluding to something together
Together as one, under the sun, stars, heavens above our joined being
Beings merging, emerging, converging, verging on unity
Unity of life, life essence, essential to living
Living in wonder, this wonderful, this wondrous beauty
Beauty inherent in its natural form
Form that is us

Lest we forget

2010-11-11T14:14:00.002+11:00

I'm sure I've posted this before, but it is the day for it.

'Rememberance Day' at Poets Against War site

It stings so bad

2010-10-22T11:14:00.001+11:00

I am sick of the clap

And I’m not talking about that nasty infection that bitch gave me that time
I got ointments and some nice pills for that and it cleared up just fine

Thank you very much

I mean this reflexive slapping of
On hand upon the other
Every time someone stands to read
Regardless of what they say and do

I am sick of the recognition clap
The reflex clap
The supportive, good on you for doing it
Clap
That makes bad poets think they were good
And good poets think you were listening

Give me your silence
Give me your pause
That time for recognition
Give me some sign
Of words being registered
Not just passing
Into ear and through
Down your arms
Making them flail
Come out as

*CLAP*

Give me…

Bitter Sweet Symphony

2010-10-01T09:34:00.003+10:00

She tells me she’s so excited, can’t wait to go
I spoon the crema from my espresso
Into my mouth
Smooth coffee bitterness swallowed slowly

She reminds that we’ve got a month or two together left
I smile, acknowledge
My spoon slowly stirring, sugar dissolving
Taking the edge off the bite

She encourages me to come visit, it’s really nice
I nod, stop stirring
Put the spoon down
The sweetening complete

She holds one of my hands, smiling
My other lifts the glass to my mouth
Drinking deep, heat enters, suffuses through me
Artificially enervated

Looking into my eyes, she suggests we go home
I drain the glass
Savour all I can get
The tip we leave minimal

i don't take myself seriously, don't you

2010-08-03T16:22:00.001+10:00

sitting at his regular table he
surveys
the room his realm counts
heads
notes faces calculates

considers

all who attend try to
catch
his eye

he holds
involuntary
court does not
disappoint
a wink here a
smile
there greetings verbal and
non
names used when he
thinks
the effect will be best

those who do
not
like him still curry
favour
try to turn his
head
want what is
his
to give

newer attendees just
wish
to be noticed

recognised

for now

above beneath
beside
never truly
with
the poets the
convenor
sits at his regular table
and considers

flirting with the barmaid

2010-07-28T11:40:00.002+10:00

(true-ish story from about 10 years ago. posted for a friend)

eyes so disarmingly bright i am compelled

no commanded

to meet and hold them
locked together for as long as we have in these brief interludes

snatches of conversation
conspiratorial gestures
acknowledgment of existence from across the room

do you notice how i watch you
collecting pieces of you to take with me when i leave
capturing your smile in my mind imagining later that it is more than it was

wishing that
the fingers that unselfconsciously run themselves through your hair
the arms you fold across you, holding you
the tongue that plays inside your mouth
the teeth that bite gently, playfully, on your lower lip
as we steal these brief moments between drinks

may one day be mine

knowing as i leave this place where we meet all too regularly
that i must feel myself content with these friendly greetings
comfortable platonic gestures
these far too fleeting stolen moments of familiarity

Allegory

2010-07-28T11:19:00.002+10:00

(another old DanPoets comp, where Ted set us the line "an angel black as soot")

Let’s talk, good folk, of war today
A war as old as sin
A war whose borders blur so much
Who knows where they begin

It all began so long ago
With plan ineffable
When one was cast for thinking that
His lord was fallible

Do they do right, who revile he
They call adversary
When only crime committed was
To be but contrary

And hells of fire and brimstone are
But tales told from above
And why so many children dead
In the name of His love

Threatened are we to act for good
With afterlife of hell
But foetid stench of ill deeds done
Comes from above as well

The story skewed by both sides to
Control what we all see
For both dependant are they on
Our human frailty

The powers that control each of
The camps from which they fight
One thing in common do they have
Both sides do claim their right

To do with our lives as they please
One just like another
The only goal at end of day
Win against the other

Priorities by them are set
Each judge their win, their loss
Reasons to fight are not our own
We but the fighting dross

We all of us but numbers scored
Death but a tally kept
Knowing the truth, his final day
No wonder Jesus wept

Can you be sure which to believe
Decide who’s good, who bad
The arguments for either side
Could drive a sane man mad

But if decision uninformed
Is made you may well find
The state of your immortal soul
Shall leave you in a bind

Can you this day, this time, be sure
Wherein your trust to put
A demon white as driven snow
An angel black as soot

trout fishing

2010-07-25T09:39:00.000+10:00

bait is set
hook deep
dropped into water
now wait
tempt

first tug
interest on the line
balance the to and fro
let it play
draw the bait in

gentle resistance
entice
draw it to you with
its own motivation
resist urge to pull
too hard

line is drawn deep
feel acceptance of lure
resist a bit more
urge it to take it
complete

eagerness a hindrance
try too hard
pull too quick
bait is dropped

beautiful eyes leave dance floor
not seen again

outside my front door

2010-07-20T13:02:00.003+10:00

on gnarled crooked
old-man-fingered branches
eucalypt leaves hang

long tapered strokes
of artist's brush

gray watercolour
trunk
pushing them up
to reach the sky

Serfing my Liege

2010-06-24T14:10:00.002+10:00

Edward "Ted" Kidson-Lord 5/8/1938-14/5/2007

When first I come home each night
It is your face I see
Your photo displayed prominently
You behind a mic where you belong
And I remember

When I go into my study
I see the painting you gave me
A nude, of course,
Some water colour detail
A female behind, prominent lips
Of a cunt displayed
And I remember

The painter, as well as the poet
The sculptor, too
The guiding hand for so many like me
Mentor and friend
And I remember

And think of memories shared
Of butterflies and ants
Of the power of words
Of a heart so physically fragile
And so spiritually strong
A hand held out to one
Just finding his way
And I remember

That poetry is alive and well
In Melbourne
And among the reasons for this
It is you who should be forever numbered
For what am I but your legacy
Another hand to hold a torch
With your grip imprinted on the handle
In all that I do I honour you
And I remember

With thanks, with respect
And with love
And hold you within me
Always

I will remember

ships in the night, trams in the evening (1998)

2010-06-17T13:50:00.004+10:00

Note: first poem I ever read on stage, in December 1998

You sit across from me on the tram and return my smile
I watch you

Your eyes
No cliched comparison to limpid pools in the moonlight
Just a lovely pale blue
I study your hair
Watch it flow down past your shoulders
You reach up and tuck it back behind one delicate ear
And I see the elegant line of your jaw
And the exquisite curve of your neck
I watch the play of tendons beneath the pale skin as you turn to look around you
My mouth waters at the sight of the indentations along the line of your collar bones

Our eyes meet
Understanding passes
No words are spoken

I lean forward to kiss the depression at the base of your throat
The tip of my tongue, as if a herald to their arrival
Reaching you just before my lips
I bite gently on your neck, just beneath the jaw line
Breathe softly into your ear as I inhale your scent
And finally kiss your lips

Heat, moisture
A delicate pressure
We are not as starved animals at a fresh kill
Just two new lovers gently communicating desire

We reach your stop and you leave

You had not noticed me as you read your book
And I go home

Alone in my timidity

valedictory

2010-06-04T16:56:00.001+10:00

I am wondering how to
Reach you
I am wondering how I
Poet
For want of a better
More meaningful
Word
May hold your attention

And then I wonder
Why
I should do so
And how to make
Myself
Deserving of it
And what I will
Do
When I have it

I can entertain
I can spin tales
Love, hate
Life

But how do I make
This
Mean anything more than
Time
Spent politely
Listening

To me

The beat changes

2010-05-28T11:57:00.001+10:00

I walk this once familiar street
Follow the rhythm of my feet
As I feel the pulse, I feel the beat
Of the life that grows where people meet
But the beat changes

The beat changes
The beat may grow, or the beat may slow
But the beat changes

The beat changed between us
The beat of mine, the beat of yours
Asynchronous at the last
Each holding to the idea
The remnants of what once was
Reaching for the other holding them close
To feel the pulse
Hoping
But feeling the beat change

The beat changes
The beat may grow, or the beat may slow
But the beat changes

The beating I receive in the schoolyard has become passé
The regularity, the inevitability of life for the smart kid
Labelled a fag
In a semi rural town
The blows rain down as if upon another
Reaching my body but not my self
Not reaching me where my life pulses
Where my heart beats
Where the beat changes

The beat changes
The beat may grow, or the beat may slow
But the beat changes

The beat…
Change is inevitable
What was is not will be or even is
Intense this tense
Future present past
All part but never constant
Time an illusion measured by intellect
Felt as a fluidity
An hour can feel a lifetime
A lifetime at its end feel but a
Beat changing

The beat changes
The beat may grow, or the beat may slow
But the beat changes

The changing beat, the pulse of this once familiar street
To which I return after so long away
Has that slight discomfort of unfamiliarity
Of seeming lost in a world that once was home
Giving promise of future unpredicted
The excitement of getting to know a whole new world
All over again

think I've heard of it

2010-05-21T16:27:00.000+10:00

From the air
The centre of Australia
Is all swirls
And ridges

Earthy tones
Brown, ochre
Black
But overall the heart
Is indeed
Red

Desolate and beautiful
Great swathes of only
Apparently
Barren wilderness
Open, natural
Harsh
And beyond our control

And yet man in his
Arrogance
Draws lines around
Sections
Of Nature’s whole
Divides it into
Pieces
Give names to the
Nameless reaches

Oft times they are named for
Those first brave or
Mad
Enough to face the
Wilderness
But more often as some
Honorarium
For one deemed
Worthy
Those who most likely
Had not set eye on a truly
Natural
Expanse of land

First Words from the Lines of a Love Poem

2010-04-27T12:15:00.000+10:00

You
I

You
I

I
You
You
I

You
I
I
You

Yours
Mine
Your
My
I
You

We

Together
Apart
Being
With
Without

I
You
We
Why

Love

Only……

of a love poem

2010-04-22T15:22:00.001+10:00

My visions
My nightmares
My life

All in print

Humanity's iniquities
The pains of growth
Rants on relationships
Gone bad
And alcohol fuelled revelry

Every low and
Angst ridden
Moment
Put down in words
Until my heart
Beats slow
And painfully

I tire
Lay my head down and
Dream

Of a love poem

From the lines

2010-04-21T16:09:00.003+10:00

These stories are true
As such can be known
Life’s struggles
Humanity’s war on
Itself
The individual’s battle
With life

Love
Labour
Loss

No inconsequentialities
The reporting is
Detailed
And complete

Advance, retreat
Each victory each
Capitulation
But one more step to
Becoming

The stories
Many and
Varied
All coming to you live
Direct
From the lines

First Words

2010-04-20T16:33:00.002+10:00

My pen at first
Hesitant
Random scratches of
Infant toenails
On floor upon which
It learns to crawl

Soon few
Faltering
Steps
Vocalisation of rough
Incoherencies

Then listen
Watch the grown ups
Mimic then
Practice

Stability of gait
Increases
Clear voice found
Pen steadies on page

Reveals

First words

when cogito fails (x-post)

2010-03-24T13:47:00.001+11:00

what am I this I
which I
this me that I see that is seen
that is the me you see as you
as I see you
which I
who am I
what am I
why am I
where am I
who is this me an abstract inexact abstraction
from the self that is perceived as me
or as you
if it’s you whose perception is required
for existence of this persistent form
that is the I that I believe to be me
if me is real as I
as you
but real is relative
how relative to relate to the self
to my self
to your self
your reality different to mine
you see me as you
I see you as you and me as me
but this me this self
is ill formed sense of being
belonging to what or where is anybody’s guess
but not mine
I choose not to choose
not to guess or require
suggestion of reality
being that which I would be
or you believe me to be
is enough for some
but for me I don’t know
this me I don’t really know
but exist within this frame of perception
this me that is I
that is the you that you see
is this really the me that I see
are we one
this you in your eyes
this me in my mind
who are we
this I me you conglomeration of perceived beings
forming the self
this self
my self
which defies definition or serious inquisition
as to purpose
without purpose I am adrift
in this sea of self
selflessly see that around me as unreality
questioning all that is perceived
this self then questions it’s perception of self
am I
is me
does my self equate with being
if perception is to exist
and perception is questioned
where I this self
my self
this I that is the I that I see
that is me
the you that you perceive
or do you
do I
is this self perceived
or self deceived
by that which we trust in
to deliver us from void into being
into meaning
in existence we trust
but by perception do we measure
the immeasurable
with fallible translation
of sensation
by the mind
the infallible most foolable tool
able to do so much with so little
must all of it be real
or just that reality which agrees with self perception
of meaning
of being
of that I which is me
that is dissipating
instigating
anticipating
the destruction of the self
this entropic being
going the way of all things thermodynamic
breaking down
returning to null state
apathetically allowed not encouraged
as much as this me appears to do
with excess and stress
I digress from me
follow paths outside the borders of my self
this self
whose existence I begin to question
to doubt
without doubt I do not exist
if unable to question that which is around
do I exist at all or drift
in void and null
but if I exist to question
can I exist without question
of my own existence
but losing track of that
certainty fallacy of modern thought
can I still exist at all
but what is existence
but awareness of self
and what is awareness
if not the need to question
to doubt
but doubting that which is perceived
if I am but perception
am I in fact I
is this me
a me at all
am I at all
or am I not
and if I am not
are you
in that you perceive me
or do I perceive you perceiving me
who is deceived
if you are deceived
or if I am deceived
in that you are not of outside
but within me in my perception
this self deception of being
then reliance on your perception
to give me being
lacks substance
insubstantial this construct that is I
that is this I
that is me
is not to be
all that is believed

the stars look clumsy tonight

2010-03-05T12:15:00.002+11:00

I don’t roar like a tiger
Just tend to rabbit on
And my metaphor is really dragon
But like a rat up a drainpipe
I do so love to monkey around
And though I can be a bit of a boar
I’ll either float your boat or get your goat
But I’m starting to get a bit horse
So I’ll stop sneaking past
Like a snake in the grass
This dog of a verse
That’s dumb as an ox
But when the rooster crows at dawn
All is forgiven

Koyaanisqatsi - 1994

2010-03-02T12:18:00.001+11:00

Images of existence glimpsed through electronic eyes
This is the life that many see

Cohorts of giants straddling the land
Skeletal colossus reaching to caress the sky with steel arms

Ants streaming along blue-gray trails
Metal exoskeleton and rubber feet

Moon eclipsed by concrete tower
Stars drowned in the glow of polluted citadel

Setting sun warped molten heat pouring down glass façade
Spirit replaced by neon glow, physical beings with no place to go

That's what planet earth now means to me
This is the human life I see

differences

2010-02-05T16:56:00.001+11:00

(note: written some time ago, just reminded of it recently)

If I were older
I would tell you of the divinity of your beauty
And you would think me eccentric
Above and beyond the lust
That gives motive to compliment
You would accept my words
The kiss I place on your hand
The cheekiness of my flirting

If I were younger
My clumsiness would leave me tongue-tied
Or prone to outbursts that you may find cute
That you could call youthful infatuation
Or something equally dismissible

But I am as I am
The age that I am
The man that I am
And I want you
Oh, I can stand back and give you honest appreciation
Of your face
Your voice
Your mind
But you would believe what you would
Believe that at the age that I am
At the stage that I am
That there’d be an underlying motive
To compliment
To flirting
That I am at that awkward age
Beyond youth
But not yet distinguished enough
To evade suspicion
And hell, you’d probably be right
Sometimes
But I’m too old to disseminate
And too young to pretend
I don’t want to fuck
So make up your own mind
For what is attraction after all
But one body’s recognition
Of want for another

And yeah, we can just be friends
I’d like that
But what the hell
You are attractive
And I am interested
So if you want to
Let me know
And if you don’t
Well
We’ll talk about the latest book we’ve read
Or movie we’ve seen
Or wine we’ve tasted
And pretend there are no differences between the sexes

fingerpainting

2010-01-18T15:38:00.002+11:00

our paints
arranged
on plates
in bowls

the urge to daub
upon us

our brushes
nimble
eager

paint strawberry kisses
on my chest
from the juice on
your lips

Vale Mr Gemmell

2010-01-06T21:11:00.003+11:00

And when Alexander saw the breadth of his domain, he wept, for there were no more worlds to conquer.

David Gemmell is an author who has made me cry, laugh, and rejoice like few can. An avid fan I had until the last week read all but three of his books. Epic tales of flawed heroes, courage, and human endeavour in the face of trials and tribulations few of us will with luck realise.

And within which are found values I can only hope I have the strength to at least emulate in some manner.

Never violate a woman, nor harm a child. Do not lie, cheat or steal. These things are for lesser men. Protect the weak against the evil strong. And never allow thoughts of gain to lead you into the pursuit of evil.

The last three books that I had as yet not read were the trilogy based on the tale of Troy, on which he was working at the time of his death in 2006. The third in the trilogy, aptly titled Fall of Kings, ably completed by his wife Stella.

The last books he ever wrote. The last of his novels still waiting for me to read.

Tonight I finished Fall of Kings.

And wept.

Street Faces 2

2009-12-23T11:49:00.000+11:00

the girl at the tram stop is young
kinda cute
bit of a hippy

she talks to me of the coal she bought for her hookah pipe
wonders if the tram will be here soon

she’s a little drunk
carries her coal
and two shaken bottles of beer
says she insisted the guy at the shop double bag them
but he didn’t
it broke and she dropped them
from the bike now chained near the stop

she’s gonna leave it there and catch the tram

i pull my canvas shopping bag from my pack
and hand it to her
she demurs
says it’s too good
i let her know i have more

then i give her a smoke
we light up together
and talk of inconsequentialities

the tram comes
and we ride it together

i tell her to have a beautiful life
when i get off at my stop

so much fun to read...

2009-12-18T16:01:00.001+11:00

And a hush was heard to fall across, well, actually not, in that, to my understanding, the term hush is used to designate a perceptible lack of sound, and as such, would seem to be not a phenomenon which is heard, as such, but perceived in a non-sensory manner as a comparative lack of such sound, and therefore perceptible more as a recognisable difference in level of sensory input from one time frame to the next following a marked event or point in time which can be used to pinpoint the change from one such frame of time and the one following, so hearing such a phenomenon as a hush fall, if an incident without mass as such can be said to fall, but this would be a serious digression, would not reasonably be considered to be a possibility, and as such…..

Most if, not all, of the ambient sound which had been audibly present in this place up to the current point in time appeared, in an audibly perceptible manner, and not by becoming visible, to have diminished subsequent to the aforementioned event in such a way as to cause a noticeable lack in said sound comparative to the perceptible levels of sound prior to the aforementioned event.

just my way of thinking

2009-12-18T15:35:00.002+11:00

A friend once suggested to me that it’s easier to be beautiful in the dark.

I disagree.

It’s easier to be beautiful in the light.

In the dark you can’t hide behind your appearance.

oops.

2009-12-18T15:29:00.002+11:00

I once thought to rehearse for life

But curtain call came too soon

And I was forced to ad lib

Future echoes

2009-12-07T09:59:00.002+11:00

I fear that I shall
Run out of words
That there are only so many
Times
Just so many
Ways
That I can tell you
I love you
Before the sincerity of
That phrase
Will be attenuated by the
Repetitious redundancies of our
Inadequate language
That we will become
Inured
To our own
Limited
Expression of that which we both feel

How then can I trust that an
Acquired numbness
Of your ears to those words
Will not translate to a
Numbness of your heart to
Their intent

How then can I let you
Know that you are the
Other half of my
Self

How often can I then say

I love you

Between now and the end of our lives

And have you know
I mean it still

Pretenders - a pantoum

2009-11-30T14:49:00.002+11:00

Poets trying to impress poets
Writing poems true to form
Twisting and turning their intelligence on display
Like I do for you today

Writing poems true to form
Using clever construction terms
Like I do for you today
But don’t take them too seriously

Using clever construction terms
Creating displays of impressive vocabulary
But don’t take them too seriously
They who compel by cunning display

Creating displays of impressive vocabulary
Pretenders proving what we already know
They who compel by cunning display
Shown for what they are

Pretenders proving what we already know
Twisting and turning their intelligence on display
Shown for what they are
Poets trying to impress poets

Remembrance day

2009-11-11T10:58:00.003+11:00

I miss you, old man
As I sit here remembering
The day we met
Right here at this bar
The bar we’ve met at every year since
Recognising something in each other
That brought us together

There we were, old man
Remembering together
As you do on days such as that
Such as this
Fresh back from the parade
Drinking together
A generation apart
Closer than many could be

You told me of yours
I told you of mine

You spoke of trenches
Of comradeship
Of that feeling you all had
The patriotic call
The belief in what you were doing
When it began

And then you spoke of horror
Of bodies
Of bloodstained mud
Of mortar fire and midnight rifles
Of disease and cold

You spoke of disillusionment
And then of comfort taken
In bonds made between those that were there
And the feeling beneath
That of all the wrong that was done
It was done for the greater good

And I envied you that conviction, old man
That comfort
As I told you of fear
Of hot jungle rain
Of confusion
Of silent death creeping through trees

I told you of times with no comfort
No sense of right and wrong
Just alive
And not

And there were things I didn’t tell you
Though I know you no doubt knew
And I thank you for not asking
For allowing me not to speak

Of villages destroyed
Out of suspicion
Or of children shot
Out of fear

And of…

But I looked for you today old man
Unsure if this year would be the one
Knowing your time would come some day
As they all do
Realising I had hoped it would be later

Always later

And I miss you this year, old man
But still, here I sit
A glass of neat whisky next to mine on the bar
And I’m listening to the world change again
Hearing people make that call again
Wondering what tomorrow will look like

I miss you, old man
Old friend
But it’s possible I might see you again
Sooner than either would have hoped

to read or not to read

2009-11-04T11:20:00.002+11:00

Article I wrote for the DanPoets Zine I was publishing around 2000. Seems to still be relevant given the large number of new poets I see every year.

It starts like this: while on this journey that we call life, you, unlike half the developed world, have your eyes and mind open, observing and experiencing most of what goes on around you. Also, just like the other half of the developed world, you are wont to put pen to page to capture what you see and experience. This is fine, you like writing, and reading over it reminds you of stuff you’ve done and the things you’ve seen. Sometimes it gives you something to think about and helps you with the whole growing thing. And, hey, writing can be the best cathartic activity short of punching people in the head, and other stuff I’m not aloud to say too much about because this is a PG Zine (except for the occasional swearing in the poems, but that’s art, damn it!).

Now comes the turning point. You realise you’ve got some killer stuff here. Wouldn’t it be cool if you could share it with others, but for this you need (insert dramatic music here) an audience.

Gasp!

No big deal, you’ve got friends (my sympathies if I’m wrong), so you show it to them, email them little stories and poems, throw bits of paper at them each time you see them, and generally bug them for opinions on your literary genius. Sooner or later enough of them tell you all this great stuff about your work and you think, “Hey, just maybe I should find a bigger audience. Why don’t I try one of those open stage deals I’ve heard about, I think more people need to hear what I’ve got to say.”

Deciding is the easy part, but a lot of people struggle with the doing. Not because they shouldn’t be there, open stage means just that; they’re for anybody who wants to do their thing. What usually happens is that all of a sudden you realise you are about to stand up in front of a group of people you may not know, and bare yourself in front of them (not literally, of course, although I have seen this done). Reading poetry or other writings to an audience can leave you a bit nervy, I know I still get jumpy a lot of the time, and you wouldn’t be the first to start to talk yourself out of it.

Don’t. Once you’ve decided it’s what you want to do, then do it. It’s not like you can actually die from embarrassment, it’s just a figure of speech, and you’ll probably find that the people in the audience dig it just because you did it. A friend of mine once asked an old hand at the stage thing, “But what if I shake?” The answer of course was, “Then shake. But don’t stop reading.”

That is the real point; don’t stop reading. Or writing. Or sharing your stuff around. Of course, once you hit the stage, you probably won’t stop, it’s rather addictive, and there are plenty of venues around. Holding this little publication in your hand means you’ve already been to at least one of them (or someone wanted you to read this killer article about reading for the first time. Oh, and the wonderful poetry inside.) Have a look inside the back cover for more, or ask the wonderful folks that run the venues you already go to where some of the other gigs are, and what they’re like. There is a wide variety of them around, and we might have a chat about that in the next issue.

See you at the mike!

definition

2009-11-02T15:40:00.001+11:00

A man walks into a bar
Orders a beer
The bartender serves him
Leaves him to drink it
Undisturbed

This is not a joke

And you are not a poem

Love

WADDAWEDOINNERE

2009-10-28T13:12:00.002+11:00

The original inspiration for the name of this blog - character profiles for a role playing game a friend of mine ask me to play many (like 15) years ago. I enjoyed creating them, but didn't last long playing the game.

Personnel file of the warrior band WADDAWEDOINNERE.
Or, "Who are The Wadds?"

Shudduppin Daiscum is the Dwarven fighter often referred to as Argh due to the fact that this is all that most of his opponents have had the time to call him. He is the son of Hurryuppin Daiscum and Arbitch Offawoomin. He is arrogant beyond his height and deals rather violently with anyone that refers to themselves as a 'Mean Son-of-a-Bitch' as he has yet to find anyone worthy of his calling brother!

Twang Fweethwack is a Skaven archer, and has pledged her undying loyalty, among other things, to Argh after he responded to obviously feminine calls of distress and inadvertently rescued her before stopping to have a damn good look at her. Her fierce attitude to battle is belied by her insistence at being referred to as Fweety.

Overthiss Wheyguise is an Elven mage linked to this unlikely band by a deep, dark secret. So deep and dark that none of them actually know it, but they figure that a mage can be handy to have around; especially one with his skill at mixing cocktails. The mage is usually referred to by his friends as Spock. None of them know what this means but it stuck after an incident with a small group of rather shy and insipid looking humans whose lives were probably rather limited before they were ended by The Wadds.

Sikh Anyeshalfind, the Darkling priest, joined this band after he was less-than-politely asked by Fweety to heal the wounds of Argh after a battle in the priest's home town. Since his town was destroyed in the battle, and Fweety's insistence that he assist her did the same to his home, he figured he may as well offer them his services on a more permanent basis. Or at least until something better comes up.

Toulouse Orwin is a Darkling rogue with a formidable reputation. This reputation does not extend beyond the Wadds, however, as most of the survivors of battles she has been in don't seem to remember seeing her there. Grudgingly referred to as Lulu by the rest of the Wadds, she is also the origin of Sikh Anyeshalfind's nickname, Sikko, having known the priest earlier in her life.

Wazzadbee Hindyoo, or Wazza, a Gremlin rogue, is the most annoying member of the band; especially to the other Wadds. In fact, his continued presence in the band is more a testament to his roguish abilities than to his charm. His loyalty to the Wadds, and especially to Lulu, the focus of more than his loyalty, is only outweighed by his ability to avoid the repercussions of his actions. A fact which is especially annoying to Lulu, who only at her weakest or drunkest moments, admits that a guy that hard for even her to pin down, is good to have on your side.

Helloath Aylor, a Fairy fighter, is the newest member of the band. She does not often admit to her surname, preferring to use just her first name, and curses loudly at any mention of her parents. Her reasons for wanting to join the Wadds are vague, as were the rest of the band at the time she met them. Late at night. In a tavern. After a battle. In fact, the rest of the band don't remember her joining, but figure one of the others must have had good reason for accepting her presence. Not much is known about her, and it is Argh's educated opinion that they may not get the time to remedy this.

a rose by any other

2009-10-20T10:54:00.001+11:00

the powers that
be
have no
heart
change names of
simple
things for
no
real reason
than that
they
thought it time

epinephrine does not
have
the ring the
raw
emotive sense of
adrenaline rush
no consonant
ring
hard enough to
truly
capture my
response
to your
smile

King Who?

2009-10-14T15:30:00.003+11:00

He had watched as the creature snatched the woman from the sacrificial altar. Had followed the beast through the jungle. Had seen the men that accompanied him on this rescue chase killed by the massive foe that they pursued. Had seen the beast fight to the death with a prehistoric monster that could only live in this jungle on this island that had been, until now, untrodden by the feet of white men. And now...

And now he hid behind a rock in the cliff top lair of this massive beast watching the woman he loved lie unconscious in the palm of the monster that men called Kong.

Kong was staring intently at the prone form in his hand, tugging at the torn clothing that barely covered her body, dropping, forgotten, the pieces that tore away from what remained of her ragged raiments.

Concern for his love growing rapidly, the man tried to move to a better vantage point to plot some sort of rescue. Skirting the cliff top ledge he was not quite careful enough, and sent a cluster of rocks clattering loudly down the cliff face.

"You can come out now, little man; you are in no danger from me." Kong, his booming voice still echoing through the cave behind them, turned towards him. "Unless I accidentally sit on you, of course."

Startled, he stammered "Y..y..you can talk?"

"Clearer than you, by the sound of it." Kong replied, his apish face managing a wry grin.

The man sat, astounded, looking up at this huge creature.

"Stop staring, little man. Anybody would think you'd never seen a talking ape before."

He could not help but laugh at that. "Well now you mention it, Kong, I haven't."

"Please don't call me that, little man. My name is Kevin, actually."

"Kevin?" he replied, stifling a laugh.

"You think that's funny, do you?" he asked, quietly, moving towards the man.

"Um, no. Sorry, er, Kevin. I just didn't expect it from such an imposing looking being. Mine's Joe."

The woman, still lying in the great ape's hand stirred. "Joe? Is that you?" She opened her eyes to find herself staring into Kevin/Kong's smiling face.

"Hello, little lady." he began, to which she promptly screamed and fainted.

"I wish she'd stop that, Joe." he lamented as he put her gently down on a bed of grass nearby.

"Well, Kevin, you're not exactly the sort of thing she sees every day back home. Now you mention it, I'm kinda stunned that I'm sitting here talking to you so calmly."

"I'm glad you are, Joe, I don't get many visitors here."

"What about all those ladies the natives keep sacrificing to you?"

"Well, er, that's different."

"I'll say. I saw you undressing Lisa when I got here. Hey, you weren't going to....."

Kong's laughter almost knocked Joe over. "I'm not an idiot, Joe. She fits in the palm of my hand. This," he continued with an obvious gesture, "doesn't. You do the math."

"Okay, but what have you been doing with all those women. The natives must have been sacrificing them to you for decades."

"Yeah they have and I'm getting quite tired of it actually, but they won't stop. They think that if they don't I'll break out and attack them. I didn't want to break out, I liked it here."

"Then what do you do with them all."

"Not much. I stopped taking them for a while, but then they blamed the women and just killed them themselves, so I started taking them again. Some of them are still wandering around the jungle, no doubt, but most just panicked, jumped off the cliff, starved to death, that sort of thing."

"Why did you start taking them in the first place?"

Kong looked shyly at Joe. "I was, er, young and, um, curious."

This time it was Joe's turn to laugh.

"It's not funny, Joe. I'm quite embarrassed about the whole thing, actually. Initially they looked so interesting, and sort of, um, appealing. You know, all soft and curvy. I learned pretty quickly what I could and couldn't do; some of it was quite tragic. One poor girl was caught sleeping between me and the wall early one morning while I was dreaming about what might be. Nothing glorious about that morning. I stopped actually touching them after that, so it's a real shame about the one I drowned."

Joe looked horrified at that thought, and the great ape looked almost as if he was blushing. "Hey, we all do it, Joe!"

They both laughed at that.

"So what were you doing to Lisa, then?"

"Well, all I usually do these days is bring them back here, then leave them to their own devices, but this one's different. She's pale, and her hair's all yellowy, I haven't seen anyone like that before. I guess my curiosity returned. I wasn't going to do anything, though."

"So, I can take her back with me, then?"

"Of course, there's nothing here for her. And, um, Joe?"

"Yes Kevin?"

"Take me with you."

"I thought you liked it here?"

"I did. But the jungles really boring and those natives are bugging the shit out of me. Can I come?"

"Yeah, why not. I've got a friend back at the ship who came all this way just to meet you. Isn't he in for a surprise!"

Kong picked up Joe and the still unconscious woman and carried them back to the huge gate at the edge of the village.

"Put me up on the top of the wall, and I'll get the gate opened for us, Kevin."

"No need, Joe. Watch this." And with that the great ape kicked the gate square in the centre and Joe watched as it exploded outwards into the village, the huge log used to bar the gate snapping like a matchstick.

Joe looked up at Kong in surprise.

"I told you I hadn't wanted to break out. I didn't say I couldn't."

Joe and Kevin laughed all the way to the ship.

Whimper

2009-10-13T09:53:00.002+11:00

I have seen the finest minds of my generation confused, abused, diffused in the pool of mediocrity in which they swim, the only forum open to their minds their hearts their words

I have seen the finest minds of my generation wasted, rent, shattered on an anvil of diversionary alchemie, their light gone dim in temporary, illusory, expansion of the self

I have seen the finest minds of my generation overlooked, ignored, dismissed, destroyed, annoyed that they do not make a difference, cannot fight indifference, unwanted by the society many of them claim to speak for

Oh, vox populi are not we, but me and mine are kin and kine to those that came before and howled their call for more than ordinary life who lived in strife and took to wife the pain of modern mortal man

For I have heard the finest voices of my generation Sing
Sing songs of wonder, of disgust
Songs of pain and wanderlust
Sing songs of joy and songs of love
Of all down here and up above
They sing of light and sing of dark
They sing of seas, mountains and parks
They sing of cities, playgrounds, streets
They sing the movement of our feet

I have flown with them through futures imagined and pasts elucidated, have flown through hearts and minds and space and time, have flown into brick walls of thought, our irresistible force of hunger in it’s paradoxical clash with the immovable objects of philosophies whose depths we do not fear

I have seen highs and lows, and yeas and noes
And ins and outs and roundabouts

Seen ups and downs, and smiles and frowns
And lives and deaths, and long held breaths

I have danced with dreamers on the heads of pins with a conga line of demons and angels

I have seen and heard and watched and sung and danced and dreamed and flown and howled with the finest minds and voices, hearts and souls of this my multi-generation

AND WE…

oh we…

we have just begun

that'll do, pig-bit...

2009-10-08T09:12:00.002+11:00

My mother is one of those people who believe that the proper function of food is to decorate the refrigerator and make it look like there's food in it.

Say, for example, you went to the fridge at my parent's place and saw one last piece of ham or something in there and thought, "Gee, that would make a good sandwich!"

Turn around and say, "Can I have this piece of ham?" Usual reply, "No, that's all there is!"

What does this mean? Is it cruel to this piece of ham to relieve him of his loneliness? Or maybe because he's lasted this long while the other pieces of ham have gone the way that pieces of ham so often do, that last boat ride down the alimentary canal, he has earnt the freedom to grow things and smell up the fridge? Survival of the last to be eaten! Actually, that ain't too far wrong. Darwin would be proud of that smoked pig bit. But what would be the breeding purposes of that last piece of ham? I shudder to think. But with a mind like mine, I often shudder when I think anyway.

Back to the ham. You have been told that you can't have it because that's all there is. Your reply?

"I can see that. How does that translate into me not availing myself of this inviting remnant?"

"You can't have it because then it will all be gone, and somebody might want some."

"Like, Duh! Somebody does want some. That's why I asked for it."

"You can't have it. Now leave me alone."

Stimulating debate, eh? And not surprisingly, one that ends with said survivor of the ravages of hunger being gingerly disposed of a couple of days later. Brave piece of smallgoods that he was. Should give him a medal. Something like 'Avoiding capture by the owners of the fridge while creating the need for vanilla essence and bi-carb in enemy territory.'

Three cheers for the might(il)y smelly ham piece! Hip, Hip...

Don't ask me, I just got here.

and finally...

2009-10-07T13:53:00.001+11:00

And what of the end
If end there be
And beginning be not
In and of itself complete
The last page is turned
My single candle burns low in its holder
Wax running onto the desk
Where my hand lays
Cramped fingers grasping
As in final desperation
The empty pen
All its words poured forth
From within its now purposeless shell
Candle flame gutters
Tries vainly to illuminate
Its own local part of this world

Before it breathes its last
I will retrieve the next
From the drawer where more
Lay in preparation
Next to my store of fresh clean pages
And new word filled pens

true story, but not recent, found in my notepad

2009-10-06T14:21:00.001+11:00

Tram time again. Another monotonous trip to my monotonous job that I hold only to pay the rent, keep a roof over my head.
I open my distraction. A comic. Hellblazer volume 1. The collection of the first series where John Constantine had an identity away from Swamp Thing. Jamie Delano’s writing is superb; the art rough, but suited.
I am distracted by a fellow passenger and a card falls out of the book. The commuter who caught my attention retrieves it from the floor; she hands me a postcard and a smile. Must have used it for a bookmark some time before.
It has a photo on it. Old. Black and white. A man at the beach; short cropped hair and a big moustache. He is profiled, looking back over his shoulder at the camera, and is wearing loose knee length and a matching sleeveless top like they used to wear, so many decades ago.
I don’t remember it, but it must have been one of those free ones picked up from the rack at some café or another.
Such a pile of these collectables I have; images of a fridge or door wallpapered in true wish-I-was-still-a-student style.
I turn it over. He is Alfred Deakin, the 2nd, 5th, and 7th Prime Minister of my home country. 1903-04; 1905-08; 1909-10. Brief stints of popularity, and of, one would hope, service. But a man of note, photographed at Point Lonsdale in 1910. Important enough to have a university named after him, among other things.
I smile at the lady across from me. A nod of thanks. I replace the card in my comic, return to the story; pass the time until I reach my stop.
Continue my meaningless employment.
Put food on my solitary table.

Didn't know they'd accepted the newer one

2009-10-05T09:19:00.002+11:00

But this gives me the happy.

The Poets Against War site accepted a second poem from me last November apparently.

Never told me, and I'd forgotten to look:

evaluation

And the earlier one:

rememberance day

That's all.

yay.

So...

2009-10-02T15:56:00.000+10:00

...now I'm here

Wadda

My

Doin

Ere

?