Archive for April, 2008

ars poetics

my poem keeping it pure has popped up at ars poetica (the poems-about-poetry project of infinite reach where poets invite other poets & one poem appears a day. i’ve joined great company.)

i’d nearly forgotten about it. my piece is a re-write of an old piece & is a couple of years old. it’s interesting therefore: is what i was thinking then what i am thinking now? it was written because the poet / editor susan hampton told me to write a ‘poetics’, & i did it as a poem. it was homework.

i guess things in the poem are still familiar. the basic message is it’s difficult to write a poetic statement.  how stupid. but shklovsky said the key was metaphor: original metaphors bring us back to life, help us ‘see’. people suspect ‘newness’ but they shouldn’t. kinsella said somewhere periphrasis was good, that is using more words than necessary to describe something. susan thought it more likely to mean ‘over-writing’ but i didn’t & don’t.


your alikeness quotient

his submersion in self-harm & the business pages
proved only meddlesome, some might say boring.

all the justified passages in passing simply pluralised
jokes ‘on you’ or your co-dependants,

couches instead shady emotions piling up over
coffee-tables sprung like abstract art mountains of numerals

a nancy white-on-white: surely hope is a huffing yeti.
i implied he was in a stupor, or i might have.

i could only rescue one gram from a stray tobacco pouch
although saw there was more at stake, other colours.

you can use this, came a voice, issuing from a wall.
it insisted slight differences are major to us.

later the car wouldn’t start cresting the figurehead
of an intersection & i fell to contact with

people, hard-jaw-lines & metallic paint.
the lustre of ethereal grey h-hmmed like never before

operatic sunlight falling flat over the shoulder.
i wallowed, stupid, king of car-horns.

i guess he goes about his business –
i speculate like a protein-bar.

weird shit trumpets. fonts are etched into the hand. you
contract a counsellor to scoff at the advice, but secretly ponder?

kafka taunted life & its miserableness (i love that –
so cool). why not picture then

sabrina the teenage witch & jennifer lopez.
do you have to smoke at kid’s parties?

abort the scenario. we lose track of themes:
thistles blowsy on an aria of wind.

everything is there to do. still. i waffle on to an improvised
cellar. no-one orders headstones for goldfish, carves epitaphs.


in the corrosion world

so vacantly reductive
we analyse the way metals age
& softly at those feline eyes
over time & conduct in-depth
corrosion so we often stare long
discussions about the properties
our cats are not a matter of
of sand water & air then we go
door-frames the disposition of
home to beds as hard as empty-

via ideas & not substance
we wear bow-ties & if we had
propel themselves forwards
poets pedestrians trying to
the opportunity (the knowledge
scoff behind our sleeves at
the overall whim) we would

new works

i’ve got a few pages featuring in the may issue of MIPOesias. you can download the whole thing, otherwise the print version will be available from amazon soon.

as i’ve said before i admire didi menendez‘ standards of publishing. instead of the normal lit-mag full of black & white text (they abound, &, can be a little off-putting) she puts out magazines that take all of the best features of popular magazines. there’s glossy photos, features, advertisements, & in this particular issue, recipes. but of course it’s still poetry that looms large. i think i have about 5 pieces in this one (including a piece about my trip to a Pearl Jam concert many years ago…)

& that’s right, i now have another career option: celebrity chef.


check out fou – it’s beautiful title-page, & also the ‘imaginative, image-oriented lyrics’ within.



i’ve added an about page.

this sentence ends this post.



okay, the blogroll is up. feels more like home now.

moving is way stressfull.


Works at that place on the first-block

He’s plainly imagining an occupancy: living in all the houses in the world; a one-night-stand succession. He touches or otherwise feels cold smooth walls of a three-story house on the ocean, cross-dresses in anonymous silk sheets and, continues a search for more delicious secrets. I don’t know. Hidden torture dungeons, two hundred year old port-wine, erotic paintings secretly issuing from the Masters. More options and articles even than that.

We all wish we could fit into old pants again. Slide them on in rooms without entrance ways. Make room for a wallet. Make amends like personal-space is an invisible suit of armour.

He’d maybe admit cask-wine carpets splattered with old gen-x artefacts: canyons hacked into floorboards, sheets for curtains, a buzzing tv and fresh-pressed drugs in the fridge. Better deals waiting around the corner and / or everywhere. His course in practical horticulture certainly prepared him for identifying the impracticalities inhering in any plan, though. To hide in dusty alcoves with the purpose of witnessing intimacies, dead prime-ministers, and everyone-else’s girlfriend, for instance. There’s flaws in that.

We get all tingling when a rocking chair in an attic rocks and rocks, but only in a properly-contextualised movie. Otherwise it’s imagination and the bad sort. The rhythm of impaired genes blipping like Cradle of Filth. Um.

When the party in his own head reaches its zenith, churning behind sound-proof walls while twenty seven year old people fuck and moan (wishing it were via virtual reality suits) discussion crosses a mixing board stereoscopically, mimicking vertigo. Where’s his place in the drama? We’ll crawl out from the chimney blackened, removed socially as if skateboarders. Not thinking in airborne terms just plainly thought of. Then you realise someone is in your gazebo. Hoovering up your secrets. Kurt Cobain is writing about a crippled-girl and it makes you think. Culture is in a trough.


Bring some chairs

James hollow & shadowed uttering one word at a time so carefully, even at one point saying ‘I’ll say this one word at a time…’ makes a good impression. He himself is clean & chosen carefully from a codex, although thoughtfully appearing somewhat artistic as if then just slapped together, post-choice: like the methods of a brickie working here Jackson-Pollock-ish on grand-final day. If that matters. What does hold water is the Victorian-ness tonight. We all breath it in (including James) and we laze decadent for a while. No-one mentions the sexual tension always rising in times of poor-health.

And there he goes leaving early – I can’t leave him alone in thought – maybe perceiving my intention to offer here him Melbourne beer. Hey there’s definitely a keen parallel at work. Instead of making peace I tease the cat and get wasted in a lackadaisical manner. The rest of the guests are quietly eating cold-green-curry when I wake in the back-yard. I’d creep along the way, check the discourse for my name, but a tattered Roget’s thesaurus bars said way. It lies open at a blank page with a small lizard basking in the night, considering the night. I am disappointed with the way images coalesce, well, lizards bask. James hijacked my day and he sorely deserves an email. You have to get this all under control: and I just know that one is about me.


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