Archive for June, 2008

planetary data

the idea was to work all day, this last day of june.
another being all the towns of the country:
all possessing a brick-built national museum of
something-or-other. we hate the ineffectual
hammering of two disparate things together though,
don’t we. like bobby mcferrin’s ‘don’t worry
be happy’ played atop a documentary on financial
intrigues, or gwyneth paltrow playing a friend
of yours in a new hollywood movie (lauded
at cannes). & so we get a linear reading:
me from morning to evening, going through the
little decisions working to prove that radical curse
of freedom (& thereby amount to a positive sense
of ‘thematic’). around three i left work & stood
near the car, deliberating, sniffing the promise
of rain & wind coming across the valley.
it was fantastic, & i wanted to linger there,
be a stranger in this familiar corner of bush
& weatherboard. were it documentary something
apt would have played then (back in the mix)
a track in tune with my feeling of elements
mixed with completion. but it probably would have
included an unplanned whist / ennui / melancholy.
(i’m pretty sure paul dempsey used the word ‘ennui’
in a song today, in the car, & i don’t know that
i’ve ever come across that before. i’m not french
enough perhaps.) we’ll never nail that particular feeling.
it was tempered with glossy dots of colour, spinning
over my field of vision or apprehension, spurring
the thought that i’m not seeing things properly,
or that it’s old-ground: the cold of the hill
only delicious when felt from the crest of a blanket.
i opened the window a chink trying to negotiate that
very balance in the heater & the wind. it was a failure
but the failure was poetic, & the thought of a mention
in the very real ‘poetics of failure’ document now
makes me smile, i suspect. the power-steering
seizes up leaving afternoon piano lessons & you’d
almost see me becoming a facsimile of the past,
a little raft in the sea of transit from where i’d shout
at the damn waves & sea-horses. i’d close the blinds.
were i sixteen & the girl next-door & considering
a change of clothes though, who knows. we just can’t
explain the vagaries of probability: how things add
up, the chances of something happening becoming
smaller at the same time. the phonecalls tend to be
relatives interested in dates & arrangements but
i still anticipate the criticisms made more real than
aero-gloss text, despite the electricality of a distant
voice. ‘you’re giving too much of yourself’, just like
an old photographic / text study, lying around the uni
art studios, the alphabetical component claiming
our secrets made us ourselves. i believed it –
but there’s more to me. june was a lot of work
only i wouldn’t say a lot happened. i didn’t
watch too many movies. my kids are atom-bombs
& just now, mid-effort, i noticed the sky has cleared,
after the promise; even near objects blur &
it’s quite uncomfortably real.


not enough

six fifteen from the bedroom to the bathroom
into my daughter’s room to the loungeroom
with television out to the kitchen along to
the diningroom a few perambulations then
between rooms they escape exact memory
an arrival in the shower precedes dressing
in the bedroom back to the bathroom / kitchen
/ laundry / dining room / front porch / lounge-
room / bedroom / lounge / kitchen / daughter’s
room / kitchen / daughter’s room / dining room
/ hallway / front yard & the into the cars along
an uneventful highway & into holbrook one
fifteen & the submarine café / the submarine
café restroom / the submarine café / more roads
fading into the description of the last then albury
then yarrawonga then a bridge over the murray
with low water & many tree-stumps then
mulwhala & the house with the kids party /
entrance / dining / lounge / dining / lounge
exit to the cars retracing the bridge & then
the skate park on the water a walk near the edge
across some grass & tales of an unlikely talking
toilet allowing ten minutes per visit back to
albury a short stop in a house but just one room
the cars again one more stop this time a red
rooster a real mistake at seven forty five
more cars more roads but this time in the dark
& then the original house wherein: a hallway
a kitchen a lounge the boys’ room the little-girl’s
room the lounge the bedroom the dining room
& then the loungeroom, in other words, here,
ten fifty one


it shows

there’s nothing wrong with
blogging exactly what someone
else says in the course of days
upon days they have no
right of claim upon an
arrangement of words things
like words should be free should
have no force of import like
someone saying i’ll fucking
smash you or someone saying
i love you in the heat of a
moment & someone else telling
it to you in a private chat all
these things are here



i’m not seeing any messages in the scattered kid’s objects nor the fallibility of an egg-timer i presuppose the fault lies with me my thirst for windy days faces & doorknobs that twist without a hiss suppose southerlies burst through a coy window every restive night of visitors staying over expecting gourmet meals & micro-brewed beverages to gustate on with the wind / there’s sometimes a pause soaring into view without gingerly coughing & faking a polite pardon ordinary as daylight i’d say my antiphonic ally is becoming bravo & curtly displays one stupid vocabulary all about limits that’s misted argument in all it’s minute grandeur really like i might hate to say such chaste nonsense wearing a towel though i wear it well there’s still a coming darkness to think upon / a spike at weather patterns tends to gives you beauty on a platter / i fuss about it but then use a poem conceived in a routine of kitchen musics to say just grasp that special & soppy pink of a sun cutting through clouds it’s mesmeric maybe for being so swift & oh how it crosses the science of spectrums into orange that’s magic that’s beautiful / i hate to do it but do it knowingly i think there’s something in it


i’d interview you too

when late shows come on tv & hours conspire to tiredness.
isn’t this a ‘really’ issue: the curlews rife in your works like
local hills, fading to a crisp purple; a puppet always the first
thought, or erotic conceits, some just failures. everyone
an openly non-believing head of state. phwt phwt. aaar.

we flow through a choice of spectacles & wags care to write
not the ‘really really’ world & i want to live there & i didn’t.
i’ll auspice you in creamy broadsheets: words are not counted
despite craving it, shivers felt under the oft close dogma.

you’re a man of great feminine capacity – your style
has the time of moments passed. most of the ozone
layers are just out there doing their jobs. like bell-curves
we’re sad in the morning then complacent later then sad
again. flossing is given space over the best boy, a shadow.


phonecalls & bed

kendra coursing mildly through
the noon bricks soak in heat ma-
nnerisms half-glimpsed we’d rub
hands in a nightfall of perplexing
laughs we’re going to fight in the
car we’re going to take love seri-
ously in the car cramped but fuc-
king like actors kendra itches says
i’m not into going out anymore
battling the younger drunks & fee-
ling the carpet through a jazzy me-
eting of mornings & then coffee in
all its irregularity restores force m-
ore’s the worry is this connection
between film & truth i say that to
a world that’s paradoxic over gen-
eral also to the guys with a closely
shaved skull we’re from all walks
of life kendra walking from the e-
xit to the under-ground parking i
guess we could see that from afar
if we liked arrange the attached e-
motions like scrabble-tiles colour-
ing in the gaps we’d do it in the c-
ar, listen to some classical radio


cultivadores históricos

good to look back on germane moments
exacting segments of memory prove
the rewriting of theories by novelists posing
as theorists (ancient greek at that) to be
(through their characters) the only way
a text can come into being / & so some
time back i’m lounging to the latest
simpsons, homer tries to guess the colour
of marge’s eyes but quickly flusters &
guesses ‘guessing?’ / i brought into
existence some not small profundity
with my recognition


that is

this one’s from a series i’m working on,
a series that will deal with grief
& the other themes associated with growing up
in a cul-de-sac in melbourne

this next piece was written, oh, just
a few weeks ago,
after i’d returned from pulling our bins
onto the street – for a moment it all
seemed to make sense

this next one is a poem, a sonnet
about doing your tax-return

this is called ‘in praise of water-polo’

i’ll finish with this


tech purport

if he does exist it’s up to him to get hold of the
chap who wrote ‘hello, you either have javascript
turned off or…’ i’ve been getting this error like

all the mornings on earth next time i will
light up the building or the meeting but with
no ironic shift: we’ll play host to toyota in
capitAliseD style headlines ‘maxi-impact’ the
font of the month serialised else packaged
with some minor differences (your dignitaries:
their wallets & heads blown away with a new
idea an outside-the-square approach to breathing..

surely you can reach him on a special number
advertise our need of direct contact get it
filled in a day he’s thinking & existing alright
i can see the text at the most it can mean he’s
out there & possessing some secret a big
one even like ambiguous genitalia i don’t care


dylan thomas selected

one challenging brown stain, like
a snowflake in its uniqueness & sure
unremarkability; also those flying specks
that dot dot the universe have come to
rest across the poet’s face: he smokes
& glares downward into some grumpy
lines of verse. i chose to put the volume
under plastic after months of abuse
in a satchel, carried unread through
a million nights of drinks & walking
& ventures, preserving for ever
(amidst the mandatory backcover
‘no-one before in the english language’
stuff) a short, thick, alien hair.


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