Archive for October, 2008

Prosopisia

registered mail brought me some books today: & poems of mine appear in the latest Prosopisia, a venture of the A.R.A.W.LII (Academy of ‘raita*(s) And World Literati). it’s published in India, & has a really interesting (& international) list of contributors. as well as my work you can read things by:

john kinsella / claire potter / libby adams / anjana basu / kamar hamza / max merckenschlager / boudhayan mukherjee / phillip mead / nirmal gupt / andrew parkin / ouyang yu / david gilbey / rosemary huisman / s.b. easwaran / susan jacobowitz / eli merchant / isaac attah ogezi / nathanel o’reilly / ismail bala garba / bishnupada sethi / donna bamford / michelle cahill / silvia albertazzi / katherine gallagher / suzanne edgar / ravindra k swain / valeria melchioretto / douglas clark / andrew levy

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page seventeen

if you’re in melbourne, or somewhere near belgrave, you should go along to the launch of page seventeen next weekend. this is the sixth issue, & will be launched by lee kofman (she’s great). this is the third time poems of mine have been featured. page seventeen are a quality operation (& not just because my work is often selected). tiggy runs a professional publication, one supportive of writers at all levels.

of course, i can’t be there. would have loved to get there again but it’s just not possible. this should not stop you going though. enjoy the day. see who wins prizes for their work.

nathan curnow has promised to be there, & to read my poems, in a clown-suit. if he does not do this you have my permission to punch him in the arm. if he does not turn up, you will know he is scared of being punched in the arm, & you can therefore think of him what you like.

seriously though… oh who am i kidding, i don’t know if i have anything serious to say. maybe the serious stuff was up the top of this post somewhere.

‘Dude, are you being sarcastic?’

‘I don’t know anymore.’

wed

so if there’s a financial crisis & people lose everything they have, then those that don’t have much will come out on top, naturally. it’s not as if those that lose houses & cars will climb their way back to the top of the socio-economic heap, just by using the same get-up-&-go they used to get there in the first place. because in all likelihood they didn’t have much of it in the first place. they were given things, guided into the right school then the right retail job then the right early mortgage. all their friends were doing it. why not? so when they find themselves with nothing & possibly living in a housing-commission bedsit they will of course think climbing the ladder will not get you to some solid ground. sure, it may well be elevated, but for how long? they will grow disillusioned & they will welcome the drinkers from the other bedsits into their homes. they will find solace in pooling a meagre government allowance (if one still exists) & losing themselves in a group-alcohol-&-chemical-induced comfort. meanwhile, those who had nothing before (well, perhaps they weren’t exactly down-&-out, but instead functioned without the overwhelming commitment of a mortgage, a credit-card, a share-investment-portfolio) will rise to the top. to them, to us, the ladder can ostensibly rise to firm ground. because we haven’t fallen off it yet, & will think it looks fine. like a dodgy builder, gingerly putting his weight on a beam, saying ‘yeah, this’ll hold’. imagine the power we shall have over the disposable-incomeless. we shall eat at fine venues & throw money at optional services, like dog-grooming & garden manicuring. oh what a wonderful future we live in.

questions of peeling paint, discarded chicken-wire

joan-of-arc died with her beliefs etching a spirograph
pattern vague retinal detachment discretely sexy clouds still
look like they will grass as always wavering to the jumbo thrill
your oesophagus used to be generative the letters m & a sand-
wiched together one imagines jewellery seducing a plastic horse
things jangly & sparkling out loud wearing a provocative cape
to that family gathering in a field on the way lambs are laughter
we as much as anyone hiccup over speed-humps people sneeze
at a hundred it sounds like a wolf moaning your name he’s
sponsoring a child designing a reptile creature working on the
small-talk even at home dust is silent bordering on vindictive
three separate friends talk about defining love in the space of
a week the passionfruit vines wilted throw in a reference to
a miss world pageant a particular one build a spaceship
within the lull of nothing works you’re silly & i’m growing taller
cats find a home elsewhere or claw at the bedspread i’m looking
you up looking you up like you look up things now as you can
there should be more talk of the hypochondric tendencies of
beatified celebrities even the nuances of grooming i know
acquaintances are trite no more than the sum of parts when
opinions are mellifluous & chocolate tastes like air especially
on a farm when drinks are served then sun used to set
things change even though you’ll never drive a race-car
we could keep adding to the atmosphere we won’t or
knock that wise movement it’s like ‘quiet safe poems
that make nothing happen’ rust staining the beams i’d
be up in that balloon would you pack it with critics
it got warmer earlier this year & i kept at the inquiry the
ethical stance developed to make friends laugh people
are moving away pack up the car we’ll eat later & aliens
wouldn’t bother with a message would they it’s all in
a jaunty hat & some eye-makeup like prehistoric man
we resemble at best a device can’t you remember

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alice

this is alice pung’s website.

i’ve been travelling the countryside with alice, listening to her wow the crowds.

she’s great.

leave a comment on her site, urging her to blog on it. it’s the least we can do.

 

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bury the dead toy shops

because men get diagonal as crosswords, beaten to a pulp, haphazard, like mis-
shapen ventricles distilling a heart’s liquor, else something. it’s the economy.
to think of it, zero altitude, time allowed for the gravity of a seminal moment,
birthdays celebrating similar numbers ending in zero, we all fall prostrate
presiding the rise of the word ‘tandem’. i’m compliant, reading my paper in
warm socks with a feathering leafy sunlight drifting through the bay window.
you’re an archive of idiocy, so pure, stitched into a trinity of perspectives.
if i had a million bananas i would deflate your blimp for the drama of it,
whistling a medley not composed yet, goading the contemporary musicians,
who by the way are doing nothing to undermine the palpable corruption.
commas grow disused while our ranch keeps up its blustery business, herding,
roping, ra ra ra. the girl at the library counter, her stride enveloping worlds.
                                    feed a struggling village as people are often a-okay.

why don’t you…

fuck poetry

 

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procrastination

although, being nothing about a topic.

we apologise for confusion & note your

confusion on other occasions, it

being, in fact, a constant condition:

we really can’t be blamed for any

state at any moment, hmm? there there.

you once published a disclaimer on your

website, this being before blogs

at least the popular rise. your site a

basic collection of links & an image

of yourself. ‘oh, that’s what he looks like.’

& then ‘oh, he’s interested in these certain

things.’ et cetera. the disclaimer very

long & quite funny you thought; cut

& paste in its entirety from some other web-

site. why do that? what kind of

person are you? um! a picture

of angie hart from frente.

what happened to her? presumably

she’s kept working, arting, like others,

with varying levels of success, notoriety.

 

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236

my daughter violet, aged 18 months, is playing with the rudiments of counting. she prefers certain numbers though, & as i sit here i can see her pointing at some small pebbles, intoning 2, 3, 6. she does it a few times, these number obviously being the ones she likes, or is confident with.

what does it mean? the larger the number, the less chance you have at any mystical meaning. the single digits are oh so prophetic, but the larger ones get lost in infinity. of course 236 was the year Pope Fabian succeeded Pope Anterus, apparently. this may well prove important. i need to pay attention to these little snippets, & get to the crux of matters just out of reach of the conscious mind. like jack overhearing his sleeping daughter chanting ‘toyota celica’, in Delillo’s White Noise

 

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i have ‘issues’

adam fieled on the issue 1 issue

others always tend to put thing better than i can myself.

why bother putting things then? i dunno.

 

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