Friday, March 22, 2019

Jeffree Michael #64 Still Life 4 today

time old flags come down

the mind remembers this heart

calls instead for peace 

image: Still life  - hanging screen detail / recycled rice paper ink aerosol paint interfacing  JS 

Kit Kelen #1178 - in a patch

in a patch

the pumpkin and the poem
chased around a rhyme

all vine connecting
like roots above the ground

rolled the thing around between
took water on, took sun

and tendril delicate
drilling down

raising cup to lip
one pebble round

the other clod
seasons equally in each

and neither quite a world
took along the noted stave

by inches no one saw
both spotted, striped

pocked here and there
one open book, one heart of seed

flowers all forget
the insect of the visit

the struggle was to rise
bounce back

from a wilt, won’t we?
told themselves

till licked for light
crust of skin

and cut to quick
you can cook it all

had a swim in the thing
but which?

each truth to deal
to share

to know, to love

Thursday, March 21, 2019

Anna Couani #210 street noise

street noise

there is the highway that curves off up ahead
and an acrylic pour that could seem like that
all gloopy and curving lines

a window onto the main road
seen straight on, only tree branches and leaves
but audibly noisy with traffic

a piece of music that could be expanded
repeating two bars, creating four bars
applying the pentatonic scale across six strings

the sound of footsteps only sometimes drowned out
then the louder noise of a bus
small noise of a scooter

the sound of a conversation, snippets
too low to be audible
maybe in English, students walking

newly discovered instruments, by me, that is
the sheng, a Chinese hand held organ
the guitar viol, a bowed guitar

the bus plays notes
music playing from a passing car
briefly, then quiet, just for a moment

Kit Kelen #1177 - the heart of hearts says no

the heart of hearts says no
boys own life death struggle

for godsbother

am I better than them
who each in their several ages
when wider was the world

kept a corpse on the lounge for pamper
Began a line with capital letters
L FT TH V   LS   T

who chained the slaves for fun to whip
who ate their fellow men
also whale sushi, consommé of albatross
grasshoppers and monkeys’ brains

conciliated a tribe of wives
who more than fancied little boys
who raped and raped and murdered too

spread death
and blamed the rats

thought up the machine gun
land mine, Zyklon B
God, the alarm clock

who ate the other animals
and tortured them in zoos
the soul-less

created truth and slow combustion
who though to dig up coal
who brought the blade against the tree
tore out the beating heart
held it to the sun

buried alive under a bridge
to appease

who slaughtered the violated beast
called it unclean to eat

blood upon them
unto death
sat up so high and mighty

who pictured a heaven
and thought up the spirit
hell nasty as you please

whom reason overtook
and left a metaphor alive
who were the first to utter
these my words

read entrails so knew
only a virgin would do

who wived a pyre
slaved pyramids
so jealous of life gone on

who beat the weaker
cowered under blows

those deep in the dark
who thirsted to know

who wore their own wove rags
and feathered up a sky with deity
thought fear beginning wisdom

took spring to heart
and smelt the folding flower out

with sticks and stones
with sabres

all regrets or none  

who made the lie
more less lovely
took an eye for an eye

who blinked and had the ghosts among
knew when to give up too

who never had the words
but clubbed together with death
that one day they would be the tribe

a little throne of judgement
I’ve come to
and rather crowded now

am I smarter than
atom bomb makers
physicians with leeches
and all who knew the sun went round
that earth was sudden-edged, so flat
and coming to an end

Wednesday, March 20, 2019

Kerri Shying R - # 608 - Biopsy


there is never
a good answer
to the question
that makes men
scrape about
inside your body

with long needles
and a knife
this wait
is too long

yet we
both wish
it would stay
this way
for ever

Kit Kelen # 1176 - the Woolstore Australian Made All Schools Botany Book 1966

the Woolstore Australian Made All Schools Botany Book 1966

go back to the crooked line
to the jagged star
map of Christmas

pitter and pater were two little raindrops
a plum rolled down the hill

all these states
where did I stop to draw?
and why?
and how did the line take off?

so many countries our Commonwealth is
often the spelling is odd
you can’t hear

my dictionary began with
A baby
then we went on to beef
and Beet is a vegetable
bent is a kind of curve

things that flew

times tables
ten was a synch
             a cinch
just add nothing

so many things invented then
not least the pom-pom mobile
(calls to the patent office
from a number with letters)

a lovely pair of Japanese slippers
I, anatomically correct

not a thing glum
but where was my best work?

from smoke as ink
we somewhere rise

radio so few tunes
way to school through the unbuilt bush
there had to be a stillness
winter made it far

sat on the heater first to arrive
only the queen could see

I knew the world
a beautiful place
the beautiful place  
for me 

Tug Dumbly - The Real Me in Velveteen

The Real Me in Velveteen 

'Becoming aims at nothing and achieves nothing’ – Nietzsche.
‘Nothing is Real’ – Lennon.

We are all Velveteen Rabbits now
on the road to becoming real,
like a Bing and Bob movie,
and the real you doesn’t suicide
drink drug and try and screw
every wooden leg not strapped
to a thigh, doesn’t rip people off,
short change, sabotage, act with
malice and jealousy
and premeditated cruelty
and postmeditated cuntfullness,
doesn’t resent and fume and fester
and gossip and badmouth
and backstab and be sulphurically
licked out by the victories
of others and feel a curdled warmth
from their shitslips, doesn’t
reflexively lie and habitually
sidestep consequence and
responsibility and doesn’t pretty much
just grease piston number one. 
No, the real you doesn’t do that,
and prisons are fed from arsehole
to breakfast with unreal thems
just looking to be real,
all the theys who acted so far out
of character it’s just not fucken funny
your honour, and housing towers snicker
and groan with neglected geniuses
sucking goon and noodles    
and office blocks are stapled to the gills
with dissatisfied pissant ciphers
of other lives, would be Houdini
shitjam escape artists and makers
and consumers of some bullshit
artisan life sitting in little traffic jam
tins of tense flesh, mere negative
avatars copping the beating for their
real true selves, dummies taking the
blows for the freedom machines
romping in slow mo through the
lush meadows of some parallel
paradise with their own personal
string soundtracks, the real
thems put out to stud under
the heavy glistening pelt of another life,
because this life simply wasn’t them.
The real me is in a spiritual gulag
locked like Christ under the Vatican,
an exalted thing of apotheosis
and apogee, but just trapped, you see.
No that me you think you see
is not the real me, is not now
and never has been me,
and the real me is also someone
I’ve never yet seen, but if you
see the real me say hello
because ‘I’ve been to paradise
but I’ve never been to me’.

Jeffree Michael #63 Rotationem

Like a brother or sister

timeless and again
where have you been
my long lost friend

you must know
fear or faith
brings me here to hear

but still you sing
to me
escapee a refugee

your words rolling
beads for counting
nearer each breath

like questions you say
make the world go around

so many on one-side
the tumbling begins
the little blue sphere she spins

before jumping off
their last tractions
rotate our world

the day begins

Anna Couani #209 Russian doll

Russian doll

the Russian doll
the baby granddaughter 
a sentient being
already with a reactive core
being in the here and now
self possessed but on the alert
this is mindfulness 
totally in the now
aware of the body
as in yoga
feel the muscles in your quadriceps
feel them flex as you jump 
in your elastic contraption
try to isolate the hand and fingers
look along your arm to your fingertips 
bend the knees slowly forward
then slowly twist
ah, she turned over

Tuesday, March 19, 2019

Rob Schackne #912 - "It's pathetic"

It’s pathetic
she asks what
we should do
I say little well
make it matter
or at least don’t
be a horse’s ass
disappear with grace
leave some clues behind
& mostly don’t fret it
(but a fair question
while the wine flowed
in a Chinese restaurant
the best I could do)

Kit Kelen #1175 - tank landing

tank landing

alien landings, the new tanks are

a lot of push, rotation
and thank you friends
for being here

each tank collects a sky
makes roof means

and glitter sun as travelled far
the dry won’t touch the sides now

tanks taller than I am
and hope the gutters catch to fall

we make more south and shelter so

think now of what we’ll grow

the green our ever up
each source suggests a maze
for those so minded

soon and in time to be
a conjuring
of rains long since

call bath
call washing up
call tea

Anna Couani #208 headlights


a reflection of car headlights on a shiny white wall
boxes packed on top of each other in a window display

tip from a friend 
find associations through yoga
make notes
create poems

my meditation is interrupted by the cat
bouncing on the bed attacking my toes
up early 
ready for breakfast 
ready to eat before the morning sleep
unlike us
ready to eat before the day’s activities
looking forward to the day
friends coming to work together
other friends coming to discuss

searching for some snippets of time in the day
on other days
to insert some extra thing
creating a timetable 
just like being ‘at work’
snippets for pieces of work
that could be completed
small deadlines looming
now that the door is open
to other possibilities

flashing eyes
the cat stalks up and down beside the bed
waiting for a sign
then sitting patiently
but watching
any movement of our limbs
under the blanket
there’s something under there
something mysterious to attack
but the illusion is shattered
when our feet are exposed

light is the alert 
the herald of the morning
lots of them
all ideas ready to be unpacked

Monday, March 18, 2019

Rob Schackne #911 - A Gordian Hello

A Gordian Hello

To the world guild
of expert tyers
I salute your dying art
slipping away like
a granny-knot under
disposable duck tape...

A Gordian hello!
Here's to the knife!

…on the other hand
when aren't we knotted
parked in the Laing-way
far from maritime display
tethered to a moon
we'll never reach?

Kit Kelen #1174 - the poem has its moods and moments

the poem has its moods and moments

its woods and ways

it’s not the chime
but the charm against time

so lost in, I
look up

to branches, leaves
through them
to a shaping sky

the little Lent
big Bacchanal

a poem keeps its conversation
as if it were a prayer
can always edit later

in all the falling
bibles of truth
of blood, of love
and lies

a little and-I-remember machine
it’s all in the highest
how the world was saved
will be
by me

in all the soup of saying
as little, as much
as we are
kingdoms come to grief

I hear seas in such a shell
in any words are all that was
and all the ones who were

they speak to me

often rot
the ways
so soften

in the wonders yet

not the chime
but charm against time

the poem’s moods
and moments are 

Tug Dumbly - Moon Closed

Moon Closed

With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb’st the skies!
– Philip Sidney

The moon’s a village drunkard
creeping through the hedgerow
leaking down Mary Magma Lane
on a slow progress like a yellowing
piss stain through the pants of a tramp
to pavement on some stations of the doss …

No stop!

Poor lump of rock, take the night off.
Just for tonight, moon, we’ll leave you alone,
free cinema of stone, projected to death
with all our pathetic fallacies and super-calla
solipsistic self-reflexive notions,
scribbled with werewolves and blood, 
tortured by literary devices.  
What have you not been? - fingernail,
sickle, orange, eye, pizza pie …
crooned to, quilled and fetishized
like a piece of cheese in the hands of Benn Gunn

I know you pine, moon, for once 
to be a thing uncompared, unsignified,
unashamed to be nothing but what you were
before you were something, before man
gave name to all the planets
(‘in the beginning, long time ago’).

I love you moon, to you and back,
which is why I think it’s healthy to take
a break, so just for tonight no more baying
of breakfarthious odes

just for tonight, moon, bathe alone
naked in a pool of your own
unmolested yellow delight

untroubled by post-prandial perambulators  
poets and perverts   
skinny dippers and midnight trippers 

just for tonight draw a cloud
over yourself like a curtain
on a rented Amsterdam
alleyfront sex shop
transact what you will, madame,  
in the privacy of your own boudoir
au clair de la lune …
(though, sorry once more.
To ‘madame’ you is again to objectify).  

Let madmen howl elsewhere
at the rice maggots in their eyes
let lovers send selfie dick pics
and find love in other drugs.
Just for today we pick on someone
our own size. Now where’s the sun?