Tuesday, November 13, 2018

Kerri Shying R #551 - to be sunny


one day you   get old   your hair
will get more and more   like
Ronald McDonald’s    fluffed out
under the  bash  in the rabbit felt
hat    the booze nose   pretending

to be sunny   

think the force of life   still
stirring in those  dun-brown
slash    manilla-buff  moleskins   is
gunna   reach the crowd   then
hey champ     think again

Kit Kelen #1048 - bounce in the cot and you're gone


1048
bounce in the cot and you're gone

once upon
beginning was
as far as snow
my first sun melting
glass flows
till I'm the mountain under
cracked and twisted bones
so stagger
a couple of drunks for home
because me and the world
and who's the third?
shadow bright
as moon to glow
under the tuneless singing
dawn shows what last light left
the lake still
the cast of blue
the bunnies on the lawn

Tug Dumbly # 52 - Hippietown


Hippietown

Cedar, dairy, marijuana …
production moves on.
Now weed feeds this town
keeps greased cafes, hostels and pub.

Backpackers tick through the turnstile
I-phoning the freaks in their theme park wild.

Oh dry your eyes. The counter culture
always was the culture of counter.

They’re selling hippie wigs in Woolworths, man.

The market spore diseased the dream           
from the start, sure as microbes murdered
Martian machines.

Any true freaks have long since split
the scene for sensible lives
running abattoirs, or in IT.

What’s left for touros to Facebook pic
is an inessential oil slick
a street of patchouli cat piss stains
straddled by animatronic Disney Hippies
with slots in the head to stick coins

or just slide a credit card through the arse cheeks
till the dummy lurches alive to strum a guitar
and croak a chorus of The Needle and the Damage Done
sprays sandalwood from a censered armpit
intones a slogan – get with the program, man

To upgrade your Alternative Experience
press continue now …

Forget it Jake. It’s Hippietown.



Monday, November 12, 2018

Rob Schackne #808 - "looked like a rabbit"













                Read this little book
                tell me what
                you think

                I believe
                he moved from
                Pleasantville


                where did
                the action
                take place

                the back of a chair
                then a spaceship
                I think it was

                what in the hell
                was he
                thinking

                a promotion
                his girlfriend
                who knows

                how did you know

                looked like a rabbi
t

Kerri Shying R # 550 - Netflix


Netflix

tracking time    a detective
of reality       that cut  

on Tim Gunn’s ear
appears   and disappears

Jeff Skewes #54 Control

I know now what it is
to loose control

two Scotchies
and tea

when will it be
three

Tug Dumbly # 51 - Purple Patch


Purple Patch

all that erotic mulch
and randy pheromone
of decay, death bed sex
of rotting jacaranda
what are you up to today?


Kit Kelen #1047 - for the makers

1047
for the makers 



if you're a maker
time's running out

years fall over 
wishing gone

peg out
tread down

everything's been eaten, drunk
each act is harder to follow

if you're a maker
too much to read

mountains have piled up
deaths make new wars

the bed is all these bodies
the sky too full of stars

if you're a maker
might be your day

you could expect a church of bells
you'll have to sing yourself though

the freshly mocked
are rising yet

by voice you see
so climb

roll strength and sweetness up
to throw, to catch this flaming ball

to read the cup of leaves
and in those well deeps blue

if you're a maker, time's running down
you can simply lie there

the dream will come for you
some cliché mantra for a necktie noose

all there's to imagine
must be more than we are

stop counting
hear the heart

Sunday, November 11, 2018

Kerri Shying R # 549 - of every war frontier skirmish


it is time hear the   carriage clock
ticking   in the night   let   the alarm
sing  soft   on the half  of every hour
 think of what was  wasted    in the mud
 sand  grass    in the city    on woodlands

of every war   frontier    skirmish

count them all before     sleep  recedes
behind the call of    too loud heart   beats 
the kind that    go on thinking   in the night
when  words have done   speaking    loss
and shame   there’s a hand    that rewinds

Kit Kelen #1046 - day the war ends . 11.11.18


1046
day the war ends
11.11.18
poem scribbled on the day


up jumped
and answer
hats in the air

all a hundred years old
gird em stiff upper
loin stirring

our stocks have risen so much

trench dark
how bright the factory

someone is whistling along
or – watch out – it's a bomb

peace like a memory
war is a dream
sweetest gal
and safe here

mud and immaculate clean

we are still from a great height falling

members of a choir
all dance towards a Christmas death
won't make God exist

here's rusty baccy tin
here's oats from home
communion wafer

pass billy boys

and while you've a lucifer
breast pocket Bible
stopped the bullet
just one
at Deuteronomy

key change
maybe that's fever pitch

who was it needs me again?
am I a duty to serve?

love my loss
like the gun I tend
like the bullets that blossom

a delicate ballet
what are your legs?

whistle for truth
and it comes

whose death is this?
and who's to witness?

revenge and spite

nothing saved this wretch
tried and tried
but God wouldn't be

pipes shot to shreds

here's world
whereon the numbers
cannot try the cause

the bugle at your balls, boys
the triangle, the bell

the war is still with us
all these long years

spit on a Turk
make carcass of Kaiser

we take our war out for a walk
fresh fields

music of fled souls
whom truth betrayed

nations that weeps together
leaps together
over high seas
to other lands
unheard of yet

they are nothing now
were high on the adventure

the lamb lies down
with the facing blade
Australia will be there

lest we regret
here's oompapa empire
so solemnly sincere

never say die
to conquer
that's my sun never setting now

silence for a moment
fife for a lowering down

shimmy up lads for a flag
fool ourselves
and soil the pants
and once again
weren't we here before?

all leaves of the story fall
to glory us
with halleluyah
then worship us awhile

to pack up your troubles
a long way to go

capture the falling
close cinema eyes

something symphonic
the whole effect

blessed are …
can't remember here

let's come into a forest clearing

you want it to end?

just sign on the line
isn't this grace amazing?

Tug Dumbly # 50 - The at times utter seriousness of children


The at times utter seriousness of children

ultimatum, showdown
no backdown, intractable lip
fixed death wound stare and then
from the icy brink it all swept from the board
in a blink, fudge, grin, grubbed smile and poof!
grudge done and gone, brushed like dandruff from
a shoulder, who could be buggered staying dirty long?


Michele Elliot #35 Skylines 4




who left this
leaf trick
disguise over eight

letters wait
a hand held still
inside a full house



For Lizz Skylines 4



Saturday, November 10, 2018

Lizz Murphy Poem 378 SKYLINES 4




































handkerchiefs
over noses mouths

above is umber
the sun a burn hole
moon a light stain
one breakthrough star

black-faced brown crows
line the bridge  men below
deal their hands


Kerri Shying R # 548 - what my son calls long items of mum's dreams


evening sends the mud wasp   the moth
(white)   frotting in the yard  on cabbage
leaves   yet to be turned under  for the
next   big thing   in kitchen planting  green
peas   and all the things with water centres

what my son calls   long items of Mum’s dreams

eggplant  zucchini   the tiny cucamelon
all show and zing   land-made Christmas by
the chilli reds  and browns  the bracted
poinsettia  still confused   by weather ups
and downs  awake   already  flying to the new year 

Bill Evans Copenhagen Rehearsal Tape (1966 Live Video)

Tug Dumbly # 49 - War Path


War Path

Cherokee, Comanche, Iroquois, Apache, 
Chinook, Dakota, Winnebago …

Native American Tribes?

No – campervans, planes, helicopters, cars
military machines, luxury brands
lifestyles to kill for.  

There’s only one Jeep Cherokee.

‘… and in sports today Washington Redskins
played an off-colour game’.   

Then there’s the Braves and the Chiefs.

The Indian Chief a motorbike 
Chief Blackhawk a helicopter
Chief Pontiac a hood ornament
on the car christened in his name.  

Geronimo! the paratrooper’s cry, jumping from a plane.

Weird how the conqueror steals the names
of the defeated and dispossessed for his cars
and killing machines, destroys a people
then uses their name to destroy other people.

Talk about transferable kills.

Tomahawks once split whitey skulls on the
plains of the Wild West. Now Tomahawk
Missiles split buildings full of little brown people
in the Wild Middle East.

The ‘Indian Wars’ a moveable feast
transferred from the Yank backdoor
to Indo-China, Mesopotamia …
a military export of Global Peace.

This weapon’s swap a funny beast

like Apocalypse Now! with cavalry
commander Bill Kilgore leading a squadron
of Iroquois choppers to mow down
Vietnamese in their own rice paddies.  

Don’t try and figure loyalties.

Maybe natives should get royalties
for all those cars and football teams
and killing machines branded with their name.

Would Australian Aboriginals cop the same?
Introducing all new Toyota Gadigal
Ford Eora, Holden Wiradjuri …

I wouldn’t hold my breath.

Local mobs don’t have that cool, cinematic
John Wayne ring: Comanche! Apache!

Probably a lucky thing.

Australia did build a pair of World War 2 planes
with Aboriginal names – the Wirraway
and the Boomerang. (They didn’t come back).

But no danger our new submarines could
ever be called ‘Koori Class’, even if
like a ripped-off people, they can sink
and stay under, a long, long time in the dark.




Kit Kelen #1045 - and under

1045
and under

cloud tops the snow
tops of the mountain
sun shows

and then some blue

lichen let
fern spread
everyone breathes

and darkening the rain comes
darker till

under the mountain
idea of a king
with a wheel to turn
little ratchet steampunk
wheels in wheels
to bubble up the oil and gold

through cheese and curds, whey
milk flows through fault
and circuitous odd plumettings

go down in your socks
to tickle night's middle
through chocolate
to the fire and cake
with beer for Christmas too

follow the line
go dotty with

in dreams we go there
under the dream

the heart is open there


Friday, November 9, 2018

Jeffree Skewes #53 Gardening



This garden over here
made by miracle
a gardener too

tending hands to earth
a currency realised
the energy of work

grand and physical
or knelt to exert
two parts just to be

some one-ecology
rain and prayers
give every day

these parts we keep
those others rephrased
re-purposed

 let go I suppose
another alphabet a library
no less or more

it's time to tender
Seville for tea
I remember

it's both garden
and gardener
no one's

orange









.

Kerri Shying R # 547 - Surefooted


Surefooted

parcels of barramundi
and the Florence Foster Jenkins
on Netflix  

thinking light
to psych up
for the tub

expunge
what came
before

tight
rope
walking

what looks so
easy   takes
a counter-weight

the past my
long and
heavy  pole

of glass

Kit Kelen #1044 - on being a part of the problem or Queenstown Syndrome


1044
being a part of the problem
or
Queenstown Syndrome 
 

sweet faced
acrylic lamb
made in China

how little the leap
you'd do for me
it's all the paddock bounce gone
to scarf and beanie, one rack along

we have to toss you in the air, little lamb
and could take you to school
make the children laugh and play

I saw you in Iceland last year
now you're wearing a fresh new flag
it's from the same factory
I'd know that sheepish
on the chin

all these clouds like sheep between
you could go around the world collecting
black face
darker footprint

can't find you just anywhere

marked down
in a basket
out of the weather

luggage squeezed
some day I'll make you
your own meadow

I promise a brook
and a rack of
some hay
and regular shearing

you are
so
so
cute

Tug Dumbly # 48 - Your Cat Would Kill You if it Could


Your Cat Would Kill You if it Could

Your cat would kill you if it could
would have your guts for garters,
if sweet kitty kitty weren't so itty bitty
she'd crunch ya like a cicada.

As she curls in your lap and brushes your leg
and purring pursues your voice
she's much the same as a girl on the game,
to eat she's got no choice.

But that playful paw that pads your hand,
that claws that ball or blanket
would open your head like a cat-food can
for a brainy buffet banquet.

In her backyard savanna she's got the manner
of all of the feline clan,
she's born with the nature, just lacks the stature
to pounce and crash-tackle a man.

She's a miniature killer that moggy Attila
dreaming dreams on your pillow so fresh
of every sparrow being her master
and every mouse her doting mistress
and the sweet taste of human flesh.


Thursday, November 8, 2018

Clark Gormley #59 The Station


The Station is anything

but stationary
because nothing stops
there anymore

the process is now in train
the cars have been decoupled
opinions have been obtained
options have been entertained
consensus has been obtained
protests have been in vain
the dissenters estranged
big business has reigned
developers have been entrained
corruption has been ingrained
spokespersons have been ordained
their demeanor urbane
their propaganda insane
their proclamations disdained

“The Station is going ahead
in leaps and bounds
The Station stops at nothing
The Station is the go
The Station is all go
yet The Station goes off
The Station is on track
The Station is going ahead
full steam ahead
The Station is on the level
now that they’ve filled in the tracks
The Station is going forward
The Station stops at nothing
The Station is a platform
to reach for the future
built on the ruins
of the past”

it’s the end of the line
for the end of the line
and yet it goes on
and they go on and on
about The Station

The Station is anything
but stationary
because nothing stops
there anymore


Kerri Shying R # 546 - Hoot

Hoot

this is a time of real    turbulence
isn't it    under this calm      turning round
of seasons    every few days
see      back comes
the gumboot     I reach high
where     piled     over the inlaid altar cabinet
sits another layer

woolly 

like a filo strudel         I cook
throughout the night     listening to the owls
too many this year
and why
when so much wind blows dry

is this

still another night
I try to put down
fear  extinguish
ache   just
make
the bath

Kit Kelen #1043 - fear of Haast


1043
fear of Haast


'no camping'
the sign says
and it's for your own safety
for your sanity

Maori knew better than stop here long
the first 'settlers' were borne off by mosquitoes
big as a batch

no one would crib in their right mind here

spirit of Pouakai
huge of talon

and the sandflies
not the kind of cloud you'd wish for

I remember – and it's forty one years ago now –
a row of sad shacks
the weather was at

dusk endless – no fly screen
head in the bag weeping
now and then popping out to count
a sample of the mosquito ceiling
to get an estimate, that's all

always more each time one looked out
as if by invitation – 'pakeha delicious'

we are wanted for our blood

sour coast

they're opening the world heritage
mosquito sanctuary and sandfly interpretation centre

the grey lifts
and the grey comes down –
rain blesses the moment with less bugs

on a holiday working
the Chinese girl in the little shop
grown to a supermarket of sorts
still smiling

I'm thinking – glaciers, rainforest
Wanaka, anywhere ...
I'm wondering
what exactly was it she did wrong
in some past distant life