Wednesday, July 18, 2018

Ken Trimble # 37 I like watching the sea.

Well I moved out
of the house
cause the kids
thought I was too
They were right
I found a place
called the Hub.
I was heading to
India anyway
and this was just
short term.
The woman showed me
my room, she said,
'I don't want
any trouble',
I must have
looked bad or
She showed me
where the toilets
a turd
was sitting
a good foot
from the base
like someone had
placed it there.
I had a good look,
no, this was no
Next morning
I thanked the woman
and headed to
I think I went
there because
of the ocean,
I like watching
the sea,
it feels

Tuesday, July 17, 2018

Kerri Shying R # 481 each a sonar ping to tease my tongue it's salt

so hard to shake those three grains of salt   alone
on to the fish   the batter hard   a bubble   popped
cartoon of the eye      below     the butter tongue
of  velvet underwear  protects the flesh   I want
the grains   one on every  surface  solo artists

each a sonar ping   to tease my tongue  it’s salt

that holds it all together   from the first kiss
to the last   a stitch  made firm    required  by
hygiene    all the brine that slithers by    with
 birth  in tears    attendant to the stubbing
of the toes   I have salt enough    to spare

Kit Kelen #929 - why tribe?

why tribe?

one pile of me here
another pile there

I put on my glasses
already on
and my hat
how much magnification can I stand?

the sun burns a hole
through which we can see

I am a tourist in this skin
I am a traveller in my own blood

the thing on its head is the best way to view

one thing meant this
but God meant another

the heroes were all fists
hands of a held sword
nobody you could trust

not a thing but prophetic

I hide to be a tourist here

fool not to pass on
trumpet music
and here comes a wall

tumbling, tumbling

the medicine of pogrom centuries
once you've learned the secret
all in over our heads

the country surviving only in symbols
I will survive that too

another blast of the horn

one skin peels off and I think of a snake
consider myself as plague of locusts

when I could be myself
get together with
we could start an existence

has to have been some medieval torture
to stretch me into the shape you see

I bring with me someone lost to find
that's a very normal thing in these parts

and as for myself, for my own belongings
I come as close as words

Ken Trimble # 36 Mud

She blessed me around midnight
in the blood and excrement
under the blood moon to the invisible
sounds of dogs chained
to their wheel of barking dystopia.

Broken foot

I was in the middle  of a goddam
beauty pageant and not even that
gave me pleasure

Broken foot

He blessed me
his Californian hands holding my head
in beatific prayer  Jesus saves
he thundered as I sat between the pain
and lust, and all I thought about
was having sex one last time before
I die.

Broken foot

The man in the horror of horrors
where every lost soul beat at the door
to hell blessed me with
don't worry, everything is going
to be cool, his prayer
I dug the most.

Monday, July 16, 2018

Kristen de Kline #213 Forget the hour

Forget the hour I couldn't get out of.
The  carriage on M Train jammed.

The cowboy talking
about writing 
about nothing.

Rain falls.
Shit happens.

You toss and turn.
I turn and toss.

She walks the streets for money.
Doesn't care if it's right.
Or if it's wrong.

We talk shit to the White King.
Flirt with the Red Queen.
Run away from the Mad Hatter.

There was a sun
somewhere here.
It was dead
and black.
And the loitering clouds
they screamed
through the darkness.

Out you walked
Your hands
waving in the air
like a white flag.

Kit Kelen #928 - a novelty people

a novelty people 

are you a name
in the room of voices?
no one's in particular
but all around us here

a novelty people
thing of what was done

and fell asleep for a thousand years
and another thousand slept

each clings to his her own confusion

came into a poem
like this
just to be
come into our own song

a pile of shoes
could remind you of Jews

and the good fairy was the one we called God
or else you don't say

my lost family
will you help to see them in my eyes

an outline of anyone's trees

would the dead not be speaking
had death not been done to them

and one more trick

it's only by the end of the world we're allowed

wreck of a place still to be built

as a child I lived near where the wall would be
and I feel safer there
now only the wall stands up for me
what a lovely absence we make

James Walton #105 Twelve megawatts to evening

a fox so cruel

in its beautiful unmercy
where black swans

trawl beyond mine shaft warnings

a mob of grey roos
languid as a marinade

scratch at rear thighs

old gardeners resting
on a cushioning rake

the wind turbines

obelisks in need of a pharaoh
sift the sky for a language

only written in stone

at the end of the trail
all this thirsting water

the hospital helicopter

skims a stitching reverberation
on the mid-winter tide

this is a place to lie down

between shaking centuries
let something run away with me

into a chiaroscuro frame

Kit Kelen #927 - take it lying

take it lying 

there is a wall
and a well
and a tell

things with their no particular order

but sunshine is catching too

under the bed
rabbit of childhood
worn out with wars and with peace undeclared

it's only in these eyes
only these soft cloth eyes in the heart

you can see the gone all piled up here
possessions for who they were

dogs to bark are all beginning

ours is a book all for possession

after the ordeal of flight

it's only the journey's my forever
like all night waking in the dream
to know that we're not really here
must wake myself up with

these messengers
of the other world
bring light to my ears

Ken Trimble #35 What a wonderful world

There was so much beauty
walking through the redwoods
with the one you love.

And then there's the beauty
of the streets; that jazz
of street kitchens who fart
and stink.

The trans in their fishnets
The junkies shooting up
while waiting in line
The old man who talks
about his imaginary
The ex monk come
alcoholic who talks in
Latin  while
having his soup.

This is the beauty
of the streets of sorrow,
sadness, and violence
where desperate mystics
come and go.

Then you turn on the tv
and while your eating your
meal and drinking your
you see a news report
from Yemen
and the children
whose bones are on
the outside
instead of the inside
and their little faces
look ready to burst,
like watermelons;
imagine that pia mater
those parents of bloody brain
all over your nice shirt
and still you have time for

It's all so wonderful
like that Louis Armstrong

And you know
watching those
poor, starving, dying
kids, I felt
and yet,
I continued my meal
and drank my

I'm just like
everyone else,
the thing is,
you think,
your different.

Sunday, July 15, 2018

Rob Schackne #705 - Inventory


    Ants carrying
    terrorist caravans
    backpack turtles
    and what I carry
    apart from clothes

    some dosh a comb
    my pocketknife
    right front pocket

    in the blue chute
    laptop phone

    notebook and pen
    window wipers
    another story
    military toothpick
    antacid tablets
    shirt pocket right
    reading glasses left
    a poem folded up
    in my wallet that
    a friend gave me

    called Mahakala
    what is glory
    left front pocket
    my loose change

Ken Trimble # 34 Chill

Do you remember when
you disappeared into
the mountains

We'd worry like crazy
waiting for you wondering
where the hell you were

And then there you came
smiling like you were the cat
who just got the cream

You'd been resting
by the lake
chilling with the

Laughing at this
absurdity we call

No prayers or God
could do you

I planted a tree
nearby for you
so the birds could

Ken Trimble # 33 These are the days of wild things.

Oh these wild things of summer we do in a place
as strange as W Tree.
Eight years ago our farmer neighbour Fred
known as Krishna gave a flock of sheep a chance
to live their lives in peace.

No mint sauce on lamb here. Sixty five sheep
grazed in a nearby field guarded by
two alpacas Cheech & Chong and one
big brown horse, Charley.

A ceremony was held by a Tibetan lama ,
so with heat soaring six sweat soaked men
went on a round up to take them to
another paddock.

We lived in the pure land
Amitofo! Amitofo!

We cajoled them with shouts of, 'come on,
come on', waving our arms like windmills
with the sun baking our skin running through
grass up to our waist as Charley ran free
guiding them through gates and onto country

Charley this wild thing was the sheepherder
as it charged through the bush.
This was an Australia I never knew being
a city boy.

I was just a kid from Sunshine
and there ain't no horses there.

As I write  from my window I can see the
fortunate flock grazing on a disused field,
these are the days of wild things.

Saturday, July 14, 2018

Rob Schackne #704 - Diddy-Wa-Diddy (after K.K. & K.T.)


The namelessness
recalled to heart
the fire & the stars
the vanishing

except for what
stayed in the mind
in the beginning
there was the act
there was no act
then to make the air
breathable again

all of us here

Kit Kelen #926 - a vanishing, no act

a vanishing
no act

wound to be
it's like an egg goes off
lit to be lost
and I myself am gone

a shell and have the beach with me
a beach and have the sea

cloud of us come
the currents

a salt drop chase like

wrecked here
lost to our all devices

once before we were for dust

all of the crossings
and crossings out

someone was a voice

not even neither are we then

you drown in it

awkward to the touch this hope
you'll get that with being far

time has a certain weight up close

it pools
and you're humbled with here to be

all of the wrongs to come to here
and this wrong
we sleep through

you only ever knew the eyes
it's another life
we look into

will it be the namelessness
recalls me to your heart?

be creature in the eyes then

nothing but to make a world
if I had a fire I'd tell it by nights
to stars, to moon, till true

Rob Schackne #703 - "The loss itself"

The loss itself
a cascade of years
a colour we missed
how time can feel
and what light does
to a special painting
I saw myself reflected
for just a minute
standing in the mirror
you're undressing
there's no light to keep
canvas from shedding light
it is loss itself
to paint with tears
all it does to beauty

Ken Trimble #32 In my Kerouac year

In my Kerouac year
slumped at the bar
I ordered
a shot of tequila
a shot of rum
equal parts orange juice
equal parts cranberry juice
and a shot of lime
in a tall glass.

I wandered North Beach
like a love sick  puppy
looking for my idols.

I hung out at Cafe Trieste
trying to catch the spirit
hoping Kaufman
might show.

A beat sat outside
a homeless man
here he is I thought

I belted out poetry
at the Sacred Grounds Cafe
up on Hayes Street

Walked Market Street
post midnight
I saw the dark owls
delivering crack
in alleyways

I saw the captains of industry
on their sinking ships drowning
in the black mist.

I saw a prophet
shaking his fist at the moon
calling on Jesus
to save us all

I hit Columbus Avenue
2am stumbling drunk into
the Green Tortoise

I had gone to Lowell
drank at the white horse
hunted Larimer Street
climbed down into
the nothingness
of Big Sur
without ever leaving my

Ken Trimble # 31 Smoke that light

this is who we are

forget personailty
desire, memory emotion,

At home 8am
after shift work
I rested on my bed.

My bedroom window
was covered by heavy duty
black plastic
to stop the light from
getting in.

I lit up a joint
a friend had rolled for me.

One toke and
I was gone.

The room was immersed
in white light.

I thought about
saying something to the light
but I got scared.

I decided to butt the joint out
that was some crazy shit.

I wondered  what the hell
my friend put in there.

Must have been light
I guess.

Friday, July 13, 2018

Rob Schackne #702 - The Chili King

The Chili King

No man no cry 
fifty in one hour 
the Chili King of Hunan
everything hot as hell

Yellow Emperor 
Pepper X
home to vomit
home to shower
home to rest
the TV pounds at the door
he wishes he could
toss his spicy laurels
revisit the overworld
of winter wind and ice
eat something simple

a banana on toast
a bowl of spaghetti
mangoes over the sink
he's even heard of
an Australian meal
called wasted promise
that makes the locals fat
he just can't cook it himself

Ken Trimble #30 The sad hotel

Sadness was part of its history. The building was alive with ghosts. The walls, carpets, ceilings, everything spoke of this place as a nightmare of history, and yet it was refuge for the broken, the mad, and the dark crazed souls that gave this place heart. I was there too because I was a melancholic beast sent there to learn a lesson. When I entered I was scared and broken. I was a wounded old bird. This was my school of horror where I learnt how it felt to be destroyed, humbled, broken and remade into something new. It came at a cost. I had to let go of my arrogance, my refusal to surrender to something greater because I thought going to India was going to make me holy. At one point I found myself screaming on my knees calling God a lousy motherfucker because I thought I had ticked all the boxes. I mean I went to become a monk instead  I came back a shipwreck. The real spiritual journey began in that room while I was on my knees swearing at God. The night before I left I heard a saxophone , I was sure it was coming from inside the hotel. It was the saddest most beautiful sound I'd ever heard. It was that good it could have been the ghost of Coltrane.  I sat on the edge of my bed and wept till there were no tears to weep. In the morning I left for the mountains a week before Easter.

Thursday, July 12, 2018

Kit Kelen #924 - make a creature

make a creature

build from
          live forever
several storeys up
      little cough
   so jump

ghost give up
a world so high
like a diamond
pour it out

alone with the journey

hey brazen
wonder what
in out of fold
pencilled off

make a creature like to-do
beginning of the book
arrow bats attend
some colours
reach a hand in

build a little forever
be blessed
with such a self
       floats upside down
in a question bubble
waiting to be named

Rob Schackne #701 - Rorschach


Please don't go 
Rorschach on me
just birds in a tree

look at them all up there
making such a racket
sulphur-crested cockatoos
don't say birds don't talk

you're in good shape
the knees are in order 
think how you came in
& how you'll go out

this dim life 
it won't remind
you of another

Ken Trimble #29 Plastered

I had just broken my foot. I left the ashram to follow a woman to Kolkata. That's how it goes I guess. The first night I screamed the hostel down with profanities. I discovered new words for fuck. In the  morning I sat around in agony resting my foot on a chair surrounded by a bevy of beautiful Bengali women. That didn't do it for me. An American saw me and wanted to pray over me. I said sure , go right ahead. After the hospital and after Ashoka I found myself in a small hotel getting drunk. It had been six weeks since the plaster. Time to take that fucker off. I took out my penknife and cut and swore till the shell fell onto the floor. It hadn't healed.  I screamed in agony placing my foot in a wash bowl. I tried Indian porn to get my mind off the pain but that didn't work either so I drank some more.  I decided to come home. I was beaten. At the airport I was wheeled out to the plane waiting for me on the tarmac. I looked up at the steps they seemed like Everest. The guy said , can you make it up there. Are you kidding. Just then four burly Indians  lifted me with me still in the wheelchair and carried me high above their heads  onto the plane. I left India like I was the King of the world!

Ken Trimble # 28 Here and now

Here and
you were

The last thing
I had of yours
was Coney Island
by Ferlinghetti

Here and
even that
is gone
but you
are still here

Wednesday, July 11, 2018

Rob Schackne #700 - One Day At The Bus Stop (7)

One Day At The Bus Stop (7)

Is anyone sitting here?
Excuse me?

Anyone here?
No. I don't think so.

Waiting for the bus again.

The bus again!
Yes. The bus is coming.

Have you eaten?
No. Not yet.

Maybe breakfast?
A good start.

Very overrated!

Weighs you down!
The bus!

Kristen de Kline #212 Winter 2016

I thought I was dreaming. Again. You said I look unhinged. I spent days staring down at train tracks. Parliament. Flagstaff. Melbourne Central. Was there always a screw loose. When it hit negative three my lungs gave up. I went through four blue puffers and wrote a thousand and one poems about broken things, pints from the sun and fucked up things that turn around. I knotted the rope to the fixture where the ceiling fan hung. At three in the morning I played with words that kept running away. I thought of my buddy whose neck was littered with scratch marks. Some days I wake and everything is splattered around my room. Blue and white mosaic shards. Pages torn out of books. The stems of wine glasses.  Yesterday's newspapers.  I thought I was dead. Again. But you could make out my breathing. Irregular. Wheezy. You said I sounded like an old man on death's door. When the sun returned my lungs came right. I danced around the boarding house. Sang along to Amy Winehouse. Dressed in black and bought a new fedora. I could feel my heart thumping. Again.

Rob Schackne #699 - One Day At The Bus Stop (6)

One Day At The Bus Stop (6)

Common as weed
I'm sorry?
Back up the world

Winter greens
A poem?

Excuse me?
Was that a poem?

You ask.
How do you...

It's a poem.
Yes. I see.

The whole thing.

We like you.
Come home with us!
The bus is here!

Kit Kelen #923 - the place dreamt is always under construction

the place dreamt is always under construction

once we were
but there is no once

everything's just where I left
and easily pick up the tune

those trapped were saved
hand over hand
we hauled them up

take refuge in the dream

it's breath under breath
littered with

why say?
when we're already here

in shedding forever
no words

but I called the skies blue

as if we were all made of day

who'll come and dream the thing with me?

the ache-and-roll over (Freud's somatic)

who'll fill the wish?

someone swam off

never a web
or a finger of dust

though everything
was is

words in the words
and under and through

this is the camp
where we process ourselves

it might have been for years

you know the handwriting
you'll recognise this breath

ponds and tanks
all infrastructure tucked away

wound verandas
inner courts

here I come
viscount, emir
saunter from seraglio
the every animal sad

this is me lifting a leg on life
so much sorry we

with whom to share?

music of fountains
the village abandoned

the town to the last shingle rebuilt

elevenses, yardarm
on till picnic
then was snifter
sup and tuck

all around us the mountain

there is no deciding in us
we must accept them all

parrot, pigeon
calf and buck

whiffy bone litter
where somebody died

and lamb with lion mine

you can see into the music here

and someone flew

the grove we grew
the light we cast

the miracle of nothing changed
when I am with the years

there have been ruins
and set to sea

and all these woods were wings to chime
present to me
the track rolls as

have to admit
I was quite a darling
before I went bad
and I've been since

cuddle in will ya
it's every night this

always waking before the world was

waking to this every dreamt day

as if it were the place collecting

believe to this world
always waking belief

and I who built all this
godlike in my making God
wake winking to you all too

a sheltering in showers, storms
and from the wind-up sun

here for the hunt
I set my clocks on time

isn't it home to be here?
you tell me

Ken Trimble # 27 The nymph rising

The warm husk
of your
sings poetry
day and night

She lays down
with her
7000 books
the seeds of

Rob Schackne #698 - One Day At The Bus Stop (5)

One Day At The Bus Stop (5)

Nothing matters.

Some say so.
I say so. You?

I'm trying to read this book.
A book?
What's that on the cover?

It's not important.
What's it about?

What's the book about?

Hard to explain.
Would I like it?

I have no idea.
What's the story?

Is it any good?

It's poetry.

Look! The bus!

Tuesday, July 10, 2018

Rob Schackne #697 - One Day At The Bus Stop (4)

One Day At The Bus Stop (4)

I used to be beautiful!
I beg your pardon?

Look at my hands!
Excuse me?

Look at my legs!
I really don't think...

Nothing here!
It's not the right place.

Or here!
Please cover yourself!

Look at me now!
They say it's just skin-deep.

I'm flying!
Yes. I see.

I'm going home!
Yes. Here's the bus!

Ken Trimble # 26 Eating Patti Smith

I want to eat Patti Smith
I want to eat her M train
her poetry
her songs
that crazy smile
loopy flute
her funny beanie ,
that voice and smile
and the way she raves about

I've never seen her live
in fact I resisted you
because of the punk.

Now I'm a self confessed
punk man in love with
and her style,
she gives the world
meaning at a time
when there is

Rob Schackne #696 - One Day At The Bus Stop (3)

One Day At The Bus Stop (3)

It's everywhere.
I'm sorry?

There's just the one.

There's only the one.
The one?

People are easily gulled.
It's so often the case.
It's right here too.
The bus is on its way?

No. It's here now.
We anticipate its arrival.

Can't you see it?
Can you see it?
Here it is.
Oh. The bus!

Kit Kelen #922 - paean - days when the weather keeps in bed

days when the weather keeps in bed

certain words
moss the mind
shelter in a midst

turn around to see the rain
the too familiar rain

find me at a stretch
or in ablutions
I have to have been guessed

certain pictures
these notes stick

in your eyes

certain times
day shows its hand

in words returning
sung to be so

know of the future
things will have forgotten me

in tin we trust
to hold off sun
and rain
we rust