Saturday, May 27, 2017

Rob Schackne #346 - "In Norway"

In Norway
off the North Pole
the seed bank
keeps life alive
the permafrost
is melting
the engineers
the worse disaster

our foolishness
idle thought
on a good day
will you still
need me
will you
still feed me
when I'm 64

Friday, May 26, 2017

Kit Kelen #512 - only a treaty OR how to have a home

only a treaty
how to have a home
(notes towards a villanelle)

only a treaty begins to redress

the silence we were
we have been till now

only a treaty begins to redress
the voicelessness
the lie

the fact of my having this address

the colours in the skin
and the colours on the map
surely that's a conversation
we have to begin?

darkness we've done to be us
and to them

only a treaty begins to redress

my dreaming and yours
and where do we meet?

every animal's in this

the past is the pile of us

acknowledge the wreck
file the collision report
then the party aggrieved
can begin to collect

wouldn't that be
what law's for?

only a treaty begins to redress
sins fathers and mothers
could never confess

if you want to live the country
you'll have to be every animal of it

only a treaty begins to redress
the damage of those who couldn't care less

listen up sisters and brothers
there's no one else to do the job
know – we are the energy for this!

the damage of shoes in a wilderness
the shame we've hidden from the world
from ourselves
the worlds we've hidden as well
the dreaming

only treaty can tell
the truth before pants
truth that is after

truth we make now
is judgement upon us

only a treaty begins to redress
the risk of going on
just as we've come

digging a deeper hole

there isn't a re-set button
but we need a new Year Dot

only a treaty begins to redress
the voicelessness
the lie

fact of my having an address

it's always been the time to speak
so the time is now

every clock strikes
at our failure

we have to be able
to begin to bless
our country

Kerri shying R # 248 - Rise


waken in the warm
scent of yesterday’s tea

holding to the curtains
woven in the winter mornings

where the raising  goes
harder    the gristle in me

whinges  I take the crutch
of the blue sky  the black

and white peewits waiting
at the boat ramp with the coffee

and I rise

Stuart Rawlinson #42 - Ignition Point

Every gas has its ignition point
A temperature reached
Where each atom decides
Fuck this. Enough is enough
A tiny cataclysm
Beyond microscopic
Moving along the chain
Exponential expansion
Into the world of view
Out of nothing, it seems
Lighting up the sky
Yellow to red to white
Fuck this. Enough is enough

Rob Schackne poem #345 - "Just as they"

Just as they 
don't write here
on the city walls
where boredom is
not the threshold
of great deeds
but repression
real and otherwise
phones glued to
real and otherwise
the sky is moving
under the weight

all heads down
no more damned
than this inclines
me to be bored

Thursday, May 25, 2017

Kristen de Kline #99 The Coke sign at the Cross

Workmen in blue overalls fly high on
scaffolding     the chief electrician presses down
on a flashing globe     eight hundred neon lights blink to
nothingness     don't look back

together     we'll always be  
dismantled     letter by
letter     together in electric dreams    

a man holding a steel hammer auctions off letters
I just close my eyes
in the morning    
E n j o y  C o c a -C o la
an upper case 'C'?     a lower case 'a'?
is this where we us ends begins rewinds forgets
I just close my eyes
in the morning     electric dreams  
back-fire    gun shots

A big yellow taxi   the Coke sign tubes, flickering  
crimes scenes    stolen kisses    ecstasy peaking
together     we'll always be
together     dis-assembled     piece by
piece   the sign     comes
down     eccy Tuesday lands with a
thump      you she we    

Out Lawless way    
somebody bought the hyphen    
tossed it on a vacant plot
a dead man with hollow bones tags it with luminous lime spray-paint
you start smoking    again     stubbing out butts through denim flesh
ashes fall like flakes
icing on the hyphen
Out Lawless way

Stolen kisses big yellow taxi on off on off neon lighting  
cheap hotel room Chinese landscape, waterfalls
running down a golden frame     throw
away     kisses love promises     not running on time
writhe around in electric dreams
eight hundred lights blink
paint it black
don't look back

Kit Kelen #511 - to the vanishing - come!

to the vanishing – come!

compelled by likeness

something gets in
gets under
it's skin

show the sun

it's here
all signs
of the hidden

compelled by likeness
let a season in

the forest
is simply a song

the poem is sap
run up like a flag

take on the colours
take everything in

every animal's under the spell
come into the picture

come in

something grows up
twines round

forget how feet fell
forget a way here

by tendril twirl
so seeking

signs of the hidden
come and be under

the line that's lost
still shines within

a fire unfolds
- say heart


James Walton #58 Leary Presents at the Writers Festival

(In this world
love has no colour –
yet how deeply
my body
is stained by yours)
Izumi Shikibu

What remains struggles for the hand grip of language, the shake of letters, the whirly get you moment of transparency in this ever expanding universe of no departure intersect indifferent to the eternity of loss, and how he draws a profile in any reflective surface, through all grains of  furniture. Undisturbed by answers, a scent of daily grief, the vanilla of her vapour trail sky writing in every hotel shower.

The M.C will introduce him, still living off his seminal ‘Aspects of the Aesthetic Dialectic between Long and Short Prose - the Powershift of Form’. It chased him down, that title, the whippet pack of ideas to his skinny frantic rabbit, wanting to join Alice or Aesop, disappear into a picture edition fable. His working title ‘Barbed Wire in the Soul – a Treatise of Meaning’ unacceptable.

Leary pretends to be attentive, shuffles papers, now in larger typeface, tries not to pick his nose, or do that ear thing Marjorie complained about. Soon there will have to be a beginning, but his armpits are itchy, and concentrating on the front row, all he can think about are piano keys and how sitting is an unnatural algorithm, a human is more of a tightened spring, no wonder then that people have back problems or fucking haiku.

Fucking haiku, flash fiction, found fucking plagiarism, discovered poetry, witnessed presence, closing in, this oily slick of a black hole, each syllable putting out another light, quenching meaning, dragging down lanterns. There’s some mirth in the audience, a joke about that Title, a quip about models and electronic start. He puts on the appreciative smile, the knowing in joke, the clown’s cosmos enlightened by occasional surprise.

Leary knows soon there will have to be a beginning, but fifteen dollars for a fucking chapbook, stapled with tetanus and bloodied fingerprints. A slow soft hammer of depth through the temples, resounding in afterthought, a volume you can get a bookmark in, or remember the page number chapters later, a handwritten line you keep beside the chair, twenty five dollars of light years.

A Plenary Session, a stage, there’ll be questions. His short piece should be to the point. Enough to tantalise, provoke, not offend. His notes are becoming origami, his fingers holding kite strings, the meniscus between earth and that fucking dialectic cumuli brain matter eroding. Dressed in clandestine hunger a Greek eats de lapin with sage and onion sauce, fish get their scales by weighing submerged thought.

Leary knows she’s a maize year in decades a saffron ticking weapons grade love that is metered in care of oats the flowing in plainsongs all intimacies drawn to the sane touch of palms reading lines of brine coast mourning departures by fountain pen gifts to breach the past. The imprint of gesture when she waved away his idiosyncrasies, dropped the commas from his tongue, closed his mouth with lips of reason.

Death defying chance comes uninvited paradigm of genius and clothes of the Imperial Court kimono courtesan love abridged between centuries trees felled for pages a big bang created all birth truth is found in the deceit of clay feet in synopsis is interred breadth her absence in every room. He is being introduced, and he knows there is a beginning for every conclusion, as short or as long as every fucking haiku, written in a Komachi or Shikibu smile.

Rob Schackne #344 - "No clear trail through memory"

"No clear trail through memory"

No clear trail through memory
the few stars we remember
I also have ears for it
a bird comes slowly closer
another bottle of wine
the smells of winter
a broken shipyard
a schooner drifting west
an expiring reef system
the awful injury then
a bloody long deep breath
send some laughter this way
you ever breathe out again

stop your whingeing

Wednesday, May 24, 2017

Stuart Rawlinson #41 - Satellite Towns

Every city is great
Every home is truth
From cul-de-sac to continent
Pride clings to its own

You won't break us, but
We might just break ourselves

Opinions in constant flux
In Tarleton tonight
The spectators are lacking
A brand to pin
To their chests

We stand together

In provincial towns
No meme for the memory
No football chants

Co-opting sympathy
Parasitic empathy
In satellite towns

We claim for ourselves

Kit Kelen #510 - on the bright side

on the bright side

here I am
here's light to let in

all the yet to do
and all the yet to be

all good
much thanks

not to mention
how far I've come

and here's what I have to get on with

these little failures of the machine
'nobody died' – they say
but that can't have true for long

still the sun
takes up its summer

and here's a cloud tucked under
where the garden prays for rain

and so the colours come

on the bright side
where the light lets in

at a price I can afford

all unbidden
the music comes
as if a neighbour knew

a march
a minuet
a pose struck for my statue

best medicine
this laughter

and staring down the barrel
how a tunnel's end brings light

things truly lost
won't bother again

here's hindsight
and you see
it was all
a warmup

one does a pirouette

go on
in ordure
know the nose works well

and where the light gets in
under the cloud of flies
the sun shines steaming
into the cowpat

it is shaped in elaborate ways
the artist could only emulate
minutely detailed
creviced, much travelled
where the ants take down

and soon
and so soon

Stuart Rawlinson #40 - The Last View of Sea

there was a prize
for whoever saw it first
a dense blue sliver
between two low hills
at sea level, the water
chopped and fizzed
waves unable to hold
together under the
moon's duress. eyes
squinted in a golden
glare of not-quite-real
sand. hair matted
in the salty air
backs turned, towels
shaken, the wide open
expanse narrowed
like clock hands
reaching for noon

Kristen de Kline #98 Some days

Some days     a scattered patch of blue
bleeds    through water colours

revving down the Monash    passing a black van
loaded with semi-automatics     paused in a parking bay

you circle down Lawless where dead men leave their hollow bones  
and Former People hoist up chrome car corpses

that gasp for air     take your  breath

Some days     you wake to Dvorjak's New World Symphony
gun fire     pelting
the end of the world as we know it
every rose has a thorn
life during wartime
stop    making     sense

Some days     unannounced, Josef K turns up at your front door
bangs on about being unlawfully detained

an unknown crime, a blotchy summons
words weep over a bright pink manila folder

on the desk in a lawyer's office    breathless
it's dire it's dire it's dire   he repeats     stubbing butts out

in a metallic retro ash-tray where a naked woman
reclines, lazily

Some days the living    break    things    up
a sudden kiss a slap on the cheek a double-bladed butcher's

knife stabs Mr. K's flesh   rotates
clock-wise     heart-strings tangle, wrangle    

as he whimpers his last words: "like a dog"

Some days    I wake up in the body of a cockroach    slurp
curdled milk gnaw mouldy bread    transfixed by sliced diced chopped

carrots cabbage potato    lingering on the kitchen floor
rotting waiting  rotting     like aimless extras from a sub-titled Russian movie

you saw when your world     crashed    at ten and a half
your Mother loved it     you didn't understand a word

Some days     you see a burst of
colour streak across darkened skies    

a flash of possibilities ripple past
the Gods smile    upon you    

colour   possibilities  scattered
patches of blue     some days

Tuesday, May 23, 2017

Kerri Shying R # 247 - Test for those remaining spores

Tests for those remaining  spores

my underarm
 stays black and

I give thanks
 for no  fluorescent green

 this uv lamp
some kind of test (for fungus)

I read it in a forum
on the internet  you bet then

afraid to sleep tonight    again
 drift  to rearrange
set the room just so    plug in my cd player
 get a book  Dan Disney   out

 blast the cranberry  stave off yet
 another uti      pets skulk

 throw looks to shoot
the bulbs right out of

deco retro 
op-shop shades

it will be a long night  
armpits  Dan 
bladder sad pets extension cord
and now this player 

 the one I had
when I met him 

 the one who
well he’s dead now but

 we both had the exact
same cd player  when

 there were
sixteen years between us

my friend said
 it was like you left fourth form and

 someone gave you a baby
  said now raise it    it’s your lover

yes we were drunk
 went HA not eww

I’m sweaty and
this one last aide-memoire

it clicks

no disc
 you see

that whole thing  sits   
 right here

 in my hand  
  so over 

I just had to turn
 it on

Kit Kelen #509 - lost


all winter was listening
now spring

among so many voices
all I say is lost

in shadows
under leaf

and up
in branches

as in stars seen to
and unsaved stars

whole universe
should have backed up

still I can see lines
lead aft

trails that brought

and in my wake
the sea zips up

what I've lost
gives a glimpse

of how much I am
how much less

I was
and will be

do I still suffer
from old losses

how can I touch
what's gone?

then will
I be?

days diminishing I spend
with what cannot be lost

Stuart Rawlinson #39 - Stillness

The girl sits dead
Still in the wicker throne
Slop bowl to her side
The book is held on
Covered palms
Handkerchief absorbs
Impurities from her skin
This is a precious book
Opened at short degrees
Still upright - dressed
For important words
Head not tilted
To save her neck from
A thousand hard covers

A ritual
A moment
Shears across time
The air remains still
A good day to read

Kit Kelen #508 - sometimes


sometimes a mountain
will have its one little cloud
grey as water falling

just there
neither here nor

high hover of all day hung
as if grazing
although at this height
the grass is gone

no matter

in another world
it's a feather fallen
for windlick

wisp of weather

so thick sometimes
you won't see through

like a little fleece you'd call in for dinner
lithe as the day is long

climb to it
and watch your footing

hang halo

recumbent with a length of word
and mouthful meaning
too much has been read in

all summer

soft as shadow
grass woven
in the years of wind

clouds cut hard here
shape straight lines

carve time from
the day to pass

there's nothing in this world
fast as a mountain

see how it ran till
watch the moss bloom

there's nothing so sound
as a cloud asleep

time simply
won't pass here

Rob Schackne #343 - "Only a rainbow"

Only a rainbow
sighing for what man, poet
gloves off, bare knuckles
a perfect poem, knockout
the desert flowers, disagree
back to the rainbow, watching
above us the million things
minimal left cross, strong right
you'll get up and fight on
ah it was only a rainbow
lawless, in scattered pieces
all the stars you see too

Monday, May 22, 2017

Rob Schackne #342 - "The flower girl"

The flower girl
carries flowers
the delivery boys
deliver packages

the coochie girls
coochie all night long

the light footprints
poets try to write 
the immortal
is it right
as required
and repeat
this one road
this only road

Kerri Shying R # 246 Cultured Child

Cultured Child

do you say

it was a cult
 it held me

in a huggums wuggums 
crushed me

until blue green smoke
a pale erotic vapour trail 

crawled across my face 
asphyxiated love  

the smother
my god’s call

tinny on the ear 
 slighty dipping into

madder every year
every year  more of the

messianic growth 
 was my Salome

her shawl 
 left me stood there


do you say now
it was a cult

or just say

about those days  at all

Stuart Rawlinson #38 - Waterways

Churned like butter
the ether thickens
as the brush fills up

with tree sticks
twigs never belonged
to any tree here

as the clouds
start to cover
weighing heavily
defying gravity

moisture, condensing
on stiff tongues
miasma forms

enters and blots
used paper
words collect

tributaries of sentences

and flow out
to sea

Rob Schackne #341 - "All we tell ourselves"

All we tell ourselves
it is mostly secrets elided
like the plug on a neon sign
the specifics of which
I won't bore you with
they are everywhere now
the climb up the tower
when late the traffic dimmed
the inch by inch to the top
where sat the ugly thing
scattered newspapers and shit
there's no fumble when lawless

tonight with Thor's hammer
quick tug smash goodnight nurse
climb down sleep like an angel

Béatrice Machet # 361 Le rayol May 2017, for the AFTER G.STEIN series

# 24 (#361) For the AFTER G.STEIN series

Le Rayol. Mai 2017.
 “Letters are answered before us”;
"Symbolism means yes by yes with part of it which they take”.
G.STEIN in History or Memory from History

To turn one’s back. The faux-pas of the sea. Within a stone’s throw. Without surprise without a chance. The level withdraws. Would water be immortal. The water of my life gone with it. This breath of hair. Wool and sheepskin under the fingers. We say notes and it musics some words. On the border of seasons. On the horizon of all memories. Vivid colors and semitone draw the axis towards the island. Softness of the air. Space opens a possible underside for the earth. Your voice asks questions on the waves which wrap me in.”Yes by yes” and  swell after swell like a love inside hands. The lunar part of the day on a laced crest. Some names tightrope walking. Snapshot pulled out of surrounding time’s keenness. When a stream liberates in a type of moving forward. As a never would confess always. Askew without taking one’s eyes off you. In its step back the eye embraces a face to face. A heart against heart. A fist’s size pruning. In the long progress of its monologue the sky clarifies itself. Slow patience. It’s here that chill is catching up.

One turns her back. To the tripping of the sea.

One turns. The back as a great calm. The one that contains storms. Some mood tied to sorrow. I wrenched it for to go with fury and momentum is not going too far. One says to bite. One says stung. The hands till they bleed. One says offered. They are lips of promises. Breath is running and it’s not shortened. Breath springs and is not deaf. The eyes are touched that touch nothing. From the verb to see. What leaves voiceless. 

One turns her tongue. The sea in her ear.

There no way of elevating. Neither sail nor tone. The wing comes up since the sun sets. One says time flies. Without destination. The place stays and isn’t moved by that. Without a gesture. One turns because no loss in the circle even though the senses here are not well kept. No investigation. Knowledge with body. Neck nape a bare whole without fall without cut. Just a rolling nothing but the pulse and step by step we must. The way we came we return. 

Because we roll the world. Backed to the sea.

Le Rayol, mai 2017.

Tourner le dos. Le faux pas de la mer. A un jet de pierre. Sans surprise ni hasard. Le niveau se dégage. L’eau serait-elle immortelle. L’eau de ma vie allée avec. Ce souffle de cheveux. Laine et moutons sous les doigts. On dit des notes et ça musique des paroles. A la frontière des saisons. Sur l’horizon de toutes les mémoires. Teintes vives et demi-tons tracent l’axe vers l’île. Douceur de l’air. L’espace ouvre à la terre un envers possible. Ta voix pose des questions sur les ondes qui m’enveloppent. « Oui après oui » et lame après lame comme un amour entre les mains. La part lunaire du jour sur une crête. Des noms funambulent. Instantané arraché au vif du temps qui encercle. Quand un courant libère un retrait en forme d’avancée. Comme un jamais avoue toujours. De biais sans vous quitter des yeux. Dans son recul l’œil englobe un face à face. Un cœur à cœur. Une mise à la taille du poing.  Au fur et à mesure de son long monologue le ciel s’éclaircit. Lente patience. C’est ici que fraîcheur rattrape. 

On tourne le dos. Au faux pas de la mer. 

On tourne. Le dos comme un grand calme. Celui qui contient la tempête. Quelque humeur attachée au chagrin. Je l’ai arrachée car ce n’est pas trop loin qu’aller de fureur et d’élan. On dit mordre. On dit mordue. Ce sont les mains jusqu’au sang. On dit tendues. Ce sont lèvres de promesses. Le souffle court du verbe courir. Le souffle sourd du verbe sourire. Les yeux attendris qui n’attendent rien. Du verbe voir. Ce qui laisse sans voix. 

On tourne sa langue. La mer dans l’oreille. 

Pas question de hausser. Ni voile ni ton. Le vent se lève puisque soleil se couche. On dit le temps passe. Sans destination. Le lieu reste ne s’en trouve pas plus ému. Sans un geste. On tourne parce que pas de perte dans le cercle même si raison ici pas bien gardée. Pas d’enquête. La connaissance avec le corps. Cou nuque un tout nu sans chute ni tranché. Juste le roulé rien que pouls et pas à pas il nous faut. Comme venus on s’en retourne.

Parce qu’on tourne le monde. Adossés à la mer.