Saturday, December 16, 2017

Rob Schackne #547 - "How many ways are there" (2)

How many ways are there
recombinant my faith
takes a break
not steep
the carcasses
and the skulls
lining the track
sing with piercing beauty
all their hard choices
but I'm not fooled
by this low fruit
this invisible gear
I stuff my pockets
with wild surmise
and walk on

Twin # Claine Keily 118

I stole his love
while my flatmate's head
was full of trains

Beneath the piles of books
we hid our letters
made a secret language
out of the way
we swept dust from our sleeves
by the way we
sat cross legged
or stood on a table or seat

The last time he
made a visit
I acknowledged
the passage of time
willed it to turn backwards
so as I could stand with him
a twin
so as we could start again
the three of us
living there
love letters under the
piles of books
and a lounge room
full of plastic trains

Kit Kelen #714 - thirst


so far into summer
new models of insect have to be invented

why stop at six legs?

as time goes on further away
more elaborate
antennae will receive the alien broadcasts

and then a blowfly
simple rustic
tangles life-and-death with webs
that's for now and then

day longer longer
now the stars are rare
often fall
as wished

it's like a language wrapped around me

I have to be the banquet set
swim into the music

everyone glowed with it

everything already burnt
hard to see
how you come back from here

and this is just summer so far

Rob Schackne #546 - "How many ways are there" (1)

How many ways are there
to tug back and forth
upside down

across the pinnacles
a sense of swing
the wind changes
kneads a mind

up and down the breeze
but look at this
poems and beauty
down the other side
bless you one and all

Kerri Shying R # 376 - us species

us species

a  world
of variation  in the small
dog breathing
whistling  wavers  pops pause
slight and soft  the gruff
caught   here and there
panting anthromorphically    in chase
in love  
running from the Tour de France
he moves limbs as fragile as chicken bones
around my skull 
 I set sail
on that ocean
of air

Friday, December 15, 2017

After the Accident Claine Keily # 117

Until one year after
the accident
she slept outside
listened to the rush
of the river
waiting to see
some effect in herself

Instead she thought mostly
of troubled factory workers
and those who had not been rehired

When she entered the place again
in which she had fallen
she thought of nothing
that could be mended
or installed

She thought then of the rumours
from during the time when
she had been in hospital
of those who said she had
been taken off to prison
and of the others in the house nearby
who denied they had heard her
scream in their garden
blackened by her need for help

Kit Kelen #713 - Black Prince

Black Prince

with tymbals
as to masque
or tournament
late medieval

let's play cricket up a tree
that's for Latin rhythm

stuck on the one untunable note
and never riff with me

they are a shadow passing
sometimes make faux rain

they say the Australian Greengrocer's louder
I can't hear a damned thing

it is a wooded tinnitus
and cast eyes down

or grey
how do they see?

marry cousins
get dispensations
make war across

you glimpse tomb risings everywhere
shells where the world was left

once they had to climb to fly
now all flesh is deaf

to float through the garden
like a veil of dark wing flung

around these few weeks
just to joust and mate and breed

the prince so armoured for the fray
because a stutter flown
stim music

strafe the ear

and perched
and cling

grim for

must feed on sap
as royals do

all chorus
(that's to say, refrain)

song of the Magicicada cassini
head banging?
no, techno

other species altogether

but I love the names --

cherry nose
brown baker
red eye
yellow Monday
whisky drinker
double drummer

and this one who was never king
but good for burning, ravaging
on all flanks and utterly
so here's much booty brought

in the Jurassic were mega-cicadas

shall we feed the birds this challenge of flight?
the world has not the wings

in a certain stillness struck
can you hear the alien whirr of we're here

lion gorged with three parts argent

we serve the nymphs deep fried

this must be the seventh year

Kerri Shying R # 375 - TRACT


I’m listening to you
rumbling at the wrong time

portentous as thunderclap
 a 9-month-gravid ore  rolling

in her sleep   you describe the shape
the volume   me  in the recommended

position  seated bolt upright
a teacup-salad spinach leaves

8 cubes of feta  vinegar 
the gluten–free bread one vegan burger

I am the machine that works
in reverse   all growl  upon receipt

I sit   the feel of you
life’s work  in the craw

tie me
to the world  to gravity  

stick me to the ground
heart burn

Rob Schackne #545 - Instructions for a Dissident (redux)

Instructions for a Dissident 

First, do not (whatever you do)
organize yourselves into perfect cells
it’s a dead giveaway, other people talk
plus, resist creating magical crowds

Second, do not talk to bigmouths
even if their conscience is a lighthouse
even if the one you really want is the wife
she’ll spill every bean you've got

Third, prepare to be shoved hard into a cell
yes, on that old street with the worst kind of bars
with big doors they lock you in from the outside
(five years is the standard sentence now)

Fourth, (yes this is also vital, so listen up)
know that everything you know will be blocked
so write enough poetry to last the next five years
then trust someone to release it periodically

Fifth, sixth and seventh, (this is important too)
the sunshine and the blue sky and the breezes
how your baby looked when he first tasted a banana
how you and your wife first made love, aching love.

Rob Schackne #544 - This World

This World

Climbing like normal
without a rope
one way of looking at heights

get to the boulder
before Sisyphus

the double ropes
the shit I need
will it work

the ground so wet
first move hard
rolling back up

what holds this
the monkeys scream

Thursday, December 14, 2017

Wattle # Claine Keily 116

Children my age
learned other things
I learned of
the possessive violence
with which men loved
in a house I could not enter
where none knew
or spoke of history
and instead discussed
germs and fevers
to which were ascribed
the names of mispronounced disorders
and colours

I crossed the river
to where I knew
I should not be
away from the roses manicured
and the chlorinated ponds
to where the scent of wattle
took me
and there far away
from the terror of
endless talks about
talcum powder
made a house out of
fresh wood and sun

Kit Kelen #712 - just about ready for house arrest

just about ready for house arrest

come to the end of things

make my own dust
here in the forever house

riffs ring
and take my capsules of time

you think there's something armslength here?
where everything is still to be written

and I'm from nowhere too

and here we are because ...

some days inhabit ache

it's not a corner
it's wider than worlds

painting some self in

there's no address for this

the animal antics
rut and gorge
solicitous at times

and snifter

afloat on a pigment raft
won't last

there's no one pays attention to
no one's flimsy as me

or else it's how the day points
and bend to pick it up

you open either end for a breeze
and who blows in?


the old cigar of dad's
ages upon us here

My Lord Professor
I address myself
Napoleonic, self-ennobled

magnificence - that's him
a reign of tin and sky

comrades genuflect
with me
and raspberate

this is our democracy
and better than
there's no one here
takes no people at all

beyond obscurity!
my patch

I go from here to nowhere
I think you're coming

no one will see me
here in the treasure house

all of the clocks got safely away

I do my best with loving

head swells until it pops
and just for a moment so sad
we have to go, the lot

all of which is just to say

practising detachment
or I'm not really here

James Walton #86 and if my people should fall tonight

new sails of pin striped mohair
make land for colonial enterprise
of these coal fired thimbles

to become freshly dispossessed
the neo liberal small change
scatters peoples for no matter

our forests naked of homage
broken again of spirit thunder
the ranges erupted by heavy movers

the ceaseless cities crawling
mites on the cowering three pieces
obsequious to their paltry royalties

those turtles on the fence posts
heads lifted for water upward
the price of all in dried out ambition

the economics of resistance are fragile
beyond the estimates of progress
where value has no description

crumple any flag with fresh hands
opens in confidence an unnamed rose
consumes all to make one colour

count grass quantify a vivacious cloud
walk until there is nowhere to go
if my people should fall tonight

Rob Schackne #543 - On the Subject of Wildfire

On the Subject of Wildfire

            (after Claine Keily)

Even black snakes
up silver poles
get going

after a lapse 
abstruse kino
of gathering

trees waving goodbye
water tanks and clouds
black and red
how much can spill

on wildfire
clock strikes thirteen
what can I get for free
how close you are
a plan
back up
the hill

Wednesday, December 13, 2017

Beneath the Sun # 115 Claine Keily

She has wrung herself enough
given to days grey and humid
a crow whose insides even
are black
unable to gorge on
the fallen mangoes

Now far away
she swims in the
bluebottle waters
with friends
knowing she is loved

Only yesterday
she sought to
shun herself
to stay in the grass
a she, flat and baffled
beneath the sun

Then she remembered
the thrill
found in the children
as she taught them
until they discovered
they could move like snakes
up electric poles

Kerri Shying R # 374 hey Dooka

hey Dooka.

I’m casting round my eye for those
I can’t put my hand to

nearly Christmas  haven’t
heard that voice   your face

must be round the traps
sing out  if you want me

tell me
it’s ok

Kit Kelen #711 - so much sun we'll call it summer

so much sun we'll call it summer

the weeks of December are many
and here I am in just one

healing from the year

towards the longest 
and day along
time coming
everything builds to it

I was all over the place
fell into disrepair

something is catching up with me here

bright day through the blackout curtains
a hecatomb of insect death

and Christmas is a long way off
and summer is too much

Tuesday, December 12, 2017

Kit Kelen #710 - bio note

bio note 
the via negativa made new every day  

at my greatest extent
I was an empire
inter galactic
there wasn't the fish to translate me

I didn't have to go anywhere
tribute was brought
some plantinum asteroid
would have parked overnight

you couldn't help finding Planet X
then and of course lay claim

with prominent teat when roused
so rub

you just wished
then nothing to it
any star might fall

spring moist aflame
and all in bud

all would eventually
we had time in those days

careless with showers
shone with the sun

I was reading the daily entrails

actually I was a plume
don't worry
there was one of me
in every packet of cornflakes

you could stretch the thing out
any direction
they were all into it then

once I was erupting
pall of me
and what a bellow!
all trumpet and rear
laid dinosaur eggs

chased skirt
and I hatched out
delight of flight

from ashes and dust
and so come again

you could burn just trying to get around me
everyone would nod then
all as of a mind

triumphal arches, keys to the shop
drum marches in the glory days
and they'd carry my image across

sturdy, determined
all policy, grave -
everyone knew where they were going

some fife and they followed
all into the mountain

and then I wore no clothes

they'd lick me all over
at sayso - the dogs

so see this little sheep's face - dumb
prise open the eyes of the fish

you could all join in - a must
that was me just fishing

but isn't just the facts catch up
or even just a quiet ponder

cicada clung
wise to a saw
like afternoon all summer
that's when I'm writing it now

and what have I done recently?

wild animals in the house

mainly I'm where you won't see of late

how I drift like a cloud all the day

Kerri Shying R # 373 - Cuckoo


I said stop it
you cheap thing
at the sky   to the Koel baby 
lummox  clambering up the branch
cough-laughing  like the penguin
in Adam West’s Batman 
above him the Wattlebird mother
flitting    wondering how
big mouth came to strike again

Rob Schackne #542 - No Title

No Title

Down the clouds
is it orotund
is it moribund
homeless in China

pushing a cart
you’ve done
what you could
visiting the bins

no title
so quietly

you don't fret
you look at me
starting to rain
I can barely watch

Monday, December 11, 2017

Kerri Shying R # 372 - Load off

Load off

things to watch out for
when stomach  slows 
to a crawl    Sunday’s meal
on Monday undigested  pantry door
on strike   removal
of the society of cutlery

I start
to seek the sweet things
fast-fix   jolts
across the shunting yards
thunderstopping crash

return to liquid food    go
disconnect    the haute cuisine
that mountain you were
just last week
on top of    ha    food selfies
a shake’s a shake

beige makes all the colours stood beside it
stand out
how minutiae

Kit Kelen #709 - no telling the days apart

no telling the days apart

still careful with our observations

here's healing
and a fall of leaves

one veranda from another
a blowfly buzzes

it's likewise
antechinus runs
in and out of the night
tomorrow as yet undecided

the chainsaw gang make Sunday
the day when the trees lie down

Sunday, December 10, 2017

Rob Schackne #541 - "Who first spilled" (for Keith Jones)

Who first spilled
booze for fun

the moment is unsung  
was it before money
looked up at the moon

every drink they took
was barely figured out
if he or she were alive today
we'd all be interstellar 

sitting in a transit bar
remembering the parties
how fond of them we were