Wednesday, May 24, 2017

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 boy
delivers packages

the coochie girl
coochies 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.

Sunday, May 21, 2017

Kerri Shying R # 245 - Illicit Pet

Illicit pet

this dog brings a slim cigar
to smoke before the heater

god knows
only pets

have vices left
me here I eat plants

breathe into my pain
a seated silent self-aimed

penitentiary     the
 locked in one

he    puffs out rings
around me  runs the circles

I colour in   call
mandalas  tear out of

books and get a price
to frame

Unready Lawns # 106 Claine Keily

She wears red silk
while she gardens
soon it will be Monday
and she is preparing to
stave off murder

Between mathematics
and history
she knows
the boys in her class
go to stare at pictures
of a stolen aunt
pinned to the inside
of their cubicles

They hold their breath there
after school even
while she throws down seeds
onto her unready lawn

Kit Kelen #507 - gives life to me

gives life to me

is poem the polished thing?
is it shone?

a cannon's trained on it

so sad lost lack
like the wire come down
that's how we wriggled under
that's how we got away

lines run off where they will
or gather her familial
squint for the sun
- crow's feet

is poem star the sea took?

or is it here
this first thing guess
a scribble?

scratch at the page
and sometimes poke through?
with hello here's poem

some sign holy relics
or might amount to miracle

all cringe

will there be picture in them?

a Vegemite Jesus for every slice
before the poem genuflect

we must be the victim of
precious breath of mind
gut rough

find mine and find a way in

this polished crystal call necessity
dial triple but we can't remember

the poem equal to all
is up against the storm
is ship at sea
and perch
as we pitch

is poem a published thing?

is it read?

does it ring?

will I know the tune when I hear it?

and how am I to start?

the making puts me up a tree
and speak with the birds to solve
they shit on it

here in the engine room
you can't hear yourself think

but this is how my life was saved

what a poem was
I still believe

and I know
that in your heart you know

that voice

you can hardly call

I suppose
we ought
to sing

Rob Schackne #340 - Variants of a Room with a View

Variants of a Room with a View

A glorious moment to yourself
a meditation by dish washing
two butterflies on a red fence
a bicycle that's happy in the rain

the small music of machinery
the open book of a friend’s poems
a sonata heard from afar

a hand reaching in from nowhere
the tears of joy that don't stop
perfect time before the fall
the sorrow of wisdom’s hold
a breeze when you really need it
surrounded entirely by beauty

Kristen de Kline #97 Titles unchained

Titles     unchained    hurling their words,
weighted     down
across the
    powder room
a deck of cards    thrown,
     without     care

what were you thinking
where do they go to


where can you run to
who can you flirt with

did the bureaucratic slime     gag
your lips     take away your
words     steal all your lines, leave you
breathless     no starting gun
random titles in DOCX folders
running flirting rolling
in blue folders across the electric desk-top
what were you thinking dreaming thinking:

the neon Coke sign at the Cross

two hundred bloody metres

the bureaucrat and the poet

sleeping alone

newcomers to Lawless

dying     not

Zen and the Art

is that what you tell yourself?

heart beats

black hole sun
blackened      out

deformed metal cutlery

Kings Cross coke sign

a twisted spoon

not     dying

is that what you tell yourself?

Stuart Rawlinson #37 - Sunday Afternoon

Deep in derelict
Shutters swat

Back and forth
Shadows remain

As sharp as anywhere
A crooked frieze

Plaster intact if
A little shabby

Unnamed birds
Stab across the gap

Between the palm
Leaves and pastel

Walls. Geckos crawl
Patter feet

Too fast
To comprehend

Sunday afternoon
Crouches, bent but

Unsprung, torque
In the making

In the turning
Petals to the sun

Saturday, May 20, 2017

Rob Schackne #339 - "Has the sun set"

Has the sun set
happened too soon
the cities losing love
here I'm not offended
the other side of the world
it is ups and downs

what am I doing here
laughing girl got the horses
farmers grinning in the field
a nice camera I guess
is taking care of this

the desert caves yet
trees jungle the water
I think we need some rain
every heart hears the same

Kit Kelen #506 - you're my tree

you're my tree

all limbs atwine

so worldly
a stretch
and sky struck still

you're almost all inside
then I must be as well

here's sun say
all putting out with spring
leaf beckoning
of rain to fall

trail led here
and bark runs rings
feet clay

you're all blue
and cloud in branches

you were never born
you must have been dreamt up
there's no death in the record

some visit is windcreak
birds tell all
don't believe a word

when you're fallen
you're my walls
and you're my fire
my sun laid flat
stood smoke

and then I must apologize

what should we call
your family together?

which book will I be in
so worldly wise?

I must be the insect
just landed
I'm holding on
I'll take a tune from the stick

in cello
my own voice abreast

I have a feeling this is love

where's the heart?
where's the head?

the crown you wear suggests a soul
just to this creature me

you're my tree