Monday, December 31, 2018

Kristen de Kline #239 Goodbye 1

what can be said
what can't be, it's

never convenient
a sheet over his body

crackling through on an
inter-state line - a last breath

palm trees double over
in the heat of the night

under your Wayfarers
tears streak down your

face, winding their
path around your neck

like your favourite metallic
choker with the love heart

charm hanging off deep
into the night - our wailing

thirty eight degree heat
is that sweat or more tears

where do we go with this
a few hours, you almost made it

no fireworks at midnight
no champagne no oysters

you said we weren't to cry
deep into the night, heave

hard into the phone, you said
we weren't to cry, our screens

light up with large red heart
emojis and icons of hands

clenched together in prayer
random words on Messenger:

'passing', 'thoughts', 'love' -
where do we go with this

you said we weren't to cry

Rob Schackne #842 - "The mersenne prime"

Image result for Tower of Hanoi
                       The mersenne prime
                       as high as it can go
                       more than we will count
                       divisible only by
                       the One and the All
                       (well, near enough)
                       it goes so low
is included
                       and it goes so high
                       to asteroid planets
                       it includes itself
                       and in the end
                       when the last move

                       in the puzzle
                       is completed
                       it is a metaphor
                       for nothing

Clark Gormley #77

Palms frequent front yards

Fronds turning brown as they age

Beards of shady men

Kit Kelen #1097 - velocity is terminal OR life: exponential as anything

velocity is terminal
life: exponential as anything

have you noticed the acceleration?
meters per second per second and such

at first it was Christmas
now kingdom come

a long while since we bothered with candles

are you aware of the absence of brakes?
a paucity, let's call it
George Jetson warned of this
they trashed his flyer, but he flew out

you can't put the world in Park
it's 30ks per second
feels faster than that though
because that's just one way we're travelling
there's a thousand miles an hour
that's just around around

the headlong thing
the plummeting

dizzy yet?

once you had the whole mechanism apart
held it, disbelieving
put an ear up to
some of us can hear all of this
that's why it feels faster

must be there's somebody shoving it along
a running jump and shoulder to

remember kicking the clock to go on?
now it's a spin of seasons
and where we land
there's nobody knows

but that at last the sun expands
long after the last soul has let go

nothing more disposable than a body
that's what you're thinking, right?

a cat falls falls the full ten floors
gets gingerly up
slinks away

Kit Kelen - unnumbered senryu

uunumbered senryu

when you're the wet patch in the drought
it could just mean
you're fucked

Sunday, December 30, 2018

Rob Schackne #841 - Senryu (12)

Same imperative
love, laughter & food enough
we follow the birds

Kit Kelen #1096 - a bother of gods (for godsbother)

a bother of gods

for godsbother

collect in a name
or call them a mountain
never to climb

tussle too

you won't say beginning
but have a word this way

all are forgetting now

they were gods, the gods
when we believed

forests were tall in them
leaflit and lost

lightning struck for anger if
our fears were all natural

when sunbeams moted starfall
in wonderment we lay

everyone older than us
is dust!
and was
so we were the one of will-be and when

heed the prophets when they say

page full?
you'd simply scrub at the mud

there wasn't a ceiling fan to come under
no one could catch the sun

Earth sang
and all the ages under
we were yet to dig

when we were lit
how dark hearts down there

I'm telling you

three girls and nine

and someone dug a trench for warfare
blood! the ghosts would come

everything was full of gods

when we were their loved, despised

shaped them then there from the mirror
as they'd cast us whole

let's say prayer's a two-way street

they were on every corner
hearth, kith to kindle

we were top of the to-do list

in clouds and parting
bolted blue

the world was a pillar once
all turtle's back balanced

came down the river
zwickelfisch floating

first snows of us fell
and we would say autumn

here's lyre pluck and we'll come to scales
pour swoon

by heart
so tell cicadas

swam once
the sea came too

every boat lifted
Ocean was river and took us away

that was run around the world
when map was speculation

days of 'who got nuttin?'
knock on wood

you can take the rug from my floor

but the gods fell into mechanical type
found us all up a tree

the boy bloomed
(that was a dad joke)

how very very alone

wasn't it we slept then?

someone said the end of the world
but skies were yet to fall

9 to 5 was once
and the holiday loading
sang Red Flag to a Christmas tree

it was the hidden hand all saw

a bother all this hallucination

there wasn't such a thing as luck

not a single arrow could ever arrive

that tortoise knew that hare

must have been the dream

stretch for the hell of it
everyone could

we – big enough to build a meal on
how few to worship
they were unnumbered

the numberless they are
look under and over

your pants are falling
while they're on fire

someone must have said
'grow up!'
days of the week called after

world in streets
our printed circuit

then we climbed to the top of the hour

nice fitting noose
of hopes alive

in hungry years
parents would have eaten them

so matter of fact
we were deictic
with it – stuffed!
and count such selves

it's summer to a breeze
they say

made a myth run ragged

gods of this of that
the other
filing all confused

and always chasing after love
away from the fight
taking things too far

and further now

now we have burnt
have drowned
homes built

everyone could have been welcome

pure streams were to drink

washed up
prayed to
anyone here ?

all nameless we were
as the world was wide

is and was
hadn't yet stuck

that was a guess to be blithe

they hurl boulders?

waking this morning
and a breeze blue rising
forgetting to expect

I've never seen so many webs
never seen so many spiders

Clark Gormley #76 Nature’s Choir

in this morning’s choir
there is one voice off-colour
sulphur-crested screech

Saturday, December 29, 2018

Rob Schackne #840 - "Might all be order"

Might all be order
and the rocks joined
as if in pattern, you see
them, toys in a box
dripping on a rainy day
all we needed to be happy
except that this is nature
and we are singular creatures
when we go out walking
when all is not really joy

when all could be order
what it was upset you today
two butterflies separate
tell any lie you want
the forced element, swaying
and trees desperate to be left be

Tug Dumbly # 72 - Where's the Fun in That?

Where’s the Fun in That?

A poor conspiracy if JFK
was killed in the age of social media.
Everyone would have caught it,
his spatter tweeted as the
motorcade left the plaza,
the Grassy Knoll covered by  
Apples, Nokias and Samsungs,
the footage of a thousand phones
to cross-correlate and corroborate
what bullets, where, why, who and how.
Oswald would have been busted
after posting a selfie of himself
taking the shot on Instagram.

Kit Kelen #1094 - a little note to the righteous (for godsbother)

a little note to the righteous

for godsbother

if one is
then they all are wrong

and here's how hard I wish
it's how the grammar sits

wash away
to cut and come again

in plainsong

relies on its devils
fills up all the available
and must not this that
speak its name

promise of whim
at whose expense

I dreamt so much
it was a truth

believe on
and you're in

and in this sleep
all ghosts to feast

by my lights
slept soundly
all do there

but a question came
and a doubt crept in

I entertained for days on end
quite a party we had

in the wishing house
in the house of fear

and all these same cards
must fall

still and all
the last words are famous

give us a booming
boost by the book

hymn the elect of us
on to a glory

won't we be kissed
good night

Friday, December 28, 2018

Rob Schackne #839 - "Always"

                            be cool
                            it matters

                            on the 
                            back porch
                            a change
                            a moment
                            my body


Rob Schackne #838 - "So I grab another tinnie"

So I grab another tinnie
out of the fridge, glorious
in the infernal heat, recall
dancing in front of the cold
when naked and five years old
shaking it like I was free, now

I sit back on the porch and a bird
(ibis, egret or crane) flies away

there's just an imaginary sigh
I turn up the music on my laptop
Lucinda Williams and old blues
the hot and the cool, ice wrapped
my friends freezing in China
all want to send me ice cubes

(apologies to friends in winter)
but this is an ordinary day
please be gentle, today I found
a way to make satay sauce
with peanut butter, and a way
to make poetry last all summer

Thirty Summers #132 Claine Keily

I brave the dirty cave to show up and give my love, to be there to say, " This is all that matters."

And the animal waiting and dark, but towards me only wanting my presence while the afternoon rain hammers every leaf around us.

High above us a man who knows he falls short does what he can, shines lights suited to hunting into rooms below him to rob women of their sleep. I plant blindfolds covered in cherry coloured flowers over my face and sleep with my hands embedded in the warm fur of those who love me. Then I forget his noise and his blackened plans.

Kit Kelen #1093 - dawns upon me

dawns upon me

bellowing thing
bright spoken first

webs now shine
with the work

who's that singing?
leaflit to turn

day has a mind
of music too

a centre is the thing
that's edged

lit in
and now let out

otherworldly we were
as from the mirror come

bird into it now
night's scuttle come still

you can see
why the questions

who points at everything?
who paints it all?

the answer is no one
no one at all

makes the blue
and rain to fall

feel it on the skin
not touch

but truth
of where we are

dawns on me
the bones are mine

rattle a tune
of words then

in this kingdom
under construction

no one reigns long
no one rules at all

yet the work is signed
there is always a riddle so struck

dawns on me
it's I'm here now

no clock has ever come so far
heart open to all hours

Clark Gormley #75 Occupy George St

Light rail has occupied George St, completely blocking vehicular movement in both directions.  The protest, which is now into its fifth month, has been causing havoc to traffic flow in Sydney’s CBD.
The group claims to be protesting against social and economic inequality, greed, corruption and the undue influence of corporations on government.  They aim to achieve their objectives through direct action.  A spokesperson for the group said “In our case, we achieve direct action by physically impeding cars. What could be more direct than that?  Not only that, at the same time we are building vital public transport infrastructure.”
However critics have pointed out that the movement, calling itself CBD and South East Light Rail, is in fact privately owned by a conglomerate of foreign investors.  Furthermore, they have unearthed documents implicating that ‘the project’ is in fact backed by the incumbent state government.
When asked to explain, CBD and South East Light Rail provided the following statement:-
“Around here, radical activism is ineffective without state approval, kickbacks, call it what you will”.

Thursday, December 27, 2018

Rob Schackne #837 - Senryu (11)

You sprayed for pay
crop dusted my little heart
the rash has cleared up

(police want to have a word
about what you left behind)


he attempts a senryu
clueless, no concept
how to connect the parts

Kit Kelen #1091 - in among the days of it

in among the days of it

webbed in the paths of timber
wind fallen

moonless till the morning

wrapped unwrapped returned redeemed
an infinite number of days until

love in our laps and spread

struck with a so sudden star
in all these nothing Sundays, months

still sugar-hit
still soaked

Christmas is always elsewhere minded

dream snow
and pray for a breeze

I hear them

summer – vast acreage of song

let's altogether in our rounds

so many larded deaths to line
as tar of the boiling road expand
filled with the spirit
if faithless
still float


Project 366 is for the new original draft work of contributors, posted on or about the day of creation ...

Please do not post
- old work (and particularly work already published elsewhere, although new revisions are acceptable)
- other people's work
- some old song because you like it (though your own new response to the old song would be most welcome)
- advertising of any sort (including for yourself - though relevant notices are acceptable)


Tug Dumbly # 71 - Tankman


They finally found him –
that anonymous guy
who faced down a line of tanks
in Tiananmen square
that day in 1989
in that shot
that stopped the world
in its tracks
and seared the Globe
like a soldering iron     
to the eye
and made you chew your lip
like jerky
at what actual courage
looked like –
just a skinny crazy guy  
so way out and alone
and far beyond mercy
poking a beautiful brave
blood flower down the barrel
of old Mao’s faceless metal beast.

Yeah, Tankman!
They found him!

And now he’s found an agent
and done Oprah
and ghostwrote a bestseller
and they’re making the film
with Jackie Chan
and he’s putting his name
to a Revolutionary Clothing Brand
with a cute little tank logo, and …
… and it’s nice he didn’t die.
But I dunno, maybe some things
are best left to the imagination
where they’re free to live bigger, richer lives.  

Like, I never want to know
who Jack the Ripper ‘really’ was.
Would be happier if the Titanic
had been left to lie
undiscovered, encrusting mystery
in the depths of mind.

I mean good luck to Tankman
plucked from obscurity like he was  
from flipping eggs in that Shandong Diner.

He’s big now, a ‘brand ambassador’.
Only careful what you wish for.
We wanted him and now he’s here –     

moved on from that old massacre
to doing ads for Tourism China.

* This poem appears in my debut poetry book, Son Songs, just out through Flying Islands Press. If you're interested in getting a copy, please email me at, or message me through Facebook. Thanks!

Michele Elliot #37 Skylines 6 (after Lizz Murphy Poem 379)

I tell the moon the time is now

she rises in magnificent silence

I ask the tree for shelter

in her green shawl

Wednesday, December 26, 2018

Rob Schackne #836 - "Summer is"


                                                  (pace Leigh Jordan)
                Summer is
                a bit of rusty wire
                on hot gravel
                waiting for some rain
                a pebble spun from a car wheel
                that lands nearby
                wonders what it's for
                what's all the fuss
                the crew just
                says wait for the wind
                we are rusted in greyscale
                and ready to snap

Tug Dumbly # 70 - Who Put the Mock in Democracy?

Who Put the Mock in Democracy?*

Classless my arse.
Body is class entirely.

The beach a leveller?
Well it is. Just depends
who’s levelling.

The hierarchy military,
flesh ranked sharp  
as a hammer smashed thumb

a crashing inner parade
of fascist boobs and abs,           
flashing meat medallions
of bella donna beach bitch
polarized Il Duce.
Washboards versus Beachballs.

Some hang it out
others squeeze it in
like accordions
wheezing on the sand.

Ain’t it grand?
Our great egalitarian skyte
a seagull gargling
at a bone white sky:


But topography down it’s a lip-serve lie.
The beauty spot’s gone carco,
a crazy traverse of stretch-mark scars  

trench lines barb-wired by birth,
backs to crossbows bent,
burnt and striped as the English flag.

Ah, it’s not so bad.
Beyond the gym’s panel beater
bomby cars park beside lamb bikinis   

puff-pastry picnics next to body shop buffets,
maybe swap a pleasantry  
over the scenery, the cricket.

Still, everyone knows the score, hey?
We slap like pavlovas into waves.
They shoot the boogie board ballet.

At heart you don’t give a stitch,
but skin deep still curse
that genetic bitch

and walnut finished son, gliding down
the burning white carpet of the beach,
oiled and glistening as machine guns.

* This poem appears in my debut poetry book, Son Songs, just out through Flying Islands Press. If you're interested in getting a copy, please email me at, or message me through Facebook. Thanks!

Kit Kelen #1091 - the secrets and the treasures

the secrets and the treasures

days have chased us here
it's not that we were looking

things meaning
for the hands passed through

time it was when

we each were unwrapped
under such a tree

dearly beloved
we are gathered in dust

like the idea surviving
the groundless belief

truth in such hearts

the year unwound
and years

because we lived the wish to be

everything lit is already known

it's we who are in the dream
nothing fits

each is of its kind

take cliff
or pool
dinner table

each finds a self

sometimes a mere succession of us
brilliant fizzle

then try a little further back
knock on the past of this door

here where Christmas was
back in the box
breeze to guess south
fills our televised sails

and find another continent yet

the house
for a running down clock
you trip over

try to remember
back into
notes to carry a tune

start down
swim the tears

train is a tunnel's yellowing end
daylight will find us consumed

deeper then the ache till love

this is how memory will be

ghosts of the living still sing

everything is already known

weep for the past
that it is passing
as we ourselves soon will be