Saturday, March 31, 2018

Red Cone (LF)- Easter Saturday #343

Easter Saturday

full moon

red wine time

not enough time
blending with wine
cuddling the grape

Easter fair
lakeside town
all strangers there
the Easter escape

dahlias found
her favourite flower
maybe still
glorious then
and now

the Easter market
at the lake

full moon

James Walton #94 Daylight Saving, Eastern Standard Time

They told us cold milk was the blood of angels
it was during the Tokyo Olympics.
Our knees froze together in the morning
this was good discipline for us,
God knows there were people suffering.
And last night I cuffed the moon
tried to pull it down into the lounge,
a lever with a button dial an old typewriter key;
the one pin ball machine in the corner shop
awkwardly sited, so your bum was pressed
up against the ice cream cabinet.

This morning at 3.33 the logging trucks
began their inexorable mathematics
unchallenged by the forward hour,
of the lost Third Theory of Relativity.
At 4.33 fully loaded in return
they pass each other one empty one full,
drop the high beam of simultaneous orbit.
Four into sixty minutes the pod surfacing,
and all day the narwhal song of slowing -  
for the curves as the air breaks hiss and moan
into the mechanics of physical impasse.

The dry road is a rage of cosmic dust;
it is never returned that hour multiplying each day
out of your reach when the clock is turned back,
a stammer lurks behind the pendulum.
The Guff full past reckoning as the rings of Saturn
clasp in acolyte formation waiting for the knock.
Now the years circle in a pack, nappies become Degrees;
who dares to raise the innocent sacrifice
shout out we can progress no more?
Beyond the incessant rapping someone is singing
Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow.

Kerri SHying R # 439 - break the earth's crust see what you find

pup   warm    as treacle biscuit 
hard up on my foot you sleep
in trust   what else is currency
cue the bird song   the neighbour
hammering     the mushroom’s push  now

break the earth’s crust see what you find

is it all gone to shit   the way
the papers say   I’ll wait on
for the rain   that winter tomato
self-sown   in surprise

Kit Kelen #820 - first easter (a legend of ourselves)

first easter
(a legend of ourselves)

damp between downpours
hardly here
nothing could be too rough

doorless and windowless
valley all view

you could tell the weather coming
it was already here
none of it in the bones yet

you had to watch and wait
and the road would see us
two newchums
in their Greenacres struggle
Sydney, now the bush
no tree to hide behind

we'd yet to dig a dam

it was all a bit like stepping ashore
curious either way

we who had no one in the ground
were yet to be not given Schultz's calendar
for whom-you'd-gone-to-school with

that postmaster, whose son would punch him out
and so deservedly it seems
was still to make first snide remark

yet we had come within foretelling

begin with the floor
find fire
strike up in the hearth
hope smoke's for a chimney

goldtops told the cows that were
were we even gumbooted yet?

no need to let the day in
there was nothing to turn on
no tap
when birds first came to see

but you could stick in the mud

the work of white ants
all still stood
just as it does today

we discovered bucket
and rope
the well was full
and filling

shower in the bag in the creek
all gone to canvas now

were we much bitten?
no one remembers

there had been griefs here
we couldn't know
(turns of malice, kindness too
and anger got as far as spite)

remember the night
the power came on
and light cast yellow
past our dreams
into the bush
forever and ever

but that would all be months yet
and that's another story

love was all our singing here
when stars came out we shone

by kero and by firelit
just past daylight saving

stones of the place must tell
of all the clouds that fell to water

and having not been swept away

thirty years now
half a life
we couldn't have known then

decided to stay
still roughing it to this very day

worthy of birds
it was and is

and a now-and-then sun
knew where to shine

it was all out of endings
no one could know
we got started here

Friday, March 30, 2018

Kristen de Kline # 192 The day you left

the day you left

somebody chucked a flower pot
through the neighbour’s front window
when I got off the train at Parliament
smiling Christians handed out free Easter eggs
with a personal message from Jesus
a stolen Merc with headlights on full beam
veered into the wrong driveway
and left a dent on the roller door
you messaged me that you were dancing with wolves
and your ex-girlfriend was in a new porno movie
on the midnight train I lost my wallet
and a lot more     but     we won't go there
I swept up the pieces of glass
and wrapped them in the Chemist Warehouse catalogue
Eternity and CK One going cheap

the day you left

Kristen de Kline # 191 Still in Berlin (2)

Still in Berlin (2)  (thanks to Lou Reed & David Bowie)

in Berlin, by the wall
you purchase a brick
I barter over a cap
belonging to a Stasi guard

it doesn't matter
that the dead chatter
I'm not listening     anymore

in Berlin, by the wall
I have no idea
how to find our way to Legoland
order a double shot
locate the big yellow giraffe
or which direction it is
to Postsdamer Platz

they say, you're lost
in time   and me,
they say, I'm walking
the dead    or are the dead
playing me?

the day you left  me
I sat on the pavement
with an empty suitcase
I traced subway routes
I couldn't follow
on the fold up Berlin map
at the bottom of my Fossil bag
I found your Euro Pass
along with your new gold pillbox
with the Brandenburg Gate etching

In Berlin, by the wall

     we never
     saw it

the day you left me
by the wall, in Berlin
I had no idea
what the fuck

Kristen de Kline # 190 Still in Berlin (1)

we fall in 
   and out
of Berlin, and - - - -,
tears us apart

you buy a brick
I barter over a Stasi officer's cap

in the hotel room
   pushed together
   single beds
dubbed on German TV
we watch Queer as Folk 
the bite you make
leaves a heart-shaped stain
that weeps down my neck

bodies locked, you lead me
through the Tiergarten,   late
in the afternoon,    along
to the Brandenburg Gate
shadowed by the Ampelmännchen
their arms
around us,

we look up
at empty suitcases
//  like bombs  //
out of the skies

you say:
Marlene would have been touched

we fall in
and out
of Berlin, and bed,
and - - - -,
it tears us apart

later, much later,
we crank up the volume on Bowie:
where are we now?

Kerri Shying R # 438 - no matter at the prints get left behind

in bed with a wheel of cheese
heart flayed open    aghast  at smart
happenstance   always   of the young
Easter   might as well  praise the cow
as pitch woo at the rabbit   hop  and fuck

no matter at the prints get left behind

everyone an animal   and memory still
serves up recognition   no surprise
these hearts   beat   they flutter   fail
recording   how thoroughly the tears  do fall

Rob Schackne #626 - "Moon last night"

Moon last night
like a temple bell
still it rings

memory moon
before the bridge
the other shore
how far is it
the wash on the line
a pale blue sheet
washed out Levi's
the sky a genuine blue
on a Good Friday
arrives today

Red Cone (LF) Easter Friday #342

Easter Friday

a chill in the air
queen bee sends out the avant garde
the sun wants to sleep in
magpies show  no fear
it's ours ours ours
the large one cries
as kookaburras
chin chin sings
the galah
as it flees the magpie's
the fairy wren
is quick to hide
from magpie eyes
those eyes
with glassy beadiness
those ever watchful
vortex eyes

all seeing
isn't that god's job?

Kit Kelen #819 - easter poem (if we can't laugh at Jesus, who will?)

easter poem
if we can't laugh at Jesus, who will?

this is the day on which
mind does the little miracle twist

this and then another
all to be better than good

then not so far to burn a witch
put infidel to sword

how many have come so far for love?
and cruelty exposed?

then poor boy, one of a horde, for king
some clever carpentry that

walks the water wine and fish
talks loaves so best to listen

here's your world upside down
rights itself in no time

with bishops out of catacombs
church in one hand

emperor to piss in pocket
so suffer the little children come fiddle

let's be bunnies hutch me
who'll lay a chocolate egg?

gimme a goddess all thighs to begin
evoke a forest, standing Spring

and kiss me in a garden, quick!
dad, whydya feed me to the lions?

better ask Eli
saxophone comes tumbling

it's Highway 61 here
this passes over my head

but goodness is all suffering
to get a life forever

it's never hard to imagine an end
but after?... that's the trick

a miracle of mind - belief!
you have to prove it with a priest

what's the thing that sets me free?
you really have to laugh

and anyway, today's no-miracle day
they're all before and more to come

the bloke doesn't even smile
produced a little tribe of pagans

He got it - the capital letter, stigmata
can't you at least be sad?

then not so far to burn a witch
put infidel to sword

how many have come so far for love?
and cruelty exposed?

I remember Good Friday when there was no fish
and we were reduced to chips

I see a shining glory now --
the miracle is belief

Thursday, March 29, 2018

ed Cone - down the wire #341

down the wire

words down the
clouds stumble
earths so
painting turns
the colour gods
magpies scream
the wind is
picking up
to the unknown
and the puppy
awaits the snake
the brown that

all unfinished

Rob Schackne #625 - "She kept on saying"

She kept on saying
I could even hear it
humming a few bars
ach dinna haud it aa tae
yersel ya big numpty ye

wind and rainstorm
a lightning crack
the edge of rockfall
the birds once sang
now we're autumn
nothing left behind

let silence tell us
a poem won't forget

Kit Kelen #818 - poem in the stillness

poem in the stillness

nothing to see here
sky in the blue

a world in the welcome
paint soaks up the wall

you and I - slaves
to the seeing in words

so free

the forest in the garden
the kingdom in the book

all in the day and stars in reach
web in spider yet

the hearth in the fire
and winter inside

victim in venom
bulb bathed in light

the castle in the highest tower
proceedings in the lull

shirt, socks, duds
all outside in

a voice in the calling
a face in the far

mansions in the humble shack
window in the glass

eyes reflecting others
a corpse in last cough

tree in leaf and root
flower in the bee

the worm the plough forgives
and the knot above the sword

a misery of sinners here
crime of the scene itself

a witch and wizard in the spell
the bed that's deep in love

single rose in which breath gives
the wings all full of flight

open a window
birds will sing

the story in the truth
and the moment in this age

and memory beyond us all
an ocean in the rain

it's into a corner of sunshine here
and so we come to light

Kerri Shying R # 437 - stiff as the wind off the sea

there’s you   reminder of  a past run back
on ghost feet    too wild
in longing for far
spaces    hung and drawn now
dried as salt cod

stiff as the wind off the sea

you  still able to prick
the water   out of  eyes
as dry of love   as the linen
 worn thin    hung warm out on the line

Wednesday, March 28, 2018

Kristen de Kline #189 Clouds, Berlin and you (Take 2)

deep and purple,
clouds, gather
all over
the canvas

Berlin   take my
breath away,  ----
will tear us apart,
again     Berlin

you held my hand
I kissed your neck
we trace the lines
in your latest ink
and say: someday
we'll look back on this day
these clouds, these bruises

we drink wheat beers
rant about Marlene
still in Berlin,
her little suitcase
out of breath, torn
apart, blood stained

    ...  and you ...

eating Sauerkraut
and Wiener Schnitzel
at Legoland in Potsdamer Platz
we search for the big orange giraffe

Rob Schackne #624 - "A poem a day"

A poem a day
we're lost out here
in the stars

the hot and cold
so hungry
that would be the train

too heavy
from the rain
the moon
looks big
coming after me
a long way to go
still at Jerilderie
not a letter to my name

fresh horses...

Kerri Shying R # 436 one day's work

you   mushroom  rise
 break crust of dirt   by dawn
  set bloom 
the canopy  of cream
noon tower  all in

one day’s work

true revelation of my age
I know    how funghi
holding hands   grow   mysterious   
death     all awe

Kit Kelen #817 - peace


upon us all
we have to do the blessing

you don't get this kind of thing out of a book
can't take a tablet to tell

it's found in flight
here and there lights
where branches bend to take

at first you'll hear the singing

it's an art where I'm translated

and ramble
could go anywhere
just in socks, pyjamas

nothing not to step on
there's no need to duck

and effortless
hard work at times
put your back in

then the world's a garden

come friend, cup, clasp
pure water is the fallen sky

it's like love comes to you
not watching where you go

wake up
we're home here
over the rainbow

I grew a tree like this
each comes with its own song

Tuesday, March 27, 2018

Kit Kelen - some clouds (for reference, as published in last year's NPP anthology)

a field guide to Australian clouds


these are strange faces for a heaven blow-ins
you see a fleet first, coasts dissolve the new place shaping up
you have to keep an eye on it or it’s always already there
the pages have to have been dreamt weren’t we?

aren’t they islands downside up? ladder kicked out
gone if you blink parliament quorate when inchoate

a new sun every day they’re coming
merino, sky-sill crew dark and bright, the sorters’ bin

I see them from the window seat – weigh parts of the fleece
the moment’s silence skin in which – I must be the welcoming party it falls to me to speak

hello clouds then – this is country
I think of the ones who were before


here's a present of fine writing
mallard, storks, sing in, from, to – mist tips them

in a chariot of this, the ancients (over the elixir limit,
sentenced to more of immortality) – they must have overseen
an edge to us – blue halo and then peering in
regolith, pedolith – mobile mud mantle – grey day of menacing tide

they have been inscribed, harp held on stately seat
Horus in among, falcon-headed were gods so Cirrus-thin?

they fight with pillows there’s nothing to rule in or else
tilt and lay you down to rest – you’ll get another game

isles prise apart, an England goes
whether or not you watch, other worlds are
shadows chase sunshine over the water

see here the Bountiful, and Roar of Lion, Messengers of Rain
Parjanya drives the clouds before him there's Rüppell’s vulture
and the common crane – vagrants of the troposphere

they visit us as well our friar’s lantern’s wisp with a will nose cut off
to spite smoke stands from the rye

from a large family of haloes – this sundog set among the crystal
misty, thus portending


I came in a boat you came on a boat it’s a long way back

Wanjina was here – by this time painted so many times
(a little sky on the ceiling makes rain)

what washes up we’ll hang to dry
(the brush off as with Dampier’s flies cover the sun’s face)
from a pavilion in Peach Blossom Land seas south as ours
see a bank of them gilded and we look up yearn for lotus, dancing flame

the great bird comes to bear crews off it must be the River of Ocean
Purgatory Mountain’s the counterweight for all that holy land

I came in a boat and you came too whole year’s cheque, a sheep’s back
yeeha our boat has come in

dig! dig in till you’re just about in China – it’s only a matter of time

fray shape, keep to the line breaks up go dead still then take the air

no other world requires it – nor speech, perception, pain
meaning’s the universe mammoth – will speak till it’s extinct

still, hear the song as if a voice under all that was said
sky-writing in a trail of vapour mortar’s bones of the free

bob in the mirror read what you like when it comes glass
heaven’s there backwards too
that’s how darkness passes


there’s the awkward thing you tuck away or try to sweep whole carpet under you swim from it but it’s the sea

as funnel blue blown wander lonely meet my fate somewhere
in caverns of rain and sphere fire over on couch and strewn to billow

a window in see them see us (so far sighted)

by vimana or by magic rug (priced so many knots the inch)
we are the doubt the suds bathwater shepherds look on
see infant in swaddling must be a body in there

as if it were buttresses and vaults let fly
the architecture of one day and never to be repeated

of course it’s alive breathes as you breathe
punch it and you’ll find a ghost this is what distance does

if ever foe should dare dig here at the foot of the cross
hump coal sack place sharks all round a continent
and crocodiles for north pinch a salt
then bake in orange tub with lid you only need a sun!


call it our confusion, saluting of empires vanished
what we call farm’s a fence fog

climb at a right angle, under fire – what are your legs?

the grey – it is coming to light from light
hills were woven from it – levitated suburbs lost past thought
fumes are this way – cloud small as a hand I set my brow in

takes its hundred years… dust again
you can’t see through it – that’s how farm and fence are ours

build for a future and firmament up
sure as the egg we’re in scratch a name, that’s the wall papered
you know where the voice comes from

at the sign of the Cloud & Cuckoo (bolts flashed here and there)
hat equally floating the drowned man suggests troopers three watch on

who would dwell in the dark? who watches the wind will not sow

all passing aim sabre at windmill ectoplasm joy strains
face trench down digger! here’s mud in your eye


imagine what furies pursue years and no home

or there is a message – Hermes’ sighs piteous, crossing desolate sea
no joy here for him where none will sacrifice

and still the fact is rattling opal faceted so sunglasses
may be required – this is the furnace of the rain

there’s one account in which they never move
but time surpasses so they’re seen

it’s as if each were numbered in God’s head
instance the biblical elevation of frogs
risen from seventh, now on number 9

like the market up then squalls gather they have been banished for wishing (myth of the hailstone size of a house)

who’s counting? you ask me to care?
is that for the record? or knowledge as it wraps and coils
and trails away, wonder taken for a sign? we will decide

here – hold this burning pipe be told! I must light my cigar


imagine them dolmen still – fixed as if to the present
shape of a question mark carrying over

in pyjamas, upside down, map mobile
is it cerebration? ribs white rewarding with years all to earth
some laid paper, canvas fresh primed feathers past the bird

still a last stitch insubstantial lips bring together silence

under the mountain then silk river weed whisper ways
heart of clouds moon-bent, green pine bidden

the cowherd and the weaving girl
either side of silver – it’s only ages part them
and a flock of magpies comes

stone bridge still stands joins nothing to nothing
one day among immortals ten thousand years down here

what if the traveler never arrived?
if a bird had nowhere to light?

the queue was innocence after all
as history much later taught, it wasn’t a queue at all

fata morgana was sea’s top edge skewed

true, self pity is world embracing
patience is taught with spare time


what’s prayer but truth to lack a listener? hoarse voice finding

witness the fraying and the forming could have made a meadow of it
and pollen sneeze of season rings like church across the glen

it’s all within a tree’s reach the masterless sign gone floating caught here then herring in the rafters

too close to the sun and melt or else the deep drags down

but fairy floss is cotton candy (that’s clouds from both sides now)

don’t blame me if I talk to them what have we given to see?

over the rainbow, arrows let just a little island, dash them
Guantanamo the souls surviving don’t you call me the ocean!


crossing the starry dome on foot, or tractoring, by quad bike
let us hail each they’re floating in my scone, and tea, my tub

once in a while among fay lamps see the matchless everlasting
as sprung from forehead fully armed an idea – mind’s-eye

like radio waves go round forever so not a syllable is lost

not the leaf limp stairs but beanstalk borne

no one believes what’s in front of the nose

every cloud’s a pit to riffle for ores as yet unknown

all in a hundred elephant weight of not-quite-dripping tap


yes it’s abstract – nothing in it min min lights
every star is travelling, followed under the thunder tree

you go swimming in the clock for what’s the thing just I can say?
like a tablecloth tugged so things stay set
or someone took rug out from under so I learnt to dance on air
must have been coughed up has to be beard in it and sabled

before the gods there were the birds – took off with the dinosaur stem of the brain

I believe that they are made of flowers too perfect small for eyes
some still we smell their coming petrichor though they are past horizons

if you had a deckchair there festooned like Christmas eyes glued to the altimeter
day passing like a lesser moon (some worlds do have two)

or if in a basket lifted among trousers of thought a breeze leaves
not a thing behind it sings it takes tunes with it


when I was dust … or a mite … ant met on the trail – all we talk’s weather…
I was one of those pinhead angels in brave azure, giddy, cradled

there was solemnity, procession – expect at bugle corners chubby cherubim
a wallow of them and poking through
just then you’d hear the engine start (imagined aerobatics)
(sniff hard at the bloom but it won’t be back)

washing the inkstone, saw mountain in torrents
blood washes the brain of a night hemispheres cumulus

own climate made then it’s my fog scoundrel’s refuge home to roost
in storm dreamt Gondwana, fish distracted, swum here, bone drift
of paddock above and the big hat blue’s to catch entreaty

a fence so the trees won’t get out that’s the way we tick
and witness stiff gusts banners blow off


rose, violet – etched in if you snap them secret how did ochre spill?
razors catch at frail cloth, tied like a heart even day ends, even such a day
colours we see themselves are exiles lengths of the wave that won’t soak in

no one knows the tongue we sing waft of singed wool
man with rags dances doll clings, each turn of the floor a new struggle
rags drowned in a puddle (make a cult of that)

Buckley’s or none, there should be a sign cloud overboard (like a clock off its face)
and anonymous bolts what is it chimney speaks? retribution is divine reflux

and so we wander in this bubble (icy planetisimal else)

every way other-sided come to a table fades, folds away
is it bread to break together? so we are the banquet
there are animals: camel, weasel, whale and when you look back, roos have gone

the line is hung with emperor’s clothes
time passes beyond me and time returns a wink for the damned on dry land
to the wire they bleat ages of reason laid low

we know that there are other suns we’re very far

from a beached conch old skies sing each as true to its shapeless drift
as we must be to our blue