Monday, July 23, 2018

Ken Trimble #43 Shadows and light

Tumbleweeds in the subway
covered by shadows and light
rainy day morning in the
Strathbogie hills
as the train moves past
photographic images dripping
of winter.

A poet writes his soul down
on a napkin with a smoke
and beer

And the shadows and light
are greeted by a young deer
laughing freely without
condition playing with her
fairy folk friends.

The old man looks defeated
seeking heavens and mercies.

The train rocks it song
pass my hometown
a place I left for words
and ideas.

And the difference I sought
is no different from the factory
heart I thought to disappear

Coffee in Carlton taste the same
as here except maybe cheaper.

Travels merge to blur
as the train crosses the river
where you smelt the stink
of the tannery crawl
up your nose.

A soaring Kwan Yin
reaches upwards trying
to catch the sky

our lady of compassion.

The Kings and Queens
of the city wait patiently
for her arrivals covered by
a multitude of shadows
and light.

Sunday, July 22, 2018

Kit Kelen #934 - apotheosis - Béla's fate


934
apotheosis
Béla's fate


1944
the Americans are coming

then the radio is taken

a ghost is like a cloud
all vanishing
look up!

and look around yourself
you won't know who
you never know when spite

in the last war
so kind the American prisoners
Christmas we gave them presents

then White Terror, Red Terror
some things in life you won't opt out

in this sun the buttons shine
the buckles
death is a starched uniform

a bullet could take generations
it won't matter that you served

1944
the Germans are here
the Soviets are coming
the Arrow Cross in charge

you think overcast, even teeming
but it's autumn already
bright, crisp

no radio
but we know
the Americans are coming
the Germans have left
so many trains went with them
whole quarters emptied

now a ghetto

the Russians will be here

it was a bright clear day that one
the Arrow Cross in charge

I witness
but I don't know what

no running at the end

more like a dentist's waiting room
though nowhere to sit, no magazines

short sharp
you see the others go

I'm here surviving just to say

the river will wash us all down

looked up to a little cloud
and just a wisp away

it was a bright clear day







Rob Schackne #712 - Used Clothing

Used Clothing

Used clothing, provenance
usually less examined than
penury or need. Costs a little
lasts a lot, how many wears
did it get anyway, good looking
whoever the jacket came from
and today your feat of empathy
deadman’s pyjamas, perfected

machine wash, take in the waist
loosen the noose, shorten the leg

providence isn't the city on the hill
an article wears someone for 100 years.

Saturday, July 21, 2018

Ken Trimble # 42 You

The time your finger touched the key
I breathed in the light and the second time
your finger touched the key I became a space
only weirdness would understand,
it was over, it was, and I was, and you
were over, and that earth you saw
plastered on my wall, I can only sigh
for I was there, and I touched
the star that bought you to me,
and I felt my dance as night
exploded into light
and all around spoke the arc
of night and I wept for
I saw things you will never know,
and the pain I've caused
makes me dream of you, and you,
and you, and you, and you, and you,
till everything becomes
You.

Ken Trimble # 41 Writing class

She said I kissed
like a girl .
This is what happens
after writing class.
Then came the emails,
porn before breakfast,
even before my coffee,
and smoke and then
it starts,
an invitation,
an acceptance
and wham
its Mickey Rourke
and Kim Bassinger,
two old farts
lost in a world of kink,
it was pretty heady stuff
I've got to admit
but like all good things
they come to an end
no one's fault,
these games get harder
as you get older
and the fire that stokes
the passion well
one day it just
dies, wait I hear a
knock at the door..
someone has left
a bottle of red
on my front door step,
I knew this was a
good place to
live.






















































Kit Kelen #933 - time immemorial or to be observant


933
time immemorial
or
to be observant


makes a kind of landscape
full of promises broken and kept

I forget there's so much to remember

a flag and you can sing it too
it's like the wishlist you call Santa
or you call God to you

I always remember I have to forget
this pisses off the deity
but what is there to do?

salute
so much I have to forget
I have to remember
it's what I do

the shopping
for instance the milk and the honey

join all these dots
and you'll have a border

wadi
where the water falls

stare hard
the wall goes up

turns us into
a souvenir
then under the dust
and trash and gone

sombre music
wipe a tear

promised
I promise to remember

healing
like the wound over time

I forget
so much
in order to remember
that I have to forget

sometimes
I forget
to forget
this always leads to trouble

then I remember sometimes
it never lasts for long
but I was chosen for the task

a stretch from sleep
but the dream forgets me

God's angry
I can't remember why

wake up to myself then
I remember to remember
to forget

have to forget
what's in front of my nose now
forget myself as well

but all of this just so as to remember

on a clear day
carry me over the river
then you will see who we are /// then you will know who I am


coda

I am the happy Australian
(that's south made something, someone
from what happened to be here)

trust me I'm very good at
forgetting who was here before
forgetting where I'm from

Rob Schackne #711 - "A poem in here"


A poem in here
somewhere, he said
you could be right but why do
crows sometimes fuck their dead
birds are strange, he said
nothing is out of bounds
you can do it or I can do it
hell no use writing a bad one
but they’ve got the magic

they can stop your spells
then better you do it, he said


Friday, July 20, 2018

Kit Kelen #932 - Yad Vashem


932
Yad Vashem


so many of mine
of my little name
so many misspellings
ways to say

so little to know
and still
in photographs
nobody is anymore

everyone is here
it's like the train
and we're choofing along
just minding our own
yes you could call it business

how full of life and love!
and bitter, in hunger and in thirst
in loss, the nameless of the picture
ambiguous as I to them
in the future they are not to know

those Nazis seem so always angry
I don't think the drugs are helping

you put your finger on the glass
and that's as close as touch

faces of the trauma
tricked, gone smiling unknown to a death

it was this anonymity
invisible it was and is
such a little name
so many
not all written down

and what do I say to them now?

I wasn't there
I didn't know
there was nothing I could do

Rob Schackne #710 - Inventory (2)

  Inventory (2)


   So many dreams
   are carried hard
   to know where
   to begin hard
   all you have
   are the words
   to paint the cracks
   which grow wilder
   laughing at what
   won't translate
   the gap is wide
   the hard heavy
   hand points away
   disregard it all
   it keeps going
   there's an appointment
   with the past
   one more poem
   another sleep

James Walton # 106 A once in a hundred years



Event. The wind has its
voice. Trees are in the freeway.
Roller derby shove, then sky
Araucana. Shifting technologies
run for explanations. Rain says
I hold you all, I hold nothing.

They’re singing Joni Mitchell.
Five women. The Concert Hall
a Ferris wheel. Holding on
O Canada. Grip for the road
a river to skate away on.
And we’re falling, into words.

There’s a moment transcribed.
Woodstock. She plays the air
in vocal trapeze. The audience
a mirror of peeping hearts, palms
half a million strong. Feathers
on the winter night. Getting back.

Traveling, traveling, traveling.
Home. Out of the city, humming
Big Yellow Taxi as we come
to the bridge a truck has gone over.
Oh, I could drink a case of you darling
and I would still be on my feet. Always

as long as a life as short as a century.  


Ken Trimble # 40 Maybe not haiku

Your eyes
went
wandering

Fingers touched
the page

Curiously erotic
sigh
over coffee

This is good
you said

Vicki Viidikas
come on down

See that
it's pure
haiku

I guess you still
like blackbirds
they remind me
of you

White moon
on black canvas
come home

Well okay maybe
its not haiku

Thursday, July 19, 2018

Rob Schackne #709 - "You're off your trolley"


You’re off your trolley
intriguing composition
I see the rust mmm

who are these passengers
why do they carry so much
they check the bags
the wobbly wheels
the supermarket blues
the down side is up
you delivered us the past
where are the sweets
how do I get home

Rob Schackne #708 - "My engines"





















               My engines
               faring poorly
               in the storm
               I opened 

               the window
               but could 
               hardly see
               where things were
               when finally
               I put down
               on the sands
               I needed
               to dream
               of water
               and poetry

               and you

Kristen de Kline #214 And again ...

+
I tried writing
about postcards and light
but you find a way in
was it those neon skies
we sheltered under
when you threw your arms
around me
or the shredding of your finger
while you finely
grated the Parmigiano
whose blood is this

+
when I woke
I was saturated
in dreams
and tears   
you were screaming
in stereo:
take it back
I never meant it

+
down at Lakeside
men scrub their Webers
a kid on a too-small bicycle
knocks me off track
women in pink tracksuits
sit on their decks
drinking white wine
from plastic tumblers
waving off those dumb flies
we can't get rid of

+
you say I'm good at forgetting:
spinning limbs
flashing lights
catapulting wheels
all the things
that went wrong
in that bar
in the Cross
what did I know about love

+
you recite poems
weighed down
by heavier hearts
by darker days
splashing drops of Grange
across my laptop
feeding me Instagram photos:
fresh lobster
rusted out car bodies
starched napkins
stained with merlot
how did we get here

+
standing on that balcony
in the Honolulu hotel
you wrapped
your arms
around my torso
those arms, your
arms, they gnaw
their way
into every damn poem
I never meant it
what the hell am I on
whose blood is this
where does it end






Kit Kelen #931 - chosen


931
chosen

for special irony duties
so I am the tribe of this trope

tried out for innocent bystander
but they wouldn't have me

look into a pool
there's no reflection
I was always there

just where I am one
I am many
just where there's the sun
I shine

can't get enough of the stuff
imperishable
but not to be worshipped
a little water's nice

I was a kind of vine once

it's not every day you're chosen –
but victim either way

it's like that word 'solution'
how many states?

how bored the guards
who turn on the gas
and God yawns too
considers his choice

but it's irony wins every time
by Job!
that Moses took his tablets –
look where it's got us

you have me there
but here I am
it takes no thought, this fascination
I always slip away
you can still hear me, right?

I was the one chosen to show
the symbol of annihilation –
my flag of destiny, my hope

Rob Schackne #707 - "Sitting outside"


Sitting outside
having a beer

and a quiet smoke
looking at
the white clouds
I'm easily
daydreaming
of a translation
listening to
the guns pound
Puckapunyal
their training day

their country
it's a Thursday
the cockies screech

what the fuck
is it any wonder
transforming
a $5000 shell

into dirt we say
we need another drink

KenTrimble #39 Iberian blues

Romancing Barcelona
dancing tangos in the
Ramblas
drinking sangrias .

We had our books
our music
our love
our heroin
waltzing through
white light
dawn to dusk
and back to dawn
as we set off trying to
find Miguel.

Crossing deserts of
wonder we watched
black robed monks
bloody in prayer
carrying Christ
on their backs.

We never had much
money time
was our enemy.

We were the
children of the
blue sky
and when you
touched me I felt
a revelation go
through my bones.

We swam in oceans
sang Iberian blues
placing stones
of hope along the
way and as the journey
got closer to it's end
I could hear a man
speaking beatitudes .

I got down on
my knees
while you took
a photograph
of this crazy

and then just at that
moment she said look,
there she was, the great cathedral
Santiago de Compostela.

In we went,
the great thurible swinging
through the air
showering us with frankincense
and you looked at me
my devious angel
as if to say
how good is this.

Wednesday, July 18, 2018

Ken Trimble # 38 Dreaming Mexico Dreaming Frida

Writing and painting have no difference
you wait on a blank canvas muse,
in the mud and slime, and an idea blows on by.

Maybe you catch it, maybe you don't ,
if you do suddenly the seed becomes
the flower,

and then you are Stein in Paris,
Hemingway on a bender,
F. Scott Fitzgerald's tortured soul.

Corso's gasoline's wry pasta,
Ann Waldman's beat  lips,
Frida's hallucinogenic mind.

Swimming with lonely catfish
in a gringo river.

I want to shake you out of my brain
but I can't .

Love is like a death watch
when things sour

And I know you dream of Frida
as she was

dreaming Diego's perfect
box of hummingbirds

that last moment before
the fire.


Rob Schackne #706 - "Boys we mostly"


Boys we mostly
tied things up

to stop them 
moving away
girls found other uses
learnt to skip and leap
and chant their rhymes
we learnt to cuss
unpickable knots
the burn and lash of rope
we started climbing
we faced away
from the drops
we hung by ropes
and shouted for
take in and slack
and only slowly
did we come back

and find our rhythm

Kit Kelen #930 - state of

930
state of

equanimity and poise
constant aggression
placid content (cow kind)
paranoid neurosis/delusion

intoxicated with saying the self
state of religious euphorics
ambivalent anger
and who am I?
Nazi gangster can't-beat-em joinery
sweet innocence and so sincere
grudges make us ancient

police state
of firm decision
of victimhood
as if a whole Bible had been done to you
just so we all could be holy
and don't you dare touch my religion
I have to pass it on... it's sexy

state of perpetual mistrust, unrest
precious little precipitation

a state of touristic excitement
(we've only just arrived, who knows how long this time?)

state of having been wronged for so long by forever
so sorry for ourselves
must not apologize

state of able to do no wrong

state of heightened fear

authoritarian state with terror neither here-nor-there
but ye know not the hour

state disagreeing with itself
(call that democracy)

us them and them meet us
state of what is it they fucking want?

state of we will find the cure
state of the hope in the heart
keep in mind

sing
we are not the ones we were
we're not the same people
we are

it's only then
the ghost gives up

one day the whole of this world will vanish
then I will be true

Kerri Shying R # 482 everyone insists is a comet from the blue

ask her   did she remember picking out the earrings
for the funeral    what a question   like I  offered
her the choice of an  almond or a  pickled onion    I know
it is the long  reflection   of yourself     dressing
that stamps  the ordinary  on what

 everyone insists is a comet from the blue

that and    the searching for the iron    little bit of work
I hoped she’d see me off  in the blue silk crepe skirt
that light linen jacket   and a pale    ever so pale
green  batiste blouse   wear the opal earrings   be  a little
on the bright side       I’d do the same for her

Ken Trimble # 37 I like watching the sea.

Well I moved out
of the house
cause the kids
thought I was too
old.
They were right
I found a place
called the Hub.
I was heading to
India anyway
and this was just
short term.
The woman showed me
my room, she said,
'I don't want
any trouble',
I must have
looked bad or
mad.
She showed me
where the toilets
were,
a turd
was sitting
perhaps
a good foot
from the base
like someone had
specifically
placed it there.
I had a good look,
no, this was no
joke.
Next morning
I thanked the woman
and headed to
St.Kilda.
I think I went
there because
of the ocean,
I like watching
the sea,
it feels
clean.

Tuesday, July 17, 2018

Kerri Shying R # 481 each a sonar ping to tease my tongue it's salt


so hard to shake those three grains of salt   alone
on to the fish   the batter hard   a bubble   popped
cartoon of the eye      below     the butter tongue
of  velvet underwear  protects the flesh   I want
the grains   one on every  surface  solo artists

each a sonar ping   to tease my tongue  it’s salt

that holds it all together   from the first kiss
to the last   a stitch  made firm    required  by
hygiene    all the brine that slithers by    with
 birth  in tears    attendant to the stubbing
of the toes   I have salt enough    to spare

Kit Kelen #929 - why tribe?


929
why tribe?


one pile of me here
another pile there

I put on my glasses
already on
and my hat
how much magnification can I stand?

the sun burns a hole
through which we can see

I am a tourist in this skin
I am a traveller in my own blood

the thing on its head is the best way to view

one thing meant this
but God meant another

the heroes were all fists
hands of a held sword
nobody you could trust

not a thing but prophetic

I hide to be a tourist here

fool not to pass on
trumpet music
and here comes a wall

tumbling, tumbling

the medicine of pogrom centuries
once you've learned the secret
all in over our heads

the country surviving only in symbols
I will survive that too

another blast of the horn

one skin peels off and I think of a snake
consider myself as plague of locusts

when I could be myself
get together with
we could start an existence

has to have been some medieval torture
to stretch me into the shape you see

I bring with me someone lost to find
that's a very normal thing in these parts

and as for myself, for my own belongings
I come as close as words

Ken Trimble # 36 Mud

She blessed me around midnight
in the blood and excrement
under the blood moon to the invisible
sounds of dogs chained
to their wheel of barking dystopia.

Broken foot

I was in the middle  of a goddam
beauty pageant and not even that
gave me pleasure

Broken foot

He blessed me
his Californian hands holding my head
in beatific prayer  Jesus saves
he thundered as I sat between the pain
and lust, and all I thought about
was having sex one last time before
I die.

Broken foot

The man in the horror of horrors
where every lost soul beat at the door
to hell blessed me with
don't worry, everything is going
to be cool, his prayer
I dug the most.

Monday, July 16, 2018

Kristen de Kline #213 Forget the hour

Forget the hour I couldn't get out of.
The  carriage on M Train jammed.

The cowboy talking
about writing 
about nothing.

Rain falls.
Shit happens.

You toss and turn.
I turn and toss.

She walks the streets for money.
Doesn't care if it's right.
Or if it's wrong.

We talk shit to the White King.
Flirt with the Red Queen.
Run away from the Mad Hatter.

There was a sun
somewhere here.
It was dead
and black.
And the loitering clouds
they screamed
through the darkness.

Out you walked
unscathed.
Your hands
waving in the air
like a white flag.

Kit Kelen #928 - a novelty people


928
a novelty people 
 

are you a name
in the room of voices?
no one's in particular
but all around us here

a novelty people
thing of what was done

and fell asleep for a thousand years
and another thousand slept

each clings to his her own confusion

came into a poem
like this
just to be
come into our own song

a pile of shoes
could remind you of Jews

and the good fairy was the one we called God
or else you don't say

my lost family
will you help to see them in my eyes

an outline of anyone's trees

would the dead not be speaking
had death not been done to them

and one more trick

it's only by the end of the world we're allowed

wreck of a place still to be built

as a child I lived near where the wall would be
and I feel safer there
now only the wall stands up for me
what a lovely absence we make

James Walton #105 Twelve megawatts to evening




a fox so cruel

in its beautiful unmercy
where black swans

trawl beyond mine shaft warnings

a mob of grey roos
languid as a marinade

scratch at rear thighs

old gardeners resting
on a cushioning rake

the wind turbines

obelisks in need of a pharaoh
sift the sky for a language

only written in stone

at the end of the trail
all this thirsting water

the hospital helicopter

skims a stitching reverberation
on the mid-winter tide

this is a place to lie down

between shaking centuries
let something run away with me

into a chiaroscuro frame






Kit Kelen #927 - take it lying




927
take it lying 
 

there is a wall
and a well
and a tell

things with their no particular order

but sunshine is catching too

under the bed
rabbit of childhood
worn out with wars and with peace undeclared

it's only in these eyes
only these soft cloth eyes in the heart

you can see the gone all piled up here
possessions for who they were

dogs to bark are all beginning

ours is a book all for possession

after the ordeal of flight

it's only the journey's my forever
like all night waking in the dream
to know that we're not really here
must wake myself up with

these messengers
of the other world
bring light to my ears

Ken Trimble #35 What a wonderful world

There was so much beauty
walking through the redwoods
with the one you love.

And then there's the beauty
of the streets; that jazz
of street kitchens who fart
and stink.

The trans in their fishnets
The junkies shooting up
while waiting in line
The old man who talks
about his imaginary
woman
The ex monk come
alcoholic who talks in
Latin  while
having his soup.

This is the beauty
of the streets of sorrow,
sadness, and violence
where desperate mystics
come and go.

Then you turn on the tv
and while your eating your
meal and drinking your
wine
you see a news report
from Yemen
and the children
whose bones are on
the outside
instead of the inside
and their little faces
look ready to burst,
like watermelons;
imagine that pia mater
those parents of bloody brain
all over your nice shirt
and still you have time for
wine.

It's all so wonderful
like that Louis Armstrong
song.

And you know
watching those
poor, starving, dying
kids, I felt
revulsion,
and yet,
I continued my meal
and drank my
wine.

I'm just like
everyone else,
the thing is,
you think,
your different.


Sunday, July 15, 2018

Rob Schackne #705 - Inventory (1)


   Inventory (1)
    

    Ants carrying
    terrorist caravans
    backpack turtles
    and what I carry
    apart from clothes

    some dosh a comb
    my pocketknife
    right front pocket

    in the blue chute
    laptop phone

    notebook and pen
    window wipers
    another story
    military toothpick
    antacid tablets
    shirt pocket right
    reading glasses left
    a poem folded up
    in my wallet that
    a friend gave me

    called Mahakala
    what is glory
    left front pocket
    my loose change


Ken Trimble # 34 Chill

Do you remember when
you disappeared into
the mountains

We'd worry like crazy
waiting for you wondering
where the hell you were

And then there you came
smiling like you were the cat
who just got the cream

You'd been resting
by the lake
chilling with the
birds

Laughing at this
absurdity we call
world

No prayers or God
could do you
justice

I planted a tree
nearby for you
so the birds could
come.

Ken Trimble # 33 These are the days of wild things.

Oh these wild things of summer we do in a place
as strange as W Tree.
Eight years ago our farmer neighbour Fred
known as Krishna gave a flock of sheep a chance
to live their lives in peace.

No mint sauce on lamb here. Sixty five sheep
grazed in a nearby field guarded by
two alpacas Cheech & Chong and one
big brown horse, Charley.

A ceremony was held by a Tibetan lama ,
so with heat soaring six sweat soaked men
went on a round up to take them to
another paddock.

We lived in the pure land
Amitofo! Amitofo!

We cajoled them with shouts of, 'come on,
come on', waving our arms like windmills
with the sun baking our skin running through
grass up to our waist as Charley ran free
guiding them through gates and onto country
roads.

Charley this wild thing was the sheepherder
as it charged through the bush.
This was an Australia I never knew being
a city boy.

I was just a kid from Sunshine
and there ain't no horses there.

As I write  from my window I can see the
fortunate flock grazing on a disused field,
these are the days of wild things.


Saturday, July 14, 2018

Rob Schackne #704 - Diddy-Wa-Diddy (after K.K. & K.T.)

Diddy-Wa-Diddy

The namelessness
recalled to heart
the fire & the stars
the vanishing

except for what
stayed in the mind
in the beginning
there was the act
there was no act
then to make the air
breathable again

all of us here

Kit Kelen #926 - a vanishing, no act


926
a vanishing
no act

wound to be
it's like an egg goes off
lit to be lost
and I myself am gone

a shell and have the beach with me
a beach and have the sea

cloud of us come
the currents

windscreen
a salt drop chase like

wrecked here
lost to our all devices

once before we were for dust

all of the crossings
and crossings out

someone was a voice

not even neither are we then

you drown in it

awkward to the touch this hope
you'll get that with being far

time has a certain weight up close

it pools
and you're humbled with here to be

all of the wrongs to come to here
and this wrong
we sleep through

you only ever knew the eyes
it's another life
we look into

will it be the namelessness
recalls me to your heart?

be creature in the eyes then

nothing but to make a world
if I had a fire I'd tell it by nights
to stars, to moon, till true

Rob Schackne #703 - "The loss itself"


The loss itself
a cascade of years
a colour we missed
how time can feel
and what light does
to a special painting
I saw myself reflected
for just a minute
standing in the mirror
you're undressing
there's no light to keep
canvas from shedding light
it is loss itself
to paint with tears
all it does to beauty


Ken Trimble #32 In my Kerouac year

In my Kerouac year
slumped at the bar
I ordered
a shot of tequila
a shot of rum
equal parts orange juice
equal parts cranberry juice
and a shot of lime
in a tall glass.

I wandered North Beach
like a love sick  puppy
looking for my idols.

I hung out at Cafe Trieste
trying to catch the spirit
hoping Kaufman
might show.

A beat sat outside
a homeless man
here he is I thought

I belted out poetry
at the Sacred Grounds Cafe
up on Hayes Street

Walked Market Street
post midnight
I saw the dark owls
delivering crack
in alleyways

I saw the captains of industry
on their sinking ships drowning
in the black mist.

I saw a prophet
shaking his fist at the moon
calling on Jesus
to save us all

I hit Columbus Avenue
2am stumbling drunk into
the Green Tortoise

I had gone to Lowell
drank at the white horse
hunted Larimer Street
climbed down into
the nothingness
of Big Sur
without ever leaving my
room.

Ken Trimble # 31 Smoke that light

Light
this is who we are
light

forget personailty
desire, memory emotion,

At home 8am
after shift work
I rested on my bed.

My bedroom window
was covered by heavy duty
black plastic
to stop the light from
getting in.

I lit up a joint
a friend had rolled for me.

One toke and
I was gone.

The room was immersed
in white light.

I thought about
saying something to the light
but I got scared.

I decided to butt the joint out
that was some crazy shit.

I wondered  what the hell
my friend put in there.

Must have been light
I guess.


Friday, July 13, 2018

Rob Schackne #702 - The Chili King

The Chili King

No man no cry 
fifty in one hour 
the Chili King of Hunan
everything hot as hell

Yellow Emperor 
Pepper X
home to vomit
home to shower
home to rest
the TV pounds at the door
he wishes he could
toss his spicy laurels
revisit the overworld
of winter wind and ice
eat something simple

a banana on toast
a bowl of spaghetti
mangoes over the sink
he's even heard of
an Australian meal
called wasted promise
that makes the locals fat
he just can't cook it himself

Ken Trimble #30 The sad hotel

Sadness was part of its history. The building was alive with ghosts. The walls, carpets, ceilings, everything spoke of this place as a nightmare of history, and yet it was refuge for the broken, the mad, and the dark crazed souls that gave this place heart. I was there too because I was a melancholic beast sent there to learn a lesson. When I entered I was scared and broken. I was a wounded old bird. This was my school of horror where I learnt how it felt to be destroyed, humbled, broken and remade into something new. It came at a cost. I had to let go of my arrogance, my refusal to surrender to something greater because I thought going to India was going to make me holy. At one point I found myself screaming on my knees calling God a lousy motherfucker because I thought I had ticked all the boxes. I mean I went to become a monk instead  I came back a shipwreck. The real spiritual journey began in that room while I was on my knees swearing at God. The night before I left I heard a saxophone , I was sure it was coming from inside the hotel. It was the saddest most beautiful sound I'd ever heard. It was that good it could have been the ghost of Coltrane.  I sat on the edge of my bed and wept till there were no tears to weep. In the morning I left for the mountains a week before Easter.