Monday, January 21, 2019

Kit Kelen - unnumbered senryu


wishing to reproach
unaccountably unable

Rob Schackne #872 - Double senryu (22)

It's forty degrees
people are panting like dogs
there's a summer fan

They are so busy
how do ants communicate
I am exhausted

Rob Schackne #871 - "Several tables"

Several tables
away not really
my business
except it's
their volume
& I’m trying
to write this

they will top
each other
how they endured

how long 
do you go
talking about
accident & disease

how long
does one see
no crux in sight
two of them disabled
with their mums
in the pub
a Monday avvo

I've got
a ringside seat
I don’t want it
problems of my own
not my department
how do you love
is it all in vain

Kit Kelen #1118 - a few modest proposals (to deal with there not being enough hours in the day) [for godsbother]

a few modest proposals
to deal with there not being enough hours in the day
(for godsbother)

occupandi temporis

begin well buried under the covers
not safe
but safer there

all kinds of stuff still stuck in your head
mix it up with hope, despair

thought of getting up earlier
there was always never going to bed

then give away the rhyme
have all your music incidental

prop eyelids up in the Land of If-Only
(original hypothetical)

… for instance if there were less to decide
if the world were smaller
(it once was)
if we could only go back in time

remember the Noble Numbers
and the call to name each prayer?

we do live out the paradox

every machine is a failure
but once they’re in the world we’re stuck
offer up whole lives in tending

or think of revolution!
ye know not the one

the smashing of clocks was tried early on
and though no one has yet stared one out
they now and then do stop own volition

still the hours spin on
abstract of all device
live here

and where they stop
not ours to know

like the spinning wheel of death on the screen
how fondly familiar
can do something else while you wait
peg the washing out

you can bury yourself in the work
and there you’ll have gone

one foot after another, go

there was burning the candle at both ends
drowning in a clepsydra
or get the bends
from too long down

give up the commute
try circular breathing

decimilisation was attempted
(by the French of course,
and the rest of that enthusiasm caught on) –
ten long hours, each a hundred minutes

Nietzsche said there were a hundred pockets
and they hung him out to dry

there were a hundred days of Sodom
there’s a thousand years to your Reich

since then it’s been all about accuracy…
this was never the way to be in the moment
the arrow never stuck air
it flew

if only we sat by a great golden throne
I’m sure that nothing would happen
and hell is frozen too

don’t look back
from that last step’s a doozy
or she’ll be whisked away from you
you’re salted like a fish in it

this stuff’s as bad as money
you measure your length with

ever since we stopped waiting for Christmas
have you noticed how it’s come faster and faster
lost track of the shopping days

conventional methods have got us nowhere
but they have wasted us

clearly, a new approach is required

lengthening Earth’s orbit appeals – but that would only give us more year, more days
(might be good for global warming though, to keep the sun a little further off)

there’s freeze the world’s tilt at the right day in Spring
(getting everyone to agree is the trick)

perhaps there’s a pill
or we’ll invent it
we may have already been swallowed

crawl into the new contraption
à la recherche du temps perdu
together we find those eggs bears
sit to hatch

and are they not the picture of patience
waiting for a crucifixion
one cross each
no jostling

a tree to either end the world
snake for patience
axe for light

and then there are last moments
say your forevers there
but never really know

life’s flash
and then you’re the ash
but not now
not now

in a little stillness of mine
and with my wits about yet

stretch a thing till it breaks
[call it I-was-once]
consisting of no parts at all

round it
with a little sleep
because the ages there
are open

I suggest
simply lose yourself
in the story

just a moment
paid out
in inattention
compounds the interest here

worlds inside
and worlds out

too hot to bother God today

go into the garden
the forest
the green

take up one’s time
with the sky

never step in that river twice
but watch the way we go

Kit Kelen - unnumbered pondworks



surface of the pond
a gathering of leaves
of friends and of relations


if you want to be in to be warm
then the pool is at
the right temperature

Tug Dumbly - Amerigo Round in the Trumpocene

Amerigo Round in the Trumpocene

stack of

of spics
of nords

o dem bones

each knuckle
and rib imported
and bbq sauced
together for one
good big
compendium beast

the dinosaur that roared

on those
tired poor

that made 
all that 

in god
we trust
in dust

all dem bombs
and films
cherry picked
from the corpse
of europe’s wars

da jungly beat a’ dem
rock’n’roll slavers
shipped direct to door

folkways beachcombed
from below decks drecks
of empire

borderlands bilgewater
dirty dough faces
greasy cultural yeast
from which rotten
rhizomes arose
to stab stars
with lightning forks

infected roots
of fertile disease

arise sir hillbilly
yokel whitman
hick thoreaux
beatnikian hippy
turning culture
to a counter

thank you for your
and rebellion rock
oil slicking a river
of soundtrack   

a negro cherokee
sings a song
by a mid-west jew
and all along the watchtower
a white rabbit
runs through the jungle

hasn’t nam made
its money back yet? 

never get out of the boat 

(hey, charlie’s over here now.
he’s stealing our jobs
as a mall shooter)

thankyou trailer white  
and copbait black
and rickety sweepings
of brittania’s trash
and europe’s slag tailings
and ireland’s beyond palings

thankyou lonesome
idiot wind
that blew their bones
across the pond
and speared hayseeds
through the flesh
of hank & bob 

they never asked royalties
just hand on heart
loyalties and
a flag
a rose
a cause
a pie to enshrine
their corpse in when
they’ve seared their shroud
to the eye of the globe.   

godbless your molten steel
and spine of factory trash
they also served     
to pop rivet a century’s dream
of itself
one hand smashed to heart
other to scar mangled spanner
the raw dumb beauty of all that
burnt human coal
that cannon fodder
that fed your furnace
greased your guns
and cultural gash
with cash gush
like black jism
from dem
oil wells
dat ends

in a hot oil
popcorn explosion
of a shanty continent  
winnowed to build your
myth from the second hand
smoke escaped through cattle car
cracks to butter bums for cinema seats

… deliver us from weevil
for thine is the king kong …     

who made your films
and poems and rockets
and bombs

who made your nazi-jew
dolls stitched together
in the franken miracle
of a kid’s chemistry set dream
of shooting up the moon  

and honest injun not forgetting
tonight’s meeting of n.a.
that’s native americans, ma
birth of a nation
death of a first nation

a spoodfeeding red river 
of ontap slaughterable
comanche commodities
for your moving pitchers
of blood

liquidation sale  
of redskin names
for your cars and teams
and war machines

you did ask right?
you did ask after
you killed them
if you could name
your killing machines
after them?

cultural appropriation?
don’t make me puke.
what loyalties
in puritan impurities?
what goes round comes round
what grinds the grounds
in a coffee coloured merry-go-round

appropriation’s a two way street
cherry bomb, cherry tree, cherry skin
quid pro quo sonny bono, bro
I got you, brave (cher was cherokee)

can’t say you never gave

like bucks to slaughter
they took to casinos
like diseased blankets 

ironies abound
are bound
to be boundless
as your irony horse
bounds the boundless
plains boundless 

bound to be a bit of
a blood spore
can’t fight a war without
some dirty stuff  
pooled in the door
of the great white way

give my scars to broadway

shows breed and burst from
plantation swamps,
book your ticket direct
on the underground railway
lice, auction, hammer
from auction block to box office
they’re queuing round the auction block

what goes round, comes round,
appropriation’s a ten lane freeway
gliding over scores of squaws
chiefs and braves, oiled on life
liberty and the pursuit of slaves   

it’s just passover by another name

the wise man built his house upon the graves …

just don’t forget
who you hitched a lift with
when your horse broke down
ran out of oil

don’t forget you’re standing   
on the shoulders of giants
who rode on the backs of slaves

and don’t forget whose taking arms tonight
and in whose aim you’re gonna be
so donald save the last round for me.

Sunday, January 20, 2019

Kit Kelen - unnumbered senryu

unnumbered senryu

inside our stillness
all the gone ways
outside the world to go

Rob Schackne #870 - Unnumbered (Clock Tanka)

The unnumbered days

the promises of summer
what are they doing
the discarded calendar
the big clock without its hands

Kit Kelen #1117 - dim


at the place where rain gathers
delicious after great heat
just a nibble I call weed
and crouched

in wallaby weather
a twitch
all awareness
flesh heir to

at the first sign of precipitation
when every droughty insect downs tools
to take a deep long draft

sees me seeing

a bower bird blue
not quite jacaranda

then you would melt for a breeze

rotation of ears
and ready to leap

the blue wren
comes to our window
for light

look back
and wallaby’s gone

Kit Kelen - unnumbered haiku -- with the weather ...

unnumbered haiku

with the weather
where the ache gets in
a wallaby’s away

Saturday, January 19, 2019

Rob Schackne #869 - Senryu (21)

She is delicious
alas she is far away
forty-seven days

Rob Schackne #868 - Double senryu (20)

He was a miner
& could've gone some deeper
he writes much poetry

& they liked to say
the old mine was plenty deep
save your energy

Kit Kelen #1116 - there are two lights towards

there are two lights towards

the green is day
there all the creatures grow
about their business
and everything is one
a circle
the many are a leaf between
lift by breeze
and sun
so drink
in green
of day

and then there is the shoplight dazzle
out of the machine
of buy up big
and win
and have
and more
it’s yours so bright
in the mirror
you won’t see yourself
but all that you can be

I went to that light
and I drank the poison there
I shone
and everything was new
how jealous all the others were

but then the shine came off
I stood
in the burning wreck of my world

in dark of other stars for far
that is the night between  

now choose
now tell who you are

Rob Schackne #867 - Senryu (19)

To browse all day long
in a second-hand bookshop
to make you happy

Friday, January 18, 2019

Rob Schackne #866 - "To go missing" (6)

Missing men missing women children missing and cats race off loving the alien expect some turbulence loving the alien expect to find what you did not expect does it stop your looking miss another turn I think we talked about this on the seawall waiting for a wave one perfect moment takes you to the next you said you're tired I said you only sleep off the missing years wait look out now for once be mindful

Kit Kelen #1115 - just kidding (for ataraxia / godsbother)

just kidding
for ataraxia / godsbother

kid yourself
we know because
what goes up must
we gather dust

we made all this

eternities by number
sky’s no limit
reach for the stars

if you did it once

and we’ll be there
forever and always

big raspberry

you know because
I think I can

best friends are there
and once were told

a harmless prank
none the wiser

kid yourself
no one knows
just common sense

everybody does it
anyone would

wasn’t a choice
the edge is ours
and we’re in charge

balance and progress
brute light of day

a touch up
come across
and we control the border

you’d be a fool if not

if we don’t then

kid yourself
you’re in the swing

that it was just miscalculation
the one false step

now story’s straight
you kid yourself
that glory covers

a cosmic joke

tell yourself there’s meaning
beyond the signs
that we’re to spill the beans

love’s heals all

the thing adds up
you knew all along
there was another way

it is what it is
and had to be
as in back in the day

did I tell you the one about

we’ll get there
get there in the end

that home is sweet
the cows come

that Jack and Jill went up
like Jesus

you kid yourself
the penny’s dropped

Easter Bunny, Santa Claus
teeth are for fairies too

no one will notice
you’ll never have to pay

a moment’s inattention
that we were only carried away

a little better
and half way there

I think I can

something must have got into me

it’ll never happen again
I promise

more popular is better
the best is what we love

we can be!
that beautiful is true

and truth will out
like just desserts

kid yourself
the ancestors would know us

king queen in a past life
and better to come

happy days
we’re laughing

kid yourself there’s karma

best medicine that is
until the stitches open up

it’s how we pave hell’s superhighway

we’re wanted
that the end is bitter

death is a truth thing though
no one knows it
go comforted to that

kid yourself
you’re kidding

that our shit doesn’t stink

Kit Kelen - those who post... (senryu / epigram)

unnumbered senryu / epigram

those who post
more than one number in the day
are lost to the calendar of propriety

Tug Dumbly - Bad Economics of a Haunting

Bad Economics of a Haunting  

If memory was an employee, you’d
fire it for gross inefficiency, 
not just for what it doesn’t remember,
but for what it repeatedly does.

I lived a year away from home at a school
and have relived every day in that place,
every master, every boy whose face I’ve
torn through tracing paper, some missed
ever since, like that girl once glimpsed
on the Jersey Ferry in Citizen Kane.
And I have relived every sadist’s forehand
smash of the cane through cotton jim-jams
to leave my arse a railway switch-yard
of black tracks, joining up with the tracks
of adjacent arses in the shower block,
which now, I’m ashamed to say, conjures

nothing so much as a death camp.
And still I hear the spider purr of that
woodwork master burring the name of his
favourite boy as he bends into him behind the
humming lathe; see still the kindly Reverend's
adam’s apple wobble under his dog collar

and his face sorrowing to a Pieta
as he says this is going to hurt me more
before whipping me like crimson Christ  
after Wind in the Willows in his English class.
But my heart hurt more, by this betrayal
of one I’d loved the best.

It wasn’t Dickens. Beyond the scatter  
of beatings and fist fights, that year is mostly
minuteness and mundanity, the threading
stuff of small human exchange – banterings
jokes, jibes and mocks. I re-see every weather,
every stagnant bar of Sunday heat, every

icicle drip from a tap in a frost. Odd details,
like the foul margarine that congealed
on bread like a cracked sheet of frozen piss.
I see this all again. Every which way I’ve
relived the year in that place for more hours
than ever I was there. And just why mystifies …

like an amphetamine affair that implodes
in a week, but moves in to live a lifetime;
like all those bad debts and drug buddies, the  
one nighters and trashed friends and shame
spectres greyly lurking round the landing,
crashed rent free in your apartment head.

Most uneconomical hauntings these,
most inefficient, these spirits unbidden,
all the more niggling, amusing, disturbing
because most dramatic duds, utterly
un-heroic and mundane; neither horrorful
nor sorrowful; most just gently throbbing away

with a melancholy I’ve grown attached to, like
a phantom limb; like a Tom-Tom's termagant
nag telling you to take the turnoff back there
it wanted you to take. Something inside
must somewise like you teasing it, torturing
it, picking at what won’t be healed over.

Tug Dumbly - Bit Parts

Bit Parts

Our bit parts lie in other minds
bright orange fungi
along a skirting board
in a dank room rarely used.
Our whole other lives, we know
nothing of, that are none of our business.