Project 365 + 1

Friday, September 21, 2018

Kit Kelen #994 - million dollar chicken coop

994

million dollar chicken coop

if they could see me now

stumble bums

but they can’t

they can’t see me here

I’m under a number

assigned to an island

if they had the will

but they won’t

it wouldn’t matter where I went

or if I went altogether

lost among such selves as I

in one or under cover thereof

as if the earth were under

appearing as a poem

it has nothing to do with my shape

or how far stretched

it’s like I’m safe in the idea

of the picture

like I’m inside out

and see what they can only hear

they ask me how I do it

they can’t know what they’ve missed

even as ornament all magic in my tricks

and often to myself unknown

following along this trail have made

notes staved, word, image scattered

they’re in the scrum and under the roar

they would need special glasses

camouflaged fine fellow among creatures all

not a chance they’ll even see over the page

all on the rollercoaster we

I hear the python in the wall

no pity for the rats

hind paw high for stretch

having followed my arrow, this nose

and never arriving

I go on strike and nobody notices

go back to work, none the wiser

loud and clear as if calling the match

it’s an art to hide in this

get a good night’s rest in there

they can’t catch my song

hunting for beautiful objects

in the garbage sea

in rain’s imagination

my face down fall

having exploded already, taken off

run out of rocket

in low orbit

or out of this world

they won’t see me

not at all

hail fellows all

well met

in this sweet kiss

I’m left

I’m leaving

no one will see me go

Tug Dumbly # 18 Passing Note

‘Piano Liquidation Sale’

gives a vision

of pianos in blenders

a kind of cocktail music

Thursday, September 20, 2018

Clark Gormley #40 Friendly auction

Hello potential purchaser.
Might I say you’re looking fine?
Might I say you look like you’re descended
from a royal bloodline?

Do I hear expressions of refinement
as you step inside?
Do I hear the swish of slender trouser
legs with every stride?

Are you buying as an investment?
Are you buying the jive I’ve told?
Are you buying or are you passing up
the palace you deserve? Sold!

Tug Dumbly # 17 - Badlands

Badlands

We’re glutted gulls sated seals

sick to surfeit diving through

sardine schools of oily fact

scooping digital seas

skimming googywiki vats

of language sandwich chewed

hacked spat to pixelated

catchphrase mulched meme

moulding in recycling bins

yellow blue green

be a Responsible Citizen

scrape your plate clean

bulldoze these syllable

shanty towns to soundbyte

slag mounds to wordfill pits

of language laid low

by linguicide words euthanized

butchered proscribed

hope it all breaks down

goes away organically decays

these badlands of dead

verbiage and knowledge

like desert boneyards

of rotting aeroplanes

burnt wagon trains of

death’s head data, scalped tech

massacred fact …

are you across this?

Rob Schackne #754 - The Voice (2)

The Voice (2)

Tell the sandpaper glove the extra lotion the extra need a little mercy forget the IKEA pieces throw the manual away everything is broken today the magic will be assembled hope sends you cut flowers the submission the mercy the will made magpies of chopped trees desertification and spring show

Danny Gentile #70 - Untitled

Intractible

Headache

burns like a platitude

Spring is here

and the ventilating rain

I can't say when

I last crossed the lawn

but I was there

with the snake

Earlier

Kerri Shying R # 517 - For Mercy

For Mercy

remember how you were

before the scars healed

and blood went rushing

back into the labyrinth

the cul de sac the dead-end

pinched-off portions of

your brain back when

crunch was not the sound

of cereal or a good firm

celery stick but a flash

back I despair today

of getting back my full

path and power in the

way the over-sixties

feel the pinch

of memory

the taste of full

cream milk settling for

the skim

you should know we

are not all healing

bodies on a curve

upward the resolution

of a flower face

to sun daily

grass

drawing

on reserves

not

aspiring

to be

hay

Kit Kelen #993 - under one atmosphere

993

under one atmosphere

in the old pyjamas

tucked

awash in skins

in days and works

sometimes shouldering worlds of woe

as I was then grown grim

lungful

afloat

a sparrow lit to sing

and in another life remembered

light moon bounce

like clouds run round

bull by the horns

so sorry

won’t say sky

under one atmosphere

maze trod

and lightly step

branch until wing

the rich, the poor

the thieves, aggrieved

the innocent

car set forth

factory fart

so choke

up the daisies push

lift a leg on the lot

draw in

breathe out

it’s summer somewhere

seasons slip

in any sphere of music

we are all flowering

put down roots

under one atmosphere

this idea

and another altogether

a kind of diving suit

a gift divining

hour of stretch

hail sun so stiff

fire friended

for winter midst

a swim at the thing

mind righting itself

always already in

Wednesday, September 19, 2018

Gillan Swain # 10 - something good

It plays shimmer flitting up through your sight

lays the day with something good

old is no issue this homely familiar and the blue

it carries pushes through the aura of jittery

this blue is the good kind enough to get you over

the line into the new yeah

the new bright

Kerri Shying R # 516 outfits held against my body like the tab doll ( for Clark Gormley)

the lines on the screen are so much more

elastic than the borders of this death sack

all the breathing in and breathing out day

time ends with night time which smudges

I feel you rub me out along the edges adding

outfits held against my body like the tab doll

badly cut out easily redressed I am stored

inside a buff manila cave up on that high shelf

my flap grows sticky as the summers roll

waiting for a hand the reach away from some

data job please let me mangle the address

Rob Schackne #753 - The Voice

The Voice

Sitting in the backyard drinking my coffee the smell of the farm all around the dark clouds rolling in looking at all the objects scattered in the garden beds on the brick path stuck up under the fences bits of wire wood planks with nails an empty fertiliser bag two twisted brackets an old drum a sink unit turned over a rusty mattock starpicket loose bricks watering cans plastic buckets broken pots deflated cardboard boxes a spade a trowel six different hoses different couplings rust is everything lying down the strewn objects call waiting for utility for promise to be granted for joy or love or prosperity or just a bit better luck this time a bit more use and achievement I go back inside and get the whisky bottle

Tug Dumbly # 17 - Renaissance

We pine to be rebirthed like stolen cars

because we deserve it.

(‘Deserve’s got nothing to do with it’.

William Munny, blowing away

Sheriff Little Bob in Unforgiven).

We’re greedy for identity,

if not by theft then legally,

to become the sum of our shopped for selves

all that murderous choice,

all that toothpaste

avalanching from the shelves.

It’s exhausting, this chain gang

chipping at rock to find your voice.

Be nice to just say ‘no. My Authentic Self

fled years ago. Last I saw he kicked in a window

and bounded across the asylum paddock

yodelling into the trees.

I like to think he’s still out there,

living off roasted Quoll, happy’.

But ‘no!’ they say, ‘you must seek

and distil your destined stock

strain the essence to a primal broth

through a stocking of gold brocade

reduced to a thin clear soup of you.

Once you got that you got it made.

Tug Dumbly # 16 Hubba Bubba

Still stuck on you
my past strings behind
like bubblegum
on the sole of your shoe

Kit Kelen #992 - things show up in odd places

992

things show up in odd places

impossible to predict

the next door chooks

lost socks

parsley in the weed heap

sun first thing shows east

or snout told little traipse along

things unaccountable

larger than life

turn up

for the books

comet for sky smear

season there

the fence unstuck

temperature everywhere

only in the room

breakfast in the branches

voices of least birds

and ourselves along

an itch, an ache

even laughter augments

in a calendar of other days

can’t call epiphany

it comes

a sharp

a flat

something diminished

a broad grin

likewise, firm resolve

the poem spilled over the page

or stretch for the imagination

you could find yourself in treetops

words long since sunk

will bob up here

out of nowhere

mist come

the rain when hope

was all exhausted

an arrow showing through

some shining

it could be a hand

near the top of the clock

or yours in mine remembering

the road to bring home

throw a line of dots

in this lost heart

find love

Tuesday, September 18, 2018

Kerri Shying R # 515 - wait until the surface of the oil shimmers hot

take the first handful of the choices

you made so long ago the ones you

had to live with long past what was

sensible even to your mother throw

them hard over your shoulder always

wait until the surface of the oil shimmers hot

do not allow these slivers of the past to

grow translucent or you will dive off

that cliff-side memory rescuing the

poor harp seal you hear barking on

the slick wet tears of your hot heart

Clark Gormley #38 Lever Arch Folder

you look important
up there on the shelf
stout, an impressive
capacity

but it's a facade
since you're just as wide
full as when you
are empty

a large hole in your spine
so the paper can breathe
is showy and wholly
unnecessary

your lever and clamp
are bondage gear for
abusing your A4
flagellants

it's you and the hole-punch
a torture tag team
tying down and piercing
your specialty

you flatulent fallacious
cruel and depraved
brutal malevolent
stationery

Kit Kelen #991 - having so much and wanting more

991

having so much and wanting more

we fill up the space

fill ourselves up

works and seasons

days and hours

to the gunnels!

a shipload and more

starts with the spare room

and shopping

years!

Tug Dumbly # 16 - Vivaldi's 4 Seasons

‘Your prayer has been put in a queue and will be answered by the first available operator.

We are currently experiencing a higher than normal prayer load due to the latest massacre.

If your prayer is not urgent, a non-emergency prayer, a flippant, non-essential, half-arsed, hypocritical, not-really-meant, hot-air prayer, press 1 for gun control, or you may prefer to call back later. (Like in another life).’

Tug Dumbly # 15 - Pleasant Avenue

Things finds their opposite

like a magnetic law.
The plastic tinkle of New Age shops,

their toilet spray smells,
so exactly not the spirit they sell;
‘Greenwood Estate’

a nullaborial razor scrape,

Pleasant Avenue the ugliest street

you ever saw.

Monday, September 17, 2018

Kristen de Kline # 227 Whatever

+
When the sky is blue

dance as fast as you can

the light may be splattered

with clouds, a burst of yellow

and everything

that you we I couldn't say: no words

it will slap you hard and fast

the longing - your absence -

Again. And again. And again.

+
Free falling in reverse:

4. There was nothing left to say.

3. I got myself a gun.

2. I woke up one morning.

1. Whatever.

Kristen de Kline #226 whatever happened

+
something about the
way you move, stars

that don't shine, sleeping
amethyst skies, in the corner

of the screen, clouds flock
lightening blue sweeps

across the horizon, it comes
to me in a dream: a field flattened

with sunflowers, your proposal
caught on faded Super 8

etching love on my arms, vanishing
into lost highways, trapped
on the last mile home

+
something about the sky,
that day, whatever happened

to the light, did Van Gogh really
cut off his ear?

+
it's always the third track
the vinyl's scratched, it jumps

then stutters:

for years and years

I roamed

roamed

roamed ...

+
something about that day,
the sky, you took a razor

to the sun, pierced another
hole next to the stretcher

jabbed a rusty nine-inch nail
through flesh
flattened sunflowers
and bone
sleeping skies
and blood
not shining, the stars

+
whatever

happened
to the light

whatever

Rob Schackne #752 - "Let me live off leaves"

Let me live off leaves
follow the tiny birds
to their seeds, I‘ll die
forgetting how to be
like this, a lighthouse
a trolley’s final wheel
spun in twelve directions
a portal to pass through
the light, what happens
how will it be missed

Gillian Swain # 9 - Nicki

they took you to hospital this morning
I am paralised and mute
in an earthquake of sadness
the aftershocks will come
but for now I balance
on love's groundswell of stillness

Danny Gentile #69 - “Foggy Notion”

If I could make a shawl from

the pubic hair of all the men

I’ve known what would it say

about me but hair can’t speak

directly so filled with assumption

it might float on a tide of disagreement

and that would be something wouldn’t it

or perhaps it would stink of old romance and

lust and the fog of memory carried on and on and on...

Kit Kelen #990 - kept

990

kept

a voice, a face

you keep these

how much meaning to me

scribble of a place

slip world to world

by heart

in a box to which you are precious

weather stiff with us

and scratch

all chooks for the dust

handwriting

yours, mine

though we were taught the same

lost in some certain chords

led by strings away

I go into the dark with this

and a question hung over the hills

got away

the truth is telling me again

who keeps a tidy mind

clean heart

so many ways facing

like the blood runs down

so many parts to play

and a kiss

that keeps

me whole

Clark Gormley #37 In My Dreams

other people's houses
are the sets of my dreams
I run and sometimes
fly from room to room
through the front yard
down the driveway
and into the pool

the unfenced pool
since this set is
40 years old
and these houses
belonged to the parents
of my schoolboy friends

and my schoolground
is the set of my dreams
but now when I drive past
the monkey bars are gone
the netball court is gone
the asphalt is gone
replaced with more buildings
and shadecloth
the windows that we opened
with long poles
are permanently shut
and blocked
with air conditioners

and it's unsettling
because I spent
so much time
at the old place
and continue
to do so

these old places
are the sets of my dreams
I don't care what
you think it means

Lizz Murphy Poem #372 a boat upturns spills

a boat upturns spills splits spills they fall spill as if out of the sky spill their lungs spill crack breathe water spill blackness a telescope measures black holes 12 billion years old

Tug Dumbly # 14 - Orwellian

They’ve banned the use

of the term Orwellian.

It’s Machiavellian, Draconian,

Kafkaesque, Dickensian.

It’s totally totalitarian.

It’s … it’s … oh well

Orwellian!

Sunday, September 16, 2018

Rob Schackne #751 - "The magpies swoop"

for Denis Smith

The magpies swoop
it's stranger day
two balls of cat
on the bed
hear each moment
the mystery
dream quietly
buried in person
the river flows
speaking is hard
though I pretend
the sky grows darker
winds are gathered
then the rain

Gillian Swain # 8 - Years of dedication

Is a pub still a place where
a grown man can cry?
The Brylcreem type
from another era

with schooners and short whiskeys
silver hair deep mute wrinkles
would sit condensation
sliding down the glass like shiny regret

exposes lines of clarity in it's wake.
Nicotine stains on first knuckles
the profit after years of
dedication and rollies.

He'd read the curls of smoke
that told all
his secrets back to him
over and over curl twist curl vanish

Cry into your beer wipe
the froth off your nose
and get on with it
That's the way we get things done 'round here.

Clark Gormley #36 Soap

I yearn for the days
when soap was solid
if you're going to live
in squalid conditions
you need the hard stuff
not this push-button
anti-bacterial anti-
dandruff woosy greasy
foaming gel it makes me
uneasy and why the hell
is moisturiser in it?
isn't that putting back
the fat that the laurate's
removing it doesn't feel
clean and far from improving
the shower experience
that it never enhances
I'd rather drop it
and take my chances

Tug Dumbly # 14 - The Old Man and the Bream (draft)

Brawn turns bathos quick, like killing

a fish, gutting, scaling, baking

the poor bony thing, my girl howling

your tasteless flesh ash in my mouth.

There’s no logic. I eat meat but have

softened to catch and release

til you deep-throated the hook, lip

to gullet, musta ripped right into

that stinky mullet the old guy said

to bait with, just like he showed me

where to throw in that golden hole

in the reef. A purple evening cast,

the rod plunged to a longbow and god

you were glory to catch, just murder

to kill, the thrill quick slipped to scale

and blood as you bashed your muscle on rock.

I clamped you in a teatowel and jiggled

and yanked that chemically sharpened

shank tented too deep in flesh for parting,

barb a pitched part of you, like your little

parcel of bone reverberating later

down my own sad gulping moat. No good

cutting the line just to let you die

so cruel to be kind I cut your throat.

No Isis decap more bungled. Please fish

just stop breathing, but your gills keep

going, little blood bubbling bellows, wrists

slitting over and over like the raw hooping

sobs of my fishergirl, deserted me now

up the shore, horror fled the scene

of me cleaning you badly in the dark

with a poor kitchen knife and Samsung light …

Wasn’t dinner a hoot that night?

‘He killed it’, across the immiserated

maw of the table. Come on daughter, you

eat the stuff, I just cut out the middle man …

Pain cools like a pie on the windowsill

of a Loony Tunes cartoon, and by tuck-in

time she at least looks at me, with this new

depth of wound that sees the monster in her

father, or some transfigured creature, and

via that last pathetic look on which

I snap the light I see the jellied black

saucer of your own dumb eye, stupid bream.