Archive for July, 2014

Buried love, soul meat under the Boab tree:
Mental wire, capacitors and resistors filled with the electrical charge of life,
And under the mutant sea the malevolent crabs do their sacred dance.
Hype and hyperbole surround the true children of God,
For their fingers are the stories of their succulent lives,
And their arms are the rod of truth.

Buried love, soul meat under the Boab tree:
The tendrils of love are draped around your wonderful hourglass frame.
Your breasts are the true fruit of the fecundity of nature.
Your lips are sweetest honey-comb and send me reeling through alternative dimensions of being.
Your words feed me luscious manna from a purely benevolent heaven.

Buried love, soul meat under the Boab tree:
I sing the windswept leaves as they float about the trees,
I sing festering marrow seeping through bone,
I sing the mad ecstasy of being loved by an inscrutable lady,
I sing the particular pain of being alone.

Difficult loves and complicated kisses:
My love burns electrically elusive and hard to get to know.
The unrequited essence of consummate loneliness is closer than compassion.
A tangle of words between us and no-one can find an end to untie them all.
Why can’t things be simple, an unvarnished love without the painful peccadilloes of primping prima-donnas.

Difficult loves and complicated kisses:
Bent out of shape in a spiralling emotional pretzel,
Wanting to be together but failing again and again iteratively,
Stretching out forever in search of unity,
Missing the subtle signals of secret love in gesture and speech.

Difficult loves and complicated kisses:
Aching with baffling passion for an unknowable consummation,
It’s near to impossible when love consists entirely of hesitation.
So fleeting the flirting that hints at an ending,
I may just give up and settle for befriending.

Published in Creatrix

The sunlight bludgeons the earth till it squeezes out the edges,
Morning is breaking all over the ground like an incandescent egg.
The eucalyptus trees whisper softly in a slow murmuring breath of wind,
And the birds call each other with inscrutable sounds.
A kookaburra’s insane laugh booms through the land,
And the elusive fragrance of wattle is in the air.
Granite outcrops are silent sentinels, watching over the bush.
I sing the beauty of this land, its endless deserts, plains and mountains,
I sing the unique birds, animals and plants, their fecundity and claws.
Wide to the ends of space is the Bush,
So easy to be lost in.
A pin in an infinite haystack,
But in it is the heart of the nation.

Death to Tony Abbot

Posted: July 16, 2014 in poetry
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If they let this vicious bastard,
Pass his budget through the senate,
He’ll screw the battlers through the floor and out the other-side.
I didn’t vote for the evil bat-eared budgie-smuggler did you?
Did your mum or dad or anyone you know?
The refugees get totally screwed,
For the next three years no matter what we do.

The rich will be richer the poor will be poorer,
Australia will be a meaner hungrier land,
You’ll pay more to go to the doctor,
You won’t get paid at all sometimes if you’re young and unemployed.

The poor and the destitute will stalk the land and remain poor and destitute.
Radiation of suffering will suffuse the land, weakening the spirit of the whole country.
And Australia will get colder and colder inside – it might turn into Syberia emotionally.
Who will rescue us from this greed-head fascist monster?
Baloney Abbot would be much better.

Why does it all have to be so difficult?
My mum is upset at my poems:
I feel like I’m bolted to a rotating rack of emotional blackmail.
She hates the ones about drugs and shit and the filthy lucre of existence.
This is the very stuff of my twisted life.
Bukowski says you’ve got to be honest, you’ve got to be real,
You’ve got to let it roar out of your guts or not do it at all.
So I wish my mum would chill out,
But I’m still going to call things the way I see them-
Call a fuck a fuck, a fit a fit, a cone a cone and a 32 inch jet black mambo dildo a 32 inch jet black mambo dildo.


Posted: July 13, 2014 in poetry
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I call on the stars with my jack-weasel mind, rail against them with my pistol emotions,
The stars do not reply.
Is there a gesticulating someone out there wishing and dreaming back at me?
Constructing metaphors, wondering if I’m out there, pondering back at him.
The whole vast blanket of the night-sky stretches out for light-years, and contains infinite mysteries.
I am just one of them- it sets my heart afire with possibilities:
Will they ever come to visit? Have the already arrived?
Will they implant alien technology in us to control our thoughts?
Do they want to anal probe us and have kinky sex with us?
Who can know?

Bush Chemist
He’s gone now,
But what sticks in the mind most,
Is his preoccupation with finding
Ever more stupid ways to manufacture things to stick up his arm.
With prescription medicine, methylated spirits, baking soda and various other crap,
When he wasn’t sticking stuff
That he bought from someone else up his arm.
Amateur chemists and armchair experts abound in the drug world:
But it’s the first time I’ve heard that you separate the T H from the C when you’re making hash.
Or that a common antidepressant can readily be turned by chemical magic into speed.

When he sold me pot he quickly stole it back
He was always surrounded by a hurricane of little plastic bags
But he never seemed to sell much,
And I don’t think he will,
Unless someone has started buying bullshit.