Archive for October, 2014

dexies
All aboard for a megaton dexamphetamine rail road
We race at the speed of sound till everything goes white
Hurtling between luscious flora and fauna with a weasel strapped to my trousers
For the moment time is endless and stretches out before me like a wide open road
I yelp with random joy at the accelerated pristine possibilities
I feel like beating my chest and my nipples tremble in the succulent sunshine
Beer tastes more fantastic than ever and I drink it like water
Suddenly I am overflowing with talk and disgorging discourse
Beautiful women seem to want to listen to my bullshit
I feel like Oscar Wilde as I wind out the witticisms
They smile and flirt as I remember to ask them questions about themselves for once
But I don’t get any phone numbers

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fractalSometimes things get complicated
By regulations, requirements, rules and ordinances
By petty men in suits who peer into our lives in hope of finding crime or scandal
By busy bodies who can’t keep their mouths shut and always want to stick their metaphysical oar into the pulleys and gears of our lives
By greed-head bean-counters who see people as indistinguishable from their income
By Kafkaesque, hierarchical, transistorized spider webs of oppression
By Masons, ASIO, pigs, judges and politicians
They grind us into a gooey paste which stinks of suffering
There is no reason that things have be this complicated
But some people like it that way

beautifulwoman
Once again I’m in a condition of too many women and not enough social skills
OT honours students have invited me to an end of year party
So many pulchritudinous women that my brain rolls back in my skull and my balls clench back up into my body
Social workers there as well and you can tell them from OTs.
OTs are straight and the social workers are urban pretentious hipsters- my kind of people
Like poets
I am transformed to a heightened state of social awareness thanks to several pints of stout
I converse with them all and they are all friendly, smiling and pure, but I don’t sense any sexual tension or moments of intimacy
I have a fantastic time even though there are too many women and not enough social skills
One of the girls takes me home
I ask her if she wants to meet my guinea pigs
She says no.

madonna
Hungry wind blows out from the festering grave
Weird meat on nauseating display
Love’s innocent wife is summer bright
She wears a stiff white linen dress and her breasts are bared
She suckles a grown man on nipple opiates

The wounded wind growls and wife weeps
Hot nerves at the base of her spine
Her body in rebellion
In need of rock-chested grace

Drifting sands blast across dead shrubs
Ruin lurches across the land
All around the crooked couple
The burning sand-grains sculpt meat so strong their blast

Her eyelids are dazzled with tears
Which run down her face like two sad and noble rivers
She does not love the man
She does not like the man
Lightning dissects the sky
Then thunder like the gods dropping furniture

Perversion, perversion no baby at the breast
Just the pulsing suck of the man with a murderous tongue getting high on nipple opiates
She stands on a rock available for all to see
With a naked man hanging from her breast like a bat

Depraved Madonna with hairy child
Coupled, corrupted and suffering
The man applies greater suction
The bride groans with electric agony as he drains her dry

syringe
I want to be Kurt Cobain
But I don’t have the veins for it
I want to be Lou Reed
But I don’t have the veins for it
I want to be Nick Cave
But I don’t have the veins for it
I want to be William S. Burroughs
But I’m not into young boys
And I don’t have the veins for it
But sometimes I weaken
Even though I don’t have the veins for it
And get someone to hit the one vein I can find in my hand
Which is sometimes hard to hit as it’s so shallow
But when it works
Blood plumes in the hypodermic
And the stopper is pushed down
And brain begins to vibrate and oscillate
It sometimes seems worthwhile
If the gear is good
Then I feel like Michael Dransfield
Even though I don’t have the veins for it

loneliness
An undercover area in a primary school on a sumptuous day
It has a floor of bitumen and steel girders hold up an orange roof of steel
The Fremantle doctor is whistling through from the south-west,
Cooling the children at play
Behind one of the steel columns holding up the roof is a little boy of no more than seven: blond and wan and pale
He can’t kick a football
He always comes last in running races
He isn’t playing with the other children
He is a lone sentinel in the midst of the unalloyed joy of his peers
The mechanics of friendship are mystery to him
The mechanics of conversation are a mystery to him
His head is full of murky poison thought
Chills of freezing isolation run up and down his spine
He fears that if the others saw the darkness lurking in his heart they would be revolted
He imagines being popular and having friends sometimes but it seems an unattainable dream
His life is a solitary nightmare at school
And his nightmares are the stuff of meta-nightmares

bushchemist2
The bush chemist has ripped me off and pulverized my faith in human nature
I took him into my home and gave him a place to stay
I fed him a multitude of meals
He’s stolen my piggies, my computer and my phone
He cut my phone cable so I couldn’t call the police
His evil is a blunt instrument of suppurating psychosis
I bet he’s stuck the computer and the phone up his arm with no guilty thoughts
Where are my wonderful cuddly piggies?
Probably hungry and lonely hiding out in some blackfella house
Perversity and malice lurk in the human heart
The mangled barb wire that twists inside his cat-flap mind is the essence of speed psychosis
Wild pansexual delusions oscillate through his crazy brain and I have become the center of them
I go to his squat to try to persuade him to tell me where my piggies are
And he threatens me with a dirty hepatitus-ridden syringe
Look after the least of these my brothers but watch your back

spacemen3
Divine cannabinoid day-dreams
Of three chords recurring,
Hanging in the air like fruit bats,
Anticipating the pregnant moment.
Eyelids descending in a smoke filled room.
Vegetable contagion
Of esoteric periodicities,
Crashing over at deranged frequencies.
Oscillation.
Stoned beyond reasonable conversation,
Inside the iterating drones,
Constructing crystalline towers of sound,
A transparent radiation of elegant melody,
From guitars distorted delicately,
Driving me into an esoteric trance.
And the album plays on-
Taking me to the other side.

crazy
Are you a tear dropper?’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Do you drop tears from your eyes?’
‘No, I’m not a tear dropper.’
Did you know you can cure AIDS by shooting up Ajax?
Or that dead people sometimes speak to the living in the late and anal night?
Did you know that you are being monitored by CIA thought control drones?
They hover over your room at night collecting dreams and send them to the central database which controls the masses.
Did you know that Masons are behind everything and that they worship Satan?
The world government of Masons is coming soon and they conspire in the cabalistic night to unleash a conspiracy which will pervert all that is good.
Did you know that little chips in all our heads record our furtive thoughts and relaying them to the Masons?
Did you know that J Edgar Hoover tried to hypnotise the nation into cross-dressing?
Did you know there are secret messages just for you printed in X-press magazine?
Did you know agents of power-crazed authorities may knock on the door at any minute?
Did you know that this is all total hokum and bullshit?

Taste

Posted: October 3, 2014 in poetry
Tags: , , , , , , , , ,

abstractno2
The taste of steel
Under the tongue
Psychotic breeze blows
Dust the sunlight transforms into gold
Waiting for Mephistopheles
Blood in the syringe
Festive depravity
Methane phantasms over
Infinite waters
Dreamless victims
Of consumer breasts which undulate
As to bleed is such glad heat
Mood music contaminates
Mirtazapine pipe-dreams
Missed the vein
Pubic enumerating of
Mild tedium
And black, sullen accounts
On silent parchment
Maudlin sleep