Archive for December, 2014

skeletons
The stone that broke the bone of sex was wizened
By monster-trolls with multitudes of eyes
The blade that split the carnal sea was sunk
Into a gaping orifice with teeth

No hope of finding life amidst the stars
Say dopey maidens in a well of tears

The bridge that loved the pilgrim sky was bent
By spies and hoboes ruled by roll of die
The dance of time electrifies when high
And whispers to the children of the sky

Who hover batlike in my rotten brain
And feather-tickle flows of vain emotions
With pointy pins of consequence and truth
I’m haunted by a willing daughter dryad
Blackfella dryad translucent in eucalyptus

Slave to the muse which spits upon bone
And waits until the zombies come on home
She says she talks to dead people at night
And crackles madness formed from sibilant souls

So penitent and poisonous like plutonium
Provoking mustard gas inspired exhalations
Of rotten lungs and suppurating sexuality
A skeletal hand draws traces down my back

Finger-tip points and sliding lines in skin
To shape eternity into a nut
And steal a moment from the crux of now
Where statues vomit blood and rot like corpses

Inside the awful testaments of prophets
Vague shadows of ghosts with erratic motives
Lead me by the river of excess
And flicker hallucinations in my eye

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kerouac1
I have had better relationships with substances than people
It’s not that I didn’t want the relationships with people,
They were just few and isolated like fly spots in a clean house
While pot and alcohol were always there, as long as I had money
‘The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom’ says Blake
It’s all about the loosening of semantic associations
Getting lost in a web of words and forbidden texts,
Zapping from word to word on wings of fancy
With Rimbaud and Dylan Thomas on my shoulders
The vomit of self-disclosure can taste sweet
When blended through the madness of my mind
‘When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro.’ says Hunter S Thompson
But when I look at my panoply of drunk, drug addled and crazy heroes
Bukowski, Burroughs, Kerouac, Thomas, Rimbaud, Cave, Plath
I dream of getting wasted with them and swapping poet tricks
Shooting smack with William Burroughs and Nick Cave
Sharing a pint with Dylan Thomas and Charles Bukowski
Trying to cheer up Sylvia Plath
One thing I know for sure
I don’t want to die puking up blood like Kerouac
I wonder if creation really has to take such a toll on the constitution
Self-destruction for art’s sake is a myth, a trope, an illusion, maya
But it’s fun

Baby in a bucket

Posted: December 22, 2014 in poetry
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fishhook
I fucked up
A Baby in a bucket
Psychosis waits for my quiet moments
Please don’t go
A boneless baby in a bucket
Depression sucks me into bed and imprisons me for weeks
The Taliban in Pakistan shoots a hundred school children
Paranoid spider-webs of cause and effect
A mother stabs eight children to death in Cairns
Chaotic drunken stumbling through the transparent life of a mediocrity
Or is there more?
A boneless translucent baby in a bucket
Miasma of failure seeping from suicides
A friend of mine who took so much speed that he stayed up for two weeks then hung himself
So alone
It’s never enough.
Houses upon houses iterating and reiterating in infinite suburban tedium
You can buy a coat for your dog which simulates the feeling of a hug
Tip the boneless translucent baby out of the bucket
Will I touch it?
Does it live?
Fangs pierce my neck
Fish-hooks perforate my flesh

Meeting Nick Cave

Posted: December 20, 2014 in poetry
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nick-cave-04

Metropolis, Fremantle, 1990s.
Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds and the Cruel Sea are playing
My legendary brother Nick, passed on now, possessed the gift of extravagant bullshitting and gets us in back stage
Nick Cave and Tex Perkins are playing pool
We are in rock and roll paradise, and the deepest vaults of hell at the same time
The Bad Seeds are there looking like the ‘before’ ad for a drug rehab, but elegant in suits
You’ve got to do it with style
My brother and my mate play them at pool, but instead of shaking hands at the end they brush their hair back- too cool for school
Nick Cave asks me: ‘Hey man, have you got any speed?’
Captain junkie darkness, Mr Black Trousers who towers over Rock and Roll like a dark brooding demon wants to score drugs from me
I curse myself for not having the drugs and apologize
Imagine what it would be like shooting up with Nick Cave
They find some somewhere else and have a dang in the toilet
Then the gig, which was awesome like a threesome with cocaine-basted Swedish identical twins both called Helga
We watched from the side
Afterwards, the bands had a rider of at least twenty cartons of Heineken and we all get into it
I approach the Master.
He looks like a particularly cool vampire-devil with unearthly pale skin and an explosion of night-black hair
Piercing dark blue eyes with massive pupils
Thin, spectral, gangly yet more real than any person I have ever seen
Nick Cave
Who once wrote his twisted nightmare lyrics of death, perversion, murder and retribution in blood with a syringe
Who is an Antarctica-cool gentleman-junkie, living embodiment of the blackest rock and roll mythology
Who wrote a brilliant, dense novel about death and deformity in the deep south on blitzkrieg Berlin speed and smack
Who inspired a thousand crappy Goth bands but never sold out
Who has did a shit-load of drugs and produced great art by always following the muse

And that is the trick, that’s the gimmick
To turn the fractures in your consciousness into mountains and valleys of creativity
To mutate into a seer and visionary prophet by putting your senses in a blender
To transform your worst faults, fears and nightmares into art
To create from primal sex, death, addiction and hallucination with the aim of visionary transcendence and transformation.
To birth a comprehensive universe of pain and perversity which pulverizes the powerful forces of conformity and destroys monolithic totalitarian mind-fuckers
To embody new creation, revolution, rebellion and subversion
Not just be a stupid junkie nodding off in a corner doing fuck all, more conformist than a yuppie.

I ask him about what drugs he was on when he did the ‘Nick the Stripper’ video
‘Speed and Heroin’ he replies
Said he doesn’t like pot much
Likes drugs you stick in your arm

We talk about a song on the Tender Prey album that I like but they have never performed live
We talk about art, literature, music and the shadows of religion
I sing him a song I wrote about trying to score ganja from Syd Barret and smoking the corpse of Jimmy Hendrix
He says ‘You’re a pretty funny cunt.’
I take it as a compliment.
Afterwards we steal his empty packet of Marlboro Lights, and we stick it to the wall with a sign saying ‘Nick Cave’s Cigarettes’

argument
On the telephone my friends are fighting over a morphine tab
It’s fucked up to fight over drugs
Drugs should be about fun and companionship and crazy ass-shaking hijinks
About kicks, and joy and riding the highway of life at staggering speed wearing ironic trousers
She’s hearing voices and is freaking out- schizophrenia hacking into her soul
Whispers from the center of her brain that seem to come from outside
She’s kicked him in the balls
He’s hit her in the head
A squalid caricature of domestic violence and paranoia
You always hurt the one you love,
Intimately

Suburbia

Posted: December 12, 2014 in poetry
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suburbia
Down the identikit suburban streets, looking in the gardens for thistles for my piggies
Bitumen road sliding out into the horizon
How many families in interchangeable brick boxes
Putting food on the table
Paying the bills
Uttering clichés to try to fill the time
Human tape-recorders spewing mundanities
Hypnotised and cauterized by mobile phones and television
Conforming, conforming, conforming
Caring for sticky faced children
Outcome of man and woman enveloping each other for a sweaty moment
Consuming, procreating and dying more every second
Just like the people in the next house
And the house after that
And I should really love all these people
Like Jesus
But it’s not easy

I walk alone
Smoking white ox
Stoned but not stoned enough
Eyeing women who pass me by
With shameful furtive glances
Ocular photographs shuffled off to the wank bank
Never look for long
That’s the secret
Am I sexist?
Am I a sex criminal?
Am I the patriarchy?
I ache for a good woman like a junkie for a shot

This is what Burroughs called the old talking asshole routine
I am the talking asshole

jesus
To worship in spirit and truth is to live through love with every person and reverence every intricate creation
Searching for the kingdom under granite rocks and down forgotten easements
I find cryptic hints everywhere I look
Especially out in the bush, deciphering eucalyptus trees as a messages from the most high
But it’s hard to pin down
Just beyond reach
Hard to get it to crystallize in the mundane sun
Hard to find eyes to see and ears to hear
Hard to bludgeon down suburban sentiments
Hard to forgive when enveloped in hate
To hear the subtle voice of God whispering through my skull
And do a joy-struck dance before the Lord of all

Unrequited Love

Posted: December 8, 2014 in poetry
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nuderebel
To find someone who loves me as much as I love them
Unrequited love is a miserable trip
Even if it’s good for poetry
To find someone who loves me as much as I love them
Unrequited love is shit and maggots feeding on shit
No point in ripping my heart out of my chest for some woman who thinks I’m a joke
To find someone who loves me as much as I love them
Unrequited love is a leach on my soul, addling my hobo mind
No point making an idol of someone young, pretty and unobtainable
Living on wet dreams and half-awake ecstatic visions
To find someone who loves me as much as I love them
Unrequited love is smoking satanic factories of conformity and hopelessness
And searching for angels under piles of rotting corpses

To love someone who loves you is
Starlight and heavenly ecstacies
An echo of God’s quiet voice
A touch of divine Kerouac compassion
A race across the country in a stolen V8 Kingswood
A timeless kiss in sensual moonlight
Holding hands and not needing to speak
Apocalyptic fucking to vanquish solitude
A psychedelic sunflower sunset that blows up Centrelink
Blissful beatitude incarnate in woman’s form
Spitting in the festering face of death and cackling madly
For all true love is madness most succulent and holy

Skin

Posted: December 5, 2014 in poetry
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nude
mustard miasma on tortured toast
dead-letter diagrams of esoteric schemes
over-turn the apple-cart all over Applecross

cocktail linen on the dining-room table
a door shuts out nothing
I like every female skin well

I dream of tickling their bones and sweetening their snatches
My guilt-stricken hand reaches out and strokes their nipples
With peanut-crunching glee

Annihilate every rational thought not focussed on sensual optimism
Exterminate hectic lonely nights of self-love and weeping
To be loved is a precious and erratic blessing
Hold on to it
Breathe in
Then let it go
Breathe out

allenginsberg
Running to holy joy with my ears pinned back and hurricane love in my heart
Joy of kicks against the vicious anal darkness
Joy of tweaking the nose of the federal conspiracy of cabalistic capitalism
Joy of dacking Tony Abbot and laughing at his microscopic penis
Joy of reverberating with hilarious companions and feeling love-struck and passionate blessed awe
Joy if being overwhelmed with enthusiasm for all fruits of fertile earth,full of budding glory
The air is holy, space and time are holy, the chora of coincidence is double-choc holy
Every tree and creature is a Bible portraying a loving Buddha-God incarnate
O sacred Ginsberg
Great bearded bodhisattva who berates the military mind-fuck conspiracy
Calling them out on their death-lust and murderous urgings from ultra-zen East Village New York side-walks
Dancing down the technicolour road with harmonium and humour
Spinning words like yo-yos with Whitmanesque wonder and universal compassion
I hear your voice great sage and prophet-poet who blasts the bomb by saying Om
And calls forth forgotten America with lascivious dactylic lines of passionate poesy
I hear your voice master teacher, gentle prophet and blessed fool for love in all your sacred inscriptions
You beat down the CIA with hobo love and succulent sound-bites
You pumped out magic texts against the rapist mind of Moloch
You took off your clothes to say that America had your entire soul revealed for health and healing
You ignited the children of flowers with Buddhist Jedi mind gimmicks and dancing sunshine Manhattan madness
As you heard Blake I long to hear your stratagems, stoned and impeccable with my beard well stroked by books and day-dreams