Archive for June, 2016

Curtin_T.L._Robertson_Library

Campus is quiet as I walk through this time of year
Still an assortment of unobtainable, and unbelievably beautiful young women
To flash a glance and then look away
So I don’t freak them out with my desperate eyes
Lots of dodgy sculptures that cost the Uni a lot of money
Grass but not enough trees
Various concrete and brick monstrosities to walk around
My heart is heavy and death is not far away
Like I’m hanging from a cliff
I pass the library and head up the path through the amphitheatre
Turn the corner then I’m at the OT building
Pushing my troubles into recesses of my mind,
I head into work

Advertisements

oak

What does it mean to be free?
Free to smoke too much weed without getting hassled by the pigs
Free to meet ladies of easy leisure in funky pubs
Free to shoot smack and smoke ice till my brain falls out
Free to drink sixteen pints of beer and stumble down fractal streetscapes
Free to stay in and vegetate watching crap on TV
Free to scheme esoteric schemes
Free to dream esoteric dreams
Freedom not to bullied or hassled out by anyone
Everyone should have this kind of freedom
Man Free Woman Free Gender Queer Free
All God’s children dancing naked in an oak tree forest in sensuous spring
Bounded by a crackling stream rolling over rounded rocks
Sky a hallucinatory blue with a gorgeous rainbow

Hallelujah, Praise God from whom all blessings flow

cutting

Noises in the system
Voices in the head
Let me out
I don’t like it in here
This confinement
In this cage of blades,
This knotted cage of woe
With Satan breathing on my neck
I do my work
Work of the razor
Cutting easily
To blood
To blood
Tender moments with my arm
The razor does its work
My own brutal calligraphy
Written in letters of pain
There must be more than this
But there doesn’t seem to be
Cut it again
Watch it bleed
Repeat
Repeat
Repeat

clowncorpse

Corpse of a clown
Face without eyes
Deadweight diatribe against earth magic
Maudlin musing about nocturnal naughtiness
Dead grey foetus in a rubbish bin
Dead eyed optimism
Dead eyed consumerism
Corpse of a chorus girl
Makeup blurred, legs spread
Paranoia, Paranoia
Meanwhile many at the old folks home are
Entranced by the possibility of a quiet death
A quick death
Sacrificial mechanisms confound and confuse
And Paranoia seeps in
Encrusted with schadenfreude
Beaten to a spaghetti consistency
Squeezed through skull
Aching for cold lips
Of death kiss
Corpse of Marilyn Monroe
Necrophilia
Paranoia, Paranoia
Eyeball sliced like an egg
Eye-juice oozes
Poison gas pass-times eat away the soul
Napalm nightmares blaze across the cranium
Paranoia, Paranoia
Road-kill retro-action to circumvent cynicism
Squashed cat somnambulism
Body-bag of broken bones
Corpse of a junkie
Fantasy zombie collapses
Cold in a corner
Paranoia, Paranoia
Rigour mortis
Statue of the living
Physical indelible memory
Every corpse like a leaf in the wind
And a cell in the body of the grim reaper

Case

Posted: June 14, 2016 in poetry
Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

 

He had tears rolling down his face
He said:
‘I’ve spent all my money on speed
I’ve stolen off my parents
I’ve stolen off my friends
I’ve broken into houses
I’m dealing to support my habit’
I should have said:
‘You’re really fucked up man’ and got him some help
But I said:
‘Have you got some now? Well let’s have some then

.’

stonedcharlie

Overcome, she lowers her tear-soaked eyes
Her painful soul is in shadows
Her hooligan heart hurts as if wounded physically
‘You’re always fucked up on drugs’ she says
‘I don’t know who you are anymore’ she says
‘I’m me. Just chemically enhanced’
He replies with a grin
‘Well I’ve had enough of it’ she says
‘You’re never really there,
You’re always out of your head.
I don’t want to see you anymore.’
His words stumble like a creek over rocks
‘But I love you’ he says
‘I don’t love you’ she replies
‘You’re just another stoner freak’
An image full of feeling flashes on his mental screen of her naked and curled up against his body.
The swell of her buttocks against his loins
Gone all gone
He is day-dreaming of that feeling of safeness and synergy, not sex
She glares then turns on her heel and exits the room slamming the door behind her
A tear runs down his cheek.
But he can’t show her what he feels
He can’t show himself what he feels
So he hides his love away
And gets stoned

ice-smoking

Empty light-bulb
Diamond blast clarity
Sky-rocketing head-rush
Crystal frenzy
Thick white smoke
Inhale
Exhale
Inhale
Exhale

Soaring forehead to sky white bliss
Angels kiss my beard above the clouds
Googly eyes popping
Feeling funky like a monkey
Feeling fried brain tai-dyed
Towering ego over clouds
Impervious to sleep
Impervious to hunger
Churning jaw
Too much fun
So against the law

Pegasus_

I am riding Pegasus the winged white horse
Sired by Poseidon and birthed by the gorgon Medusa
Ears pinned back by vortex speed and kaleidoscope visions
Faster than sound, faster than light, faster than consciousness
Then we arrive on an island in the Pacific

There is a coral reef a hundred metres off
Waves break like curtains falling in the middle distance
Coconut palms, scent of the suggestive sea
High over sea gulls squawk and spiral
The water is almost flat, darker green further out
It laps the shore quietly

Pegasus whinnies
I hop back on his back and we are off again at hyper-speed
Watching the world whizz by like a fast-forwarded film
One object blurring into the other until there is just a mandala of colours
Then we are in Egypt at the weathered face of the sphinx
It’s expression inscrutable but no less mysterious for that
Ancient and crumbling
Old wisdom messaging the present
The sun is horrendously hot and I begin to sweat
Pegasus rears up on his hind legs and flaps his wings

Back on and I am taken to the house of a poet
He is starving
He is hanging out for a shot of smack
He is typing till his fingers bleed
He is smoking cigarette butts he’s picked off the street
His eyes are blood-shot and googly crazy
And he is one of many
We will visit this night

voices
He hears
He hears
Voices in his head
In his head
Voices from inside
Voices from his mental address
Not like the voices from outside
Pleading voices
Begging voices
Commanding voices deciding choices
Voices in his head
Map out his road through life
Forbid actions
Permit actions
Voices in his head
Voices
In his head
To tell him what to do
If he ever wondered what to do
Might be the spirits of dead ancestors
Or passing demons sweeping out of desert places
Voices
Voices
In his head
In his head
He hears voices in his head
Like a mystical mental radio
Like a repeating verbal collage
He hears voices in his head