April 16, 2009 at 6:25 pm | Posted in poetry, prosepoemthingy, writing | 9 Comments
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by Herbie Hancock, tag writing with soundtrack, the sheerest of self indulgences, barely more than grey smoke curling around her hips and manifest in a blaze of red across a spring valley, the rushing of water and inevitable tumbling fishyfish til reaching land we discover Canteloupe Island herbiehancockstyle, insert missing link haha.

What purpose is there in bald description, or vast arrays of explication splashed across the night sky, it must be an arrangement by which we can chart some …
Ari! get back here son. There’ll be no chasing of horses for you,


The Man Who Loathed Whispers.

March 23, 2009 at 7:07 pm | Posted in poetry, prosepoemthingy, writing | 13 Comments
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As he got slowly older his hearing started to go. Not surprising since he had spent so much of his life wearing headphones, sometimes to listen more closely to the pins dropping in the lock and others to block out the perpetual cacophony of other people’s lives.

It has reached the stage now that he can’t hear much at all except the moan of his voice in his throat and chest and he wonders when they will feed him again.

He hears the whisper of their approach and  closes his eyes even though it is already pitch black.

If America is a battleship,

February 3, 2009 at 7:01 pm | Posted in prosepoemthingy, writing | 10 Comments

Let me be an island, a lifeboat floating between Asia and Antarctica, said F, standing in front of a vast array of blinking lights, labelled in some strange language seemingly made of interrelated sounds like Centaurius blinking vaguely blue on the horizon, off chasing horses again,

You really have no idea do you, son, said the old man reaching for his hat. Perfect!  Put your left flipper on this here lever marked Morrison-Huxley Effect and pull.

Ha, you are so full of hot air, blowin’ straight off the Sirocco, empty breezes and silhouettes, riffs caught on a cold ‘trane to the cattleyards of Roma.

rifts like explosions pluming off the top of the Great Wave of Kanagawa, that tattoo they think is random done in real time. Haha, go chase those horses as the deck lurches and he launches.

Stop scratchin’ your arse son, he whispers, here she comes.

The Architecture Of Water.

January 19, 2009 at 6:46 pm | Posted in prosepoemthingy, writing | 15 Comments
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Dear Mr MC Paulus of gmail dot com,

Further to your letter of 3/1/09 we regret to inform you that we are unable to supply three pairs of bright green parachute pants (‘M C Hammer style’ or otherwise embroidered).

This is a staircase.

Subtitle (and/or font change like a spicy sidestep tango dip and delve.)  If I was M. C. Escher to whom I would address these Australian sentences with windows through which black bowler hat shaped silences appear in a clear blue sky…

Thou accuseded me of stream of consciousness (inspirated me through unintended accusation) and whilst I confess to wetness often inappropriate, I hold to my comfortable self-delusion of linguistic architecture-hood.

If I was M C Paulus the words would be clouds, the architecture of water, ridiculously delicate and precise balancing those holes in the sky and there would be no first word just as there is no last.


December 4, 2008 at 7:17 pm | Posted in poetry, prosepoemthingy, writing | 12 Comments
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If you think there is a screen in this universe that isn’t a performance and each of them contains a mirror distort thru the languid image above.

Clones,” he says, “are a result of a lack of imagination.”

How precious, why don’t they come back
schlepping hungry bored backwards through his reflection
into the murky lapping shore,
flathead lurk in the mangroves
wishin’ they was golden carp,
but they can’t be seen he thinks
hmm, there is a flicker behind him
the echidna is gone
haha, leaning back
putting his hands over his ample tummy
here she comes,


November 22, 2008 at 7:55 pm | Posted in prosepoemthingy, writing | 16 Comments

(“I would draw your attention to the fact that at one time this was not considered an insult. That your writing is sentimental. If we deconstruct the word, senti as in knowing and mental, well I guess I must be, since I consider my mentality a choice, that is, something over which I have some control. That is why I chose to write this bit here in prose”.)

Sir! the door flew open. Oh no, not again,
Someone has released the vodpod
and just as he was about to trace
the line of some angel’s wings
and shift his hips
whilst listening,

He rolls away and sits at the side of the bed. I should have a hangover. It is almost a thought but it passes immediately into
a taste of ginger which is retained
over the passage of time
as it departs, a sudden thought
that all of this
is mine,

The sun is rising over the bay and a fresh morning breeze parts the curtains carrying the laughter of friends drifting up from the pool. There is a painting hanging over the bed and every time he sees it he thinks, “Need is inverse proportion to power,” so if we have no needs, my love, when all expectations have been met, he turns back into the bed and is absorbed again into his dream. One day I’m going to wax you, she says, smiling with her fingertips.

The Enemy Of Art.

October 21, 2008 at 6:48 pm | Posted in blogging, poetry, prosepoemthingy, writing | 14 Comments
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Complacency, the enemy of art, he said, especially among the smug, buttoning his belt while unbuttoning his tongue. You fools think you can steal from me and then parade yourselves in stolen clothes as though some mere mockery of me? My paranoia is not so much of Edward Lear nor King but more Othello. And turns.

must you forever play Iago, Squires, why not something far more subtle. Because, sir, in the olden days there was no amplification beyond the human voice and now every voice is equally electrically enhanced, so it will become again a game of shouts and whispers and occasional masterly asides through barely disguised musichall moustachios, I tells ya,

them sails are low boys, now suck in air
and blow,

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