Hawaii Limo Exit.

March 30, 2009 at 6:15 pm | Posted in memoirs, poetry, writing | 7 Comments
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If you don’t play for high stakes it’s never more than jewellery and empty scented envelopes, she says.
Every story needs a bad guy, I just wanted it most.
Oh escapes some rounded sweet pink lips,
I’ve never been on a literal red carpet before.

You don’t spend five years inside for having a big mouth
without turning learning taking a trick or two hanging up the phone
stubbing out another obvious cigarette prop.
Never mind my dear his arm around her waist
and never fear, when backlit by a spotlight moon,

and Mamu accelerates away


ungainly entrance

September 22, 2008 at 6:24 pm | Posted in poetry, writing | 17 Comments
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(for such a tiny creature, according to the japanese pornographer says Mamu, you are to be rewarded.)
he flings an arm and chinese dragonfly tumble roll
she pops up in the middle of the darkened room
sparkled and startling in sheer grey silk
and shaking her long black hair with golden flashes
brushing dust and standing, hands off me giant monkey man
whose slave are you, mamu?
and glowers at me furious
and are you in dungeon too?
is mine destiny i guess and plonks herself inside my arm
gazing up at me, i guess it is yours too
but first my hopeless wizard friend
we must get these chains from you.
another Mistress’ spell on me
just doesn’t seem quite right
that i should be always be the one
to dance for their delight,

Mamu’s Watch.

August 20, 2008 at 6:49 pm | Posted in writing | 11 Comments
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     Mamu turned off the radio and its Incessant Babylon and looked at his watch. It made no sense to him, it was the old man’s watch and there were far too many dials and jewels and it bedazzled him momentarily. It was a distraction from the waiting. He wound down the passenger window bent his massive frame and peered out of the limo into the dark of the alleyway. He suddenly remembered he was still wearing Bootsy Collins sunglasses. No wonder,
    He couldn’t tell if the band was still playing in the club or it was the sound of his heart beating. He really shouldn’t have taken Three Card’s limo without asking but she had been insistent and even though Mamu knew that many other men who actually had things to give to her also loved her, he could not help himself. He settled back into the soft leather. Besides, he was Mamu.
    There was a sudden clatter as the door at the back of the club flew open, and fucking stay out! Said F. throwing the pianoplayer into the garbage cans. Not again, thought Mamu, who tattooed who this time? He looked at his watch then turned the radio on,

three cards only regret

August 9, 2008 at 5:24 pm | Posted in writing | 5 Comments
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On the Tokyo-Brisbane Express. “Thank God the liver remains undamaged,” says Dr Benway as he throws his bloodied chain mail gloves over his shoulder and reaches for his martini. “Through co-option and degeneration of the image, he says,” who, is it sir ian playing WSB again, but if all there is is the buzzing of bees and rain dripping down the window of the limo. Hmm, he looks down again at his hands, slips them into his pocket. There is value in pocketable wealth, jewellery, but these days nothing else is worth much of anything. A limo cruises by the bus stop containing some aging rock star and a bevy of businessmen ghosts busily plotting graphs.

I wish it was raining, he thinks, instead of this endless blue,

A girl is standing bored chewing gum on a corner, he leans forward to whisper Mamu slow down but a ghost appears between them waving a release form for a camera crew. Three Card looks out at the favella passing by. He remembers Saudade. She writes, “it is not so cold as I had imagined it might be,” her fingers turning blue shaking gripping the pen,

He settles back into his leather, the limo ssshhes by, everyone lives he thinks, everyone dies.

I’m riding

July 8, 2008 at 5:40 pm | Posted in antihaiku, prosepoemthingy, writing | 20 Comments
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a slow horse out of a dead town, Jim. Sun’s always setting somewhere, he says to me, in passing. I am sitting chewing, yep, somewhere you just know there’s a starving mongrel licking itself, old copies of illustrated poetry chapbooks by hiptalking New Yorkers discussing metaphysics through pop culture drift by like spinifex in a spirax notebook while mulitcoloured creatures twitter in their wings waiting their turn, some English manor house with a governess in sleeves and cap then wicked spirit from down the mountain comes, fuck Hemingway says Sir Ian give me Prospero or De Sade sipping his third martini under a parasol, Mamu, tell someone to bring the car, The Pink Cadillac, I feel like riding on the freeway,

Sorry!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!(a big one)

May 6, 2008 at 7:12 pm | Posted in music, poetry, writing | 15 Comments
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opens the lid, takes a deep breath, in the spirit of Randallian hangin’ honesty, and a tip of the hat to the mighty F.G. Franklin, listening to Albert King very loud thru the headphones,
woooooo, hahaha, i dare you
underneath that powder and paint,
pretty woman, what’s the matter with you,
i already apologised, twice i think,
(Three Card, slicks his hand into his pocket,
Mamu flinches almost into a grin,
i keep my eyes on the piano, i am telling you,
i am remembering the first time i actually saw Art
Tatum play,

by the way, you can find me Monday Nights, at the Orchid Room,
and Saturday afternoon,

somebodyelse’s fault,

April 9, 2008 at 7:31 pm | Posted in music, poetry, prosepoemthingy, writing | 9 Comments
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beautiful big fat Hammond organ with rotating speakers driven by literal electric motors not some adolescent electronic warble, the bass drum you know is actually kicked in,
even Mamu on bass would flirt with a halfsmile as his huge hands conjure that thrum
somewhere between the resonance of the drum and the mad right hand doodlings
of some manicstrange and loopy cat, is that Monk’s mad hat and shuffle?
Ray Manzarek, perhaps, and when the still sea conspires in armour,

yayayaya, Monk does his dance in this clip, (when the still sea…is a quote from a Doors thingy)
now, where is she,

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