Who built this crazy thing?

August 18, 2009 at 7:25 pm | Posted in poetry, writing | 16 Comments
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He looks up. Nothing,
dear, just playing
with the trains.
Serving in Ms Squirrel’s Army,
Chief of Secret Handshakes
Yes dear, she says, those were
the days, now come,
and eat
on the balcony overlooking
a rare and woolly sea
tell me one time about
the cunning plan
which sets us free


No Scratching During Takeoff!

August 4, 2009 at 7:39 pm | Posted in writing | 12 Comments
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The sign blinks in front of him. No rude bits. Hmm he thinks hitching his pants gee I wish I’ld remembered to buy a belt.

He practised smiled at the beautiful woman who took his boarding pass. He had only seen them before on billboards, in the colourful dresses and he hoped that one was the one that brought the food.

Flying was an odd concept to someone who had spent a lot of his life in water. He’ld seen birds of course, of all varieties, little pecky ones, loud cranky ones fighting over scraps, bloody big ones too, swooping across the rising sun. He wished he had remembered to bring some kind of a marking device, a glyph or quill, griffin. No no alcohol he said, thanks, remembering to smile at the strange robotic device offering him drinks.

He wondered what she would wear. She wouldn’t tell him and she wouldn’t send photos. He looked at the watch the old man had given him leaned back and wondered where the echidna had gone.

Wanted to write a poem

May 1, 2009 at 6:58 pm | Posted in antihaiku, contemporary poetry, poetry, writing | 21 Comments
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called infinite eye queue but suddenly forgot
that language is linear but time is not.
heard the grumble of Bill Burroughs not
telling anyone anything they don’t already
and Baudelaire as I remember
yes but you can make them realise
make real
the difference between the insides
and the out of this most bizarre contraption
does not occur at the limits of this transaction
the old dog looks up
but underneath i’magination,


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 Anticipation of De Bergerac

March 16, 2009 at 6:51 pm | Posted in memoirs | 12 Comments
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(anticipation :
a noun living in a permanent state
of heightened accelebration
on its way to becoming a verb)

after which it will resign itself
to a slow dissolution
into an adjectival phrase,

Poetry as pornography.

March 11, 2009 at 6:40 pm | Posted in poetry, writing | 17 Comments
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(Let the writers of prose have their erotica.)
There should be no purity in poetry, manners nor mechanisms,
slyness for sure and quick
air-llusions, spoonerisms and
spammers in your works burgher
after all, someone might wanna
inspect it one day

for pleasure,

so you best find some treasure
to put under what
marks the spot
i expect,

classic message in a bottle cliche

March 5, 2009 at 6:24 pm | Posted in australian poetry, poetry, writing | 8 Comments
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The intricate complexity of water
music which baffles such a simple creature
overlapping layers trills of silver darts above
the shallow bass of yellow sand
with waves of shovel nose rays
suspended in the mid range.

Time is graceful
and smooth

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