17 November 2010

DRAFT: heathridge doctor

at one
my face crusting
at this low level
ear at the bitumen
cheek sear. braised as one
we hear molecules this arvo
oscillating asphalt bandits
curbed in koolbardie silence

was beer oclock
since seven

at two
in 40 plus sun
we are amber
limbless meat

at eight
we're cellular memories of breeze
a broadcast narrative baby
a generation one dreaming
in each others sweat
and our december skins
shed in brick, as zygotes

at three
shadows of an inflated pool
stolichnaya, some little pipes
jarrah/globulus leaves
like infant eyelash
ripples backlash
billions unleashed

16 November 2010

DRAFT: there are words

there are words

and then there
are words

holes like
dried wounds
fat and in us
but still we stroll
through each
others dreams

like yr new ash
on my wet fingers
stains on buckled teeth

the salt

its 4am and
thick easterly
my merzbow

there are trees
that need climbing

there are shoes
to be worn

blades to be rendered
flat underfoot

but the words
keep tumbling
to the page

and the
roads remain



11 November 2010

and this is not a performance poem

can you feeeeeeel it
the difference tonight
this gap between page and stage
see these lights - our collective reality
this contrived gesture - this movement
this e-nun-ci-a-tion

yeah punters of the poem
get a dose of tactile delivery
vampires of the word
here stanzas are felt rhythmically

approximately one hundred and twenty seconds
or less - of word - one after-the-other
after-the-other - after-the-other

i am syllables - units of rhythm
assonance - alliteration consummated
i am literally a metaphor snake
strike like a simile of the sonic
not like lee majors bionic
or remote fibre-vitiman-tonic
nor a sister of the sonnet
a munted rhyme for the seated gods

but, also this is not a fucking aabbc bbaac ccaab
bbaad rhyming pattern - un-uh - but just a word
on another word - piled on another word

now some anecdotal advice
about how i once trod barefoot
in my own hot morning shit - brown and yellow
its steaming rancid relevance - between my cold toes
and how i always - wear boots now
before a bush shit - and dig a hole

stacked here - these spoken words - this lullaby
an uttered semiotic sign - a list of the signifier, signified
a significance - a literary spin for you

and my soul - merely the width of this entire room
and the motherfuckers innit
there is repetition repetition repetition - and breath…

and words like foreskin and clitoris
and this is my voice inside you now -
resonating through yr ribs and limbs my pulse
as real as yrs
not binary, ink
or digitalised
or analog
but written read
and vocalised

see my veins run red - and bloody as yrs
and you can - by now
see the sheen of my sweat
in the red light of my brow

and the bass of this microphone
into and outta these speakers
and into you - into you
in - to - you

and this is not a performance poem
amongst the laundry lists
and rock-pose grandeur

these are words - just words
just words - on words…

06 November 2010

Isolation Standards - drafting


waiting here like this - the gearstick and little else but fabric between us - we all gather in beds eventually - pure white ceiling snakes unable to shake fists at walls - our rubber cheques god-like.

here her synapses flicker - a separation effect - she is a fragment now - these strands of dense noise -
getting impulses behind her face at 140 metres per second

yet I'm selling myself - this vehicle a pulsating sac of protein, carbon and ideas - a market commodity - this knife to tell stories with - a history of blood, comrade

we've stood on fences before, the cameras crushed underfoot - my steel caps on the neck of this badge - we're waiting in lines for lungs - a new breed of caution

I'm sliced again, this time in triangular segments, we measure in millimetres the length of thorns - our products defining each purchase of the rock - in tattered packs, we watch the buildings collapse aflame - the concrete edges framing the distance

at the steps the clock strikes in a daylight pose - and this time I'm naked at the uniforms - my oldest friend a butcher - in the shadows our torn disciples rest, tell discontinuous narratives like soup surfing with a fork.


Isolation isolation isolation isolation isolation

The process by which we separate ourselves from others either through geographical separation or internal separation, where we withdraw into ourselves and distance ourselves from others socially and personally. It can also be when others separate themselves from us because for whatever reason they consider us different and therefore socially unacceptable.

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See I do exist. Well I think I exist? Do I exist? DO I EXIST?

Nobody knows me, nobody understands me, nobody sees me

So therefore if nobody sees me do I exist then?

I must because I see and feel the blood running

I think and feel the isolation of others

Them not letting me in or me not letting them in

Who is isolating who

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I exist I exist I exist

There is this wall which I have built around me. It is invisible, although if you look very closely you might be able to see it.

I don’t like myself very much at all so I won’t let anyone in.
I am afraid that they will see what I see
when I look in the mirror and what I see is not very nice.

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Isolation separation others process separating somebody something
others fact being alone, separated others process others separation isolation


04 November 2010

draft advice for political stanzas

brothers: this is not a blue light shed on yr brutal masculinity
women: you are not what you wear, ever, indeed
babies: take less medication please
this is a 2AM training session
for the 8000 watt burger-shopper
cooler than fuck we are
and this time, on the inside
dismiss this kiss then - the frilly red thing you wear
mothers: in this light, this ullulating bliss
children: defy this exotic white amplification of words
but i may actually be dead
sisters: I'm part of the walking undead hordes
these door-stop memories - flashes of XXXO
wives: in dark fremantle spaces at weddings
imagining my calloused fingers
inside you shopping for more
my nails scratch deep in yr head
a morphic resonance of grey matter
your camera sowing seeds
of red carpet messages to indonesia
mentions of my skin
and I'm outside the church smoking joints
then corporate memes a US drone across pakistan
standard plutonic treatment - friends of bent nations
fathers: my black wet guts spilled across your table
sage words to shoot down planes with
the bushfire mind to dig new graves with
cancel the thing i said i would do
I'll be in the lobby drinkin for two
and no-one mentions the elephant in your womb…