Poems

Such Importance

You’ll find us “in business”, one of us babyboomers found dead -
slept rough in the empty ticket booths of Parramatta Oval.

Toby married one &
divorced someone entirely different.

Many had sex so indiscriminately that it broke all hearts…
a messy pile-up on an unnecessary motorway.

With generosity, so much forgiveness. With so much fear,
there could never be friendship.

Six of us jammed one infused afternoon,
the cacophony raised angels. We’d “die for” our little arts.

Tried, then gave up serially like
some harbour wavelet in a  dingy dawn.

Down deep in narrative I couldn’t see a thing.
Everyone says this as they stumble yet again.

I worked my fingers to the cigarette filter,
then gave up all my favourite habits.

Certain that we needed certainty
the situation was hopeless.

So much to believe. I believe still.
Politics wasn’t art. Art wasn’t (just) politics.

Forgot most of the miscreants, but some
will hate me forever. Found myself amongst that number.

Bereft & grateful, at one
with nothing much, very Zen.

Glory can be gory, corruption in bliss.
The Party Line, the terror.

Fellow babyboomers celebrate, everybody looks so young.
Fish oil, paracetamol, glucosamine & cocktails we shake it like we shook it.

Music is a sex object, no matter how much we laugh
the vein responds. To remember is a sort of betrayal.

Bought him a drink last week, you’d think
we’d had enough words. Good intentions

are headstones & milestones. History has much to answer for.
Next time will be better, someone is saying.

 

 

Dark

…we are not afraid
We are not afraid today.

Zombies never get the good lines.
We’re a vulpine species,
deny those blunter honesties of hunger
choose instead to nip strategically - pyre & angels -
crafty paths, the dodge. This girl
is just dynamite & fizzes
so warm she 21st century psychedelic;
we need more mornings, more cinders.

This Ashleigh she’s like a stripper
derr who strips nowadays? Her 5-year-old son is just
dumped on the grandma she’s totally
hooked into David round his place instead hey
look after ya kid why don’t ya.
David’s almost like a doctor
& he’s just so whipped his brother Tom
’s like so spiritual & he just totally hates her…

The monsters multiply, am
I one too? The demon think, rapes
from our pens as we pluck lives. Each
page is a scalp, a trophy.

When apocalypse is a fashion statement,
a football team,
prayer & excuse.
We’re all storing survival rations
& Molotov cocktails to burn down the business district.

When a parade of apocalypses dance down George St
there’s  all these dreamy appetites,
unlimited government funding.

Some trouble
as the remnants of humanity fight against the odds.
I can’t get my head around waxing
& we were born to run occasionally.

The trick is to show the broken swing,
not the fractured child.

Breath mints vs. silver bullets. Air force drones
& aborted foetus all called Chucky wreaking mayhem.
We aspirate like crazy…
an unfair world where
Jeffrey last week woke up
with a cockroach on his face!

There is no excuse for boredom,
though it remains the most common crime.

Sharon says the words to Tam.
So pedestrian, thoroughly real love you &
that crashes everything. The marriage is a rite which
chews the spine. Engorged guests
will promise the beasts.

Heaven is the space
where you dodge the scripts.
The same crows
& a clutter of immanence.
Chainsaw Massacre #7 coming up, ground
glass in the carrot juice. This ledge
- just step off -

 

 

Another Brick

I was a dead man’s vote when Thatcher got elected,
my reincarnation as an Englishman was useless all that work
scouring the rolls, we deceased persons saw a country on the lip
& thirsty. Later, Pink Floyd seemed to do okay. Brixton burnt.

Think a Redgrave got my vote.
We drank inevitability, Sam got a job, saved
like a New Briton so he could get the hell away. Tina was a punk
in pink. We were product of her time, on her hook.

Jumble sales roared through morning. Patrick & I fell in lust with Tina,
played Cohen together on carpet, her council flat & kiddie.
She  came with me to the Broken Anchor, drank my vodka/orange
& went off with Danny whose wife was in labour.

He was a bad one, Wandsworth’s chancer.
When someone cut on his face, Danny shot up some smack
& sewed himself together…
crafts of Heath Rd, the interjections & the meat.

The Observer mentioned something about destroying rainforests, warming.
Rectory Gardens had intelligent squatters - a playwright, some musicians.
Friday baths at the Council centre, regular visitors to the Tate.
Afghan Brown in a difficult town that inhaled. What could really change?

My heroes were dying or disappearing.
Odd niches Pretty Park & horrors.
The trade in ash, comfort monkeys,
wallpaper is so English while a simple wall is criminal.

Maggie eventually lost her memories, she
was thereby lighter. The baroness watered the roses
that queue politely for buses which they mistook for suns.

poet's biography —>