| Napowrimo’12: Poems 27, 28, 29, 30 |
[01 May 2012|12:05pm] |
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27: All Cut-Up About Bill and Brion.
(a prose-poem composed using a variation of the ‘cut-up’ method and randomly selected FB updates.)
Adam,We are all good.. all good silv – David, that would have been to have a look see today for his AuntMimi, Ha, ha! Yes, caught up last weekend , but its closed to the public Charlie and Maren are just back started raining again this arvo John's mum was killed by a drunk driver Visit.He's infiltrating the film industry as you know. from IMAX walking with dinosaurs but not torrential. river has subsided, when John was 16. I'm good, at Kangaroo Point now and I have been painting rooms here... will see what the morning brings When John was a kid he used to go to watch the Elvis movies, writing goofy poems, so John thought "that's a good job!"that managers don't like them in their office either Watching grand final, Steve, I can tell you from first hand experience if it rains all night. and when Elvis would come on the screen, (that inspires no confidence –went up the road to the local dam Googong)keeping out of mischief. I can tell you from current experience if it is 'dangerous' and it goes all the girls in the audience woul...d scream, we will be well and truly wet that teachers don't like smart-arses in their classroom, but I don't care who wins...as it's only about 5ks away!). hopefully we will see you all soon! Adam Ainscough We are all good.. all good silv – David, that would have been to have a look see today for his Aunt Mimi, Ha, ha! Yes, caught up last weekend , but its closed to the public Charlie and Maren are just back started raining again this arvo John's mum was killed by a drunk driver Visit.He's infiltrating the film industry as you know. from IMAX walking with dinosaurs but not torrential. river has subsided, when John was 16. I'm good, at Kangaroo Point now and I have been painting rooms here... will see what the morning brings When John was a kid he used to go to watch the Elvis movies, writing goofy poems, so John thought "that's a good job!"that managers don't like them in their office either Watching grand final, Steve, I can tell you from first hand experience if it rains all night. and when Elvis would come on the screen, (that inspires no confidence –went up the road to the local dam Googong)keeping out of mischief. I can tell you from current experience if it is 'dangerous' and it goes all the girls in the audience woul...d scream, we will be well and truly wet that teachers don't like smart-arses in their classroom, but I don't care who wins...as it's only about 5ks away!). hopefully we will see you all soon! 28. Past Vs Present
I love taking a record, out of its sleeve, holding it between my two hands and putting it on the turntable that’s plugged into my PC. I surf the interwebs, post and comment on Face book, and listen to the ye-lode music of yesterday, on vinyl records. Which is better the present or the past? Then or now? Neither and both. It depends. 29: Henrietta’s Photo. Sans makeup, and looking beat, Henrietta doesn’t like the photo of herself. She thinks (believes) that she looks tired, haggard, fat, ugly, and goofy. She cannot see what others can see - her beauty, honesty, bravery, kindness, her genuineness She can see those things in others (and bring them out in others) but she can’t see them in others. Maybe one day. 30. Procrastination.
I will write a poem tomorrow.
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| Napowrimo '12: Poems 24, 25, 26. |
[27 Apr 2012|01:05pm] |
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Poem 24 : Fleeting I am a unicorn. You are an elm tree.
Together we are symbols
I was a cymbal. You were a vein
that carried blood through a Persian cat’s body. I was Europe.
You were South America. I was young. So were you.
We sailed the Seven Seas in a ship made of our discontent and disappointments.
I was truculent. You were succulent.
I was a hand without fingers.
You were a fly without wings
I was King Kong. You were Fay Wray.
I was blind. You were deaf
I was Liberty. You were Death
I am old. You are old.
I am. You are. I was. You were.
Sic transit gloria mundi Poem 25: Prowl, Howl, and Growl. I run out of my home,
into the streets,
and I howl at the full moon.
Somebody calls the cops
who take me to a mental health facility
where I’m assessed by a psychiatrist
who just happens to be a lady lycanthrope.
So we go out
prowling, howling, and growling. Poem 26: The Symbolic, the Imaginary, and The Real Intrepid angels play winter banjos
as reluctant demons bellow in despair.
Skyscrapers crumble and fall.
Bees take nectar from honeysuckle roses.
A monkey eats a millipede
A stampede of cattle roars through the business district.
An old lady rocks in her rocking chair,
her mobility scooter is being repaired.
Pink flamingos think as they drink from a pond.
A little blonde girl has lost her red shoes.
K. stands on the shore, before the Law.
The Famous Five are trapped in a cave, on Smugglers’ cove.
The world ends with an implosion of images.
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| Poem 23: Words |
[23 Apr 2012|10:54am] |
Old Joe knows
what was said
but he’s a guy who tends
to interpret social interactions.
He wonders
if what is said
is what is meant.
Does the mouth say one thing
but the body another?
Is it a matter of sincerity
or of politeness, or even manipulation?
He can’t take things
at face value.
It’s a blessing
and a curse.
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| Poem 22: Blue-Tongued Lizard |
[22 Apr 2012|05:39pm] |
Every year, for the past few years or so,
a blue-tongued lizard has come to visit me.
Each year, the lizard is larger than the last time
I’ve read that BTLs can live up to twenty years
I’d like to think that it's the same lizard
who has survived despite the feral cats,
the roaming dogs,
and all manner of big black birds
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| Poem 21: So Much Depends On Money |
[21 Apr 2012|08:00am] |
(with apologies to William Carlos Williams)
I lost my job
and I couldn’t keep up with my payments
so my red wheel barrow,
my white chickens
and my icebox
were all repossessed.
But not your plums.
I ate them.
They were delicious.
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| Napowri'12 - Poems 20. |
[20 Apr 2012|12:26pm] |
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Poem 20: Untitled
One warm autumn night
a cat and a fat chicken
drank lots of cocktails.
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| Poem 19: 1973 |
[19 Apr 2012|12:23pm] |
The kids swim in a blue
vinyl above ground
swimming pool
sans protections from the sun.
The grownups smoke,
joke, talk, and drink
as steaks and sausages
and onions sizzle on
on the barbie,
and Johnny O’Keefe sings
“The Wild One”.
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| Napowrimo'12 poems: 15 to 18 |
[18 Apr 2012|01:39pm] |
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Poem 15: Block. Oh, woe is me It’s half way through Napo’ and the flow of my poetry has stopped. My mind is blank. Maybe I should have a wank and write about that. Drats. While that was a good wank, It wasn’t worth writing about. And my mind’s still blank Wait. Maybe I could use it as a metaphor for the stimulation of the creative process? No, that would be intellectual wankery, not poetry. Perhaps, a good sleep will arouse deep poetic thoughts from the depths of my unconscious mind, maybe something delightful, profound, beautiful, and not obscene. I guess I’ll just have to wait for day 16 Poem 16: Mistake Sam made a mistake and she fell into the Lake of consequence. And no matter her attempts at penance things just went from bad to worse (even worse than this attempt at verse) But with the help of his family and friends, and his own determination He rose up from the depths of misery and now he lives a life of pleasant contemplation. Poem 17: Olive Olive wakes up, in a park, under a jacaranda tree, wearing a purple dress with purple polka dots. Her feet are bare. Each foot has a tattoo Of a hippopotamus talking to a turtle. She blinks, once, twice; scratches her head then gets up and walks to the train station. Poem 18: And Then Suddenly, quite suddenly a rollercoaster appeared in the middle of the maze in which I was lost and I found myself on top of this rollercoaster in the middle of the maze in which I was lost. And the carriage that I was in started to plummet down, down, down and when it reached the bottom it shot up, up, up into outer space. I passed Jupiter, Mars, and Mercury. and, finally, I splashed down into the Pacific Ocean where I saw a giant octopus, a narwhale, and a B52 plane.
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| Contented |
[14 Apr 2012|10:28am] |
Dusk. Comfy in his chair,
on his porch, John drinks
hot chocolate from a light
blue mug as he listens
to Booker T and The MGs
play Green Onions.
Red leafs cover his front yard.
The sky’s red as well.
“Red in the morning,
shepherd’s warning;
Red at night,
shepherd’s delight”
he thinks.
A ginger cat rans by
chased by a brown dog
John lights up a cigarette.
His white land line phone rings
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| Daffodil Town |
[13 Apr 2012|04:09am] |
(With apologies to William Wordsworth and John Cooper Clarke)
I fucking wander the fuck around
as fucking happy as a fucking cloud
The fucking daffodils do fucking abound
Their fucking yellows are so fucking loud
as beside the fucking lake, beneath the fucking trees,
they fucking flutter and fucking dance in the fucking breeze.
These fucking flowers make me fucking keen
to fucking keep it fucking clean
Fucking nature should be kept the fuck sublime
Whosoever pollutes it is a fucking swine.
And they fucking should not be fucking found
anywhere in Daffodil Town.
Often when I’m fucking lying on my fucking couch
in a fucking vacant or pensive mood
I see those fucking flowers upon my fucking inward eye
which is the fucking bliss of solitude
And then my fucking heart with fucking pleasure fills
And fucking dances with those fucking daffodils
Well that is pretty well fucking much that
Better daffodils then some fucking twats
Fucking acting like fucking rats and fucking brats
Yeah, when I’m fucking feeling fucking down
I fucking go to fucking daffodil town
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| Clouds |
[12 Apr 2012|08:15pm] |
Once upon a time,
whenever I looked up at clouds I saw all manner of wonderful things: Angels, ballerinas, carousels, dragons, elephants, fire engines, Godzilla, horses, ice-cream cones, jumping castles, kites, lions, mice, numbats, oak trees, polar bears, Queen Nefertiti, Rhinoceroses, sailing ships, tremendous explosions, unicorns, vessels in pestles and chalices... in palaces that held brews that were true; wildebeest sweeping majestically across plains, xylophones, yummy moon cakes, and Zoom!
Nowadays,
I usually don’t have the time to look at clouds and when I do
all I see is clouds or impending storms and rain.
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| Broadway on My Mind. |
[11 Apr 2012|06:56pm] |
On Facebook, we cool
people with hundreds of friends
claim that we are "crazy" "individuals"
On the streets,
truly crazy individuals
wander about,
friendless and alone.
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| Jigsaw |
[10 Apr 2012|09:14am] |
It's the wild dogs of despair
that call out for justice
as they sit and watch sailing ships that sail on by across the seas.
Bulls cry in china shops.
Babies float in the sky like waves of green
echoes that arrive in ever increasing stages of devastating woe.
Woah! The horses aren’t coming together
the way that they should.
Where is your mother?
Where is your mother?
Who is the owl that sits in that old oak tree?
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| Napomowri’ 12: Poems 7, 8, and 9 |
[09 Apr 2012|05:09pm] |
7) I Ate/She Ate
I ate mushrooms
She ate walnuts
I ate a chicken
She ate a duck
I ate a platypus
She ate an echidna
I ate a rhinoceros
She ate a lion
I ate a daffodil
She ate a rhododendron
I ate a mulberry
She ate a blue berry
I ate a banana
She ate an enchilada
I ate a mint slice
She ate an iced vovo
I ate a chocolate mouse
She ate a point
But I didn’t have one.
She ate a Pavlova
I ate London
She ate Sydney
I ate the history of philosophy
She ate the philosophy of history
I ate the Capitalism
She ate all three waves of feminism
I ate substance
She ate style
I ate form
She ate content
I ate meaning
She ate subtext.
I ate the galaxy
She ate the space-time continuum.
8) According to the Eyes
Betty collects eyes
she keeps them in a big county fair type jar,
next to her bed -on her bedside dresser.
They are all human eyes of various ages, genders, races and ethnicities.
She travels around stealing people’s eyes
She takes them out their sockets
as their owners’ sleep.
Or sometimes she might to do
What she calls a fuck’n’ pluck.
Before she goes to sleep at night,
She looks at her jar of eyes
and asks,
aye nor nay?
The ayes always have it according to the eyes.
9) Destiny
This is not a suicide note
It’s a poem.
But when you read it.
I may well be dead.
Dead from perfumatic overdose.
I’m on a train,
a cruelly crowded, bleary-weary eyed
sun-not-quite-yet-up train.
Thank God, I have a seat.
But the woman in front of me
must have doused herself with a bucket load of perfume this morning.
Her pungent, overpowering bitterly oversweet pong
Is affecting my ability to think and breathe.
I am hallucinating.
I am like early 70s cartoon Superman confronted with Kryptonite
Must. Escape.
Must. Get. Out. Next. Stop.
Must Continue. Documenting My Demise. In. Form of. Hyperbolic. And some what
overly prosy -Narrative Poetry.
Forgive this woman for her aromatic trespasses, Father, she knows
not what she does -for her olfactory senses must have sinned against her.
Just as her outrageously over applied scent has sinned against my nose and me.
Is this the end?
Good bye Piccadilly Circus,
Good bye Trafalgar fair
Good by Savings and Loan Company,
Good bye cruel world.
But wait!
What light from yonder window breaks?
It is the sun
And the next stop is come.
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| The Unbearable Ogre and The Townsfolk |
[06 Apr 2012|11:15am] |
Untimely and unseemly,
the unbearable ogre has come.
and the townsfolk yell out for justice
and just ice and vanilla slices
and caramel tarts and mangoes.
Some people start to tango,
others set off to get their burning torches and pitch forks.
Suddenly, a monkey appears
Is that really a monkey?
Mabel, the town’s hairdresser, asks.
What is it doing?
It looks forlorn
Like a pineapple painted white.
Taking his leave,
The ogre heads off to the markets
where one can buy porridge
for a dollar a bowl.
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| From Lambrettas to Lamingtons |
[05 Apr 2012|11:03am] |
As Alice makes lamingtons,
the sun shining through her kitchen window
reminds her of the days that she and her friends
would ride their Lambrettas around the streets
and suburbs of Sydney.
She smoked Gitane cigarettes back then,
and some weed, and she had snorted
her fair share of speed. Now she needs
to make these lamingtons for the school fete;
then weed the garden and feed, Maurice, the cat.
As the lamingtons bake, filling the kitchen,
with the aroma of chocolate,
she puts on Martha and The Vandellas’ “Heat Wave”.
Her three year old daughter, Sandie, begins to dance the ‘mashed potato’
“Look at me, Mummy, I’m a Mod!”
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| The Deed |
[04 Apr 2012|10:25am] |
Steve stares at the hands
that have just killed his wife, Patricia.
A moment before the deed
they had been his hands.
Now they are the hands.
A fly crawls up the kitchen wall.
Brutus the cat eats his chicken and liver.
Patricia’s body lies slumped on the floor.
She wouldn’t shut up.
Steve didn’t mean to kill Patricia,
But she wouldn’t shut up.
In the distance,
The Jam’s ‘That’s Entertainment’
can be heard,
and, also a dog barking
and a siren.
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| The Journey |
[03 Apr 2012|11:16am] |
He fills his canoe with the Marshmallows of Portentous Gloom
and rows to the Island of Impending Doom.
He walks to the Edge of Despair
and sits on the Rock of Maudlin Woe
He eats the marshmallows one by one
until he falls to sleep.
He is awakened by a song
that is a Madeline,
a time machine,
a therapy session.
He becomes a lizard –turtle –duck.
He dives into the Waters of Acceptance,
and swims home.
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| The No Good Family |
[02 Apr 2012|10:16am] |
Let me tell you about the No Good Family.
There’s a no good mum,
and a no good dad,
a no good daughter ,
and a no good son.
They have a no good dog
and a no good cat
who’s too lazy to catch the no good mice
and the no good rats that run around
the no good place as no good bats
hang about in no good trees and eat
no good fruit.
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| My Heart and Soul |
[01 Apr 2012|10:04am] |
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We’re leaving,
my heart said to me.
We’re going around the world
to see what we can see.
I’ll miss you guys, I said.
And we, you, my soul replied.
Then they left and I died.
Metaphorically, I mean.
If I had actually died
I couldn’t have written this poem.
And by ‘heart’ I mean
the seat of my emotions.
And ‘soul’ refers to my essential essence
that has been forged by the circumstance and experiences of my existence.
Three months and two days later,
I got a postcard from them.
We’re in Florence,
my heart had written
Having a great time.
We wish you were here.
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