To be a trucker

•November 1, 2009 • 6 Comments

I’d like to be a trucker

fuck the world off from

the cabin of my

Western Star prime mover,

flip the bird at every herd

of sheep I pass by,

take speed and

feed the highways my dust

by day.

By night I climb atop my rig

write poems, smoke cigars

under an umbrella

of country stars.

I’d like to be a trucker

singlet and faded ink uniform

lover in every town

they’d love the thrill

of my giant shiny grill.

I’d like to be a trucker

fuck the world off from

the cabin of my

Western Star prime mover.

 

Meaning is murder

•October 22, 2009 • 7 Comments

There was once a time

when a poet, unabashed

by rhyme and meter

with strong feelings on a matter

would (shockingly) write a poem!

.

If a poem weren’t enough,

then over civilised tea

or booze or mound of blow,

with like-minded poets

she’d write a manifesto!

.

It used to be, be it Beat

or Vorticism, New York School

street poets with degrees

not blasted for apparently

having pompous pedigree

as though university made them dumber.

.

And speaking of Blast

what of the Imagists – those

sometimes lyricists who

gave poetry to modernity,

composed with musicality

discard romantic impracticality

still they fought against banality.

.

If tomorrow a painter

paints a landscape

would the other painters,

preoccupied with geometric shapes

concur that she is a most-mod killer?

If The Smiths were right

and “meat is murder”,

then the poet who writes more

than skeletal bones, and word-games:

that guilty poet should be tortured.

.

Thanks to post-modernity

these days poetry thrives

the poets save much time

using ampersands and lowercase,

no more bland meaning or metaphor.

And with all that time on their hands

they blog their guts out

about what they aren’t doing,

and comment, comment, comment

spewing scrollable opinion

not like those scholar minions

who, unwilling to publicly defecate,

still use poetry to communicate.

the new generation of poetry

•September 29, 2009 • 4 Comments

wow. another — poem  published    like    the

poet and computer: 1 in the same  nauseated

rhythm like the bus   driver    keeps    hitting

the   breaks /  dashes  fr   commas   cos   who

needs   grammar   in   2009?    &  i  thought:

alright / ok — why am  i  so  resistant  if  this

is the way of the future even if this makes me

lmao & why not  use &  constantly  &  fuckit

just ride  the new  wave  –  txt   msg   poesy

back   chuck  to  rock  pools  of   fashionable

idiocy   /   murky   meaninglessness    chuck

up in my mouth @  the thought  that  this  is

the  new  generation  of    generated    poesy

most time spent hitting  spacebar  to  get   it

looking    squarish  /  cos  that’s  what’s  hip

&    the  publishers    love  it  cos:   (@ poet)

“omigawd   it’s   just  like  everybody else’s:

pure  genius”  /  no longer  art  –  just word-

games  in  the   realm  of  hangman   seems

dismally appropriate.

so…

•September 11, 2009 • Leave a Comment

here I am

here we are

on the bus

610, 2am

and

there’s  rock in my ears

Audioslave, Tracy Chapman

and then some Tool, Tea Party,

realisation that this line

don’t go all the way

home.

Flirting with the

72 year old driver

“I’m 83,” I say and

he don’t believe but

he take me home, no less and

we’ll be friends til the last of us

dies

he says

“I’ve a girlfriend”

sure, of course

and the Uturn

after the roundabout

is about

the closest thing to a hug

I’ve had in weeks,

So  bless this

bus driver man,

really, fuck all that

white-line dot dot passby

and

bless him.

And his wife who he tells me

passed some months back.

I’m sorry for them

him, her, my pure

being.

Bless and

thank you sir.

For

Taking this poet home.

letter to my cracked ribs

•September 10, 2009 • 3 Comments

We need to talk.

Rather,

I need to talk to you two.

There is a distinct lack

of commitment to cohesion

here.

*

You were required to adhere

to my rules

and to the cartilage

holding us all together,

if one barking cough

is all it takes

to break your resolve, then -

we should break up.

*

I know I can be difficult

controlling

stay out late at the pub,

but I need you

you need me.

*

I see this is painful

for you

it hurts me, too,

our fractured bond has hope

if you’d only let me

help you

help yourself.

the first stage

•June 5, 2009 • 6 Comments

This is the first stage.

Racing ’round blue highway

bends delight, in waiting

migrating north and upwards

mountainous inland

to see you in a sweet jazz band.

And the room seemed huge

that night, darkened with the hordes

sitting, listening to the strum of chords

each string plucked

right out of me.

Outside, afterward

May mist and cigarette smoke

cold and hot,

a thousand clicks above

the level of the sea,

by the hotel rooms

where I knew you’d be

smoking the jitters away.

We’d spend ’til the next day

in your suite upstairs

truth or dare with fire, inspired

by the red light night heater humming

above the bed.

Words of love never spoken

I left and wrote to you a poem

in the stairwell on the floor

slipped it under your door

the morning light rising

triumphant, slow

time to go

it’s time to go.

rule#1: girls should be seen and not heard

•April 18, 2009 • 10 Comments

Said the rockstar:

If you go into somebody’s room,

after a show,

you don’t mention it.

No exceptions to it

Get it through your fucking heads.

Was what he said

in a public domain

blaming the girls of the day

for making stars pay

for a quick lay or display

of appreciation.

Once apon a time

the sublime girl in velour

was taken on tour, not used in private

she was the muse in the soul

of some great rock and roll.

Now she is shut up

in cheap rooms where she sucks up

her identity so wifey back home

wont foam at the mouth

next time rocker tours south,

and no songs are about her

she’d be sold out in an hour

and put out, still on fire

and despite her devout desire

and love for the tunes

rockstar still can’t ditch her too soon.

Thank him, girl, for letting you near him

for letting you be his ear, for the night

then pushing you softly

til you’re out of sight.

And you have no right

to divulge your delightful meeting

not your business to share,

not his preference to care

to recall that you were there at all.

Because he’s not just a man

he’s a husband with fans

and the exchange in his room (get a clue)

was just a favour to you.

letter for the better

•April 12, 2009 • 4 Comments

Dear Old Burning Sun,

I’m moving to

the darkside of the moon

to glide and croon

where there’s no scorching

none of your witless whiny talking

no pre-menopausal wrath

from your inner bitter psychopath.

I escaped you oh so cleverly,

see you never,

Sincerely, Me.

oh Mickey, what a pity this poem is so bad

•April 7, 2009 • 4 Comments

This is not funny anymore.

Not caring to live or die

cop out without a reason why

too tired to cry just letting the wells fill

and empty in silence:

very un-Australian

be a man

build a bridge.

We fucked it up last time,

but last time I was young, with young skin

firm and round enough

to bounce right back.

This time I’m deflated

I’ve had the life sucked out of me

I shake and I ache and actually

need.

We all need a reason why.

If we fuck up again

there will be no bouncing

not even any lifting of soles

off the sidewalk, anymore

just this hollowed shell on the floor.

Trouble is you’re no stranger

trying to engage me

at a bar, on a date

out late amongst the flocks

where I tick boxes the others can’t.

No, you know this sad old shell too well

to fall under her charming spell.

No-hope is not funny anymore

the sadness is rendering me boring

and if I weren’t afraid it might kill me

I’d advise you that we’re both grown

and you know better

than not to leave me well alone.

Hellbourne in a blue dress

•April 5, 2009 • 1 Comment

So, Hellbourne,

the romance is rekindled,

I come home to you

to find dust and fire

and a rent-rise letter via

registered mail…

Did you not desire me at all?

Or, is this my punishment

for the Sydney-scented

stain on my collar,

after a three-month trial separation?

Will you turn my friends against me,

hold your sex-appeal over me,

ram a big tram into me

and listen to me quake through shaking knees,

make me see

through stencil art messages on walls

and the lights on expectantly

in your ally ways at night

awaiting me,

showing me

that you’re the one;

Hellbourne in a blue dress

you’re the one for me, bless.