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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
