Friday, April 28, 2006

Photon Ed (He's wrong in the head)

Secretly he captures you
Telescopic lens with film.
He holds the negatives
In the palm of his hand.

They have
Photons that once touched you.

Reflected, absorbed, you.
His little ray of sunshine.
In the palm of his hand.

He has you
In his blood lit dark room mind.
In the palm of his hand.

Photon Ed, he's wrong in the head,
Photon Ed, he wants you......


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She, eyes so desirous,
serpentine hair, sitting there
arms outstretched, dangling asps,
a balancing scale , measuring me
in the glasshouse
where men may stay
but not live.

He, brute strengthed bully,
horns erect,
you chased me
to the congregation next door
who entered in pink silks
and left in blue.
I should have faced you.

Am I ever to meet your ilk again?

O Scar Award For Best Performance.

A scar that has healed
is just that much tougher
than your innocent self,
speaks silently of life lived
audaciously if incautiously
voraciously not vicariously.

Your wound is
intimate not distant,
forgetting is easy
remembering hard

Pain belongs to your body
It is not you.
Pain is separation.

Thank you.

On Inspiration

Seeking inspiration
I retreat to my back porch
on a moondog misty night.
I draw
from a cigarette, unfettered
by authoritarian longevitists.
My feet cool on the damp deck
under the illunarmated night.
A company of arachnids,
crickets and moreporks
play to the Southern Cross.
There is a rain-soaked printer
waiting for just the write moment
for its penultimate journey to the shed,
the recycling bin is semi empty;
its contents could never reveal
their story to archaeologists
who deal with dirt and the dead,
beer cans and wine bottles all still
from the jam with Ian and Andy,
a plastic laundry bottle -
cheaper than its cardboard refill,
all tastefully disorganised.
The barbecue doubles as a plantstand
and the rubbish bin remains
in practical proximity
to the back door.
A spicy stack of firewood
lends scent to my thoughts
as I entice words
to compost the detritus of my day.

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Saturday, April 22, 2006



Fanned by some of the beat mynds of our generation
I stood and burned on Port Albert Road
A rounded hipster, connected to the fiery machinery of light
And heat. The lava ash of poetry ,
insatiate with a can of rtd, a package of cigarettes a candle
burned alive in my innocent polycotton shirt
Like a fabulous yellow roamin candle,
I aint worth Jack
Saying common things, yawning, desirous of nothing.
O, what a panic's in my breastie, what bickering brattle
Burn Motherf***er burn
My wound is owed to Calliope, Ginsberg and Robbie.

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Thursday, April 20, 2006

In Reply to Dig In

Sometimes it amazes me
We use rhyme with simplicity
Our brains show their dexterity
With linguistic synchronicity
Although at times it may seem twee
I think with Bob we can agree
That rhyme occurs so naturally
And grown with some tender care
Brings forth beauty for our ear.

To read Dig In visit here

Wednesday, April 19, 2006

My Tiki Self

In these two feet
I stand
Wherever I am

Tuesday, April 18, 2006

Mynds I

Closed eyes
Begin descent
Distracted by light
and amorphous colours
centred between
and behind my eyes
my mynd
sliding down tunnel
forever curved
a roller coaster drop
toward a light
doppler colours streaking past

step out of my skin
flesh and bones
like so many clothes
hang up my worn emotions
Is it a condition
to have no emotion?
Or reality?
I hear a roaring
there is a river
like magma
churning through
my incorporeal being

into the river
it runs through everyone
every thing
every where
burning me
burning my words
pulsing, pulsing
coursing through me
I arise anew
to you
and all....

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Tuesday, April 11, 2006

Lifes A Peach .. or maybe a nectarine.

I push your shiny skin
probing gently
Your flesh is firm
giving just so
Finding a sweet spot
my mouth closes
tasting your nectar
parting fleshy integuments
opening your blush

Hungrily I devoured
your seductive habit

and faced the stony wall
crenillated and hard
from a life accustomed
to protecting your special K
your secret place...

Scared that you may give life
Scared that you may take life.

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Swan and the Duck

oww oww oww
hard day at the office
stick the pig, stick the pig
ooh ooh ooh
wait till she walks on the bike path
killing me, giving me cancer
give her a mirror with
'You're ugly on the inside too'
scrawled in blood
red lipstick.

Tuesday, April 04, 2006

Surrender in Obeisance

Bradin, bless his 1, 3 and 5 a.m. wakings
rolled onto his tummy for the first time,
freed his arm , and lay there....
Bryanna discovered the joys of singing
and clapping to nursery rhymes.
How she wished she knew the words!
Shelley beavered on with her dolls house project
all M D F and holes.
She has completed two children since starting.
Myself, having coffeed my way out of
a feeding fog, and marginally minded the kids,
mused over God and Evil.

I ensensed a world where
perfection and goodness were all.
Everything was like air,
invisible, tasteless, odorless, quiet,
pressing and perfect.
Pressing but unfelt,
senses and soul undisturbed.

The myriads genuflected godwards
oceans to the moon
in unison, unknowing, unaware.
God, though the creation was good,
got bored.
Chaos, fear and evil were unleashed
from a dusty niche of the pantheon.

The myriads, though mostly confused,
now knew choice.
At last they could know God.
How much sweeter
they surrender in obeisance.