Wednesday, December 31, 2008

Two Thousand Eight -31/12/2008


This year,
I could almost count,
Intimate encounters had,
On one hand,
That weren't with that hand,
On the other hand,
I can count this year itself,
As the best one,
I've ever had.

This year gone,
It saw stock markets fall,
My dollar decreases,
In the crisies',
Then at least,
As a stock, my own life's-value,
Split and sky-rocketed ten fold,
Through its experiences,
Not that I would trade it,
For anything else.

This year,
Found my voice,
Yelling hoarse,
As I learned the lyrics of alone,
Off by heart,
Singing all the words in the rain,
Washed me clean across,
Forty-three cities' streets,
And two overnight sleeper trains.

That weather now on my face,
One year sunrises,
Five continents later,
They used to say I looked young for my age,
This year,
No one says that anymore.

They say,
In so many words,
I'm heir apparent,
To the outrageously fortunate,
To a life now taken hold,
A year later not feeling so old,
As I used to.

One year,
Once around the sun on this planet we go,
And I've made friends all over it,
From all over it.

Life, time,
You can feel pieces of them both,
Twinned in every breath you take,
Inhale it all from the air through nostrils,
And out again from your mouth,
You can renew,
These gratitudes,
There in every breath,
Or take them as simple platitudes,
Down to your death.

I'm thankful,
For it all,
End of year you old acquaintances,
Are not forgotten,
You friends I've never met, yet,
I'm writing a general 'thank you',
To this life,
That is only and that is the least,
I can do.

I, we, Us,
Got a lot to celebrate,
From this year passing,
Two thousand and eight,

It's been the greatest, funnest, crasiest, bestest year I've had, to date.


In 2008, I've had a year that can barely, scarcely, poorly be contained within that four letter word. So, wherever, whoever and however you are, in whatever circumstance you find yourself in today, in this life, you have my best wishes, and hopes. May you find whatever it is that make you smile. Twice over.


Tuesday, December 30, 2008

Not With You At You -29/12/2008


Laugh yourself in half,
Laugh like a life raft,
At long last,
Or a parachute catching your up-draught.

Laugh like there's enough left in the cup,
Then laugh yourself the right side up,
Laugh like it’s all you know how to do,
Like that laughter can save you,
Giggles going to see-you-through.

Laugh like you’re the left-over,
Wedding feasts from funeral meats,
Laugh like the unconscionable king,
Or the lunatic on the grass,
And chuckle like slips over a sly word,
Laugh like the black cloud,
Lines lining the silver tongue,
Licking laughs off your cheeks,
With whipped cream,
In wet dreams,
Down streams that break at the seams.

Laugh like error-mongers,

Sucking vampires of their follies,
Laugh like the drunken monkeys,
Riding schooners,
High speed into brick walls,
Then arguing with the conductor,
For more change,
Exact change,
To the deranged.

Your wicked witchcraft.

Or I’ll hurt you.
And laugh ‘til it hurts you.

Laugh like it’s gonna flesh you out,
Dig you in,
Fill you up,
Taking hand-biting feeds,
On your chin,
Hold your humour within,
My bad taste,

I said laugh, fucker,



Monday, December 15, 2008

The Music, Man... -15/12/2008


The screen, is cracked,
Or shattered, to be exact,

You better, just relax,
Just cool out, and deal with that,


. . . AH CRAP!


A shorty today, but maybe a little more fun that last round? Meant to have something a little meatier ready, but we're outta time, rhymes for these lines... etcetera, and I'm running late, late for a very important... prior engagement.



Tuesday, December 9, 2008

In Whore Eyes -09/12/2008


“Asking all these questions ain't highly recommended,
They’ll eventually get answered if you put time into friendship,
That is if what you’re doing is helping and it’s not like you know until you, uh…

…reach the ending”

Sage Francis, Agony in Her Body

You want those eyes to adore you,
Those eyes… do not adore you.
Those eyes,
Look like vacancies,
Light-up signs at a hotel,
On the road,
Those eyes aren’t a home,
Nor a real shelter,
From the storm you're stuck in,
They're just a sign,
Saying you can stay,
If you must.

Nothing looking back at you,
Not eyes not-looking back,
No ~ nothing looking back,
At you.

No matter,
How you feel that body move,
Under you, in front of, on top of,
Feel the twitches and see spasms,
You’re sure this is all real,
Like the mattress beneath you both,
Feels thin and possibly hiding stains,
It’s a bit like her, liking you,
In this dim light you’re in.

Looking back,
Nothing trying to find you,
Coming for you as you’re diving in,
It will find you through flinches in a tangled blanket,
A mangled top,
Twisted bra on the floor,
Two matching shoes at opposite ends of the room.

You’re unseen and drowning in her out-of-focus.
You’re the cause of all this friction,
The lengths you go to in her,
Into her nothing, you see,
Eyes that won’t look to hold you,
Eyes you’ll plead to hold you,
Begging as physical exertion,
Each thrust says,
Please her, please me,
Show me,
Something there,
Can’t these eyes grab onto you?
Pretend for a bit like you’re something,
Make you believe you could be,
Allowed somewhere inside her head,

You can access one of her voids,
In exchange for another.
The body answers,
Pleads with her too in a chorus with yourself,
But the windows of that soul,
Are shut,
You’re thumping knocks unanswered,
Eyes not heeding, needing or holding promises,
Eyes not lust more fear, at her fearlessness,
Not what happens when you come out,
Not exactly regret,
But simply embodying you,
As… the time-being.

You are her fatalism,
As a vessel,
Leveled against the dregs,
Of four beer bottles,
That have all accidentally fallen off the walls,
That she keeps up,
To keep men like you, out.

While your walls are all down,
To stop you together needing,
What you’re wanting from her.

A fable explaining,
What you can, and cannot have,
That girl, woman,
Who sleeps in this room,
Beautiful, sharp,
Utterly alive,
Met earlier that evening,
Nope, not allowed to have her,
In the blank stare back,
That much is clear.
You can have her like a slut,
Who has alcohol,
Who has a roommate out,
Who has nothing better to do,
Than make a mistake,
Out of you.

Those eyes speak of transaction,
Not seduction,
Fucking eyes that she will not give you,
For her all her sounds,
Her gripping on the head board,
Facial twitches,
Grimaces, you know these movements well,
But the eyes worked against completing her face,
Eyes that won’t allow the rest of her to see you.

Eyes that are looking at you,
Like a ghost story,
That scares her.

Tinting her twitches bitter,
The eyes will keep just the one thing else,
From everything she’s let you have,
That long hair, ear lobes,
Hips down to labial folds,
Her legs that should be all-yours.
The eyes steal everything back,
What you’re taking from the break in,
They’re not going to give in.
Will not let you have,
A moment with her.

Those two dark orbs.
You swear,
See right through the back of you.

Her daytime eyes are not yours to have,
You cannot keep,
You cannot hold,
You cannot touch,
Thief, cheat and hollow man.
Look at your hard earned prize,
Looking back.

In all this,
You’re getting nothing,
From a real her,
Just damned eyes that’ll leave you,
Both later to despise yourselves,
Because you’ve been seen,
As you might look in the eyes of a whore,

Now she really wasn’t this,
But this is really what her eyes gave you,

And you didn’t particularly like what you saw.


Now, just remember the opening to the accompanying quote, before you comment. I've blogged a lot lately, consciously, becauase tomorrow I'm off the beaten track again for a while. So until next time-



Sunday, December 7, 2008

The Last Word -13/11/2008


I banner for cowards,
Enlist with the liars,
The black humoured,
With theives for the calvary,
There are wars,
Fought through ear drums,
Decided in ball points,
There are enemies,
At the short end of the pen I hold,
There are hostilities,
Delcared in these keystrokes.

There are targets,
Our objective,
To raze a subjective,
To the ground,
The Mongols reach Baghdad,
These are the words,
Wanting to be destroyed by other words,
A warzone marked on a map,
Campaign unfolding across prose pages,
With my own hand-writing,
For whatever this is that,
And which is what,
Struggles against it's shape,
It strategy,
Refuses attempts at being described.

Evading the pitch battles,
In my ink-by-the-barrel,
Anger the likes of Ahab's worst rages,
Against the whale,
A need for furrowed brows,
For set jaws and fast walks,
To define myself -what is not,
To define myself defiant,
To re-define the self,
Of the group,
Of itself.
Of my shape,
The space I inhabit.
And all its possibilities in deadlock.

The laughter,
Comes sharp daggered smiles,
And blunt speach,
I throw words at this like,
Angry student pelt police riot shields,
I fuel words catching on fire with words,
I'm all smoke-and-mirrors now,

The self-conscious threatens,
The interests of a truer self.
Throwing myself into the work and throwing that all,
Over the edge,
Burn the bridges back,
Bets are off,
Burnt hedges and now fire-the-breaks,
Catapult phrases after another,
Each going over my walls,
Projections trying to hit something,
Smash something,
Hurt something,
Wreck something,
Get at something inside,
That needs destroying.

Some storm,
Some waves and the rumble,
Surrender and disarmnements,
That aren't coming,
With condition or negotiation.

Destroy myself -in so many, many words,
Simply because no other could,
Knowing not what you try preserving,
As empty stomachs were drained to fuel,
This war machine.

The stomach for it,
The very reason I'm compelled to attack it,
Make a new self,
Build to kill an old one,
Tear that bloody thing down too,
Keep tearing,
Till I can't tell you to stop,
The russian doll in razors edges,

Truth under seige,
Trojan poets
Carthage comprehension,
A Leningrad of lies,
All of them, in me, comprised,
Laying down trenches around,
My inner-court walls.

Hammer away,
Targets for the dents in that thing,
The seams,
The seemings,
Your weapons are my words,
Yielded to malice,
The violence vividly describing,
A soul bought in the binges,
Verbose bargaining,
Going once... and sold.

Pay for the war efforts.
Fight to the lasting.
Me against me.
No alliances sought with you.
Bordering on disputes,
Outside territory stays nuetral.

While inside, an invasion force launches
No terms for surrender offered,
None accepted,
It's myself against me.

Fighting, to see who gets the last word.


-Peace ( our time)

Darth Vader Died, My Dad. -07/12/2008


My Dad probably couldn’t tell a poem,
From a recipe for lentil soup,
And has exceedingly little use for either,
That’s two differences between us.

In fact for the longest time,
All we had in common,
Was a shared fondness for Star Trek,
And a loathing, for one another.

Back then,
Our interactions came and were formed,
When the school principal contacted him,
Your son is in detention,
Your son is out of control,
Your son is about to get kicked out of this school,

Those phone calls to my father,
My biggest fear,
That’s how I grew up,
My worst enemy,
Just out to punish me,
Or otherwise a father, whose never there.

He got mad at my behavior,
While I compared him to Darth Vader,
‘Cause how could he be my father,
I liked to liken my Dad to that black evil monster,
‘Cause I didn’t feel like his son.

He used confiscate my possessions in punishment,
Wake up to find things missing out of my room,
He’s already gone to work,
And if only he had been there,
I could have shown him,
How much I hated him,
Never gonna forgive him,
Never ever.

When I was sixteen,
I scratched off his face,
From my infant photograph with him,
Had no right to hold who that baby became,
Doesn’t know who I am,
Spend time with me and doesn’t try.

Didn’t ever want to talk to him again,
And didn’t sometimes for days,
For weeks that would have been for-ever, if I could help it.
Because I was living under his roof,
In His house, His rooms,
His Television,
His unreasoning,
His bullshit, his face,
I just wanted to punch it in,
But couldn’t
… because he was much bigger than me.

My adolescent time passed, our tension eased,

With the end to my grueling high-schooling,
Without principals calling,
We have a kind of agreement in principal,
Don’t bother me,
And I won’t be bothered by you.
We might watch together some Star Trek,
And I began working on building up a HECS debt.

For years, it was left at that,
When I saw in another photograph,
The same face that had I scratched away from me as a baby,
Became…my own face.
Different hair colour,
Smaller stature, sure,
But there he was, his features all over my face,
And more.

Started from that one photograph I started to find,
All his strengths and frailties were similar to mine,
When my father laughs,
He laughs from the belly,
Just like me,
But it’s not a thing he confiscated for penance,
Just a shared sense,
Of black humour,
A world that all too often needs laughing at,
Whether you swing from the right or left.

When I left the country.
In affection He called me,
His Frankenstein’s monster,
Let loose in the world,
This is how I see myself too.

I’m assembled from recognized,
Components of him,
None of them now grave or hateful.
I became the impudent boy that he is,
My Dad mellows, more youthful with age,
As I ratchet up grim rollercoasters of rage.
A strange trade.

Those long years in between his scratched-off face,
And finding my own place in life,
Saw me now re-watching Return of the Jedi,
With a closer, more analytical eye,
In that movie Darth Vader, the evil monster died,
Once begotten, the dark father shunned for years
But unmasked and demystified by time,
Redeemed and seen reborn in the arms of his son,
It’s geeky, it’s a monstrous conceit,
But I saw the force of good in him,
Through his similarities to me.

We took years learning not to fear one another,
This brings us to this summer,
I will be away for his birthday,
And Christmas day,
Where usually every year,
My Dad and I delve into every topic,
That polite company prefers not to discuss,
(Please boys?)
My poor sisters and mother,
The others have to duck for cover,
Pleading with us for no more,
Of these rounds we’re firing,
Like we proxy for Andrew Bolt and Michael Moore.

Across the table and platters,
The women of the family will never understand,
These globally warmed heated discussions,
They can’t see the animation twinned in our faces,
Thriving in impersonal mercurials,
We both convinced we have the monopoly of truth,
Then, call a truce,
Agreeing to disagree,
Both in glee having dueled with a worthy adversary,
A way we’ve found to relate,
Our unique way to communicate.

We know us both,
An opinion not worth itself,
Lest you can beat someone else over the head with it,
Not live at let live,
We both feel alive when we striven,
A life not to suffer fools,
Who are foolish in their foolishness,
And if they could only see how foolish they are,
But they just don’t get it… the fools.

He still only knows as much about me as Mum tells him,
We still don’t talk much,
We can drive somewhere together,
Two hours in the car yet exchange all of ten words.
The sum, of differences,
Between lazily watching slow films in fast forward,
And a guy, who can’t service a bike of his won accord.

I understand those vast spaces between our words,
Those years lost opposing worlds,
The gaps of a generation generated between,
The sixties and the nineties,
Not cats for cradles,
Just discs in the DVD player,
As we sat watching Star Trek together.

We really don’t to say much wih words,
In order to understand each other,
Because every time we meet now,
I understand his personal quirks somehow,
Things that became the more important parts of me.
Not just who I turned to for help keeping my car on the road,
Or taking the brunt of the financial load,
Lending me a few grand,
To extended my travel plans.

More than simply this,
He is the very source of that strength in my hands,
Holding the driver’s wheel and never yet causing an accident,
He has shared a keen mind with me,
Our knack for insights,
Plainly missed by lesser minds,

He enjoys his books and his bikes,
A quiet drink,
Some time alone to think.

It’s what makes my dad, my Dad.
All the same things that make me, Me.
An apple, not falling far from his tree.

I love him.

Simply stated.
I’m not going to leave un-articulated,
So like David said to Captain Kirk at the end of Star Trek 2,
There something I’ve wanted to say to you,

Today the time has come,
To say, Dad,

“I’m proud… very proud, to be your son.”


Well, couldn't think of what to get my Dad for his birthday this year, so I wrote him this, and emailed it to him earlier today. God knows what he'll make of it. I found it surprisingly and incredibly difficult working this subject matter into a piece of reasonable length, clarity, accessibility or artistic merit, but... considering the absolute mess it was as late as this morning, I'm reasonably happy with it, although another rewrite and edit down to something more athletic will happen at some point. For now, I'm just glad to have delivered on time.



Saturday, December 6, 2008

The Lazy Traveler -06/11/2008

"Here's to the death of the lazy traveler!"
-Shannon Ford

I saw the death of a lazy traveler,
Falling off a bus roof-top,
Into the frays of Nepalese hotel touts,
He scattered them like disturbed dust,
Blown off the maps,
He landed in fields of mustard yellow flowers,
Thudded on the dirt,
A sound made like how rhinoceros footfalls should thump.

…But don’t.

We buried the lazy traveler right there,
Behind the Banana plants and jungle vines,
Dressed in his dark sunglasses,
Inside a free Tibet t-shirt,
Two sizes too big for an Israeli kid to wear,
His was the air conditioned,
Recommended set breakfast,
Seat feet rest, and all the rest.

The Lazy traveler fell to his death,
No handle on it,
And couldn’t hang on,
He’d asked for sunscreen on top of this bus,
On top of the world,
As it drove by kilometers of trees,
Painted chalk grey,
The sun was not seen protection enough,
The sun has no wrinkles to laugh from,
And no pity for pink skin.

The lazy traveler died bargaining for his life,
The journey of that lifetime,
Not sold packaged by an agent,
Couldn’t buy his way out of this one,
Not marked up or watered down,
Sanitized for the sane of mind,
Never-minding the tree branches,
He would never need to duck under,
As the bus lumbered on,
Like a train to Jordan.

His final resting place,
Resting between the getting there and away sections,
The easy to follow directions,
Far from beeps of trundling jeeps,
On dusty roads not described,
In resort brochure picture placards,
Far from the hotel lobbies,
Of the hot water showered,
Nails, hair, scrubbed,
Conditioned, condition.

The lazy traveler not a local language speaker,
Attempts dying down his throat,
He chokes on his own words,
Not knowing anyone else’,
On the way up.
On his way down.

Lazy traveler died,
Catching the dis-ease,
Of a comfort zoned out of bounds,
The risks,
Sweat heavy strapped to his back,
Sideways for pear-shaped for god sakes,
Not traded for anything else,
That might kill him,
Slowly, un-really.

Instead dying amongst the unruly,
An observer,
Roof surfing,
Forgoing those forgone conclusions,
And testing assumptions,
In limits not recognized,
Nor observed.

The observer,
The dead lazy traveler’s inheritance,
To gratify,
For the conceited,
What he needed,
To keep going,
All the while knowing,
That each step is merely the first,
In unending sequences of what comes next,
Life in the faster lanes driver's seat,
The sustained appetite for all you can eat,
Get it while you can,

Got a life stripped down,
The lazy traveler died a quick death,
Buried in a backpack,

Among friends,
As we become, again,


That you only need to dig a little down, to find so much more out there.


I just wrote this 'live' -sitting here wading through a pile of emails that I haven't checked in nearly a week.

Back to India soon. Feeling ready for it, last few days have been incredible.



Tuesday, December 2, 2008

Ninety Two Percent -1/12/2008


The ninety-two percent at sunset.

Tourism charter,
Down by the river,
Warmth still trapped,
Behind camera lenses,
In twenty one languages,
Admired in deck-chair phrases.

Our new alchemist,
For clouds gone gold,
Trees crowd the scene from us,
Surrounding the view,
Tigers over there,
Same way that I'm really naked,
Under the all these clothes,
Under a clear sky,
Vast, sans nimbus, cumulus',
Just a few stretch-markings,
White on blue, all turning pink.

I flutter my thoughts,
As birds mumble back across the sky,
As it understates the moon,
Hung there at the wrong angle,
The crickets still applaud anyway,
At the imperfections,
That I crowd here with

Could gaze away,
Ninety-two percent of them,
Away from this,
Away from me,
Away with me.

Expanding to fill the sky,
Set the sun,
Everything in its place,
Everything that gathers a crowd,
All of it,
Fashionably late reflections,
Inside blinking slithered light on waters,

The sun ushered down now,
Behind receptive trees,
Some covenant to keep,
The jungles secrets,

Across the river,
Keep them safe,

From the ninety two percent of me.


Written at Sauraha, right on the edge of Chitwan National Park, Nepal. My first entry for notebook number six... and here we go again.