.
Breasts.
Breasts...
They, are the best.
Oh yes,
My friends, I'm talking about breasts.
Breasts.
Man, I'm impressed,
With their shape, firmness,
And all the rest.
Breasts,
On her chest,
Believe me, I try my best.
Not to be a lech,
But I'm powerless,
When resisting temptations of...
Staring at her breasts.
Breasts,
There's really no contest,
For where my eyes get,
Stuck.
...it's just my luck,
To then get busted,
Staring at her bust,
And then I lose her trust,
Now she's real suspicious,
That I only think about what juts,
Out from, her chest,
Namely, her breasts.
Breasts.
At her bequest,
I want to be her guest,
To please make... a mess,
All over the top of those breasts,
Right on the crest,
Or directly after, a conquest,
I guess.
Breasts.
I speak on, in jest,
Not to cause offence,
But perhaps because I'm jealous,
All that attention she gets,
For having breasts.
Breasts,
Have pressed their shapes into my consciousness,
Now on exposure to them my intellectual power plumm-ets,
Into an infinite regress,
Falling far, the IQ points down, as far as it gets,
And the only thing to land on, I have left,
A cushioning idea... the one about, breasts.
Breasts,
It may seem utterly meaningless,
But it is for these, that I quest,
Though it seems hopeless,
As women ussualy just think I'm a pest,
To say nothing about letting me undress,
Getting a closer look at,
Yeah... her breasts.
Breasts.
Damnable breasts!
I say they're horrible monsters like the Loch-Ness,
And like Captain Ahab chasing the White Whale,
I too am obsessed!
By those comely breasts.
Breasts,
They threaten my equilibrium and wellness,
My imagination gives me no rest,
And it does pain me to confess,
Yes,
For all my cerebral force on fire,
It is still my basest, but greatest desire,
To simply pull up a chair,
Sit myself down without a care,
So I could just, endlessly stare,
At what she has there.
My meaningless,
Yet continual, imperishable and indiminishingly eternal zest,
To have a look over there, and gaze at her breasts.
__________________________________________________
Yeah well...
Why I pick the out pieces from the notebook that I do, and blog them, is beyond me. And all this while, people keep reassuring me I'm really a nice guy deep down. Then I keep talking.
I remember emailing the great Steve Smart and telling him that I intend to singularly destroy Melbourne poetry when I get back, he said destruction was good. Maybe we needed more terms of reference? So blame him for my misbehaviour.
-Peace.
Poetry without pretense. Occasionally with spell checking.
Friday, January 30, 2009
Friday, January 9, 2009
Don't Ask Why -08/01/2009
.
"Everybody is going to call everybody back,
As soon as somebody knows something."
-Alex Scott, (untitled)
If the world ever loses its mind,
It will be in India.
It will be in that place,
Where westerners come seeking ancient wisdom,
Amongst inadequate sanitation,
Here for a piece of peace and harmony,
Amongst an amazing symphony of traffic horns,
That will always be unfinished.
If the World ever needs a reality check,
It will be in India,
India the incredible,
Boasting more billionaires,
And impoverished peoples both,
Than any other nation on Earth.
If the world ever needs an enema,
It will be in India because…
No shit,
It’s in India that shit,
Is goin’ down man,
And up,
And around,
And on the walls,
And floors,
In the fires,
Streets, roads, footprints,
And definitely, definitely,
Hitting the fan.
If there’s ever a fuse to be blown,
Or a movie shown,
Song and dance lights showing,
Street poles each wired like whole a phone exchange,
That,
In other countries might seem strange,
It just won’t,
Be,
Because, you’ll be in India.
If one time a Sikh, a Muslim, a Hindu and an Atheist,
Are sitting around together this one time,
It won’t be a joke,
It’ll be a peaceable conversation,
And you, will be in India,
Ah ha ha hah.
If everything is gonna be fine,
As long as you don’t look down,
Now,
You’ll be in India, my friend.
If there ever was an exception to the rule,
A sore thumb sticking out,
Lose thread,
Or something better left unsaid,
It was all in India.
If history never explained anything ever,
Or ever again, yep,
That’d be India too,
You,
Will be trying to find internet connections,
At five past nine in a city of two point three million,
Otherwise fine folks,
And fail foregoing fail-safes,
Laughing yourself,
Hysterically cynically, stiltedly,
Jadedly, fanatically,
Not watching traffic walking,
All the way across jammed intersections,
I reckon,
Oh ah ha hey hey,
How you doing,
Sorry you can’t get through,
Jokes on you,
A ooh ooh ooh,
Get it get it,
What you looking at pal?
Don’t mind me,
I’m just in India.
If there was anything that ever,
Really actually,
Went wrong,
Or could, or might,
Or should-have-but-didn’t,
Or won’t-but-watch-out-because-it-still-might,
Or won’t you’ll never know,
Until its way, way too late,
Mate,
You never know…
It might be…
It might be…
In India.
If you really feel like asking why,
But know there’s no-point,
Boy,
You know what we’re talking about,
With scams and and tricks and hotel touts.
India.
It’s the hair of the dog’s gory story,
In an allegory wagged by the tails,
Of greener grass glass houses green house effecting,
Selective judgment days and nights,
Like the one with the rows of naked children,
Laying right down the side of Chandra chowk,
A hearing-contest,
Screams between,
With you and your own so-called conscience,
Back to sleep you,
By saying it’s all right all right all right,
All right?
It’s all right even though you know,
It’s not,
And it’s gonna be,
You know what it is,
And it is just,
That you,
Are,
In India.
________________________________________________
Oh and the title? It's in reference to something a fellow traveler at New Delhi airport I disembarked with said, that I couldn’t quite gel into the body of the poem, but really wanted to include. She said to me “Don’t ask why, you’re in India now, there is no ‘why’“. Not to sound smug or jaded, but in all candor, I seriously can’t stress how effective that advice was, having explored some Zen riddles a little while in Nepal, it… kinda… works.
Good night folks.
-Peace
.
"Everybody is going to call everybody back,
As soon as somebody knows something."
-Alex Scott, (untitled)
If the world ever loses its mind,
It will be in India.
It will be in that place,
Where westerners come seeking ancient wisdom,
Amongst inadequate sanitation,
Here for a piece of peace and harmony,
Amongst an amazing symphony of traffic horns,
That will always be unfinished.
If the World ever needs a reality check,
It will be in India,
India the incredible,
Boasting more billionaires,
And impoverished peoples both,
Than any other nation on Earth.
If the world ever needs an enema,
It will be in India because…
No shit,
It’s in India that shit,
Is goin’ down man,
And up,
And around,
And on the walls,
And floors,
In the fires,
Streets, roads, footprints,
And definitely, definitely,
Hitting the fan.
If there’s ever a fuse to be blown,
Or a movie shown,
Song and dance lights showing,
Street poles each wired like whole a phone exchange,
That,
In other countries might seem strange,
It just won’t,
Be,
Because, you’ll be in India.
If one time a Sikh, a Muslim, a Hindu and an Atheist,
Are sitting around together this one time,
It won’t be a joke,
It’ll be a peaceable conversation,
And you, will be in India,
Ah ha ha hah.
If everything is gonna be fine,
As long as you don’t look down,
Now,
You’ll be in India, my friend.
If there ever was an exception to the rule,
A sore thumb sticking out,
Lose thread,
Or something better left unsaid,
It was all in India.
If history never explained anything ever,
Or ever again, yep,
That’d be India too,
You,
Will be trying to find internet connections,
At five past nine in a city of two point three million,
Otherwise fine folks,
And fail foregoing fail-safes,
Laughing yourself,
Hysterically cynically, stiltedly,
Jadedly, fanatically,
Not watching traffic walking,
All the way across jammed intersections,
I reckon,
Oh ah ha hey hey,
How you doing,
Sorry you can’t get through,
Jokes on you,
A ooh ooh ooh,
Get it get it,
What you looking at pal?
Don’t mind me,
I’m just in India.
If there was anything that ever,
Really actually,
Went wrong,
Or could, or might,
Or should-have-but-didn’t,
Or won’t-but-watch-out-because-it-still-might,
Or won’t you’ll never know,
Until its way, way too late,
Mate,
You never know…
It might be…
It might be…
In India.
If you really feel like asking why,
But know there’s no-point,
Boy,
You know what we’re talking about,
With scams and and tricks and hotel touts.
India.
It’s the hair of the dog’s gory story,
In an allegory wagged by the tails,
Of greener grass glass houses green house effecting,
Selective judgment days and nights,
Like the one with the rows of naked children,
Laying right down the side of Chandra chowk,
A hearing-contest,
Screams between,
With you and your own so-called conscience,
Back to sleep you,
By saying it’s all right all right all right,
All right?
It’s all right even though you know,
It’s not,
And it’s gonna be,
You know what it is,
And it is just,
That you,
Are,
In India.
________________________________________________
Oh and the title? It's in reference to something a fellow traveler at New Delhi airport I disembarked with said, that I couldn’t quite gel into the body of the poem, but really wanted to include. She said to me “Don’t ask why, you’re in India now, there is no ‘why’“. Not to sound smug or jaded, but in all candor, I seriously can’t stress how effective that advice was, having explored some Zen riddles a little while in Nepal, it… kinda… works.
Good night folks.
-Peace
.
Friday, January 2, 2009
"Fuckin' Poets" -29/12/2008
.
"They say alcoholics are always alcoholics, even when my lips are dry..."
-Ani DiFranco, Fuel
"Humans must be the only species capable of hating themselves"
-Anno Hideki, The End of Evangelion
"My keys don't fit."
-Henry Rollins, Get in the Van
"You've changed? I think... weather changes, and we keep on making the same mistakes."
-(John Criton), Farscape.
FUCKIN' POETS
You can feel,
A million hands on you at once,
Squirm,
Sense being touched by them all.
Your eyes are hurt,
Everywhere,
By the whole,
Of it.
Poet.
You have a skin,
Covering you,
Only so you can cover it,
In those scars,
And it's as thin,
As,
A contraceptive membrane.
You have eyes,
Window-pained,
Seeing out as if through glass bricks,
In a bathroom steamed up,
In the showers,
You take,
Hot and cold.
You are barely...
Or not at all,
You kill with looks,
And died each day,
Suicide,
In heart failures.
Poet,
You've been so short,
In the distance,
And seen,
So far ahead of yourself,
To understand the doom before the threat,
That might lead to it.
And you don't know,
You really don't know,
Where.
Or how.
So missing these from the recipe,
The why,
Is overcooked,
Other ingredients still,
Overlooked.
Poet,
If what you say is true,
That only,
What you say is true,
Was true,
You're a poor poor soul,
Impoverished soul,
That is.
You're a butterfly,
Caught in the chaos,
Of your own storms.
Poor soul,
You really do,
Want the cake too,
To have it,
Not to eat it,
Just so you can tell them...
Tell them, yes,
Tell them all about...
The hunger.
Or about how beautiful the cake is.
Or the anticipation,
Of eating eating it.
If only you could.
Or tell them about,
The last bad dining experience,
You had,
Or,
Whatever because cakes... pfft.
Poor-soul that you are,
'cause its a cake-walk,
For the rest,
While you're off wandering,
Unfed through forests of the trees,
For you to read,
Into,
Between lines,
Trying to find,
The real reason,
While your stomach,
Stays empty.
You,
Poor,
Poor,
Soul.
You fuckin' poet.
____________________________________________________
;-)
-Peace
"They say alcoholics are always alcoholics, even when my lips are dry..."
-Ani DiFranco, Fuel
"Humans must be the only species capable of hating themselves"
-Anno Hideki, The End of Evangelion
"My keys don't fit."
-Henry Rollins, Get in the Van
"You've changed? I think... weather changes, and we keep on making the same mistakes."
-(John Criton), Farscape.
FUCKIN' POETS
You can feel,
A million hands on you at once,
Squirm,
Sense being touched by them all.
Your eyes are hurt,
Everywhere,
By the whole,
Of it.
Poet.
You have a skin,
Covering you,
Only so you can cover it,
In those scars,
And it's as thin,
As,
A contraceptive membrane.
You have eyes,
Window-pained,
Seeing out as if through glass bricks,
In a bathroom steamed up,
In the showers,
You take,
Hot and cold.
You are barely...
Or not at all,
You kill with looks,
And died each day,
Suicide,
In heart failures.
Poet,
You've been so short,
In the distance,
And seen,
So far ahead of yourself,
To understand the doom before the threat,
That might lead to it.
And you don't know,
You really don't know,
Where.
Or how.
So missing these from the recipe,
The why,
Is overcooked,
Other ingredients still,
Overlooked.
Poet,
If what you say is true,
That only,
What you say is true,
Was true,
You're a poor poor soul,
Impoverished soul,
That is.
You're a butterfly,
Caught in the chaos,
Of your own storms.
Poor soul,
You really do,
Want the cake too,
To have it,
Not to eat it,
Just so you can tell them...
Tell them, yes,
Tell them all about...
The hunger.
Or about how beautiful the cake is.
Or the anticipation,
Of eating eating it.
If only you could.
Or tell them about,
The last bad dining experience,
You had,
Or,
Whatever because cakes... pfft.
Poor-soul that you are,
'cause its a cake-walk,
For the rest,
While you're off wandering,
Unfed through forests of the trees,
For you to read,
Into,
Between lines,
Trying to find,
The real reason,
While your stomach,
Stays empty.
You,
Poor,
Poor,
Soul.
You fuckin' poet.
____________________________________________________
;-)
-Peace
Thursday, January 1, 2009
Setting -28/12/2008
.
Watching her,
Fallen asleep,
Glowing band of colour,
Where suns just set,
Moments ago,
Light now covered behind,
Eye lids.
Sitting by her side,
It was still not quite night,
It was still warm,
The air,
I was still close enough,
To her,
Still enough twilight remained,
That moment,
It was still okay,
For me to still be there,
Sitting next to her.
_________________________________________
-Peace
Watching her,
Fallen asleep,
Glowing band of colour,
Where suns just set,
Moments ago,
Light now covered behind,
Eye lids.
Sitting by her side,
It was still not quite night,
It was still warm,
The air,
I was still close enough,
To her,
Still enough twilight remained,
That moment,
It was still okay,
For me to still be there,
Sitting next to her.
_________________________________________
-Peace
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