Wednesday, July 29, 2009

JUMP! -14/08/2008

(minor redraft June 2009)


I can tread water,

Like there is even a grace to it,

I can breathe under water…

…at least, I try to now and then.

Never did learn to dive you know,

All I can do is jump,

A feet first drop down crash,

To resurface salty,

Burning throat and nostrils,

But I’ll be smiling,

Because I enjoyed falling.

That leap and grasp for air,

That rush of empty in the updraught,

And I seem to just,


In space for some moments,

Before the body of water moves on me,

Rushing up impossibly fast,


My limbs want for feathers and a gliders grace,

But oh no,

Down I go…

Projectile launched out to see,

With all the grace of a fridge trying to fly,

Failing, falling,

Closing on the water,

Until I crash…

Piercing right through with a splash.

My contact,

Was a flat-on-the-back bomb,

Shattering torpedo punch,

Going too deep to stay in control,

And swim.

Coughing I come up to a bubbly hiss,

With a huge air pocket in my pants.

Sting of that slap already searing my skin,


But like I said above,

Before we jumped off into this,

No matter the belly whacker smack,

That comes after the jump,

I still enjoyed, falling for you.


The last piece used from my last feature that I hadn't yet blogged. Now, onto the new stuff...

And be there be there be there oh yeah, this Saturday, August 1st, 2pm, Dan O Connell, 225 Canning Street Carlton, to see what new stuff I've cooked up. The 2 sets at the Dan will feature all new material not yet heard in public, and not seen on here (except 2 pieces that have been heavily revised) ...and am I exhausted at all this preparation or what.

It's gonna be a great show folks, don't miss it!



Friday, July 24, 2009

In The Seat Of My Pants -10/07/2008

(draft 19.06.2009)

Shake, drop,
Jack knife,
Switch blade, double back,
Switch back, back road,
Back burning, turns styles,
Down hill, thrill seek,
Free for all, free style,
A cross country off-roading,
Rough customer, who’s tough-crowding my personal space.

Outer space inner piecing together,
Hold on, hold on,
Shift the weight, take the fall,
All you got, and pedal!

Damn you to hell!

…but just keep pedalling.


As with yesterday's entry (Left Unsaid) this has a very rhythmical structure and I don't know how well this goes on the page, but I wanted to blog everything used at my last gig, so here it is. Also one of the few bits I have about cycling where I'm not mixing sexual-metaphors (at least, not that I'm aware of... ah never mind). Enjoy!


Thursday, July 23, 2009

Left Unsaid -17/12/2008


Told you so,
But I’m not gonna say,
I told you so,
And a guy walks into a bar and says,
And it’s just like I always say,
We got a saying back where I come from,
And... you don’t say,
And it’s all he-said she-said anyway,
And said the spider to the fly,
Say What?
And said God to Jesus,
And Christ said unto them,
Say it like you mean it,
Talk is Cheap,
And a word in anger,
And a way of wording it,
And say, this saying goes...

The way, in which,
I sat, waiting,
For some, reason,
Or excuse, to approach,
That girl, sitting there,
In time, before,
She got up, and left,
The table, across,
The room,

From me.

The chance, didn’t present,
So the words, didn’t form,
The girl, didn’t stay,
Long enough,
For me


So now these words,
Stay here with me,
Better left,





Monday, July 20, 2009

Volume Four -20/07/2009


It was from Istanbul,

But it began life later on in East Turkey,

Scribbles on the side of the road in Salinurfa,

It witnessed lonely nights from Diyabakhir,

Rolling into Van, Tatvan, Trabzon,

And onto the madness and whisky of Delhi,

It saw Her, in the valley,

It climbed into the Himalayas,

Went onto to the base of Mount Everest itself,

Getting its fill at four thousand metres.

It came back to Kathmandu valley, with me,

Followed me, to Pokhara where three months after meeting we parted ways,

Sent off in a black out, with a hand written receipt and a whole side covered in stamps,

That left my tongue so sore, recording all the escapades of ones who had not,

It traveled down through sub-continental India, across an ocean,

Bound for the home of its owner,

As it’s three brother had before.

It was lost… in Mulgrave.

By Australia post.

The last garbled transmissions, fragments in my mind trying to coagulate,

Duplicate down page margins,

It’s gone, it’s gone, it’s…

I can almost reach it…

From here in India,

Indiana… let it go.

Going going… on.

Three months wasted in two hundred pages ,

Three months in handwriting I can’t read between the lines of,

Lost lines when I could have been following curves,

Chasing skirts or observing others customs on a lonely planet,

Independent travel advice for an independent travelling idiot…

…don’t put precious things in the post.

But that was NOT all she wrote,

She wrote me back,

Right down the back of a fat chance,

That the book would float up back to the abode of the snows.

Was lost, now found.


The box sits in front of me,

Turkey, India, Nepal, Australia, Nepal, USA, Australia

My desk,

My fortunes,

My smile like an over-excited child,

My thanks to one woman named Hillary,

My fourth book is back the-fuck in front of me.


Oohh, you just try and get it off of me again!

...I double-dare you.

Somewhere there is a woman named Hillary Crandall, hero to a man with a fake name, insufficient hope and faith in mankind, who got a little more than both delivered to his door today.

Happy Days! Thank you Hillary.



Saturday, July 18, 2009

I Heart New York -02/05/2008

(draft 15/07/2009)

I heart New York,
I heart New York like pigeons in flight,
Flashing bike lights,
Never sleeping poetry slam Statton island man,
Crossed by the ferry man,
All canned into concrete canyons,
On huge screens I stared at in Time Square,
Where black clad pow-leece protect puddles of rain water,
Sorta reminded me of the poor pigs I pigged out on plates of pastrami prior,
Tire of piggy-backing this bag on my insanity overwhelming me spread thin my eyes on asphalt hungrily hunger for more-more want it raw galore encore sightseeing whore,
Flew open me often dropping subway tokens, start spreading the news you’re my new muse I can use these views to amuse folks back home, that shit was smokin’ still choking on the spoken words I heard,
To the beat,
You can concrete me into this jungle with you caged in a zoo exhibit where I exhibit caginess all night,
On display my power animal now craves to be fed....

Hot dogs!


See for yourself:



Wednesday, July 15, 2009

Anymore -16/07/2009

(from a draft 28.04.2008)

No one who knows who I am knows where I am,
No one who knows where I am, knows who I am.

I am,
Walking down streets where I don’t speak,
Big Apple lumping in my throat,
A fake name otherwise not knowing what to say for itself,
Don’t matter because nothing is the matter,

And it’s about time,
I'm returning it back to you,
Unused and its originally-sold condition,
Give me time if you like,
But I’m finding my lost time less than a bother,

At three AM, this city does sleep,
I assure you,
I haven't carved my name into raw exposed skin,
On the back of a Manhattan that dared me to,
Instead while it slumbers I scribble its name on me,
With a heart on my sleeve,
Right between I and the N –why.

Talking what I’ve already walked,
I've bridged the gap between you,
And the needs on the other side,
I've shared nights from stolen glances,
With their rightful owners.
I’ve been sold-on the Brooklyn bridge,
And no longer spinning centrifugal for attention,
Because it's a centre that doesn’t hold,
Can’t hold me here nor there nor anywhere,

As I collected this week to recollect,
Life stuffed full til the stitching bursts,
There’s a vague threat,
Camera strap hanging over me like a noose,
Snapping shots break-neck,
Well that’s a warning I chose to neglect,
Because, as it turns out,

I can hang,
All on my own,

Just fine.


I'm starting to finally crack into the notebooks I wrote while travelling. This bit corresponds to one of two photo albums from New York that I'm putting up online:

(the second being)~



Monday, July 13, 2009

Anis Mojgani -13/07/2009


A nugget that's been sitting in my inbox since late September last year,
Courtesy of my good friend Rohan D'Souza,
Gave me this in addition to a new predilection for Royal Stag whisky,
Binge drinking while bitching about the worst cock-teasers we'd met in our lives,
Reading me passages out of Tom Robbins' books,
While I contemplated his Bob Marley fluoro bedspreads,
What I got in exchange in addition to the above while lying in that Delhi hotel room,
Back in September 08,
Now its July 09,
And I'm feeling really really stupid.

Because I didn't have to be the last one to know,
But I am, as usual,
Worse still was that Rohan has kept on my case,
About looking this up,
Every month since then.

Rohan my man for black label bottles in back alleys,
Up stair cases in black bags,
For a few of my lousy poems and a Buddy Wakefield recital, a bargain,
Anis Mojgani has been sitting here holding his tongue since-when,
It was the time of my life, but, like~
Makes me wonder, makes me scared,
What the hell-fuck else have I got tucked away in these files that I'm yet to unearth?

Anyway, those are my issues,
And this is your link,
Smells like homework I know,
Sorry to do this to you,
I'm not the habit of just pasting up other people's shit,
Usually I figure my blog should be my content,
And that's what we're both here for,
Plus I don't want to associate myself with any kind of name-dropping thing,
But... me NOT sharing this link with anyone I can,
Through whatever means I can,
Would be like stealing something,
And short of train tickets and the odd street-sign... I'm an honest enough man.

Besides, we gotta poetic preamble thing going on here,
You might roll your eyes when you see '9.48' but I guarantee by about 2.53,
You are gonna be bummed you only got 7 odd minutes left,

I was:

On a night where writing was starting to feel like work,
Thanks Anis, booya!



Not With You At You -19/06/2009


Latching on to that laughter,
Like it’s a life raft,
And you can get out that water you were in,
Laughing at those sharks,
Who were trying to bite you in half.

And if you capsize,
You can laugh yourself back the right side up,
Laugh as if there really is enough left,
In that half-empty cup,
Laugh at the half-empty everywhere,
Drinking it up!

Chuckle like a slip over a sly word,
But laugh politely,
At the black cloud with a tongue silver-lining,
Laugh while freaks lick the smile off your cheeks,
With whipped cream in their own wet dreams.

Laugh like the error-mongers with ledgers,
Are sitting right there on your window ledge,
Vampires sucking up your follies and ignoring theirs.

Laugh like you’re on the gas,
Having a gas,
You’re a laughing ass,
Loving every minute of it,
But now unable to stop it.

Laugh at the milk gone funny in the fridge,
And laugh at your own shakes,
Your loneliness-baked brain,
Sittin' here with ya cans of baked beans,
Which means …ahahahahahahaha!

Hehe... ha,
Laugh irrationally at that rash,
An itch you let get way too scratched,
Argh haha,
Laugh at that long time since that phone last rang,
Laugh at the cold comforts from the coffee cup.

Laugh at them funny looks you get,
Laugh nervous covering nervous laughter,
Man you’re a disaster!
Not waiting to happen.

Laugh at the pains lining your face,
Laugh in laughter’s place,
Standing in due to... sickness,
Laugh your life, your love,
At losses,
Laugh it off- that you’re a loser.

Laugh as it all comes undone,
And come on down!

Like that’s a virtue,
Or I’ll hurt you,
Then laugh,
‘til it hurts you.

Yeah laugh,
And you keep laughing,
I said laugh, fucker,



Couple a'things:
Of all the redux', this one's the most extensive, with little of the original remaining. I intended it to be a decidely dark poem, but it was a little misconstrued in its original form. I don't know -opens up lots of dilemmas, accepting that something once unleashed, belongs to its audience (and not try to prescribe how people interpret your stuff).

I'm remembering that creepy little shit Ian McBryde telling me not to laugh at one of his poems, and me sneering back that it's no longer his once read out, but now here I am kind of doing the same thing.

The answer of course, is that I need to be a better (clearer) writer. I definately wrote it for peformance -to be heard more than read -especially in the redux version, with cackling in an increasingly manic way that just wouldn't read here. Page v Stage... a whole other topic, and anyway, enough thinking out-loud, though I welcome anyone's thoughts on the above.

As always, thanks for reading.



Friday, July 10, 2009

Drinking it Up -10/07/2009


"Cowards die many times before their deaths,
The valiant never taste of death but once."

-William Shakespeare, Julius Caesar

Cusp of a tall draught,

Dutch courage so cold to the touch,

Moisture beading on the surface,

Drips run down watching bubbles coming up,

In straight lines,

A pool brimming,

Collected a thousand-million eyes on top,

To watch you,

Still sitting on a waxed-polish surface.

Remembering, was brave once,

But doing nothing about it now.

Damn it's dark in here,

No, darker,

Lumps in throat that want to be the necessary words,

Thirsty eyes stay down,

Forcing themselves not to voice,

Not to sip,

And not to say,

No, it's over.

Over and over,

Fingers toying with a coaster,

Fingers shaking,

Finger needing a little longer,

Fingers trying to refute the decision,

To go ahead and grab that fuckin' glass.





Wednesday, July 8, 2009

Healthful -09/07/2009


These ones are always in front of me,
I want this, it costs that, so there it is,
But they can’t just,
Thank you.

She wants to buy cigarettes,
But asks to inspect the packs,
Something I half over hear,
About expiration dates or quality control.

Ciagarettes, that need quality control,
For the smoker, who doesn’t want to get sick,
While I'm waiting,

With arms, folded across this chest.




Monday, July 6, 2009

Don't Ask Why -22.06.2009 (draft)


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 tranquility
amongst an amazing harmony of...
traffic horns.

If the World ever needs a reality check
it will be in India the incredible
boasting more billionaires,
and impoverished peoples both
than any other nation on Earth.

If this one time a Sikh, a Muslim, Hindu
and an atheist
are sitting around together
and so the atheist says…
is this some sort of joke!
the Sikh will say

But the joke is ever been on you
and you’ll be the only one getting it
laughing yourself

What you looking at pal?

Hey don’t mind me
I’m just in India.

If the world ever needs an enema
it will be in India because
no shit
it’s in India that the shit is goin’ down man
and up
and around
and on the walls
the floors,
the fires,
the shit is in the streets
and it is definitely
definitely, hitting the fan.

If there’s ever a fuse to be blown
street poles each wired like whole phone exchanges
that in other countries might seem a little strange
it just won’t be
you’ll be in India.

If you ever had a night angry enough
to spontaneously combust,
you might have had to share sidewalks
with rows of naked children
lain on the pavements
all along the side of street
trying to grab hold of your feet.

If you have ever felt moral outrage
to be so


then you will have survived those screaming contests
between these children and your own so-called conscience
picking the one you could console

It’s all right
it's all right
it's all right
all right?

Even though you know
it’s not
and it’s never going to be.

If you’re ever feeling as filthy
as mud
on dust
on dirt
on mould
in piles of shit
sweated into garbage
covered in mosquitoes
that someone is burning for some lack-of reason
you will be in India, and


will be ridiculous.

to try to find net a connection
in the middle of major city intersection
your foregone conclusions will not be watching traffic
while walking straight into it
a pedestrian leap of faith
foregoing fail-safes
but its bumper to bumper
and you can’t walk through this

this… traffic?

Unbridled dystopian anarchy
slumped right on the door
of the planets most stifling bureaucracy.

If history can’t explain anything
never again will
and isn’t even trying anymore
if you remember then
why you long ago forgot the point
the point is

that there is no point.

If everything is gonna be fine
but whatever you do don’t look down now
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 will but you’ll never know until it's way
way too late

You never know
it might be
might be…

that you are in India.


The originally-blogged version of this was prefaced with a short poem from my friend Alex Scott:

"Everybody is gonna call everybody back,
As soon as somebody knows something."
I decided to remove it this time because I think the opening line stands better on its own now, but I still wanted to note (here) that the tone of this was very much inspired by his piece of writing.

Meanwhile: Got another gig in the pipeworks, which is why I'm here typing instead of being somewhere doing stuff (plus it's cold out). August 1st at the Dan O Connell in Carlton:

(oh and Jesus, after the near Fitzcarraldean effort it has just taken for me to paste this thing in the right place at the end of the blog, you motherfuckers better show up!)



Sunday, July 5, 2009

Safer Places -05/07/2009



Not so safe standing there,

Toes over the horizon’s edge,

Looking down on you,

From behind sunglasses.



From the end of your bed,

Back to the middle of mine,

Bedlam when we get 'em,

Merry-go-round frame of mind coming around again.

Be back over there in seconds,

Just like riding a bike,

Couldn’t forget how even if... I wanted,

To keep pedalling.


Safer on a bicycle,

With no helmet, no hands, no worries,

Nothing unsafe,

Nothing I don’t understand there.


It's safe enough,


I should be acting much smarter than this.




Wednesday, July 1, 2009

Darth Vader Died, My Dad -22.06.08 (draft)


My Dad probably couldn’t tell a poem,
From a recipe for lentil soup,
And he has exceedingly little use for either,
That’s just two of the 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 we interacted only when my 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… again.

Those phone calls to my Dad were my biggest fear,
He got mad at my behavior,
While I compared him to Darth Vader,
I liked to liken my Dad to that black evil monster,
‘cause how could he be my father,
He confiscated my possessions in punishment,
Wake up with things missing from my room and him already at work,
Not there so I could show him how much I hate him.

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, for days,
For weeks that would have been for-ever, if I could help it.

Because I was living under his roof,
His rooms, in His house,
His Television,
His unreasoning,
His bullshit, his face,
I just wanted to punch it in,
But I couldn’t,

...because he was much bigger than me.

With the end of high school and adolescence,
Our tension eased,
We might watch together some Star Trek,
And I began working on building up a HECS debt.

Without principals calling we had a kind of agreement,
In principal,
Don’t bother me and I won’t be bothered by you.

For years it was left at that,
Until I saw another photograph,
A recent one ~ when I was twenty three,
With the same face that had I scratched away from me as a baby,
My father’s face, but it was photograph of me.

And there he was,
Different hair colour,
Smaller stature, sure,
But his features were in that photograph,

Written all over my face.

As I was leaving Australia,
I heard him call me his Frankenstein let loose in the world,
We both recognize now that I am assembled from different components of him,
More than facial features,
I have found his strengths,
Frailties were similar to mine,
My father laughs like me, from the belly,
And he laughs at what I laugh at,
In a world that all too often needs laughing at.

At family dinners, Christmas’ and birthdays,
My Dad and I delve into every topic,
That polite company prefers not to discuss, (Please boys?)
My poor sisters and mother trying to duck for cover,
The women of the family will never understand,
These globally warmed heated discussions,
They can’t see the animation twinned in our faces,
Pleading with us for no more,

Of these exchanges we fire,
Like proxies for Andrew Bolt and Michael Moore.

We both –know-, an opinion not worth itself,
Lest you can beat someone else over the head with it,
Not live at let live,
Live to not suffer fools!
Who are foolish in their foolishness,
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,
We’ve found our unique way to communicate.

He still only knows as much about me as Mum tells him,
We don’t talk much, 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 own accord.

In the years between scratching out face his face,
And finding it the same one on my own head,
I re-watched Return of the Jedi with more analytical eyes,
In that movie Darth Vader the begotten dark father dies,
Unmasked, and redeemed,
Reborn in the arms of his son.

I understand those vast spaces between our words,
Those years lost opposing worlds,
The gaps of a generation generated between cats for cradles,
And discs in the DVD player, watching Star Trek together.

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

What makes my dad, my Dad.
Makes me, Me,
An apple, not falling far from his tree,
His Frankenstein is my Darth Vader.

I love him.

Simply stated.
I’m no longer 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,

Dad, at last the time has come,
To say,

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


As performed in front of the old man himself at the recent Passionate Tongues gig, a much-tightened up re-package of the original 07/12/2008 post. I should have grabbed a photo of him/us to slap at the bottom here to help sell the repackage I guess... maybe next time I start molesting old poems again. Meanwhile, enjoy.