See Sea Over Dews in Cenduna

Garment government town sea dunes sea front loot.

See new in Ceduna nah school fish for sea news.

A long the great bitten beach bright open shores,

Sea over dews sees sea of jewels.

Mining town know for worker on the mine, sands for the calls,

Now most are old or tow the young to contracts the works.

The first look, oh they natives rumi a rum run this places, we’ll see who pays the town bills and rates.

Town camp people rush by every day yarning away as if there past people’s fished walked swim worked in theses parts.

People on foot, some in wanting shoes looking for a bit of drink just to keep cool from heat away and let cold drink in give the strength to walk another K or to home camp sleeps. At nights sad seam’s Ceduna awaits a new light moon on morning afternoon sights.

The polices are as cheep as dogs looses in a rubbish heap.

Every face knows a face and if the bodies different then it’s sussed for a much they got, for tomorrow living.

The native tidies are coming to see dews new sea town sure shores, so clean up wear your best wear be common on the hello bro? So the business is in the higher market more mauls trails and buggers to eat and make the blacks fat as fat.

Ceduna reminds a blackfella wipe apart as a small mission but with still white controls.

Past by travelling fork up the money to a fake crossing, yet the painting caves big in notes, while centre links is line is like second home for a cup of papers in your mouths.

There are family’s back in the old land right duck pound beach holding house now, the one’s who fought for little lands, that belong to there parents spiritual, yet the rates or rents are still no payed to the right full owners, the big say so of the bills are bigger than ever.

Health to who will give a jobs to those not of progress,

Some Indigenous cultures draws significants in needs of Ceduna,

Some speak lounges, most speak English are down an out by voices.

Arts are about in a shop, same as spots is about as balls are kicked up and down the street in towns ways, so the cops get the balls and up sets the parents, skins names are heard then touch in the poorest senses.

From town to town their history is many parallels over stories of movements life and dying of family’s, yes but6 the race lives’.

Up and down the coast reconnects are happening when attention is the issues.

But why must a people work for a land sea killing shills.

The manner of convenience is modern,

Yet bush believes is still fortunate,

Self-owning an addressed stay is like up today new wave walkabout.

Access is there, but how to anticipate is the spear for keys futures.

Most unable agreement is make by low cost then queries those off permission.

A author go on to ask for a story, but get told no some one took my story and never gave me nothing back in return.

Delay by due changes always happen here sitting and looking at Ceduna.

But the installation of kind way is felted.

But pains tame the wild,

If you know then good advise is solely in the sea you soon of take a trip to Ceduna seeing the dawn and how the days meet the people’s.

Its once was the community they wanted it to be, may the creator help their futures by sea sand sky and no more lies for the Ceduna town ship

We wait by the day care place for our turn to talk art and walk with each other now time as no sea sky day or night to our gathering, we get free food tea anything needed for our day to day life always, see you all around Ceduna nah mate S.A

Posted in FOGARTY | Tagged

The Sydney Opera

When poetry is the condition of ordinary speech, all speech is poetry, every breath is metaphor.

The stars no longer dock in the Sydney sky, they have dropped anchor at some unseeable harbour.

The stars are crossing the night unseen: the sea is slurring: it’s too drunk on history.

Here, on this earth, the white man has set light on fire; he has made it dance to his darkness, and called it Vivid.

The moon has been summoned to earth: it’s an installation that even wears a fucking halo, it’s worth only a selfie.

Says Lionel: It’s not that I don’t know how to behave among white people, they don’t know how to behave with me.

What was taken from water was given to earth: once from this land rainbows soared out of the heart of Biami.

But what the white man took can never be returned: in greed, he surrendered his own humanity.

Lionel surprises Anna Bligh—former premier of Queensland, Labor too—at the Sebel Pier One hotel:

Hey Anna, this is Lionel. Me, Lionel. Remember? I demonstrated against you. Now I’m sipping beer at the pier.

Yes, thank you. I seem to have arrived. You’ve not seen me in days? Oh I’ve not seen myself in days.

What’s a black man doing in this part of town? is a question decent white folk do not now ask in words so many.

They’re proper, law-abiding people. They take country and are nice about giving us a little earth under our own sun.

For those of us to whom all speech is poetry, there’s always a place: in the Aboriginal Tent Embassy. But then you see:

The sun is aboriginal. Moon is aboriginal. White is aboriginal too. There ain’t black without white, no day without night.

I want to put two hands on this yellowing evening sun: one yours, one mine. I want to trap light in time.

I want to take you on a walk to country: to see that the stars are not all dead: I want you to eat my mother’s heart: Come:


(For Lionel Fogarty and Ali Cobby Eckermann who threw some light on Sydney and me. 2.57 a.m., 24 May 2015. To be read with, or after, ‘Richard Green tells a story of the loss of Country’ where poetry is the condition of ordinary speech)

Posted in 75: FUTURE MACHINES | Tagged

Cops are poets on the looks sit hears cobs


Lionel Fogarty | on pigs skpies

(COMMON COPS COBS AND CODES)
He the poetry fee mans says yes greater idea,
To have cops who done wrong to first Australians’
Get out a books in personal poloidal postconiel poems.
Well it will sell as pigs fights pigs ,piss on shit
P=process I interdents G guts Sorting .
Police pleasant in laws,outars your home poet lawless.
She says polices literatures’ will be ripe,
Cliveing palms hands four leafs climp
Wagon as if protest writers stood ,
Over 10 cops associated at a paddy the wagon
Poets don’t honk a yakka don’t know your smell ,
Nah never buys polices poetry yet ,out of the uniformed where,
Is your formed words.
He’s saves the David an lion,log an log writings invitee’s
Frontlines offices writers to be pub wished dead launches;
Officers do lit bug literatures’.
He rights wings appeared to show alines to cop of the enfroces
That killed took cizten lifers aways.
To have equality siting talking with authors protest challenges’ poets
Now’s for the fee;
Sell us these class fall for unity turn bull sorter literatures’.
(So the cops can’t write this seeks peep weeps by their morning
Honking honest ,nights drians officers writers,
Mad pig days sleep to arisen ciztens to ,
honk

Posted in FOGARTY | Tagged

No Cites like the Cites Hum In

This cities are builted on times land.
Whites made a date to root their women’s
Season flow in times of hardship
winds live below the feets that walk
the flower smell on the mouth we smell.
Fields desires passion for workers pays are hard yacaring
Bend on back,send to spend never expect lended.
All towns don’t twin cities cos your unemloyments
tongus are adanceing over number
(who want to work for an opperssioner anger)
The mountain kiss a ever-lasting love,stop houses being made in mountain.
Let the cave below the seas be our beds
Have the ray shine by ground skies giving a path-way over lands recratives.
This cities don’t remind me of the countries once was.
Hate hidden by white man calendar in 800 years,
one big museum ,as even eyes await rain drops in the dry light off days.
Were are the many stars
Were are the so much clounds
May space stop the travel by sit down and lazzy out people’s ;
(Make no bills for the billi’s) Soil is a toil needing all to recoil).
Your cities are not our living life
but you all live not shared and must have grassroot rights.
Homeland is earth’s lust ,High class shall fall as shatted grass.
They dust tail in details for a cause spend on the big notes.
Written land can now till the cities where they are going.
Fields of face,give all flowers lit lifes
Fields of body gave all work greater words.
It’s times for the poets of real justice in
all sence to take over resigons polaltic ,(also the Mac book ”funny hands on faces”
It’s stop time for all to care to kick war out of extines .
This is a timeless cities musised by tunes told and untold, Hey yet to be written .
Remmber the gun wespon are them?
800 TO ONE

Posted in FOGARTY | Tagged

Never Worked

He wave his fingers saying he’s a worker
Work to the breeze off pride,
Word winner made heat powers run.
Work together in sunshine machine society,
Brings version over our sensuality.
Harvest highways for the drivers find,
Safe life living eyes on the ears.
Boiling to top my feet seems weak
Being down on the ride arm out of reach
Pride every day must not astray.
The breeze that never air inner gave,
Non-powers was un-kind.
The cities around worlds unknown,
Saw the hurt before it caused bloods to flow.
The flowers a brighten a morning dew passing,
By bodies not yet entwine.
Work what to day no numbered as if dogs and cats are priceless.
Man wanting space of séance to be the last forest,
Man using our minds for rich around speaker’s words.
Working in silence brings not the thing wants on needs.
Boil now the tea; boil now the wind on rains we and I needs.

Posted in FOGARTY | Tagged

Yo I Am the Man

Who gave you woman
don’t know who us is ha ha
Vioce the name black babe
Not our son ,not our Daughters
Yo who your name means
What voice give’s sound to the works off a poet writers
Yo who your word name gave to the creative perforers.
Hey voice’s of no meaning singuling on vioce over
box stand over makes no unity;
Pure voice,pure poet’s .
Your name voice man made no childrens art word
life long stories .
Where the name span by White man name up
a black man useing the name for message .
What gave the name rights man right to rewrite history
by given change to the land names.
Cities name made us blame
Ideninty live on name’s by cultures rename the voice
emity by a lies call.

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Conquer Slaughter’s

Digger lion’s goal

have to =====$$
No warrior’s cult threats invisible vibes
Dumb bounded by digging a lions genocide
Syntax blotched greed;
Let the frontiers frontline wise surface non greed
A destruction end when poison tongues gave
Honouring obligations.
‘’Tablespoons off set futures sip dip lips
Reinforce white dominance makes,
Mind set by create divisions

Negative gate mouth where always
Titled by question of how too
Boardrooms perspective.
Syntax text of battles honour
Will give repression modern
Ancient engaged fights.
To show history one sided “shines no’’
Tow stories echo as designed Oh.
Capitulation stole spiritual origin
Madden disadvage discrimination.
No conversation are needed on
Who knows?
No common mutualists’ occupants
Rich order governance supremacy
Measures apply by bestow devils.
Live no reoccupy every sites are taken
Revitalizing extraction
Dispossessed continuation by connection
Sacred histories, well severed on impacted reclamation;
Unique face living being present off grandfathers lived
Being vital resource pride reoccupy truth shield,
Museum treating history declaration
Debates be activity movements in highest
Attempters conquer slaughters

Lionel G Fogarty 2015 16 11 time 8’22 am tried on these day.
Sat day time wrote 3.29 14 /11/20`15

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affirmation of becoming

common idiotic ibis
observing vertigo
picnics on the dunes
sloping long weekends
for trends in decomposition
an aerial shot:

three-eyed houses infused
with tendrils grasping
busy silence
chanted goaded
plastic still lives
into persons or
personhood

Posted in 75: FUTURE MACHINES | Tagged

How to Save a Life

(start terminal session)
uploading file: “mark.wbe”
time to complete upload: 56.2 hours
> uploadFolder: “Mark_family_photos_1985to2025”
> uploadFolder: “Mark_personalDocs”
> uploadFolder: “Mark_audiofiles”
> uploadFolder: “Mark_family_videofiles”
> uploadFolder: “Face_recognition”
> uploadFolder: “voice_recognition”
> uploadFolder: “personalitySim”
> uploadFolder: “randomQuirkexpressions”
> save selected files to “mark”
> run diagnostics
> associate emotions + prioritise intensity: high>low
> Test: “Hello?”

Posted in 75: FUTURE MACHINES | Tagged

Solidarity

When we remember being born
death is a star or a synapse
fearful. When we read minds faces
disappear or we as jellyfish
dream a quaquaversal conversation.
When we touch histories skin tunnels
into choice as all the senses
of a yawp
fetishize our monologue. When we
grow limbs organs constellations
mystics love mistakes. When we fly
through the body healing phantoms
pareidolia causes cancer
so we become impenetrable.
When we work we clean images.
When we swarm for the first time roses
are read. When we move things thinking
that this be done in the absence
of permission all that grief is ours.
When we know the mind is quicker
than light and when we know the mind
is quicker than light we are apt
to smile. When we dematerialize
or level up
the very how of fancy
what we fancy speaks to speak with us.
When we see the future storms taste
of reflux. When we create dimensions
everybody receives a pet
apocalypse and many choose
evergreens. When we summon wind
water fire electricity
there are no others or appraisals.

Posted in 75: FUTURE MACHINES | Tagged

Geodesic Suite (Excerpts: XX)

past planet PAST hash kibitz
hurtle zone PLANET advice gift
HASHURTLEDDO
KIBITZONEARTHS
eddo earths ADVICEYESAVINE eyes tsking
savine gods GIFTSKINGODS garish sins
AGOGARISHOLD
BABIESINSTORKS
agog babies SNAKESPITOUTER hold storks
snakes wake WAKEMOTERISE touter rise
BEGINS
LIFE

spit emoter
begins life

past planet has hurtled

do kibitz on earth’s advice

yes, a vine gifts kin

gods ago garish old

babies in storks

snake spit outer wake

mote rise begins life

Posted in 75: FUTURE MACHINES | Tagged

Taking Bets

The woman drives past the bottle store. She is on the look out for signs of Bob. His steely smile was meant to be looking out across the lights. Bob had told her so, said he’d signed for the shipment from Rotorua. But all she could see was Air-to-There and the outline of the sun behind the island. It made her head hurt. Bob, what’s the deal with the signs? I’ve been looking everywhere. Bob. Mate. Bob. You there? Beryl retraced her steps. Bob had said he would be at the lights. She scans left and right, foot hovering over the brake. Her Honda purrs onward but as the light turns she comes to a smooth standstill. She tries to message Bob, but her phone turns ‘no sign’ into ‘nosing’ and she drops the handset. Bob is at the computer, tapping with two fingers: Dear Ken, We’re still waiting. Please advise. Bob. Mate. Bob. You there? Yes, Beryl. I’m here. Yes. I hear you. Yes, Beryl. I’ve pushed the button. They know we’re urgent.

Posted in 75: FUTURE MACHINES | Tagged

Here in Daylight

a continuous outdoor room
cloud lines the ceiling
you move around unpainted walls of air
no proportions to ignore
though the room contains daylight
you cannot switch on flower colours, or turn on greenery
there are no flavours to taste
no odours to conceal
others, who are not here
may not understand
that a house is burning down
and down
to zero

Posted in 75: FUTURE MACHINES | Tagged

Past Lives

I am saying that I have been here before.
Maybe last spring. Maybe
those glazed purple days
cold with a vivid naked cold
that set my bones afire
martyrized every tree.

It is the past and I am something.
The cave wall. The murdered palace.
The frontier.
I am the oil field. The scaffold
in the city.
The ghost ship
cresting waves for riches.

I have been to Paris
Leningrad
Haight-Ashbury
Kissed the bearded men with catfish eyes.
I have made prophecies of their greed
I have made ends justify the means.

I see better for not seeing clearly.
That black dog on the road, it is a bear
I’ve seen it dance in chains
I’ve seen it speared, skinned, roasted
Its sabre skull laid out on an altar.
I have worshipped fear.

It is the future and I am nothing
But biology degrading. Corals bleached.
I am nothing but the one bending
to poisoned rivers
in a nuclear winter
past lives packed beneath my feet.

Posted in 75: FUTURE MACHINES | Tagged

Time Machines

1.
In the aching light.
I stand for a long time thinking how small your hand.

2.
Of another
I had held at some previous time,
though it was nothing I could put my tongue to.

3.
My personality at this time:
say, elusive at best
an annihilated jumble.

4.
The throbbing in my leg
becomes audible time.

5.
The central question
I was forced to revisit time and time again
in his sessions was: ‘Where did?’

6.
I slipped in and out of consciousness.
At times when I opened my eyes he was sitting beside me.

7.
By this time his voice radiated menacing intensity.

8.
Disaster, he had told me.
If ever there was a time
when a little external structure was required.

9.
Sounds settle into a dull murmur.
By the time I have dressed they are completely silent

10.
Swedenborg was explicit this time:
we must take one of the ambulances to the crash site
and blend in with the other rescue crews.

11.
Over the clumped terrace houses:
a pyramid flashes four times in the sky
I pull off my latex gloves.

12.
It is time.

13.
Did I love you enough
at the time?

14.
Lifted into warmth
that time on the barge
that may or may not.

15.
Pontoons.
There are not many boats moored this time of year,
still fewer residents. Just you. Just I.

16.
A signal lodged in the sky.
Throbbing into existence four times.

17.
Four is the heart’s time sequence:
equal by equal.

18.
Some genetic paradigm
to orient myself next time around –

19.
Yes.
But she may have died in the end this time.

20.
I hope so.
Remember what happened last time?

21.
Over the lens.
I study her boat for a long time
extrapolate her movements from the shift of the hull in water.

22.
We both turn our heads
to the timer
watch the last sand drain from the glass.

23.
Suddenly and stare
at the ceiling through your eyes.
I hear your childish voice for the first time.

24.
For the first time
it is some time else.

25.
It is time to meet the sonic chambers.

26.
He laughs again,
this time as a baby might – all gums and drawn lips.
He walks away, a column.

27.
Of the building’s staggering height.
In recent times it has come to serve another more private purpose

28.
Obelisk Enterprises reserves all rights
to manipulate time, space and any collected data.

29.
Three times in the sky ridge a void in the dream.

30.
Channels I have calved.
Her mouth moves all the time
breath squeezed from between lips in a repetitive, controlled gesture.

31
She mumbles ‘life can be hard sometimes
but I really quite like it.’

32.
Three times it has all fallen through my fingers.

33.
If you fail to materialise at this time you will receive no further communications.

34.
Time is very big.

Posted in 75: FUTURE MACHINES | Tagged

11/8/15-2/9/15

11/8/15

If you can’t save your own soul you might as well save electricity
I know that bug wants more and will plead with me in a dozen different
Dylan draped guises
H+R Block sure don’t miss a thing
and neither does that hamburger box
so long as those cloud hills stay nice and blue
we’re both in for a satisfactory skidad to the carillion
I was a teenager once
everything was included
and again I reign victorious over myself
I moved the tape player slightly.

2/9/15

I know I care
about the placement of one piece of paint or another
and the seriousness of being gone
and someone’s need to be transferred (no)
and someone’s dying child (no)
she hopes it’s dying anyway.
But really I just want to look for the right aquiline nose on the internet
and almost any man with long hair will do.
I tried to convince you I had grown up
you may or may not have believed me
you probably really wanted to
but I was always going to turn back into a goose
and apart from a sometimes doubtful stomach
it doesn’t matter all that much to anyone.
Because retaining the right amount of moisture between 6 and 7:30 am is peaceful
enough.

Posted in 75: FUTURE MACHINES | Tagged

An Object exists only as it might exist to Another

The melancholia of not being Anne Boyer.
The melancholia of melancholy,
of listening for factories out there in the sea
when everyone else was searching for whales.
The melancholia of a word without a poem,
of the poem as pristine category looking forwards
to an unseasonable year. The melancholia
of mid-size body suits still wrapped in the box.
The melancholia of the test subject
reduced to running slip or outmoded art form.
The melancholia of the barely perceptible
snakeskin purse clutched on dry afternoons
of laissez-faire capitalism. It’s true, isn’t it?
Only the romantic can be that real.
The melancholia of sharp, leopard-print belts
burning naively at the fashion blog
found in the heart of yesteryear.
The melancholia of the human
as a class of actors, reciting Moby Dick
to the signature tunes of Prince. The melancholia
of melancholy, writing city rather than cosmos.
The melancholia of repetition,
recidivist as the eye that refuses
to gaze back at you. One woman’s fantasy
is another’s solipsism.
The melancholia of not being loved,
firstly in the age of Aquarius and then again
in the age of the Anthropocene.
Or the melancholia of window dressing
the incision between innocence and experience.

Posted in 75: FUTURE MACHINES | Tagged

Destiny

Posted in 75: FUTURE MACHINES | Tagged

Seven Formulas of Method

1. Data:
Sun on the right hand
Sand fun this roght hend
Sent an tho rught hind
Sin ends thumb raght hond
Song in that reght hund

2. Mix:
on the right sand / sent behind / thumbs end rage / expand this shine / song that hounds

3. Booster:
and forbudden her and dumb
as a-peaking of hindone amiss
a fire hends rope to the day
I had the soul’s whereght
nurse sick we make send this newhom
wherught he thathat then is
but their eyes the bling brayes for
where that burn und suct that thing
more

4. Selection:
then is but their eyes
then
is but their
eyes
then is but their
eyes
is but their eyes
then
is but their eyes
then is
then
thathat burn und
suct thathat burn und
suct thathat

5. Turbo:
Sunshine handling furnace sent rught hit sunshade right sardine furlong sent roght
histrionic siphon engineering tibia to sort that hand

6. Hone:
sunset sarcophagus sortie sunroof sapphire sinus handle history

7. New charge:
a fleet of headaches running the deck, ocean sick
we manufacture fantasies and suck that timber more
a flavour heads the decision-making
we had the spectacle’s willingness
an occurrence as sick as could we make in an hour
flash hatred rules the cycle
sick obstacles keep us interned
with our faiths, our factories
hardware and fabrics turning out song
sin counting our right thumb
sand in the engine, sun sent gone

Posted in 75: FUTURE MACHINES | Tagged

Magnet Theory

i.
this is the last time i try & turn us
into the ocean. i want to be wave motion
but know shitting & sweating are the same
pack aged par cel complete with Atlantic
origin story, each cell repeating murky beginnings
on election night meeting at a birth
day party, talking only of endings – it is hard
not to be political, difficult
to divide via semantics, the physical
, the actual & the symbol.


ii.
we hold hands for the first time watching
Salo or 120 Days of Sodom dir. P Pasolini (1975)
. above her covers winter is holding on out
side, wrist meeting mine half way across my chest
& i am facing away – she will have to see my eyes curl
in the laptop screen, repress a smile through torture
deprivation shit-eating howdidtheyeven?? apparently,
(i’ll read this later), Pasolini gave the kids chocolate,
& they were constantly on the crest of laughing
fits. Salo has been mostly banned in Australia. so too
once was Salinger, & so are visual depictions of the inner
labia, even now, viewing Salo is only allowed
with 180 minutes of extra material, which we will not watch
so I guess this is illegal but


iii.
i know all words have their
place-making agenda. we hold hands & two nights later
she’ll tell me how her mother died of cancer when she was
fourteen . i’ll ask if she heard through a network
about my own run-in, whether she is surrounding herself
with this on purpose. she’ll say
she never got to see how chemo actually
happens. i tell her everything became an image of myself
amplified leaving its brine in my
memory & finger shadows on my back. she likes the way
my veins bulge. nurses told me
they were clear as day but thick skin required extra
downward pressure. we hold hands while the moon
pastels her motions fissured & silver, a reflection


iv.
on the water, hyperbole skipping at some hundred
knotted characters. it resonates & grows while we filter
feed on what we want to know – at least we can
download Salo, watch above covers & hold hands
while the new PM occupies negative space. i know
he & i are the same in that we are both obsessed with self
replication & validation before a recognised audience.
he is buoyed by the country
voting like the inward-looking sickly, while i am stuck
on the analogy – it is too transmutable, or perhaps it is simply
too easy to get cancer. all
this information is more likely to divide


v.
than unite, dears caught in backlights
tracking anachronisms through dimming
distance. afterwards we put on Slacker dir. R Linklater (1991)
& spend all night almost
fucking, half skin against hemisphere, these two surfaces –
planets apart from one movie ago when holding hands
for the first time, now plying planets into poems
to dissolve insurmountable distances, as though words
are alchemy of Fe 2 or 3 plus concentrates in the current. we touch
& reach constantly. we try not to break the illusion
that to be staring into eyes is to be sharing thoughts
& feelings, a cross-purpose colony , a multicellular entity
coming together & glooping into history’s ether. swim
, reel, swim.Salo finishes with the final


vi.
crushing fade out of ambivalent dancing & we realise
that we are watching, still attached by the ends
of our upper limbs. without growing fins
she looks me in the eyes & tells me about Pink Flamingos
dir. J Waters (1972) & how Divine eats dog shit, not
chocolate, & there is nothing quite like it
in all of cinema.

Posted in 75: FUTURE MACHINES | Tagged

The Expansive Aura of Discs

Sit down in a comfortable, quiet setting. Alter your default settings. Find a CD that you love. (It is best if it is a DIVINE SOUL CD, but this does not have to be the case.) Take the CD out of the case. Place the CD on your head. Balance it there. Focus on the CD. See the CD, not with your eyes, but with your mind. Reach through the jewel case of your mind and feel the CD. Consider that this CD is an object. Consider that all objects have a soul. Consider that this CD has a soul. Consider that the light embracing the CD is encasing your mind in a curdled rainbow halo. Do you mind that? Do you feel warmth? Do you feel anything? Consider that there is nothing you are meant to feel. Consider that the soul of the CD contains songs that are part of the song your soul sings, part of the universal soul song. Play the CD with your mind. Sing the songs of the CD, remembering that all CDs are transitional objects connecting individual songs with the curdled rainbow of the universal DIVINE song. Slowly feel the songs of the CD, and your songs, merge with all other possible soul songs. Carefully remove your CD halo from your head and place it in the microwave on high. Observe it transcend. Celebrate the residual transcendence it has left behind. Download, from the universe, any one of the songs from the CD and make it your personal ringtone. Every time the secular calls, unify this disruption with connectivity.

Posted in 75: FUTURE MACHINES | Tagged

DogText










Dogs are not an alibi for other themes; dogs are fleshly material-semiotic presences in the body of technoscience.

         Donna Haraway



Posted in 75: FUTURE MACHINES | Tagged

Élan vital

It’s hard to gauge the health of this interaction
because I’m grateful, because the iron fist is long gone,
gabled in the California bungalow of dementia breached,
lead gone, gold siphoned. I have you crystalline
like childhood’s glass statuary, perfect model to perfect
likeness of perfect memory now a figment of imagination.

This digression is well-known but few write it.
An aching of wattle cascades from alps of vision,
a rusty grating one’s only proof. Remember memory,
veins and dimensions. The wisteria is the limit,
the waratah a grave, the orchid a room, everyone’s
dead parents propped up like a bloom. Never your
music to stir some vital signs. A lungful of harness.
It is cheaper to be here as I am, a tyrant of life.

Posted in 75: FUTURE MACHINES | Tagged

The Falling

I want the building
that stretches up past
the top of the white like driving

up a summer road into heat-haze
that ends, might end, here
with low gray

and I never noticed the sky.
Why fear what’s out of the frame?
I cannot name this city

except to say I went there once
and everywhere was white
and perpendicular and nothing

was like myself or my city.
Man has not burnt with fire,
this building shall not either.

Black has a falseness.
I grow nostalgic
for primary colours, for sound.

But I work when the scenes
only empty,
the end of the stairs.

I think the sky is clouded
but maybe it’s not. They can create me,
I give myself the lassitude of stone.

I wanted none of this. Speech
beyond speechlessness.
A slow lyric.

Step away from me,
back towards the cars
parked resting in a row.

I want to gather together
our last breaths
and float.

I cast nothing behind. Step.
I’ll find a piece of wood
to step to. A bridge.

I’m casting shadows you can’t see.
Here. It’s all the way
gone down slow.

Talk slower. My building
to tear. You tear.
Wear myself, your sleeve,

tissue thin, skin,
voice is the opposite
of cloud.

I’ve missed
the sensate elements of thought.
Your mouth

tastes metal as you fall,
or as you remember
falling.

What my hand holds
is not mine,
but the sensation is,

those small tendrils
of electricity.
I am never going to be a person.

I am never going to be a person
who dies in a fire,
I am never going to.

Put your face
up against
a window,

it’s yours
these clouds,
slow pokes of air,

your lungs burn,
even if a fire
couldn’t make a match flicker,

keep this: sand, sky, stone,
the grim thing of what’s outside,
your own fallow feelings,

the falling.

Posted in 75: FUTURE MACHINES | Tagged