NOUVELLE VAGUE (put a string on it)

hanging my happiness on a boiled egg,
i stretch my trunk skyward, and ask you
the difference between a glass ceiling and a skylight.

from here, i can see all of the foodstuffs raining, the king
prawns, all the regalia, actually. britannia is editing
the wikipedia entry about shipping lanes… i called you my spice
island and you turned to jelly. (finite desk)

i am hungry thru the
(y)ears; gran-fed, i hacked my arm up and hocked the remains
for a new beagle.

let me come down and tell you how
i don’t think of you over here, or how this continence
makes the heart grow more absent. ———you know I never even
know what time it was? how nervous, no?
but I was watching the window always. [well,
who could tell, you had covered the house with those
realist portraits of our surrounding landscape, and mounted them
in window frames.] i would boil the cornflakes until they were
just done, and then scatter them around the plant bases//

//that was when we started filming. i liked to pretend to press
the record button, and think of how embarrassed i would be
to see the shelves: i could bear no relation: i was such a bore:
the wood started to deteriorate: that was when the ceiling came
down, and i was all pomp-and-ceremonei: with my belt on for
reasons of fashion: modalising, i said: modulating, changing
fora faster than you could tie a knot.

Posted in 56: NO THEME II | Tagged

The Little Inn

at the old writing desk
I sit and write for hours
letters to old friends
applications for various projects
trial reports on war criminals

it is understandable why she trusted him
he took her suitcase and ran
but he looked honest standing by the train

a photograph of this theft
can be found at the bottom of the centre drawer
under a stack of paper
at least I think it’s his picture
Grandma never talked a lot about her past

Wislawa Szymborska mentions this incident
in her poem The Railroad Station
she writes ‘a suitcase disappeared / not mine’
but maybe it was my grandmother’s

the photograph is blurry
but you can make out the features well enough
no smile to be seen
like a documentary photo or official document
or maybe it’s not him at all

Posted in 56: NO THEME II | Tagged

Jem Finch Gets It

Aunt Alexandra came as early as she could.
Sat staring out the kitchen window over collards
until she roused her teaspoon, swore I swear
under sweetened breath, said nothing
was the same since A. went and made his self
a Spark Note, slinking like a Radley into answers.com.
Yet it is reassuring to think that Jem Finch cried
quietly over a morphine addict, as if in a draft he’d gone
and washed her feet, lifting her shaking shankbone
into his own lap. Jem Finch gets it, that’s for damn sure.

Of course, we can see that in the revised as yet
unwritten rewrite of the Great American Novel
the character of Jem Finch gets it in the neck.
The main street of Maycomb crawls
with the pups of mad Tim Johnson
and Uncle Jack’s right fist is all banged up
and sure as shit Jem Finch has to get it, because God,
having no cause to stay the never before raised hand of A.
can’t be everywhere, staying all those other hands.

Aunt Alexandra came to make arrangements.
Cal pressed and laid out his clothes. The wisdom
we might have doled out in the banter between
child and grown-up is exhausted. That already spoken
is now contained and reduced to molasses;
that which we would speak, that we need to say,
is leaving us. Like geese the words lift in a migrating V,
trailing the likeness of a dirge over felled trees.
The hopes we had for the solace of gentle irony,
of softened perspective, have been dashed,
replaced by craftless hashtags. Can you even place A.
in this scenario? Some skins can’t be, won’t be,
refuse point blank the climbing into.

Posted in 56: NO THEME II | Tagged

AUSFTA

borne witness to the names
of the 60,000 Republic dead

stickyfooted at the monolith
equal parts David, Goliath

before windsurfing
down the runway of democracy

the Capitol (mistaken for the White House)
triumphantly crowning the National Mall

compare our bush tucker capital:
Parly’s idle spire

a eucalyptus bouquet calloused
like shearers’ hands

grass confettied with gum leaves
reprobate lawns

a malignant erasure
cloistered in the boughs

the banks of Burley Griffin
dandruffed with sleet

O’Hara’s Hamlet writing
to the Harbourmaster

his arrivals always trip wired
with plans for departure

Posted in 56: NO THEME II | Tagged

I’ve Started Waking Up Earlier

One summer I spent every night
awake and wandering. Watched the cartoon
channel that flowed all hours—decades-old
shows draining black seconds. Saw
“One Froggy Evening” for the first time,
the Broadway-singing frog’s phonograph songs
tearing down a world as fast as Acme Construction.
I held my thin, black sleeve
to the lamp. The light shone straight and strong
through every fibre,
emblazoned an asteroid cloud of cotton dust
in my clothes.
The mornings, now, are like smoke,
even though I’m cleaner and more alert.
I eat breakfast now. I might be nostalgic
if I knew what it meant, but the word won’t form
in high numbered hours.
No shade of regret floats like bacteria in this
crisp air, though there is regret.
I solved the mystery of the dark thump
at my door each night near 5 AM.
Sometimes I read the paper.

Posted in 56: NO THEME II | Tagged

Tear Here

There are monsters on the early tram and I am one of them. I’ve been shivering down Brunswick street leaving a trail of hairpins in my wake. I am a child when I ring you like I never quite learned to apologise for myself. Despite all that practice. That night he unlocked me and we tilted together around corners. Bullies bully themselves, he’d said. The photo you sent: a row of crows on the wire behind your sister’s house, each etches a black hole in the hot white, fourteen voids, a perforation, tear here. The only beauty is that I fear crows, that I too rest on wires, stuck on the sensation of almost always falling. I don’t know why you think of me. I don’t know why life bends beneath my weight. The phone and you are in my hand slipping. To carve a place takes years. To marvel at the rules of biology, that starving things consume themselves. Let me get home as day breaks and wonder about the person I am, let me be a drifter, a wrecker, a tangled mass of morals.

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small wondrous emails

roman numeral congratulations     your latest called bodoni     groovier than helvetica or palatino     i can’t wait for a peek at the cover     could you mention my role in the conception     contributors has a z     that prize gossip     i’ll give it 2 u f2f     i wanted to buy wine but all they offered in campsie was an expensive digital swipe     i’ve changed your password for security reasons     you’ve been getting more traffic     do you want me to send some publicity & stress     it’s free & it’s in america     you need to be acknowledged in full technicolour on the front as well as the jpeg     looking forward to the tea lady artwork     when do i get to read the flashy prose poems before work     forward this
Posted in 56: NO THEME II | Tagged

on paper, this was not New

but most of the whining,
marine or democratic,
carried some crazy morale
and issued endless havoc and
enough food for scurvy to
sailors. bone and gristle at
table bay. the fleet spared no
one each week, made most
tyranny stupid, guarded with
reverential care. 18 turkeys,
35 ducks, 35 geese and 209
chicken baked on a shovel.
these creatures bought
livestock for themselves, thus
the social demarcation of salt
meat. scanty, monotonous
ranks could not symbolize
full emancipation, and kept
poaching the hens. to anyone
who informed the prince of
Wales, an officer fattened
while dingoes strayed into
the scrub, their last port of
call was a pen, worth a
breeding man’s life. thus our
allowance is animal. gorgon
offered five cows and four
convicts, slightly less than
half the naval standard, to
practise on the thief, wrote
james campbell in a bad light,
gloom cast about the future.
Posted in 56: NO THEME II | Tagged

Some Kind of Simulacrum

‘There’s a man with a bomb
somewhere on the train.’ Even
swallows of the city sent from
their flight with all the
commuters of late-afternoon
locked-down & out
from these vestigial hours.

No-one joins the dots iPhones notwithstanding a
technical they say malfunction only
immobilized at the red-lights so close to
the stopping-point of this long long way
home.
No-one warned it could end like this
a maddie running loose crank-spanner
in the works chased down through the
tunnel of tin-houses by a SWAT team
of 8 running semi-automatic weapons
their marksmen sweating along behind.

Same as the movies it is the guns who star.
There oughtto be lights & camera hi-fi
surround we are
mere extras to the main gig
tomato-sauce on our faces war-paint for
unwaged foot-soldiers.
Afterwards the cops take all our details
as if intending surprise gifts sent to our front doors.
Not saying not risking the identity of the Great
Conspirator who takes it all away. Dead
or alive now in the phantom world?
Sirens without smoke birds
taken to smog-rings high above the melée
ambulance bomb-squad paramedic
more jobless than their prime-time stand-ins would be.

Another day in another place
body-parts thrown aleatoric
across the tracks.
Food for a thousand cameras;
the hunger eyes behind them.

Posted in 56: NO THEME II | Tagged

Professor Kröte’s Death

Dietrich chose cremation, not
a funeral without guests, chose
to rise from wood like notes escaping
their mortal boundary, chose to fly
beyond the piano’s last ivory.

A former pupil in an orange summer
dress receives the urn by morning,
her house clean as an IKEA display,
missing the chocolate smudged hands
on the long beige walls, the shrieks
and red-faced hatred that accompanies
the melody of everyday life.

Ruhe in frieden mein Lehrer1.
You are no longer a foreigner,
you are no longer, and no longer need
the heavy slosh of red wine
to dull and drown the discordant bruise
of ‘an ignorant town.’ You’ve entered the eighth
octave, leaving the rubbish behind.”
Sitting in the warm light of the window
she places Kröte’s urn on her piano.

Posted in 56: NO THEME II | Tagged

November Spacker

My sixth-grade teacher, Mr. Drashal,
would write NOVEMBER on the board,

and read poems about death.

Our trees
finally drop parasite leaves, let them fall

and blow away. If only this town
would do that. Instead it burps

up a new Wal Mart. It’s November
at last, dreary. Thanksgiving,

death on the table, everyone
ready to dig in.

Posted in 56: NO THEME II | Tagged

Courtly Love

Song of the troubadour, dance of the happy shades
mid-saggital cut-away of the Palatine Uvula
catalogue of all catalogues includes Lufthansa
treachery, the Alphabet murderer’s citational
liquidation. Not quite revealing the thing
that offends you, the impossibility of saying it all
become observant, noting the self to pieces,
hallucinatory parity exceeds inflight metabolism
indexed to the absence of its own gelatin, another
anecdote splintered whilst licking a filing cabinet
raconteur craving the post-aniseed Romantics. Sang-froid
means ‘how to summon the shiver’. Ice connotes
the distance between the object. Throwing a shoe
whilst unsocking the Woman constitutes an infinite
number of men in the shape of punctuation,
tends to make the negation shift.
Fretworked birds cause rhythmic bulges,
utterly without aperture, the number that counted itself
so plain, so poorly made———————————————
Axiom sucking itself to the bone.

Posted in 56: NO THEME II | Tagged

it grows on you

you lift a hand to sweep away
the cobwebs a rubber spider
is about to infiltrate your best
eye so entertain it with sweet
valentines the people in the park
may still be there even if you
dare not think of them or understand
their costume jewelry

the medieval greyhound flares across
your passage like a literal confirmation
can you read the subtext of that
syringe dangling at the periphery
of the paper rose

do you like the digitally enhanced
duck pond of the sesquicentenary
parklands tick all the boxes as
your lapdog poos in paradise clearly
please

is this where the national lector
slept with her tattered script,
a dream of playing tennis on
a painted lawn with hamlet;
how the rows of trams burned
brighter than ilium or carthage
i saw the exhibition – some inferno
and then i hit the sack

Posted in 56: NO THEME II | Tagged

Guardian

The fanatics were right,
but with them all
screaming within earshot

I couldn’t grasp
the edge
under those words

it looked like some sort
of innovative seafood,
mixed cocktail maybe
and madeira cake

What was that recipe?

why won’t
they remember me,
now that they gave
such bombastic advice?

baroque qualities
bore an equal label:
the homemaker’s lesson

Any refunds
On a ticking clock?
purchase receipts
must be made out
unequivocally to all consumers

A pearl-coloured prospectus
is required to share
in the anniversary of funds

quarterly statements
attracting
edacious annual penalty

hidey-hole of babes
rocked to Christmas tunes
(swell savings)

The Court pays all expenses.

Posted in 56: NO THEME II | Tagged

Icebergs

I hop up onto my bathtub’s rim
peep through the exhaust fan slats into the apartment
across an abyss-like drop between our buildings

He’s leaning (topless) against a fridge in board-shorts
fondling the long, dark strip of down-like gut-fuzz,
his other hand thumb-surfing airwaves via remote control
(TV the length of outstretched arms catching his sports)

Those walls without pictures or paintings, no ornaments
but for a pair of swimming goggles pendent off
a nail above his kitchen nook

If peering like me he’d see I’ve decorated my walls:
two framed photos of Ferraris, a pastel drawing
I bought off a footpath artist: Elvis pointing & winking
out of a kangaroo’s pouch

& my favourite illustration: a penguin holding a fat cigar
on an iceberg afloat an expansive sea, its caption reads:
Eh, anyone got a light for me?

Posted in 56: NO THEME II | Tagged

Tram Line Song Line

On the No 96 tram from the Museum to the Catani Gardens following the rules of relaxed proceduralism

  1. A tram line is a song line

  2. How to read the signs etched on the Lake Condah possum skin cloak in the Museum?

  3. What do the Wurundjeri make of the gold angel with a trumpet on Princess Theatre?

  4. Does Bunjil sit silently on St Patrick’s spire?

  5. Is that Barak busking in the Bourke Street mall?

  6. Do clever men twitter rather than point a bone?

  7. In Myers there’s a big mob of kids with Santa who’s painted up for ceremony

  8. At the GPO, Quakers hold a silent vigil for First Peoples. Elizabeth Street is a creek full of mullet

  9. Tom Roberts paints a dusty gold view looking up the hill

  10. Can you see up by Flagstaff they’re hanging the two bawling Palawa warriors for spearing shepherds?

  11. 100 years ago horse shit litters this street

  12. Southern Cross Station sits on a wetland full of ducks but there are more stars on the hotels than you can see in the night sky

  13. Each stop is a dot in a circle on a painting in the dirt

  14. If the Casino is a gamble what is shaking hands with Batman?

  15. Platypus above Dight’s Falls sift sewerage after it rains

  16. Djadjawurung Gold and Wathaurung Wool build the Teahouse. What’ll it say in 200 years?

  17. Is the tram a carpet snake full of tucker – us?

  18. When the Wimmera mob see the parallel tracks left by Major Mitchell’s bullock carts they wonder what sort of animal leaves two deep ruts in the mud

  19. Graffiti is painting by uninitiated boys

  20. The South Melbourne Football Club Swans are gubba white

  21. Prince Albert never makes it to Albert Park and it takes a Scottish Gillie to stop Vicky greetin’

  22. What do seagull egg eaters from St Kilda in the Hebrides think of this turbid bay?

  23. Barak’s uncles trade wives for peace. Now transvestites turn tricks for junk

  24. I used to act for their dealers up the road.
Posted in 56: NO THEME II | Tagged

The Code

In untidy light
criminals bud
on manky branches Singapore, London.
Ayn Rand’s underpants smoulder
as the stolid farm workers are buried with their wills.

Healing via austerity, Orchard Rd
(bypass pity). Five tattoos.
Those summer clothes
pass this merry chaos with
a chalky insouciance…
their never-worried hip switch.

I have danced
& been forgiven. Each leaf is personal.
That same timber gives both fruit & outrage.
The cat farms an acre
we won’t feel release
until the claws dig in.

Posted in 56: NO THEME II | Tagged

Moby Dick: Acrostic Sampling

1. Title


may, there stands the
of sea boots was heard in the entry; the door
bulwarks of ships from China; some
you?’ – he at last said – ‘you no speak-e,

do to take care of myself
interior door
charm wanting? – Water –
knots of human hair; and one was

open, and in rolled a wild set of mariners enough.
rise – yes, he’s the bird

turning flukes – it’s a nice
halting steps I paced the streets, and passed the sign
either in a physical or metaphysical

with fresh surprise. There was no hair on his head – none to
Harpoons’ – but it looked too expensive and
about a little and see the watery part of the world. It is
leviathan himself?
ever heard of. On the contrary



2. Author


He wears a
ease in manner, quite self-possessed in company
remember that – and
meanings
a child, I well remember a somewhat similar
No one having previously heard

marble tablets, and
England traveller
lie buried beneath the green grass;
vain; the indignant gale howls
In New Bedford, fathers, they say, give whales for dowers
lies my
lines that seem to gnaw upon all Faith, and
empty stomach, in the Negro heart of Africa, which was the



3. Ishmael


clasped me round the waist, and said that henceforth
as seen in the
‘look you,’ roared the Captain, ‘I’ll kill-e you, you cannibal
lasso, caught it

matters were, dived down and disappeared. A few minutes
eyes; for

I now complained
surprise and no small concern, Queequeg now gave me to
he was fearful Christianity, or rather Christians, had
more, and he rose again, one arm still striking out, and
affectionate arm
eyes shut, in order the more to concentrate the snugness of
long living arc of a leap



4. Queequeg


Humiliation, was
eluded him.
Another. This world pays dividends
deal less than seven hundred and seventy-seven
poising his harpoon, cried out in some
egress to Bildad, who, I make no doubt, was
dost not
down for the three hundredth,’
last, and knew nothing
into an
Gayhead, said that the name would somehow

Peleg, to his partner, who, aghast at
upon this ragged old sailor; and
rig jury-masts – how to get into the
papers. We must have Hedgehog there, I mean
looking over the bedside, there
eagerness to vanish from before the awakened wrath of

rag of a black handkerchief investing his neck. A confluent
a broad shad-bellied
soul’s a sort of a fifth wheel to a wagon
content if the world is ready to
a ship-owner; Bildad, as I hinted before
look; limped towards me where I lay; pressed his



5. Pequod


about his

talk of securing the top-sail halyards to them. In his
harpooner, say; and if in emulation
invite to that town some score or two families
not a tame
graze the keel, would make her shudder

ocean to kill whales for my living, and not
fornication

the world but in Africa, Nantucket, and
ruddy, young fellow, very pugnacious
own father’s? Where in the bottomless deeps, could he find
permitting stars. But this august dignity I treat of, is not
honouring us whalemen, is this: they think that, at best, our
island of Nantucket? Why did Britain
encounter all the terrors of the pitiless jaw;
since in this famous fishery, each mate or headsman,



6. Ahab


or inexpressive, I shall say so, and suggest another. I
lofty jet rising like a tall misanthropic spear upon a
devilish broad insult. But this insult is whittled

than the whale-fleet
hands among the unspeakable
upon fixed wages, but upon their common
never
down to a point only.” But now comes the greatest joke of
Ere
request among jewellers and watchmakers.



7. Starbuck


soul is more than matched; she’s overmanned; and by
this, with soul beat down and held to knowledge, – as wild
against Tashego
identity; takes the mystic ocean at his feet for
distracted decks upon which they gaze; however,

sting, that sanity should ground
things are forced to feed – Oh, life! ’tis now that
everything
at every
descry what shoals and
from the inclement weather of the frozen seas. In the fireside
as when an African elephant goes passenger
such a field! I think I see his impious end; but
the latent horror in thee! But ’tis not me! that



8. The Whale


A row! a row! a row!

comparatively, had knowingly seen him;
of their aspect. So that
lurking in him then, how soon would their
of the albatross: whence come those clouds
round our
life, – all this to
even at the present day has the original
strongly on the imagination of an untravelled American
storied structures, its neighbours – the

a row a’low, and a row aloft – Gods and men – both
leads his shaft by the ever shifting, muffled sound
Lords of the White Elephants

circumference, many
of spiritual wonderment and pale dread, in which that
Latin
of that brute; for, analysed, that heightened hideousness
rising in a milk-white fog – Yea, while

only arises from the circumstances, that the irresponsible
few of the fishermen recalled, in reference to

A row! arrah a row! The Virgin be blessed, a row!
These two statements may perhaps
Hue, nor yet his deformed lower jaw, that so much invested
enough in offering battle to the Greenland or Right whale
in his frantic
sublimer
more obvious considerations touching

Posted in 56: NO THEME II | Tagged

A. Frances Johnson Reviews Jill Jones

Ash is Here, So are Stars

Ash is Here, So are Stars by Jill Jones
Walleah Press, 2012

‘Why wish for the moon when we have the stars’, Bette Davis famously aspirates to Paul Henreid at the end of the film Now Voyager (1942, dir. Irving Rapper). That, of course, was an iconic, melodramatic story of unrequited love given an optimistic gloss by two lovers sharing last cigarettes. Jill Jones’ ambiguously rendered celestial bodies serve up different ideas of love and loss in this new collection. Jones’ stars, moons, candles, clouds and smoky skies are part of an identifiable romantic lexicon. Continue reading

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Review Short: Toby Davidson’s Beast Language

Toby Davidson: Beast Language

Beast Language by Toby Davidson
Five Islands Press, 2013

In the introduction to the collected poems of Francis Webb, Toby Davidson observes that the immediate influences behind Webb’s poems ‘do not supersede his locales.’ Webb’s poems are informed by a topophilia, a love of place and its ambient lore, a topographical attentiveness to detail that includes not just spatial but also temporal resonances. Davidson has inherited this attentiveness to space and place, and his debut collection, Beast Language, attempts a topo or ecopoetics that traverses a spectrum of geographies, mapping the Australian continent from the Indian Ocean to the Pacific seaboard, attempting not only terrestrial readings but taking cosmological measurements as well.

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Michael Farrell Reviews MTC Cronin

The World Last Night

The World Last Night by MTC Cronin
UQP (2012)

A book as an experience of sampling, and of reading over a long period of time, may be ideal for the writer; but it won’t be that for all readers, especially not reviewers.

MTC Cronin has published several highly structured books in the past: Talking to Neruda’s Questions, 1-100 and The Flower, The Thing. Here the double title functions in a looser, more umbrella-like way; the book apparently aims to use death as its guiding concept: the assertion that the poems are themselves metaphors suggesting flexibility in her use of death as her theme. Continue reading

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Justin Clemens Reviews Pam Brown and Ken Bolton

Brown and Bolton

Something Old, Something New

Four Poems by Ken Bolton
Little Esther Books, 2012 [first pub. 1977]
more than a feuilleton by Pam Brown
Little Esther Books, 2012

If there is one true love in the history of Australian verse, it’s perhaps the love of Pam Brown and Ken Bolton. As you should expect, it’s not a normal kind of love at all – or maybe it’s the only normal love, depending on how you’re predisposed to taking the word or the thing (‘normal,’ I mean), and depending whether you think you can tell the difference between the two (‘word’ and ‘thing,’ I mean). Continue reading

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Andy Jackson Reviews Kevin Brophy and Nathan Curnow

Radar

Radar by Kevin Brophy and Nathan Curnow
Walleah Press (2012)

Radar. Green blips on a black screen. A large and vulnerable craft navigating a changeable world. A technological attempt to locate an invisible danger, or to give shape to darkness. All these associations emerge out of the poetry of Kevin Brophy and Nathan Curnow in their joint collection Radar, albeit in an intimate mode: these poets observe the ways in which we navigate through our lives in the contemporary world and improvise meaning. It is difficult, though, to talk about ‘the book’ because these two poets differ strikingly in their approaches.

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Suspensions of the Real

Studying the Sylvia Plath archival papers at Smith College in 1993, poet, editor and critic Felicity Plunkett intuited that a number of pages were missing from one poem draft. Plath assiduously page-marked drafts of the poems that were to become the Ariel poems. Plunkett was unable to uncover these pages in any of the archives made available to her, which were still in the process of being organised. One night, in dream, she ‘receives’ a phone call, made from a black, period-piece telephone, words delivered in Plath’s idiosyncratic trans-Atlantic diction – ‘look in the yellow folder’.

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