The Long Drop

No more kind friends swinging on the legs & waiting
for death to resonate, for the throat to be stuffed full of shadows & that mad
singing breath to cease, this way there's a snap, then a clean transition
not even an echo of sound, men with clipped squares of nail
think in brickn'tile, there's a cold curve of a beer they'll have this afternoon
& the soft mattress of a wife they'll sink into tonight.

This beam was rocked by the sea in that rough cradle of empire
dragged up the salt white beach, deaf to the procession of flesh
shuffling in metal, the lightning strike of leather finding skin
(the way a divining rod knows water) this beam a dead weight & innocent
has held its own against lesser weights for centuries, each death inscribed
like a notch on a bedpost, a photo opportunity that knocks without an answer.

Posted in 21: DOMESTIC ENEMY | Tagged

Patrick Jones responds to James Stuart

The following notes, mainly concerning the materiality of poetry, were first given as the launch address for four books in Vagabond's rare object series in October 2004. The 4 books (by Dorothy Porter, John Mateer, Alison Croggon and Javant Biarujia) launched at Collected Works Bookshop in Melbourne are also referred to in James Stuart's From Text To Texture, a review of my book Words and Things and a broader discussion on visual poetry and book art in the current issue of Cordite.

Continue reading

Posted in FEATURES | Tagged ,

Submerged Is the Best Place to Be

Submerged is the best place to be on a hot summer's day: somewhere in the shady corner of the pool, cross-legged on the bottom, blowing bubbles until you run out of air. Submerged is where Tony Soprano's psychiatrist tells him some of his problems are. Submerged is what the truth is, anytime Donald Rumsfeld talks.
Continue reading

Posted in ESSAYS | Tagged ,

Akwesasne Lightning

An elephant more mammoth than a mammoth
        (But hairless and with skin that's serpent smooth
Shining like patent leather) has been brought
        Into tow in a boarded-up box car.
                People are strangely spooked and stay away.
                        I happen to be station superintendent
                        So I ask to have a chat with the handlers.

Four painted Ramakrishnas squat in loincloths,
        One at each foot of the luminous beast.
They all from Owen Sound, Ontario.
        They greatly admire the poet bpNichol.
                Each recites his favourite line or two.
                       But most of their time's spent praying, fasting,
                       And playing lacrosse for Akwesasne Lightning.

Posted in 20: SUBMERGED | Tagged

Portrait in Blue

She wears her sweater like a fur seal
sentinels its coat. Fine azure hair
prickles from rough weave. Merino,
she breathes, as if confessing a seraph
visitation, my father lifted it
from Chez Julienne while the couple
flirted with slow steps. He was rarely home.

I paint her without silver lining,
the pale Steinway grand turning copen
from asphyxia. Her hands have their own power.
More than once he made me watch, she lowers
her eyes. Do you think we were partners?
She veils guilt with nimble fingers, voice
soft as fluff wafting from thrashed wool.

But I played his game. Chopin always leads
lovers to the dancefloor.
For a second,
she relives bitterness. I soften her features
with indigo pencil, feel the dry scrape of lead
against paper and request something Russian.
She falls silent, slumps over the keyboard,
her sketched figure awash with smudges of blue.

Posted in 20: SUBMERGED | Tagged

Kool notes, for you

i buy George Barker
on flinders street
and study the pink/blue cover
in the half-dark. but

thinking of you,
not the cover, &
then mixing them up,
regardless …

George is standing
or leaning
into the light, a fag
in hand,

not really smiling
or trying to be any-
thing but being 'him-
self'.

i'm reminded of you,
that natural cool.
i'd like to be like that.
like 'you'

'the you holding the letter,'
that's what you said,
George knows it,
i know it, & you

said it. melbourne is
terrific, lots of gardens & parks,
beautiful at night, & especially
i like the river.

Posted in 20: SUBMERGED | Tagged

perspex at noon

a tiny lull in the conversation
sorrow slips in camouflaged
after all the gossip anecdotal smudges:
celebrity bullfighters chocolate
frogs people who prefer to block
out the world with a pea in an
ear or two the quality of her
pesto sauce an absence of
cravats in harrods (didn't
dodi wear the last
one in the tunnel of love);
no one says a word about
the recently departed there are
no vacant chairs alfresco the
idea of a walk along the beach
collapses as they pack up
the credit cards the table
lingers in the narrow air

Posted in 20: SUBMERGED | Tagged

ring

in the vast phobic
cupboard discretion mislays
a shoe horn and discovers
a veteran rat trap, the top
coats hang themselves in
memorial unison, umbrellas
lurk like archival weather
reports, shelves stutter
ghazals to power drills
while the key ring fears
moral decay: renovation
is the soft option let's
go camping

Posted in 20: SUBMERGED | Tagged

story board

don't let the autumn sun
catch you napping
lazy young fool there
on the pool tiles cheek
on the laptop pluto
lurks beneath the
screen to drag you
down         pilot his
black water rafters
towards dark summers
frail content

Posted in 20: SUBMERGED | Tagged

Fossil

Here's where the Nullabor stops.
As if it suddenly forgot itself, the land
falls into the sea and I am groundless.
You are too, but you belong there;
you come out of the blue like a dreamer from sleep,
breaking from its lilt and swing, lift and sink.
Where the elements give way, nebulae of spume
drift off, constellations from the edge of space.
With a headful of echoes and krill
and a crystalline eye angled against refraction
you are making sense of latitude and current,
sizing up the horizon from below. Bejewelled
in barnacles, breaching worlds,
you are all collision, elision,
a balancing act on a fluke, a moment of trance,
an evolutionary quirk. Such a tender joke,
the return of a fossil from this littered plain
to the seething sea, where, re-sheathed in its fin
a hand like mine strokes your lover's side.
Wing-tipped, lick-slippery, slick-smooth
you take each other face to face.
When you dive again, pulse slowing to a long haul,
blood retreating until the brain and heart
are its only reaches, until colour disappears
(first red, then yellow and not long after, blue)
it's as if the earth were too hard,
walking too painful, as if
to open the throat and cry, to draw breath
through the mouth and utter, to close a hand and grasp
were nothing, and I wish
I, like you, were a thing of the past.

Posted in 20: SUBMERGED | Tagged

On Studying the Traditional Form

Actually it was winter and I propped it
on the taps curled near the sill

and stood in the garden to read it
where the sun fell and it was warm.

Posted in 20: SUBMERGED | Tagged

from Urban Truths

1.

They ride in on the dot.com boom of Singapore. Their tri-level penthouse is superbly appointed. Perfect for entertaining. It's got both position and potential and, due to a built in custom made elevator, they never endure the terrible purgatory of escalators. Their slip-on culture has a whimsical approach. Their new Dolce Gabbana T-shirts read L'hip hop c'est chic. They're into American iconography. Technology doesn't phase them. Their spam never involves porn, Viagra or weight loss ads. Tonight they sip Manhattans in the blue room overlooking the harbour Upstairs it's a fresh remix of the seafood platter. Nothing deep-fried. Garfish, kingfish and roasted blue swimmer crab make up the hot ensemble. They order wine, Alsation in style, with high tones and floral aromatics. They advise the waiter that they're into organic and that they age their own beef just the way they like it. This last idea is well received. When they complain that their quince Tarte Tatin is doused in a too-sticky syrup, they are invited into the kitchen to view the souffles. They've forgotten the plot of the film they watched earlier this evening, although they remember the clothes. That darling top she was wearing in pink. His elegant cream cuffed pants. They discuss the idea of foregoing the gym this winter while admiring the huge tangerine plastic beaded chandelier – so playful – an ironic fusion of beauty and functionality. They both agree this establishment really wants to push itself to grow. ?´It's really us' she says, sliding her feet back into her fuck-me-quick shoes as he signals the waiter for the bill.

2.

Dressed in a stylish black suit, and open-necked shirt, he is charming, funny and brutally direct about his career setbacks. In the nineties there was a lot of hype. Everyone wanted a piece of him. He was living the kind of life you live in your early twenties in his early thirties. Today he's not totally averse to glancing at his past. He remembers the first pub he drank in was by the school gates and in sixth form he made his first batch of homebrew. In his first job he was quite shy and worked behind a white curtain and sent messages to his staff via an assistant. He said, in an interview, that what makes people change is a feeling that they are not important. He describes himself as a truncated die-hard minimalist – an unassailable rebel. Intriguingly Byronesque, he's into authenticity. He has a penchant for reworking his influences and knows that most trends exit as quickly as they arrive. Even a cursory glance at his advertising slogans reveals a maturing personal philosophy. He plonks down on a red vinyl lounge for a shot of caffeine and says, We all know the dangers are there. You have to try to put them to the back of your mind and forget. His motto The Fashion Cycle Waits For No Man has been liberally sampled. He has now moved to London and is completely unknown.

3.

She has a natural feel for parody. Her clothes ?± Jackie O is the reference ?± are from Versace, Chanel. She adores tweeds and tartans but works to make them more off beat. She's serious and knows from her research that LA wardrobe stylists have lately been carrying matching fuschia Vernis briefcases by Louis Vuitton. Her wild-child ways have given birth to a number of urban legends. She's modelled for Valentino and flies, from time to time, to Milan for dinner with Domenico. She believes there's incredible poetry in signature materials. Glass, leather, feather, bones. She asks you, what you learnt from Lacroix and Lucien Freud, and appears surprisingly shy fiddling with her drink and apologising. Relinquishing yourself to the dictates of fashion isn't the end of the world, she says. She loves the conquest of shopping. Armani has created a beaded grey gown and it will soon be available at a not-too-skinny price. But she can afford it. She's totally over black and is looking forward to changes. I hope it will make things nicer, more funky chic, she says. Last year she put her name to a fashion chain caf?à, which closed with huge debts. Too European they said. It's become a story in itself. Now there's her website to be launched in the coming weeks. The future holds plenty of promise.

Posted in 20: SUBMERGED | Tagged

after 1979

The way you want its
lane-marking drum line not to end's

like the first time you listen
to Blur's Coffee & TV;

bring on the highway,
the hedonistic drawl

of Corgan's limp wrist
out the passenger-side window.

For the tallish boy we all destroyed
who hugged his Melon Collie double set

as young Joaqin Phoenix clutched
his porn in Parenthood

I always thought he hoped the song
was where his older brother had gone,

hit by a semi-trailer while
fielding a cricket ball on Christmas Eve,

carried along to where Tooronga Road
turns into Dandenong & eternity.

Sorry. This is getting a bit
Stand By Me.

Posted in 20: SUBMERGED | Tagged

spin

bowlers doctors
23 fields i was
born out of the eye
of a hurricane

dada pedals
31 small yellow squares
covers cover
lets go hand in hand

down to the ground
and watch for turn
tendulkar spots
servers dancers

6 in hand wkts go
softly down or
chances           scg
remembers flippers bottler

Posted in 20: SUBMERGED | Tagged

Reading Dana Gioia, Wrongly that Is

I thought I saw
Peel pain

But I was disappointed

To see

“feel pain”

when I read it again

Posted in 20: SUBMERGED | Tagged

James Stuart Reviews Words and Things

Words and Things (Patrick Jones, ed)
Reverie Press Publications, 2004

“Despite my slightly over-the-top and easily pregnable assertions about what are to my mind the lesser works enclosed therein, it became clear to me as I read (looked?) that Words and Things had a significant contribution to make to our understanding of contemporary poetics. Foremost among these is the question of what constitutes a concrete poem and, more generally, what constitutes visual poetry.” Continue reading

Posted in BOOK REVIEWS | Tagged ,

The Ceiling Becomes a Marble Slab

Some people's dreams are vast
enough to build houses on.
I am always falling.
The lift cable snaps again
as if the other dreams
were the premonitions
of this one.
In the morning
I am always stalling,
not wanting to rise up
to a life always over my head,
the sto ste sto ste of poetry
bubbles I send up, a buoyancy
I give up to stay fast.

Posted in 20: SUBMERGED | Tagged

Nothing Suggests Adulterous Proceedings

I hear it at work, too —
the silent sto ste sto ste
of gas leaking —
I walk from coffin to coffin
at nine and at five.
At the inquest, will this screen
give them the confession
they are seeking?
Who will step in the shoes
of my empty pronouns,
provide the clues
to a crime
that never took place?
Safer perhaps to erase.

Posted in 20: SUBMERGED | Tagged

Life Seems to Be Enclosed in Steel and Nickel

Around the walls of the lift
is an iron barre we could
use when stretching
our tendons, before leaping
across the lift's vast hall.
Like Proust's flying car
which doesn't need
more engine power,
I don't suppose you'd need
to have won prizes
at long jump —
just a leap of faith.
Instead we go where we're sent.
Commencing our descent.

Posted in 20: SUBMERGED | Tagged

Frank O’Hara for Charles

So it is 10.03 (this is when I still had my watch on)
and Charles and I are on our way through the rain
to Bill's Frank O'Hara lecture and Charles says
but anyone could write a Frank O'Hara poem, why
bother? Charles says Mark Pirie writes Frank
O'Hara poems. (Mark Pirie does not write
Frank O'Hara poems.) And he sits through
the lecture in his black leather jacket, his
trainers up on the metal ring bit of his chair,
his arms folded against his linen shirt, and
when I accidentally yell “goody” when Bill
says he'll play Frank O'Hara's recording
of “Song” he says “try and be a bit
more academic, Anna,” and Frank O'Hara
in a sweet and Ginsberg-like voice is repeating
his refrain, “you don't refuse to breathe
do you,” and I am thinking, if anyone
can write a Frank O'Hara poem, isn't that
a good thing? Doesn't that make us all
potentially good people? As if Ginsberg
had got it right and “we're all golden
sunflowers inside,” although later, in our
tutorial class, after listening to Ginsberg
giving a most elegiac and O'Hara-like rendition
of “America” on the computer with Windows
Media Player, we start looking at Plath,
and it is true she keeps her inner sunflower
pretty much hidden although I try
and make a case for reading the poems
as a literary exercise and the suicide
as a sort of accident and Frank O'Hara
poetry as what she could have been
writing if she weren't so determined
to think up something new and different
to do to interest the critics. I still think
she could have. Charles says anyone could!
So let's! Who knows what it might save
us from? After all, anyone can talk,
and you don't refuse to talk, do you.

Posted in 20: SUBMERGED | Tagged

(untitled)

at mid-on marto is
dreaming of a marig
old grown from seed
the catch comes and
goes unnoticed he is
a marigold man on his
chest cricket flowers
orange soon or on
ce approaches every
idea with trepidation
now the chance
has slipped through
his coloured fingers
and language

Posted in 20: SUBMERGED | Tagged

Anyworld

Artworld. Theoryworld. Mediaworld. Infoworld. Touristworld. Olympicworld. Foxworld. Bushworld: Oneworld
                                       Susan Buck-Morss, Art in the Age of Technological Surveillance

 
setting out,
                    a scarlet flower
          behind an ear,
into the wide
               world     into
                banner-adorned cities
   faking
         permanent festivity

*

       the road
               turns an angle
       like the dateline does
                     near Tuvalu

*

once,   it's said,    anticipating promise,
          they murmured
                    as they crossed,
      ?´Bush'               like
            ´ boo schh      boo schh '
  and
            no reply
                           came
*

sprained               westoxified
            all-signed-up
                     for ´NightTalker',
     (the wine is under
                   the table somewhere)
       crying becomes
             a critical criterion
(the flower
              discarded )

*

the public sphere
     is
newly            perceptibly
                       losing memory

*

re  mem   ber   Bam,
      Arg-e Bam
ancient city of sand
             and mud
            collapsing in an earthquake,
the cultural heritage building
       slipping   subsiding,
                      consigning
     any record
         of the archaic ruin
                     to dust

*

the memory
         is
               ruined

*

who can accept
           a given world,
who can
     live in it ?

Posted in 20: SUBMERGED | Tagged

Train Tides

imagine
Flinders Street Station underwater;
clocks stop
bars close
and as you dive into the entrance
schools of supriseyed passengers
swim past
clutching briefcases,
neckties streaming

there are no loudspeakers,
no tickets to be had
from the rusty Metcard machines
plastic bags hover like jellyfish
and a businesswomen's daffodil hair
flows blue and unperfumed

people bubble down dead escalators
past the NO SMOKING signs
to see watermarked schedules
where trains aren't

and on the tracks
a stingray
flutters grey
while the stationmaster
wastes useless, salty words
on fare evaders

Posted in 20: SUBMERGED | Tagged

gesture

suspended inside someone's life:
all day, fleets of curdled white clouds
shuffle across the sky & some fragile

thing held in you untwists deftly
to follow the body's gestures; unthinking,
stumbling through the pretence

of fast-capitalism: there are no words
to describe it yet there are so many;
your heart aches with the awkward

three-dimensional shape of them:
in a time of incoherence the untwisting
in your throat strangles any clear

word that might rise like a plea
for some kind of salvation,
in which you don't even believe

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