Apophansis Republica (2)

First effect: the erasure of singularity.
Second effect: a pattern of necessary associations.
Ethical Adjustment #1: Deny all lies, greater truths justify these equivocations.

Third Effect: the possibility of insight.
Fourth Effect: the emotive response.
Ethical Adjustment #2: Enclose the political within the gambit of an image.

Fifth Effect: the supposition of understanding.
Sixth Effect: the demands of interpretation presuppose understanding.
Assertion #1: Your eyes are rusted gaskets.

Seventh Effect: the joy of bathos.
Eighth Effect: irony.
Ethical Adjustment #3: Regularly oil and sharpen the blade's steel.

Ninth Effect: the realisation of meaning.
Tenth Effect: a desire for boredom.
Assertion #2: You are irrevocably late.

Ethical Adjustment – final: Incise left to right; dispose of appropriately.

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Apophansis Republica (1)

Posted in 23: EDITORIAL INTERVENTION | Tagged

Sweet Child O’ Mine

departure brushes up against you
a hurried commuter on the rush hour line

it was really something to take part in the hubris
a signed deal & a backslapped afternoon

digital authenticity drowns out static
& we forget how good it felt to shatter fibro

axl rose makes a performance art comeback
& i slip into a vodka collins in the front row

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Dulce bellum inexpertis

pull the stitch through
and sew the night wounds.

the best time for war
is while the enemy sleeps.

Wilfred Owen of Tikrit
breathes freely

(not a mustard gas insectoid
of trench warfare).

they are the nonchalant Knights
of the Kevlar Table.

Incubus sticker
on the side of his helmet.

residual radiation
doesn't feature in barracks conversation.

in the middle of November
he starts to wonder

if the reindeer
know the way to babylon.

some turkey turns up
celebrating the pilgrim's progress.

a constant jumbo jet tinnitus
and sleep dep hallucinations

keeps his patrol
as keen as rambo's knife,

but the worst news comes
on Christmas Eve

and the e-card
Pvt. Taylor sends his girlfriend

bounces back,
address blocked.

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They Do Their Best

They do their best–not wanting
To show an ungrateful face,
Not wanting to step out of line,
To show difference

They do their best–crowding out
The shops, being up with the latest
This or that, the most pressing of
Consumer needs.

They do their best–to make
A life, to find things to follow,
Not wanting to have nothing
To hold to.

They do their best–to be part,
To share the hatred that has been
Crafted for them, hate not
In their hearts.

They do their best–at the moments
Of desolation, to pretend there is
Something that connects, some reason
Why they belong to this here
And now–the here and the now
Made of the nothings, of the hate,
Of countless unbelongings.

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Man with a Newspaper

It's a metropolitan weekend paper,
As thick as a doormat, in several sections.
He spreads the front page out on his lap
With a satisfied look–he's going to enjoy this.
But about half way down the trouble starts–
His brow furrows, he reads more slowly,
Then breaks off to scan the other stories.

There is nothing new here, no news.

He hurriedly glances across the other pages
Of the first section, and then puts the paper
Down, dissatisfied. From time to time
He glances furtively at it, occasionally picking
Other sections up to thumb through,
But to no avail. At last his flight is called;
He stands up with his case and strides off,
Leaving it behind. Then he turns quickly,
Snatching at it. He holds it awkwardly,
Rumpled, under one arm, as he marches off.

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there’s only ever been two

in our eyes' dilatory
dance our irises open
admit missed steps faults it marks
the corona every break
is here dot dot dash your bones'
brittle semaphore tattoo
out how far you fell how much
we have a third between us
a shift a shadow drawing
down the lids in noonday sun
shuttering hush of lashes
we say too much with fragile
instruments supreme geiger
counters tick tick tick burr
the needle swings don't you know
the meaning of it we dance
I lead you follow outside
are common house diamonds
winking out the clouds melting
a mushroom soaks in honey
the room whitens like a bone
exposed and we stand like posts
a thin string nailed between us
our eyes feel the heat shimmer
as something evaporates

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That Second Heart

I cannot accept it. How can
one be ready for this gift? My
belly cannot curve to tightness,
my skin cannot hold a drum (that

second heart). I cannot accept
it – limbs bursting buds. I cannot
have the end to blood. I cannot
bear your blood, child, and I think of

you, often.

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Asteral

if you come over i'll give to you what I can

i heard you're in L.A. for the protest and the Post-sit-in
i heard you're in L.A., shirt not buttoned at the top

got a yellow flower patch spiting the horizon line
got a yellow shirt     whyn't you here to try it on

got some far-off friends' shirts and shoes and socks
got some far-off friends     they're funny babies very odd

asters in rain     you won't believe how they blow
asters in rain     you won't believe how they move

got a rock collection and photographs of smoke
got a road on my mind     whyn't we walk it slow

that bunch of asters on my windowsill     in bloom
thine bunch of asters callin me     hey pick us soon

asters in rain     you won't believe why they move

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Dead Poem Office

I read the last rites over your submission today
& since our procedures have been streamlined
I'm delighted & at the same time proud to say
That we've found a place for your poetry here.

Give us your poems & in several years' time
We'll give you an idea of death's landscapes.
Redundant rhymes, image, metaphor sublime:
Your four line stanzas, our grim burial plots.

Taking a rejection personally is well-advised.
That's why we never say no to anything sent.
Our acceptance procedures have been revised:
Please note in case of future correspondence.

Simultaneous submissions remain unwelcome
As we pride ourselves on our unique position
Within the mortuary canon. Flattery seldom
Impresses as much as genuine humility does.

On behalf of our hard-working gravediggers
Congratulations once again on your success.
In future issues, as our catalogue gets bigger,
May we all transcend our obsessional deaths.

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One Line Poems

Closure

The mirror shrugged, the sky blew shut, and you were gone.
 
 
 

Tradition

He laid an egg every year. Every year a poppy in a ditch.
 
 
 

Story

Now look! the plant said, and grew.
 
 
 

Dental anxiety

Tooth, tooth soup. 77 white sharks.
 
 
 

The cactus

Rain in September. Checking if the cactus got wet. Checking again.
 
 
 

Examination

“The crab cut the fish.” Discuss in three pieces.
 
 
 

Secret

Behind the dead tree, I ate honey and grass.

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Dunedin and Around

Arrival

The light will let you know
that you are really here.

You will appear,
both to yourself and your companion

as bones, glowing in an x-ray,
or teeth, exposed in a dark mouth.
 
 
 

Acclimatisation

You will shed two dimensions
and unfurl,

like ink in infinite water.

Thoughts may turn to helium,
or the clouds.

Hearts tend to respond by lifting;
so many red balloons.
 
 
 

Accommodation

Proud shapes step in,
control the situation.

Be careful not to cut yourself
on corners.

Sleep comes quick as a knife.

 
 
 
Attractions

Further on, you may notice eels,
being fed blancmange

by an old woman.

Generations of fangs
have known the lightness

of her recipe,
a lesson in antonyms.
 
 
 

Afterwards

Photographs are best
viewed in the negative.

Light still fascinates
at the edges.

Scooped-out versions revolve,
like looted display cases.

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Why Trains Crash

stop the trains. a crash appears imminent.
i'm playing with machines that control
whether trains crash into each other.

german trains crash head-on.
and, wow, do those trains crash:
into the water, into buildings,
into mass quantities of fish,
and into each other.

why the carnage?

trains take enormous amounts
of time and space to come to a stop

then, in a thunderous, grinding crash,
the trains collide. the two locomotives
rise up at their meeting and erupt in steam
and smoke; flames billow from the wreckage.
carriages, jammed after impact,
trap many passengers inside.

(speedometer malfunctioned/the morning was overcast
and visibility poor/the procedures were either
misunderstood or poorly designed/human error

has been blamed for the crash.)

the trains were freshly painted. the locomotives hit
with a crash which was followed by a roar as one
of the boilers exploded, sending debris in all directions.

witnesses said the trains were on the same track,
heading towards each other. an investigation into the cause
of the crash – and why the trains were on the same line

is underway.

——–

two trains crash somewhere in russia, one carrying a nuclear payload.
a nuclear explosion follows the crash and the world is on alert.
eventually a train will derail or a truck will crash:

a mobile chernobyl. a nuke train.
the logic of failure: why do trains crash when the signals are working?
why does a nuclear reactor melt down with all operators alert at their posts?

even professionals make mistakes.

——–

please don't let the trains crash.
don't have any more circus trains
crash into passing parades
and spilling over into the zoo.
repair broken music boxes and other toys.
i was always finding ways to crash the train, like gomez addams.
when two trains crash head on with each other, not only do the potential energies
add together, but solving this school algebra (versus calculus) equation shows that
the trains crash when t = 350/60 hours (no need to simplify).

i'm not making excuses. i've loved trains my whole life.

———

so trains crash, the roads are congested
and you don't know if your food is fit to eat.
livestock is diseased and plants are modified genetically.

so trains crash, water can't be drunk and cities lose electricity.
ferries sink, bombs are planted on buses,
automatic teller machines self-destruct.

show me the trains and give us all engines.
yes, this is where we wreck stuff.
my ideas are: let us be able to drive
the trains, lorries, buses, planes, etc.
and crash them if we want:

a collection of some of the wildest crashes
and most outrageous stunts.

you can jump half-pipes,
play chicken with subway trains,
crash through windows and perform realistic tricks;

i will be spending new year's eve standing on top
of the hill at alexandra palace,
waiting to see planes fall out of the sky.

(this will happen only if you mess up)

——–

damn, those trains gonna crash!
the men at the bar suddenly paid attention. what crash?

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Burmese Black-lipped Bullfrog

If the West were let in, we'd be the Frank ?´N Furters
Of the amphibian world — black lipstick clad mouths
On the prowl for evolution's democratic buzzword.
Amoral, bi-sexual fraternisation between parties only
Enhances the underground's reputation for risqué.
Burma's a cult classic. But double feature picture shows
Are banned & only documentaries capture us, a species
Under house arrest, we couldn't keep up with the general
Speak. Ecology protection last on the cadres' list of ten
Things to do before they die. We were frogmarched out
Of the final scene, rainforests time warped into rice
Paddies, a Medusa Switch had us on generational hold.
We were often confused with the Chiang Mai flat-footed
Canetoad
; a dictatorial sub-species, more firmly rooted.

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On Not Having Encountered Snow, Age 35

(i)

Snow is distant like death. A blond field of
wheat stubble stalk frozen after harvest. Heat
in the eye of the Nankeen kestrel that jump jets
over paddocks & locks onto mouse holes, thermals
raging as Westerlies plug in. Heat, the dust devil
city smothers New Delhi subterfuge in downtown
Melbourne. That peculiar afternoon light which
extracted pedestrians from Brunswick St shops
& fog bound them, though reversed naturally.

(ii)

Heat was between your legs before that race –
wet heat of fear & you didn't win, the frigate bird
chafe flared bright in the puberty reds, heat in the
hands you held, (St Marys) where tennis hill statues
sat unmoving, unkissing under the snowy haired
moon, heat in the lips of ridicule, cat guts tense.
Heat in the dishonour of taste, class food, uneaten.
A Marie Celeste of untouched grub, cheese hidden
In racing car caps, heat in discovery of shame.

(iii)

Heat going out of dinners & heat in the helplessness
of fathers, ransacked emotions spat as boiled water
that snaked down onto the two year old, heat in the
venom of quick atoms bouncing into each other ?±
jump-castle heat of energy in the typeface that printed
your father's agony; heat leaving bodies & going where?
Heat of difference, heat of statistics, cold heat of fluoros,
the heat of engines six storeys down, taxi alligators
prowled bitumen moat of Bowen-Bridge Road.

(iv)

On not having encountered snow, age 35, all that can
be felt is heat. Inuit metaphors meaningless in the heat
of birthplace, dawn heat of children, hot cords of uncut
blood, sapling placenta heat, eucalypt heat, heat of scalpel
& vein & dry creek bed. Howling heat of babies, eruption
of teething heat, your hot soul mate heat when you find it.
Heat of near misses. Collision heat of unconditional love.
Performative heat of this spoken language, I love you.
The kind of heat that kills snow.

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Sor Juana

Freely constructed from a letter by Sor Juana de la Cruz

the letters of the good mothers
are drenched in secular eloquence
if all the limbs of my body were tongues
I could not publish such excellence

they do not hasten to condemn
deformities of the human heart
yet ambition may become a woman
muliere in silentio discat

the properties of a hare may briefly
make a woman handsome
but I would rather ungreased hinges
and the study of declensions

osculatur me osculo
oris sui decrees the Song
if lips were letters I could more straitly
be given to wondering

for this pure grammar of kisses
may express a pious verity
that mitigates the condemnations
of lascivious sorority

if a harp can cure a king's sickness
then song may heal my sin
I merely lust to follow studies
that are celebrated in men

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Breakages

there are breakages certainly

although bone can withstand more pressure than reinforced concrete

the psyche has its own architectures which pay little heed to gravity

an entire city can be populated on foundations little bigger than an ant

I have often watched these insects crawling across the desolations of tables

in such malarial humidities perception is closed to a perimeter of twenty feet

the night is making jaguar roars to scare away the blue skinned natives

within the circle of sight all objects are pretenaturally large and clear

I sip again the vitreous humours of my companions

and I have detached each lunate from each wrist and woven a palace from each

the dust from the ulysses butterfly is an excellent material for windows

such altitudes are dizzying but easily dispersed in alcohol

later the body will wither and every palace crash to the earth

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one sip away from the verse

i.

it's your T-shirt, you shaky shaky, those big suckling chords. you stunner gun, staple diet, long-socked, high spire, much aligned curly swirl. wonder boots. boots to lick. i'd crawl & i'd lick the boots under your boots. i'd walk for those shoes. walk to rock the boots that kick. please. teach me to walk.

[insert wild copper top looped bass riff here]
 
 
ii.

you need the alphabet soldered into your scratch plate. you say E & i'll lunch on a mile for one of your Ps, you X, you Z. poling my poles. you stoic, poetic boy. my mink metaphor. standing in for a word I can't pronounce. many have tried & many have fed you. i eat you, now, carrot by carrot, fringe by fringe. swollen, up against bowled angst.

[the bridge: circling the stomach of cool]
 
 
iii.

you do & you will & you Spike Milligan me right in the right of me. so right. let me play a melody of you, let me create chorus, verse, bridge, back to verse again, let me middle eight you all the way to four & a half minutes. let me staccato your ribcage & rip my A string in song to you. i smoke you, note by note, foot by foot.

[end on fourth beat with a little left to spare …

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movements [in music]

All my concerts had no sounds in them;
they were completely silent. People had to make up
their own music in their minds!
                               Yoko Ono

the mathematician's signature
on note shaping: an audiograph

Debussy's canvas chords, Bart?õk's
construction of a swimming cul-de-sac

SchÀÜnberg expressing the mind &
Malipiero with intuition & sanctum
           Who Knows Where The Time Goes?
                    Fairport Convention]

each melody an epiphany, pu shih
provoking excursions in the past
        [96 Tears, ? & the Mysterians]

partnerships: the tempo & metre
an emotional archaeological dig
      [Sin City, Gram Parsons]

the time you slipped on oil
& couldn't walk for weeks
               [Rumble, Link Wray]

when you couldn't find the words
to kiss him & the night was Miro
            [I'll Keep It With Mine, Bob Dylan]

those evenings when you wondered what life
would be if you were something else
           [Let It All Hang Out, The Hombres]

finding out someone was not telling you
everything & somehow you let it slide
                [Over and Over, Neil Young]

that moment when you ended everything
with a painted sign, maroon cherries & a mixed tape
       [So Long Babe, Lee Hazelwood]

soon: when all things = cut sounds of new
& you, you selling your past
lump sum in second-hand stores

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Writer in Prison

Your cell is a cavern; the guards
grinding teeth outside your grotto

marginally refined ape-men; you
the last human in the world

of triumphant beasts. Is your pen
the key to emancipation?

No. The lock has no keyhole
and welded beyond breakage,

bolstered by all the energy
invested into orchestrating

your captivity. Such formality
staged for the incarceration

of one soul. The vilification,
the public outrage, the trial

and the theatrical castigation
all to ensure that the curtain

forever falls over your life. What
could a pen possibly do

to alter the absolute plot
of the script of so-called justice?

Zilch. Your freedom is untenable.
Barbarity always possesses

the upper hand. Don't waste
your vital ink by doodling tears.

In your pre- or post- historic cave
you are the insider archaeologist.

Your pen is a shovel, chisel
and brush only for exhuming

the bruised icons, recovering the abject
tales and treasures from beneath

the stone, lava, rubble and sand
of the storms of tyranny. Please

don't get sentimental now.
You, writer in prison,

may yet be our saviour.

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Call Me Filth

I am filth. You are right
to hate me. Do not listen

to the mystics' warnings; hatred
will not corrupt your logic. I'm

the source of decadence; see my
thick beard, dark skin and turban.

Do not listen to the learned;
civilisation is a Western value.

Mine is irreversible savagery.
Haven't you received the facts

of my innumerable barbarities
from the mouths of newsreaders,

from the pens of your columnists?
Listen to them. They know

what's best for your morality.
Listen to me: I'm a virus

poised to strike at your healthy body.
Do not underestimate me. My culture

is vampiric. My icons
zombies. Hide your daughters from

my supernatural lust. I'm the very villain
of your gothic horror. The monstrous Muslim

concocted by the Apocalyptic fetish
of your politicians and rabble-rousers.

Listen to them. They know how
to make hatred necessary, user-friendly.

Let their words be mightier than the scimitars
of my legends. Do not spare a thought

for my history. I don't have one.
Yours is the epic of discovery and triumph;

mine an illegible, fading footnote.
Do not worry yourself with

the story of my culture being the Cradle
of Civilisation. You shall rock

my history to the grave
and that's all that counts. You

can afford to be hateful. Your terror
disguised as a ?´hero quest'

for security and democracy. Enjoy
your supremacy. Let me suffer

the consequences of being an archetype
of your hell. Call me evil;

call me filth.

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[the open plain, or mesa]

Sometimes, when you're a cowboy gunslinger,
all you're left with is your boots and hat
and lariat, your trick paint horse,

your Colt and your Winchester, your bedroll,
the open plain, or mesa, the tins of beans
and strips of cured beef, your sense of justice

for your murdered kin, scalped by marauding
godless injuns, your self-reliance and steely aim
by the riverbed, your tempered and easy masculinity,

your friend the emancipated slave. You've seen
the iron horse and the telegraph cross the maps
and random states and you've seen the sunrise

on the canyons, the noonday dead on the dusty
streets of Texas, the evening cool of the hacienda
and the saloon brawls in the night. You've known

the love of a good-hearted dancing girl, yet you'll die
alone beneath a ridge. You'll leave no estate,
no child, no forlorn wife, no brethren will weep

by your simple grave. Your bedroll is your shroud,
the open plain your chapel. And all that is left
will be your hat and boots and lariat.

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A Climber’s Farewell

Satellites really knock me out,
the way they join the dots,
the way a carpet-trader deep

in the Soud calls his uncle Faisal
at the Moore Park Supa Centa,
the way a called-up beleaguered

Little League coach calls in an air-strike
from the carriers, louche and polished
in the Gulf. And at the end of every call,

what I'm left with is a belief
in the possibilities of language
to truthfully and energetically

communicate experience, thought and feeling,
co-ordinates and intensity,
quality and quantity, fully landed cost

and now my final cheerios to dad and mum ?±
from this lofty New Zealand mountaintop
where I lie broken-legged, hypothermic and elated.

Night is falling and I'm stiffening here
in my alpine-rated bag and I'll call everyone
I know till my batteries run low, till the satellite

Says goodnight.

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Editorial Intervention

Usually I despise the practice whereby editors place their own work in an issue of the publication they're editing. Apart from denying a place to someone whose work is probably better, such actions often signal a kind of desperation, a “look at me” attitude or, to put it bluntly, a crude vanity best ignored, if not completely forgotten. All of which does little to explain the placement of one of my poems in the current issue of Cordite.

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