Spring!

on days when you can smell the sea
and summer coming

thoughts turn to miscegenation

the tense and press of flesh
            to fold
is all the air's imagining

how upright every breast is held
forced to attention, bound and shy

the short skirt likewise
   sly tribute
to the meek helplessness of men

what is it with the shiny lips?
and what should they remind me of?

everywhere shaved but the top of the head
and the temple's environs
who can tell?

salt whiff
forget the diesel under
remember, land's an interruption

Priapus pipes and preens to pry
more Falernian I say

or with Herrick
let me welcome back sack

o corpulent with lust
for your arousal and disgust

sit on my knee
and let me be Santa

a Lady of Sorrows
looks after us later

Posted in 21: DOMESTIC ENEMY | Tagged

from Sackcloth Garments

translated from Chinese by Ouyang Yu

2.

those several wine bottles
because fine snow, unconsciously
scatters over the areas I can see
the fine snow is gathering around the necks of the wine bottles
as delicate as the ancient wrinkled flowers
my courtyard is plain and casual
on a fine day the fine snow melts into water
clearly, shiningly, dripping around their necks
and seeping into the shallowly laid black bricks
the bottles, as if washed
will spend their serene and brilliant period
before the dust arrives next

Posted in 21: DOMESTIC ENEMY | Tagged

Muse Has Lost Her Lustre

                                    She'll still sleep with me, so that's not it ?±
the tin-like bark of that nameless tree did it. It was more
    spectacular than her face, than swirling ribbons in a gaggle
            of daughters, than the face of a possible affair-girl
   which floated off into death-state
gently    as when rocks are born

Posted in 21: DOMESTIC ENEMY | Tagged

from Desolation Row

The Unknown Soldier charges glasses:
word has gone around
our enthusiast Prime Minister
has been discovered drowned.
He was washed up next a pillbox
and received a salute:
the President's instructions
were pinned to his bathing suit.

The once-runt receives favours
for achievements not his own
They sit him down with crayons
and tell him how he's grown.
Adults seem to overlook him
-no matter what knee-rub he tries-
He stops his watch as evidence
of what time he arrived.

Your last remaining passport
is in the teeth of a Basset Hound;
Due to its good breeding
you cannot take it to the pound.
Its owner is a simper
drawn on a rocking horse
He will only blow his horn
if you agree to be main course.

A mess of unfed kittens
are lined up in a row
and drowned in odds and evens
for having nowhere else to go.
All except those spat out
by the pedigree machine
that guarantees our borders
and full saucers of cream.

The hard recruiting Sergeant
settles an old bet – as to
the Scout Master's birthday
and what present he should get.
The lieutenant pastes the Monarch
to a naked man and has it framed,
The Sergeant has the remains of Baden-Powell
welded to a weather vane.

The imitation Sister Florence
betrays her hide-out game
by giving the wrong needle
and misspelling her name.
Her lantern flickers weakly
as she soothes you to your rest
the words to Auld Lang Syne
are tucked into her breast.

The newlywed returned to sender
sinks and cannot seem
to recover any altitude
in his mistress' esteem.
She trims his big toenail
and thinks him grown rotund
while he butters both sides of toast
and re-treads trodden ground.

The one-armed train conductor
is a month ahead in dues
His stamp upon the ticket
is congealing into a bruise.
He lives with the parking inspector
beneath a garbage lid
and presents a stick of perfect chalk
as an anniversary gift.

The pretty monkey dissident
is depicted as a lush
Downing soused bananas
peeled back from the brunt at lunch
He is an old-style disturbance
rolling marbles under hooves
and brandishing a permit
to operate as sooth.

The pedestrians are silent
by the written request
of a twice-promoted librarian
and an uninvited guest.
One indicates one's purchase
in cash register charades
“From Intimates to Politics”
by the Marquis de Sade.

The reluctant school Head Mistress
has her cigar and her cane,
A student and past Master
are locked on Lover's Lane.
A prefect is convicted
of insufficient beef
and marking his page in Leviticus
with a marijuana leaf.

The recovered anorexic
is lauded for the gain,
The recovered alcoholic
throws himself under a train.
The disorder inventory
loses a commissionaire
and the invalid canary
that shat crutches in his hair.

Posted in 21: DOMESTIC ENEMY | Tagged

The All Blacks v Maoist China

       There wasn't so much in it. Serious men
   Who shoveled in the door at one-to-ten
   To see the game on Sky,
Were sure at one point, somewhere near half past,
   That even Howlett wasn't half so fast
      We'd get a single try.

      But then their ears fell off. And without sound
   The paddy farmers, clawing at the ground,
   Were pretty soon afraid.
They couldn't hear their coach. A score of years
   Of cigarettes put out inside their ears
      Had lowered them a grade.

      The Great Might of our props, rucking through
   Their broken corpses, popping up like poo,
   Made yum chah of the game.
A match of seven hundred halfs, it seemed
   No bug-eyed Quin or Mexted would've dreamed
      That China was so tame.

      Two hundred Nil we won; and I contend
   That when the carnage shivered to its end,
   Rugby had siezed the day.
A student, name of Feng, began to cry
   But when reporters asked his captain why,
      He said he didn't know.

Posted in 21: DOMESTIC ENEMY | Tagged

Ronald Reagan

Charles Bronson was a fool. Charles Bronson was a good man he made yummy toasted muesli. Charles Bronson was an actor with dark hair he liked to swim and was in The Great Escape with Steve McQueen and Telefon with Lee Remick and a movie not called Clambake with Elvis. Charles Bronson swam the English Channel and liked muesli. He had a wife who had cancer and he was in a whole lot of Death Wish movies which were all available at the video store except Death Wish VII. Charles Bronson had a helmet for a haircut like Tim Holt and The Incredible Hulk. Charles Bronson looked a lot like his brother. He never answered the telephone except in the movie Telefon which was not about telethons. He went to first grade in the Rockies and skipped fourth grade and always carried a knife. Charles Bronson was asthmatic he was a good man. Charles Bronson looked you in the eye. Whenever anyone asked Charles Bronson for money he always gave them twenty cents. He took amphetamines for a living and made a lot of movies few people saw except in the sixties when it was hip to see obscure movies. Charles Bronson had a friendly demeanour. He was Polish-Irish-Jewish and grew up in a coal mine was incredibly serious about work and had a facial once a week. He never went to the zoo except once by mistake when he was eight. Charles Bronson took out the trash and cleaned his car on Sunday. He didn't believe in lawns. When Charles Bronson went hiking in the wilderness he always packed a tube of glue. Charles Bronson never learned to play the violin or the saxophone but he had a deep alto tenor voice and sang in choir every second weekend. He never learnt how to spell his name. He was a good swimmer and liked fly fishing. He really wanted to be a skin-diver but the industry wasn't around when he left school at the age of thirteen seeking an apprenticeship so he became a cooper. Sometimes Charles got grumpy with his wife but he apologised and she forgave him and they went on picnics in the hills and sometimes at these picnics Charles would hallucinate that a white horse ran through their picnic platter and his wife would be Noddy. Charles Bronson could drive but he had a fear of heights and golf buggies. He didn't like having sex until he had a frank discussion with his neighbour who was a pianist and she passed on her copy of Erotic Aromatherapy. Charles Bronson broke horses for a living. His favourite food was brisket. He owned a promotions company in Dahomey that specialised in magicians. An Israeli woman taught him how to ululate which helped cure Charles's kidney aches. He was a self-taught cinematographer a millionaire a swindler a banjo player a snooker champion and a runner-up in fencing. He made his own movie for twelve hundred dollars which won twelve Academy Awards. For a wager Charles Bronson swam anti-clockwise around Graham Land from where he swam to Hudson's Bay to wrestle naked a polar bear which he lost and forfeited five dollars. He would walk home with his eyes shut and had long conversations with his natural therapist about Nice. Charles Bronson slept on a ledge alongside a sulphurous geyser for fifteen years stood on one leg in India for five years and milked a thousand goats in one sit. He thought Jim Morrison was an idiot. He sheared a thousand rams in a morning. Charles Bronson piloted tugboats for a living and liked to water ski. He lost a leg in the Bay of Pigs. He was an excellent grunter and flew a plane upside down from Paris to Quito. He won a bronze medal on the cross beam and owned a giant bean bag he named Quigley which was his father's middle name. The bean bag was filled with home grown beans. Charles Bronson had six species of runner beans named after him. His favourite food was rainbow cake he said it made his arms strong. Charles Bronson's arms were thicker than pipes. He refused to drink tap water or eat at restaurants which cooked with tap water. He thought a lot about sand and always ate everything on his plate. He adored Robert Mitchum but avoided him at parties and turned down a number of co-starring roles alongside Robert Mitchum while taking up chewing aniseed mintless gum because Robert Mitchum chewed aniseed mintless gum. In Telefon Charles Bronson was a sleeper on hearing the dumbo Robert Frost rhyme the woods are lovely dark and deep but I have motorbikes to keep Charles Bronson the zombie Russian would awake and kamikaze the nearest military facility. After making that movie Charles Bronson took Lee Remick to his ranch in the Nevada desert to show her his gila monster breeding facility. He could breathe fire sing in Romany smoke like a librarian and had a degree in nursing. He lived underwater most of his life. Charles Bronson accidentally chopped off one of his toes at one of the many illegal pigeon fights he would hold at his ranch over the winter months and a pigeon ate his toe. Charles Bronson criss-crossed the United States chasing that pigeon but the pigeon escaped. Charles Bronson was smoking a cheroot on the Sea Islands one holiday when a pigeon landed alongside his banana lounge and regurgitated a toe. Charles Bronson rushed to the nearest surgeon but unfortunately the toe wasn't his and his foot rejected the toe. Charles Bronson would only replace his artificial toe which he folded out of box cardboard and glued to his foot with Tarzan Grip intermittently. Charles Bronson owned a glue warehouse and could bake a mean loaf of bread he called scary loaf. Charles Bronson wrote a screenplay called Scary Loaf III. He got aches from time to time and took tips from bus passengers on how to alleviate these one of these tips was from an explosives expert who suggested Charles eat a packet of cigarettes a day. Charles Bronson ate packets of cigarettes every day for a decade and grew sprouts on his Grandma's allotment despite the boll weevil. Charles Bronson dwelled often on how he could live solely on chicken pellets. Charles Bronson was a virgin till eighty three he had three children lived with his mother till she died and slept with musk rats. His underwater tomb is visited by millions of scuba diving pilgrims each year. The pilgrims swim around his tomb in counter-clockwise motions which cause vast whirlpools that are a scheduled shipping hazard. Charles Bronson was a good shot and could shoot the cigar out of his own mouth from fifty paces away blindfolded. Charles Bronson had no regrets apart from chewing his Persian cat. He cured his own tobacco and lived in the hills outside San Diego most of his life propagating hallucinogenic plants from which he isolated psychotropic compounds trying each one and then destroying the formula he ran a sixty billion dollar publishing empire ate lying down slept standing up hummed very little and nurtured a three-metre moustache backpackers would mistake for a blanket. He kindly let backpackers sleep under his moustache for many a year. He was a sweet man who lived on very little and had two vulvas. He liked Lebanese cucumbers and didn't talk to many people other than his accountant who was mute and often had a mucky eye. Charles Bronson always carried tissues in his pocket and liked to mop his accountant's mucky eye. In 1893 he was born in a log cabin his father milled with his own hired hands and chocked with chocolate moss. He detested people who chewed gum calling them gum chewers. He got hit with a poison dart in the alleys of San Diego in 1987. The poison dart was shot by the mud-men of San Diego. Charles Bronson donated his extensive blow-pipe collection to the local chapter of mud-men. Charles Bronson would always light your cigarette for you put it in your mouth inhale the cigarette for you and then smoke another for you meanwhile flushing the rest of the pack down the toilet and say he was giving up smoking for you. Charles Bronson was never demeaning impolite or crass. He was a wonderful knitter knew most of the Cabala backwards and the seventeen mysteries of aging worked in an oil refinery as a sous-chef and held down his first full-time job in a call centre where he was sacked for leaving mandarin peel on a console. He had two
hot-air balloon accidents in his lifetime the first was over Montenegro when he was shooting the never to be completed prequel to The Prisoner of Zenda the second was on his third honeymoon in the middle of the Pacific Charles Bronson swam to Bonin raised the alarm flew the helicopter and winched the stretcher to rescue his wife fixing her a champagne breakfast when they got back to the hotel. Local authorities say it was his aftershave that saved Charles Bronson from being eaten by sharks. He lost his only elephant in a drinking game kept desiccated coconut in his wallet only ate bananas never shaved liked to dine on tiger steaks and lick the backs of rare South American frogs. Charles Bronson had few skills but never gave up trying. He looked up to people who were taller than him and never wore sneakers. He initiated many fiascos sold Fidel Castro a second-hand yacht and sailed with him to Trinidad in 1958 where they tried out a new invention of Charles's the land yacht a yacht with wheels or a car with sails it sank in the asphalt lakes. He tied to kiss Panther Woman but Panther Woman scratched his face. Charles Bronson issued a set of chewing gum cards with his likeness on them collected a whole set recalled the remainder and made a mint on the swap card market. Charles Bronson was always picking desiccated coconut from his chest hair. He loved Jersey caramels and swam to the Channel island of Jersey for a box of the things which he carried home on his back swimming breaststroke with the box inside a specially designed pouch. Fidel Castro now owns that pouch. Charles Bronson would go to the movies in his Andy Warthog T-shirt. He liked to throw popcorn at the ushers and drink Island Coolers in the carpark afterwards. He was kicked to death in Antigua. Charles Bronson mentored Scott Baio for the role of understudy to Tom Cruise in Cocktail. Scott accompanied Charles on his fourth honeymoon to Tobago and poured the pina coladas. Charles Bronson was weaned on pina coladas. Charles Bronson was born on Tobago as David Francis but changed his name on his mother's request when he went to live in a coal mine. Charles Bronson discovered bismuth in Georgia. He grew up in a derelict leprosarium and could only eat chalk. He was allergic to water and hated swimming but loved the inner-urban ruins of donut cities. Charles Bronson wore anklets and practised the ancient way of the invisible fist each morning. He swam to Australia in 1876 bought a pad in Sydney's west where he watched buildings a practice he helped pioneer. He has since made a lot of money in television. No-one not even Buster Keaton knew who Charles Bronson was until they saw his movies. He lived an isolated life in Brittany surrounded by his closest friends Geraldine Chaplin Omar Sharif Bill Walsh the Sasquatch Henry Kissinger Herman Hesse and International Velvet. He invented diesel the bunsen burner maraschino cherries the biro marzipan and putty. All the popes paid Charles Bronson at least fifty thousand denaris in lawsuits for infringing on his personality. He never gave anyone an inch and could bake wonderful choc-chip cookies. He could grow a beard in an hour but wasn't very good at table tennis and took too many anabolic steroids yet ground his own organic wheat which he sewed in land he ploughed with his own foot for seventy years. He could never remember long telephone numbers. Charles Bronson never shaved. His sweat was bottled as shark repellent and issued to pilots in WWII. He started his own shipping business at eighty three and owned twenty islands. His nickname was Thing. No-one ever called him by his nickname. He never flew anywhere preferring to swim. Charles Bronson lived till he was hundred and three giving it his best shot and then going to sleep. He overdosed on anaesthetics when he was twenty. Charles Bronson was a light opera enthusiast joined the red army at seventeen where he sang in the red army choir when he was thirty eight he left the red army to drive a jeep across the seven deserts of the world. His introversion was renowned and he smoked his own sausages. A high-flying equestrian he judged Miss Universe for twelve years running winning it once the year he retired and passed away. Miss Universe was held the following year in a coal mine in memory of Charles Bronson. Charles Bronson had a giant statue in Georgia built in his honour wearing a hard hat and wielding a pneumatic drill the statue's nose dripped. He invented a diamond tipped drill bit for the pneumatic drill miners to this day say my Thing's blunt I need a new Thing. Charles Bronson liked aquaplaning and teriyaki chicken. He could swing from monkey bars for hours learned to speak Russian and yodelled to an amphitheatre of six hundred striking meat packers one lunchtime. He only accepted payment in the form of stale bread rolls which he stored in a purpose built climate controlled storage facility. Each meal he ate one roll soaked in milk. There was never a dull moment in Charles Bronson's house because he never turned the lights off. Charles Bronson was afraid of the dark and Danny Kaye. He was the only man to have ever hugged Steve McQueen. He could never shake his French accent spoke seven dialects of Ugric learnt Turkish to fluency and his favourite number was two. Charles Bronson hosted a Turkish delegation of Tupperware consultants in 1963 at his ranch in Oregon taking them to a cattle sale where Charles snapped his shin on a mudguard he left the delegates to watch cattle to find a service station for medical assistance and the Turkish government never forgave him banning Charles Bronson from Turkey. Whenever Charles Bronson muttered he muttered only in Turkish and evolved his own personal Turkic dialect which a team of linguists recorded in the Charles Bronson Turkic Dictionary. Charles Bronson tried to smuggle himself into Turkey masquerading as a truck driver from Moldova but only got as far as Tbilisi where he developed an addiction to cod liver oil and became a hero worker. Charles Bronson was a born raconteur and natural mute. He only drank water with salt in it. He never said anything important to anyone was an amoral crank and the populace of Georgia loved him and miss him very much. He imported bananas to Iran and developed the world's first pant tomato. His Memories of Irian Jaya was republished twenty times. Some people knew him as the giant moustache. He lived on a Shoshone reservation and chewed his fingernails developing leukaemia aged thirteen. He pulled a child out of a burning hut at least once a month single sculled across the Pacific watched television for hours every day had skinny legs ate with a shoehorn swam to work collected mats had a large growth on his back which made him burp liked to eat under tables gambled for six months straight never lost a nickel made a million on uranium speculation in the Northwest Territories grew taller than his mother squared everything only ate cheesecake with blueberries invented a musical instrument made out of peanuts fell in love with a buffalo herder a mozzarella maker and a peanut pizza researcher from the West Indies owned a tatty gabardine coat and smelled musky. Charles Bronson never ate prosciutto on principle and gave up Swedish massage for coca leaf. He had a great rapport with trade unions and personal relationships with several federal investigators. He swapped secrets for tomato sauce recipes played the guitar sousaphone and harp at the same time could swallow a twelve inch pizza in one bite and ran a political campaign on a platform of saving the anchovy with the slogan Pizza was my first love. He wanted to be an astronaut but his head was too big so he became an aquanaut. He liked cocaine and apples. He taught hairdressers by the Red Sea how to lie on the beach and drink mint tea. He knew vitamins and minerals backwards and could recite the periodic table for as long as you required. He sank the Calypso taught the sideways tango and liked eating rare antiques. Charles Bronson never knew when to stop. He had trouble with his bowels and would go out on his driveway and shoot hoops to alleviate the symptoms. He dreamed about shooting hoops on the moon. He never knew when to shop. He killed two ants once it gnawed away at him for the rest of his life the ants would come to him in dreams and sing why didn't you love me. He carved whole villages out of teak with the pocket knife his grandfather found on a beach this pocket knife is now in the national archive for homemade villages. Charles Bronson grew radishes for a living which he sprayed with molybdenum and sold on the radish exchange. He never saw himself naked had the world's longest fingernails and married his television. His favourite program was the Lee Remick hour. He liked to buy things he didn't need at the milk bar and store them in his boat. Charles Bronson refused to walk anywhere. He was last seen covered in twigs roaming the hills chased by bees. Charles Bronson set up Charles Bronson Meat Research Academies throughout the known world. He retired to the Balearic Islands. He personally saved millions of acres of rainforest patenting new forms of meat. His lifestyle was patchy and we know little about him. His humming was phenomenal. He could recite whole chapters of video repair manuals off the cuff and liked to ogle. He didn't fly kites as much as he liked to but carried one in his pocket in case the occasion arose but because he spent most of his life indoors the occasion rarely arose so he set up the Charles Bronson Foundation for the Future Development of Indoor Kite Flying Opportunities which sponsored the purchase of industrial fans for scout halls and many reams of tissue paper. He wrote the beluga's national anthem and was halfway through the narwhal's when the narwhal suddenly decommissioned him. Charles Bronson knew all the desert plants by touch and lived without water for years at a stretch. He only drank when it rained. His favourite animal was the vaquita. He liked drinking cigars. He was a tout a baritone a ham radiographer a museum a fossil from the Dark Ages a real 1880s type who never cried unless he was lied to and took great pains to sit correctly. Charles Bronson had an immaculate toupee. The greatest compliment Charles Bronson ever paid was nice hat. He loved aviaries he had hundreds of them they never suffered from mites or birds. He traded in topaz but spurned rubies. He grew his own spelt but bought shop-soiled potatoes hated detergent collected gas and fire ants and the ends of safety pins wore purple felt abandoned a promising career in cricket for beekeeping which he ran at a loss until swindling his long-lost half brother into buying the hives and equipment but not the bees. On a televised reunion late in life Charles Bronson met his longlost half-brother who released a hive of killer bees in the studio they stung Charles to death. To this day he replies to millions of our letters in person spending two and half hours in the gym each and every morning. Charles Bronson had a back like a bandicoot and could speak beetle the world over. His home on stilts in Vietnam had a thousand kettles and one cupboard. There were only three things that meant more to Charles Bronson than burning a kettle bad breath horses lighting mosquito coils poisonous vipers and mumbling movie plots. Charles Bronson patented life coaching. Charles Bronson saw the Big Ungh in person. He could fry onions liked eggs and took yoga lessons went bicycle riding with his aunt because she was often depressed about world events devoured medals owned a kilt whittled corn dolls for his granddaughters talked of returning to Nelson in a caravan secured the last grazing rights in Fiji skolled a bottle of fish oil before an audition and went to the highest court in the land he was a Polish pea farmer from way back who nurtured boils on the inside of his nose he trained as an electrician and liked high teas he loved his wife very much but was prone to bouts of melancholia which he put down to lead in the ground water as it turned out it was cadmium he stopped eating chicken for a living he could walk on his hands at the edge of a precipice atop the Matterhorn with his eyes shut he never knew his aunt's voice threw wonderful parties and will long be remembered for his grace his gravely voice which he acquired through a mail order kit and his boat Charles Bronson caught public transport played billiards drank schnapps three of his friends died in a bus crash in Leeds he started a riot herded goats he was an only child with a penchant for Slavic languages who pogo-jumped into the Guinness Book of Records he had two face lifts facing each other in the shape of his face that went up either side of his building Charles Bronson's home was forty two stories high on the roof was an intensive aquaculture set-up dedicated to the breeding of snails and water chestnuts this facility is now the Charles Bronson Memorial Garden. His home its grounds and its giant library in the shape of a sheep and the trampoline he was born on and lived under till he was thirty five have all been preserved and now belong to the world and its people. We miss Charles Bronson very much.

Posted in 21: DOMESTIC ENEMY | Tagged

Invading Australia: A Sequence

1.

z called me this morning

he came here a few months ago, then he disappeared
i sort of knew what he would call me about
it would be about invasion
invading australia
an idea he got from reading my book
although i told him to ring me back one hour later
as i had not even brushed my teeth or washed my face

2.
sure enough, he said he would design a website
called “yellow peril”
he would then invite people from all over the world
“you mean the chinese-speaking world?”
i queried and commented that it wouldn't do
as to maintain it from month to month would cost too much
and then to set up something just for the chinese was simply not
worth
it

3.
“what then do you think you could do?” z said
i said, i've got an idea and it was this:
invite everyone including your state premier
to your opening at an empty gallery
fill it to overflowing and just when they start wondering
why there's nothing happening
get your troop of chinese soldiers wearing pls uniforms
carrying their rifles with ice-shining bayonets
marching into the open gallery and announcing the arrest
of all the important vips and meanwhile announcing on the radio
you had brought in and placed in a corner
that australia had been taken over by new china
exactly the same way as described in a novel written by an australian
and published in the 1980s
“brilliant idea” z said, “but i do not have the heart to do such
things
to such an innocent people!”

4.
“so far,” z said. “all they do is to be looked at, gazed at
“to have their wounds exposed and examined”
“right”, i said. “from now on, with my idea of invasion of australia
we'll look at them and trample over them, all over them”
i then said to him that he could get the people held in detention
centres
as extras to appear in his show
my ideas rushing in and i started talking about this being
gazed-at-ness
saying: right! it's like mai tongku: selling your misery
to please them because they, you know, are crazy about being beaten
up
they pay for you to piss on them shit on them and spit on them
and get a hell lot of pleasure out of it
in the end they are the masters and you are the slaves
see what i mean?

5.
the best thing, i said, is hold the exhibition in the parliament
house
in canberra and set shop selling all the memorabilia
commemorating chinese soldiers who have sacrificed their lives
in building new china and erasing the name of australia from the face
of
the earth
and everyone having a good laugh out of it all

6.
the only thing to mind is, i said, the future success of such an
adventure
if you go it alone, i wouldn't participate but if we do it together
we'd have to have an equal share of proceeds from the sales
the admissions and the prize-money
etc, chouhua shuozai qiantou, as Chinese saying goes
“say the ugly words right at the beginning” z repeated it
and, for my readership, i make it more australian below:
set the terms right at the start to avoid any future
misunderstandings
or unequal share of the booty

7.
i have one more idea about this invasion show:
issue 10000 visitor's visas to as many beautiful girls from china
get them to come to australia and visited by australian males
don't be offended
it's just a show
“what about the grant?” z said
“what about it?” i said
“australians always support good ideas that they like
you probably will get it but i'm not sure”

8.
just at this junction an email drifted in from china:
“australia is an old man's country; i can't live there
thank you for all your kindness while i was there
but i've decided i prefer the noise and dirt here”

Posted in 21: DOMESTIC ENEMY | Tagged

Virgil at Bedtime

There are glow-in-the-dark stars
on the ceiling which probably
won't peel off. And yes, there are
two gates of sleep, sweetheart,
it is not just in the morning
you have to be careful what side
of the bed you choose,
there are choices to make
day and night,
and for the rest of your life.
And the ivory gate is glittering
but not smiling at you,
it is just the way it is shaped
like the mouth of a crocodile
opening wide,
offering futures like vistas,
dreams that will
eat you up.
No, the other gate is the gate
to choose, sweetheart,
and your dreams, if you dream,
will be safe as houses
and won't bankrupt you at all ?±
you just have to be dead
to go through.

Posted in 21: DOMESTIC ENEMY | Tagged

Notes for a Prospectus

(for david egan)

1. after months at sea re-
hearsing the property rites / a shotgun
barrel like a dark
clockface surrounded by vegetation
                        & laughed silently
the time of appeasement has
            passed–bulletholes & bridal
            gowns
                         after the silent advocacy
was spent under vows working a borehole
line by scant line.       a too-severe
symmetry of design / forecasting the
                         long dry season
                         & no truant memory
            as seeds of dolomite
                                     sewn into the
black stream irrigating a dust-
worn image of the one-who-owns & the
one-who-must-be-obeyed

2. maddened by the flat outlands thirsty for
altitude & spirit-levels / the
            thorn bursts into rain darkening
teeth in bloodsweat weather

northwest from kamilaroi country
to port-of-bourke
                         a string of muddy
waterholes gateway to the
nevernever
compass-dark & needle-eyed

the hugely mortal beast
                        sleeps under
                        petrified scales–
                        its dream
                        swarms
                        over the plains
                        salt nebula
                        burning the scrub
                        night-pale

3. breakneck after the fall
gutting the run-through
cattle grid & cyclone wire–late warning

across three “states”

the stormeye gathers
red soil
old-testament-like
into its ferment–tearing up the
paralytic lakebeds
in a cumulus of bloodlust

& the fire wrapping the air about it into a
whirlwind
thick with crazed insects

4. dunes of rusted steel in full glare of the sun beating
on the old dry wrecks behind the viaduct
broken by seas of emptiness
                         blood-alcohol & flocks of white
sulphur-crested cockatoos
screeching at sunset out along kaputa road
grey-red from scrub fires
a hundred kilometres away
                         artifice & truth melt
into one another in a vista that
dies out between pine trees as night & the access road
descend. though “nothing will have been proved”
                        we are digging a hole
into which all the arrangements can be
upended & buried
facing the dark parentheses
after the words are spent–as though the gesture itself
were an ultimatum

Posted in 21: DOMESTIC ENEMY | Tagged

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.

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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.
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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

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