a day in the life long

The moon forgets its own face.
I'm reminded that I don't like the colour of sky
in summer, ever. Someone asks me to smell
their rose colour. I say, Get out of the way
of my birdsong! Watch the brittle hands
falling from me, dry retching on the taste
of love letters, eyes welling up
with the brutal smell of drumming.
The moon is waiting for a better time
to show its face. It cries, Spoon, dish,
but what about a tuning fork? Its face
an open tub of Brillatine cream, singing
from a bathroom that's lost its house.
The sun comes up, goes down on a pulley.
Breakfast television is changing. Autumn
takes me, I am breathless. It breathes its
brown and gold over my green lentil skin. Smiling,
I realise my treetop walking is coming along,
steadily. No one standing beneath shouting,
Look at old Elephant Ears! The tightrope's
taken down and used as a lasso. Summer
has put its hope in me and I won't let it down
or the crowd of teenagers lining up for a name.
My pen fights like a terrier, a rose tasting
metaphor for itself. And you?

Posted in 23: EDITORIAL INTERVENTION | Tagged

writers and editors

there are writers who are
trying to get into books
and there are editors
that try hard to keep them out

there are writers who are
trying to get in too hard
and there are editors
that try books to keep them out

there are writers who are
out to get into books
and there are editors
that try hard to keep them trying

there are editors who are
trying to get into books
and are there writers that
try hard to keep them out?

try hard books are there,
writers who are too,
and editors are into that –
keep trying out there to get them!

are try hard writers out there
to get into books?
and are there editors who are
trying to keep them that?

out writers are there that
are trying hard books to get into
and there are editors
who try to keep them

and there are writers who are
there that try hard
to get into editors: books are
too trying ? keep them out!

Posted in 23: EDITORIAL INTERVENTION | Tagged

From River Cuts: Letters to Robert Adamson

canberra

raining & the flight was shit / in the sticks
somewhere off majura avenue (dickson) 19:39 0646
abstract & bearded hovering on a twelve foot
cushion of evil / a still from eisenstein's ivan
the terrible
, mutation of reading or action in two
parts. early blur of delight, all radioed & human
squawking a row of nameless trees / punctual cloud
swings left onto limestone hunched & rattling, absence
of names he is curled now & breathes through a tube /
attendants measure his piss, milk it into a bag &
store for later reference. said it was okay he camped &
weaved his funereal track / emu park, ogmore, lakes
creek (iced & dealing with horses) proper defences
are wooden & buried in earth. read hart crane (again).
read it aloud in the voice of a woman / only got as far
as ?´surrender'. this city, this great & secret invention
bleak experiment of rooms (death) astounding scrawl of
hair & sunnies / sixty minutes in ash with friends its
flashlights bamboo & giggles / benares or equal dark.
nothing matters. swamp birds dribble & bloat, pilgrims
bob & piss / tabla & skulls / the living dirt in his mouth.
only living brother lost to art & buddhist end-games
the clever panel discuss her artefact collection style:
snipping his hair into a make-up bag or purse, galactic
themed with room for toenails. everything is cut & bagged
& stored downstairs / concrete tubs / the single bulb
of thought, he turns & smiles like a thunderbird
shovels chook food down a tea-stained hole.
in all my dreams the idiot baby with eternal crooked
grin / the story by candle light twisted downward so!
the roll of the drum & hotel in uproar, wilfred owen's
blood-shod barefoot dead, plunging incurably in haunted
latin finale. a little cup of grease that never left his
fingers, upstairs cracked & home / the curtained box (relief).
strange black birds cry from low branches, replacement
birds, the unsettling intersection of transparency & death /
distant bank or silent threat. my father as aguirre slaps
the horse and stares, sinking slowly / ?´mexico was no
illusion' / the invention of fear finds a place in his neck,
whistling & fashioned by unseen dwarven attackers.
always raining, falling into water / choking tastes like
broken lungs / wind in canberra, night. knocks down trees
with words with skin / crude assemblies of metal & wood he
curls in shell & august / cage of eyes the chinese burn of
his throat. black birds hop & fan & unknown morning / red
or north / & feels like winter.

Posted in 23: EDITORIAL INTERVENTION | Tagged ,

Where Am I?

a sheet of pills
slips from the drawer
to the floor

not near a radio

can't operate
the dvd player,
don't understand
the digital box,
(do I care ?)

air, breeze and leaf
(someone else's window)
tinge the time
(someone else's clock)

sockettes
drying
on the door handles

a precious feeling
like a fungus
or a furball
in my throat

you could
freeze a lioness
in there
that fridge
is huge

can't find any
powdered milk

Posted in 23: EDITORIAL INTERVENTION | Tagged

Café Filmo

the Italians

go to Starbucks –

beam me up biscotti.

Pasolini, the charmer,

orders decaf.

last century

Federico Fellini

made films as if

everyone loved films

that was the gift, the key.

Pier Paolo filmed

like someone

who'd never been drunk

falling in love with wine.

it's long since

the dazey days

when ye olde avant-garde

sat through the world's

longest short film festivals,

when hillbilly dills on pills

optically distorted

nightmarish knots

in wood grain

close-up in 16 mm.

Nino Rota

lights a low tar,

hums to cool

a macchiato,

dotting staves

on napkins.

Posted in 23: EDITORIAL INTERVENTION | Tagged

Haven

that's nature
for you —
worried
by a whip-bird,
bitten and blotched
by all
the different bugs
and nanobac
that we find
inside the hut,
the weekender,
the cabin
in the haven.
the shady
scenic-route lookout
marks the place
that feeds vertigo
that induces insomnia,
lie counting
the bouncy
screenmate sheep
all night,
the wheely bin
full of sticks
and plastic curtain rings.

Posted in 23: EDITORIAL INTERVENTION | Tagged

love in the accusation

   somewhere between ´blood in the wind'1 and ´died to no avail'2
   is this (´From The New World') what they call ´smear
   campaign' or ´once more around the block'?
reading, breathing in insects/gas, fifty years getting something
right, some image to tear at our last moments
(a tone according to Breton)
   Jorie Graham: the stamp
   26 lines in blue like payslips or half …
   the guilty boat, the without warning
   the weather today said your mother 106
   they were 107 voting for me
   it was an election & id never need to breathe again
   in the stable (at the airport)
   what about your passport doesnt it mean something to
   you? in ´japanese'?
   ok
   suddenly it does
   The Dream Of The Unified Field 106-109
   The Creation Of Eve 1356
   1974-1994
   bembo
   as a friend, a reputation. ka: known as.
   one knee on the neck, like they
   country without hollywood
   language of the pillow; unlearned
   (the left side / star of india)
   these are diversions: the blue, the red, & more red
framed; books
   there were four elephants. somewhere between ´the
security you want' & ´ ´
   evidence suggests the news was meant to be sung.
   cutting off bits for pots.
   phones give us something to talk to; old people.
   she was our own martyr, of sorts —
   knowing our joy is made of their dissolution.
   moving over property like it cant touch me/us
   though it might love accuse
   i hadnt read this before, in my study 108 do you
   remember?
   the poem invites 109 ´a tone' (Breton) knowing
   our joy? in the st in the air?
   what were stanzas,
   evidence
wh– (request)
./place x 2

 
 
 

1 ´At The Cabaret Now' (Jorie Graham)
2 ´Untitled' (Jorie Graham)

Posted in 23: EDITORIAL INTERVENTION | Tagged

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.

Posted in 23: EDITORIAL INTERVENTION | Tagged

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

Posted in 23: EDITORIAL INTERVENTION | Tagged

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.

Posted in 23: EDITORIAL INTERVENTION | Tagged

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.

Posted in 23: EDITORIAL INTERVENTION | Tagged

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.

Posted in 23: EDITORIAL INTERVENTION | Tagged

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

Posted in 23: EDITORIAL INTERVENTION | Tagged

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.

Posted in 23: EDITORIAL INTERVENTION | Tagged

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

Posted in 23: EDITORIAL INTERVENTION | Tagged

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.

Posted in 23: EDITORIAL INTERVENTION | Tagged

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.

Posted in 23: EDITORIAL INTERVENTION | Tagged

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.

Posted in 23: EDITORIAL INTERVENTION | Tagged

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?

Posted in 23: EDITORIAL INTERVENTION | Tagged

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.

Posted in 23: EDITORIAL INTERVENTION | Tagged

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.

Posted in 23: EDITORIAL INTERVENTION | Tagged

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

Posted in 23: EDITORIAL INTERVENTION | Tagged

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

Posted in 23: EDITORIAL INTERVENTION | Tagged