Sooopermario

(mario cipollini)

cipo he is fast
he calls himself the fastest man on the planet, once got a speeding
ticket
for riding too fast on his bike and challenged a racehorse to a race
he
always puts on a show
for the tifosi

he's not so good in the
tours & always retires once they hit the mountains
sprinters do that though he's just so funny
people
love having him along

in italian his name
very nearly means
something like
small onions
cipo has a way cool name.

he gets fined heaps and heaps for not wearing
the legal uniforms drives race organisers mad
my favourite story is of him pulling out of a race saying he was sick
when it
turned out he'd gone off to judge a

beauty contest
here's a link
to a picture
of him

www.cyclingnews.com/photos/2004/giro04/index.php?id=stage0/ss-cipollini-590

il re leone
I looove him
he makes me laugh and laugh
he says really cool things like he's the most famous man in
Rome after

the Pope. In a race around Vatican city
he wore a special white cycling number
in honour of
the Pope he
worked out

how many calories he burns while having sex
pure comedy
i don't think the racehorse thing
ever happened. that's the thing – he's all
talk (riding on grass would be tough)

Posted in 19: ANTI/HEROES | Tagged

William

1.

a sally,
out of hand, is giving cupboard

to great aunts,
are likening boys, at scrimmage,

to brocaded hemlines.
And later on,

dressing up is chipping in, for visits
to quiet places.
 
 

2.

how, to overhear, is to seeing
is to waking, early on

is to raising, a cloth
in ransom

residing, is remaining
to pedal far, ahead, of shouts
 
 

3.

to such, a one, unremarked, by misstep
or violet

pretending, these clothespin soldiers
marching in place,

seated in relation to north, can precede
in common,

what is now, and what is giving way
are hidden, coming

to an end
or still unuttered, and again. A voice

seeing to morning,
is hiding grahams into umbrellas,

is hiding sneakers, into manners,
and knowing, is someone, eye to eye

or,
were otherwise unthought of
 
 

4.

a lawn, remote, in dither, bottoms
and ever varying

in picture, in summer, upon water and on clouds
to pedal far, ahead, of shouts

Posted in 19: ANTI/HEROES | Tagged

In the Great Court

I think I died last weekend but my body is in denial.
Two nights of drinking by myself didn't help either
And I can't listen to Frank Sinatra right now
And I'm wondering if she's wondering who I'm with right now
That I'm sleeping in another woman's house
Fuck it.
I'll kill the best parts of myself
Light another cigarette
Think about hitting the heavy bags in less than two hours
Maybe go to a shooting range on the weekend
50 dollars should get me 25 rounds for a .45 Colt
and 25 round for a .44 Magnum
tear my shoulder muscles in weights training and feed off the rage
today I'll rack up a hundred kilometres on roads that cannot be trusted
it's no big deal. You get used to the fatigue
and the darkness in the rear view mirror becomes your friend
because the number of people you trust dwindles by the day
yesterday's kindness will be forgotten in today's kiss
fuck it.
you know men who are loyal to nothing except their dicks
and they're doing well
and you think- where the fuck has being a good man gotten you?
Fuck it.
Make sure your hustle has got muscle
Punch this day in the guts and make it bleed.

Posted in 19: ANTI/HEROES | Tagged

Ballade for Alan Gould

What's in a name?
Alan Shakespeare
 
 

Dear Alan, with benignest aims
(you're telling me indeed What's in-)
I give you not immodest claims,
nor self promotion's wincing din
(non-Alans need to bear this, grin,
unless you're one you'll never know)
our king of names demands it so:
with simple maximized endeavour
watch my ballade's blazon flow:
We Alans always stick together

No minnows in the name big pond:
Turing, Lomax, Greenspan, Fels,
even our black sheep Jones and Bond;
the world takes note and something jells:
there's that bigheartedness which tells
we're democratic by the gallons.
just reinvent yourselves as Alans,
give the past a mighty sever
Ahmed, Boris, tip the balance,
join the name that sticks together!

Near holy writ, you know it pal,
like in a movie starring Ladd
that sheer delight in being Al:
the word gets out how, man, we're baaaaad!
Chicks just swarm to Alan's pad.
Or we're a test team lead by Border
who'll willingly obey this order
(seize the willow, whack the leather!)
in mateship pure (there's little broader)
we Alans always stick together.

Claudes make way! Move over Jasons!
We lay it wide and lay it thick.
You'd think we were a mob of masons
to see backscratching do the trick:
when poesy meets biopic
who'll play the Curnows, Ginsbergs, Tates?
Why Messrs. Alda, Rickman, Bates.
(Met any poet first name Trevor?
His lonely, untuned, tin ear grates.)
Muses and Alans stick together.

Piss off Con 'n' Don 'n' Ron,
the world has not seen lesser beaux.
Like Monsieur ('ow you say?) Delon,
there's one way for a name to go:
ditch that Edgar, Mr. Poe,
join my friends Alans Wayman, Murphy:
airborne, waterlogged or earthy
their word is law to end of tether.
Backsliders? Hardly! What a furphy,
both they and us will stick together!

Pettersson, Bullock, Jeans and Price
All helped to build the Alan pie.
For kudos, though, please give that twice
since be it known that you and I
can only hold up half the sky,
and needing those who'll share our vistas
-since there's a Ms. for all the misters
(Kyle has Kylie, Heath has Heather)
four simple words adorn our sisters:
Allanahs always stick together!

And since our name's the sweetest fate
here be our slogan, better, motto
If he's an Alan he's a mate.
(Who'd ever be a Merv or Otto?)
Like endless First Division lotto
our deal is trumps, our crown is jeweled.
And furthermore all gods have ruled:
from big bang to the twelfth of never
(no need to tell you Brother Gould)
we Alans always stick together.

From yoohoo unto toodle-oo
Your days are over Jean Paul, Lou,
our cause is a when not whether.
One l, two ls, a, e, u
(oh band of brothers! happy few!)
we Al(l)a(e)(u)ns always stick together.

The Alan Key
Alda
  American Actor
Bates
  British Actor
Bond
  Corporate crook
Border
  Australian cricket test team captain
Bullock
  British historian
Curnow
  New Zealand poet
Delon (Alain)
  French actor
Fels
  Former head of ACCC
Ginsberg
  American poet
Gould
  Australian poet
Greenspan
  Head of the US Federal Reserve
Jeans
  Australian football coach
Jones
  Rightwing talkbacker
Ladd
  American actor
Lomax
  Recorder and promoter of blues music
Murphy
  Friend, co-composer of The Stag’s Song
Pettersson
  Swedish composer
Poe (Edgar)
  American writer
Price
  British rock musician
Rickman
  British actor
Tate
  American poet
Turing
  British computer scientist
Wayman
  Friend since 1958
Posted in 19: ANTI/HEROES | Tagged

Mickey Agonistes

you can dress up but you cant
hide. the peak & drift of anthems
is for alcoholics. a good runner just
            not a classy runner. on
the job the snot … runs out with the tide. no sob stories ~
            no … pain in the arse. divorce is for mugs sleep with
            me. about as soulful as paul weller pull the other.
            ink wells up as pens
            run out. whats that
got to do with simple minds & all. eighties
living in the eighties. regular haircut a clean
            shirt should be so lucky. its
            all war or peace innit. what
a heart doesnt know a mind wont get to
think about. pal you can line up for a nutjob count
            me missing. like a bit
of handcuff got the wrong man. pie &
sauce love leave it etc. used to watch the
king & i with me mum before some nice
            old dear ran her over running from
toerags. a smack mechanics all part of the job. some are
            stupid others can thank their lucky stars.
            god stand up for mates
with dicks for brains … sometimes youve got to try another angle.
            sayings seem like bullshit most
when they most apply to yourself. love on
one set of knuckles hard on the other. to be continued
            eh thats the tragedy everyone wants
            closure so they rip a bit more off each
            other. you can see a boy in a man or smell
            onion on a cooks hands. of
            course it was their amours

Posted in 19: ANTI/HEROES | Tagged

Generation Upon Generation

'Taxpayers think that looking for work is just as serious a job as actually working. Looking for work on 'the dole' is not an optional activity but an absolute requirement. After all, if you don't turn up to work you're not breached, you're fired.' – Senator Amanda Vanstone, 11 March 2002.

'Life is not a rehearsal. Make every day count.'
 
 

(i) The Working Wall Hall of Fame

Ben – telesales
Priscilla – full time study
Annie – wait staff in a five star hotel
Redhoune – taxi driver
Anthony – factory worker
David – singing telegrams
Victor – building fences
Misbah – fruit picker
Barbara – call centre consultant
Arun – fruit picker
Baldwin – Public service exam
Mark – security guard (lapsed)
Scott – process worker

 
 

(ii) Generation Next

Mendel, the world's
first geneticist monk
(so pre-Dolly)
breached by his Archbishop,
his sexual revolution of peas
forgotten, his bees
too ferocious
& his papers fired.

 
 
(iii) Grand Old Dukes of York

'When it comes to atoms, language can be used
only as in poetry.'
– Niels Bohr

The genes are strung out.

The New Holland poets,
the long extended chain
of metaphor, identity, rhythm

split into two camps soon
after colonisation – landscape,
the unconscious, the symbolic.
The two-helix camp & the three-
helix camp respectively
(so Seussian butter side up
versus butter side down!)
.
Strands of words twisted around
each structural may-pole.
Neo-Boetian cultural objects
always come in pairs; thongs,
meat pies & tomato sauce,
even poetry wars. A spiral
staircase of ascending/descending
obligatory forms.

'When they were up they were up
When they were down they were down
& when they were only halfway up
they were neither up or down.'

An oracular cell division
of Murray/Tranter proportions.
New Holland poetry caught
in an Anglo-American stoush.
Mincing words with the best(?).
That magic dichotomous number again,
those poets with PhD's/MA's/MFA's
& those plain old worker bees
shut off from hive diversity.

All poetry is genetic fancy.

Posted in 19: ANTI/HEROES | Tagged

World Within World

'While the vast majority of people who receive welfare payments are honest and entitled to those payments, unfortunately, there are a small number of people who still seek to cheat their fellow Australians. Australia is a generous country with a generous welfare system but taxpayers expect welfare to go to the needy and not the greedy. This report sends out a clear message to those people who are thinking about cheating: if you cheat, you will get caught.

To report a suspected fraud to Centrelink, call 13 7230, or by visit Centrelink's web site at www.centrelink.gov.au/reportafraud.' – Senator Amanda Vanstone

'If it is meant to be, then it has to be by me!'

 
 
(i) A covenant of salt forever

On his last day, Baldwin
promises to send Redhoune
the bunch of poems he always
wanted to write, but never did.
'Algeria,' Redhoune says,
'is one big epic poem constantly
being rewritten. Its language wind.
Its words sand. Its rhythm,
the rise & fall of revolution.
Its metaphor, the people.'

Redhoune, one brother in America,
one in Australia, never became
a poet, became an architect
of dreams instead.

Drew lines in the desert
of his nomadic skull.

The poems arrive one day
out of the sheer blue.
Tossed up by a dust-storm
& stuffed in his letter-box.
That morning, after a long
stint at the wheel, screams
multiply through Redhoune;
a powerful structure of faint
but irresistible hope.

 
 

(ii) A covenant of salt forever ii

Everyone's waiting for
the 'salt money' to roll in.
Are we all pensioned off now
like Roman veterans? A parcel
of arid doctrine to swallow,
after all those years of service?
The Dole Army's banner strings
across mainstream Australia's
nose/out of joint. There's nothing
better than a witch-hunt gone
wrong for ratings.
Ask the Paxtons,
those neo-Salem kids
so media un-friendly (?)
A powerful sign of the times
which had to be brought down,
by the powers that be.

Remember the 'Long-haired men
will be served last' culture
of oppression we developed
in the seventies, when haircuts
actually meant something?

What's Ray Martin's
excuse for living?

What bargain did he seal
as he crumbled salt crystals
over the tree-frog thin defence
of these Dole Army icons?

This salaried man
with the Witch-finder
General's hair.
 
 

(iii) A covenant of salt forever iii

Stanthorpe, Queensland, 5 February 2002 AD.

'Nine Newstart payments were cancelled & 151 customers will have their payments reviewed, in a crackdown on welfare fraud in Stanthorpe, Queensland, today.

A joint operation was conducted this morning with the Queensland Police Service, Centrelink and the Department of Immigration.

The operation was designed to target people with outstanding arrest warrants, visa condition breaches and welfare fraudsters. Good results were achieved in all areas.

Road-blocks on all the major roads leading to the harvesting area of Stanthorpe were set up early this morning. The region produces a range of fruit crops including peaches, apricots, nectarines and grapes.

People travelling in cars were asked to provide identification to the police officers.

Many of these people had not told Centrelink that they were working and earning extra income while on unemployment benefits. They will be required to pay back any entitlements they were not eligible for and could be prosecuted. Seventeen debts were also identified for recovery action.

Centrelink is also expecting to cancel payments and raise debts in many more cases –151 people's employment records are now being reviewed and they will be subject to further investigation.

This Government is serious about catching welfare cheats.

Welfare cheats steal money that could be used to help the more vulnerable in our community.

While the vast majority of Centrelink's customers are honest, the message is clear: if you cheat the system you will be caught.' – Senator Amanda Vanstone.

 
 
(iv) A covenant of salt forever iv

Arun & Misbah, steely
from job search training,
wave three year temp visas
at the g-men from Immigration.
Salt walks out on their bodies
a crystal/industrial dispute
inside the rusted Belmont ute;
their working wall hall of fame
stalls at the first cattle-grid.

 
 

(v) On the Constitution of Atoms and Molecules

The little perpetual
motion machine orbits
suns, planets, selves.
There are worlds within
worlds of unemployment.
Baldwin, the 3-D video
artist charts pixels, HTML
atoms of electric speech.
Entered the JJJ video comp
waits for his big break
to descend, the quanta
to spark in his head;
the chunk of iron meteorite
he saw once in the Adelaide
museum hacked apart by
a diamond cleaver, feeling
for its structure.

 
 

(vi) Job Position: West Stands, University of Chicago 1942 AD

1. 20th Century Alchemist: (Needed. Energetic, sporty, scientific type
to sharpen world's first graphite reactor. Must have diploma or certificate
from a recognised institution. Must have 40,000 personal references
from the city of Nagasaki. References from Hiroshima acceptable as well.)

Posted in 19: ANTI/HEROES | Tagged

Rob Walker Reviews Les Wicks

Stories of the feet.jpgStories of the feet by Les Wicks
Five Islands Press, 2004

Kurosawa from Oz?
Iconic Japanese film-maker Akira Kurosawa (director of The Seven Samurai (1954), remade by Hollywood as The Magnificent Seven; and Yojimbo (1961), remade (or is that ripped off?) as A Fistful of Dollars) is frequently feted as an artist who elevates the common man to hero status in his phenomenal catalogue of work. Reading the work in Stories of the feet made me wonder if Les Wicks is an Australian poetic equivalent of Kurosawa.
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Posted in BOOK REVIEWS | Tagged ,

Jacques Derivative: Interrogating ‘John Leonard’

First we must say something about the history of the inscription, “John Leonard”. Australian poetry, that world which is small enough that we can indeed say “world” and not “worlds” when placing it under discussion, is occupied, allegedly, by two “John Leonards”. I say allegedly here deliberately. Even if there are in fact two beings occupying time and space who have the name “John Leonard” – a reality that must be held in doubt by the many Australian readers who have never sighted individuals naming themselves “John Leonard” – there is only one inscription “John Leonard” attached to various publications and works within the world of Australian poetry.

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Posted in FEATURES | Tagged ,

Paul Mitchell on Sleepers at Next Wave 2004

“Sleepers Prevents Bad Poetry”
Next Wave Festival (Festival Club)
Monday 24 May 2004

This event was presented at the Next Wave Festival in a bar venue – after a big crowd had finished fawning all over American cartoonist, writer and film director Harvey Pekar (American Splendor). It's probably a top movie (I haven't seen it yet), but, as I was saying to Zoe beforehand, if you put the word American in front of bloody anything people will go see it – American Beauty, American Graffiti, American Pie, American Idol – let's make a movie, call it American American. Double the box office returns …
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Posted in FEATURES | Tagged ,

India vs Australia 03/04

I

life in the pitch
a jaffa
of a
ball & a
fork from cooma like
my wife dd slasher size
4 she loves her
pronged attack
rain delays the groundsman
warns the umpires
be tentative be tentative

II

approach the pitch with
trepidation the delays
are prolonged
attack the weather
men be tentative for
nail polish
manoeuvres barely
visible i cannot
see marto barely visible
healthy eating baby
tentative

I

is it is true as it seems
ganguly reads
in the weather
3 orange
flowers shadows
the nice ones claim that
proust is a find he has
the best hands in the game
attacks the pitch of the      ball
art aspires to the condition
of sport seam barely visible

II

___________
________________s
t________
eve Waugh is not is
black orange 3 was
orange is not is 3 white
young adults on
the train weep into
a full page ad feat.
steve Waugh
                  for     super

 
match drawn

 
 

adelaide oval

 

I

i practice my drives
as i walk down
king william st
this whole city exists only
so that the adelaide oval
may exist time shreds away
and runs
are just a consequence
of being
seagulls score
poddy mullets out glenelg

II

channel 9 the
tv knows everything
dravid sinks australias heart
there are were
wolves on the hill at 3rd slip
langer has a laconic stance drive
a bullock dray into dimboola
uber mullets seagulls
on the big screen remember
how they will occupy the
crease in the end

I

laxman sinks
into the crease laxman
is long & stretchy
dravid is all crouchy and
bent perfect angles
his arms make a perfect
diamond his wrists are gold
drive into dimboola
attacked the pitch camp
like god overnight
batted like god

II

as williams gladiates
across the field
there is a base instinct
in me that cannot bare
to see the team lose the tv
remembers everything vvs laxman
sinks like an australian heart
into the crease a superstar
his bat
orbits him in perfect arcs
from 2nd slip

 
india by 4 wkts

 
 

mcg

 

I

at tura beach for boxing day lunch
faith shreds away in no time the tv
knows nothing of the games syntax
man a kierkegaard knight
on the second
morning late order batting
succumbs to
ford
pressure
kierkegaard
air ford ford

II

loves her fords &
her cricket the wickets
will fall when the ford logos
are on display
the ads are in the
atmosphere over my left breast
there is a temporary tattoo
of an australian flag you can
feel it in the free air
the wickets will fall when the ford
logos are on display

I

matthew hayden drives
into ford territory
a boy in speedos plays
a cover drive off the back
foot a new stand takes root boy
in brightly coloured speedos
drives on the up
off the front foot he is a syntax man
a distribution of elements that
form sense and well being
at the crease a boy

II

a distribution of antiperspirants
ford sense & the games syntax
creased takes guard sets
it up for the decider
in sydney at the end of
an era ford & rexona
like my wife justin
langer has the most
beautiful face there is already
a century floating in her eyes a
new members stand takes root

 
australia by 9 wkts

 
 

sydney

 

I

lights go out
____
cold out
_______
_______
played
_
at nighttime nothing thin nighttime
laxman is long
10 is not
is longer

II

is steve waugh playing
i didnt even know steve was
playing im just here to
see the cricket tear
their flesh & rip their
bones apart amid a sea
of red bunting macgill
is sleeping or thinking of horses
territory marked out in chalk
strange ads take root
in the atmosphere

I

marked out
in his eyes justins
hundred was good
from the start ganguly
reads a hundred in
the feet of simon
katich cover the territory drive
at the boundary rope sheds
a tear for a pierced cricket field
& a futile chase after a thin thin
nighttime

II

50 50s seagulls & mullets
45000 small red squares
circle the field repeating
the boundary rope
the innings syntax is
super steve holes out to
tendulkar on the boundary
rope i don’t want the world
i want you but at nighttime nothing
steve waugh is not is
no longer

 
match drawn
Posted in 18: ROOTS | Tagged

Cow Spew

Posted in GUNCOTTON | Tagged

Zoe Dattner: The Greeting Card Writers

Poets come in many different shapes and forms. I'm not about to give you my ideas as to what makes a poet because I don't think I'm qualified. What I am interested in however, is all the different subsets of humanity where poetry exists. Where individuals take it upon themselves to express something in words, something they believe is representative of the way in which we all live our lives, the similarities in the human existence that highlight the fact that we are all suffering from, laughing at, celebrating, the same things. And so it was that I began to develop an obsession of sorts, that has since become an affection, for those unsung heroes, the Greeting Card writers.
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Posted in ESSAYS | Tagged , ,

I ‘member

I 'member we strutted down the street
ass to cheek — safety in numbers
chanting loud lyrics to a tune
we'd later learn was Ellington's “Night Train~”
-“Yo mama she don't even care
she wears yo daddy's underwea
Yo mama unh, unh, unh-”

Racing to the next insult
“hate to talk about yo' mama
she's a good ole soul
she got a humpback booty
and a rubber asshole.”

Perverting Pepsodent commercials:
“You'll wonder where the yellow went
when you brush your teeth with Pepsodent
'Cause when your teeth are turnin' black
You'll wish you had that yellow back.”

I 'member double dutch lyrics tastier, racier
escalatin' footwork, patchwork of rhythm and
sources, rhymes, syncopation, nation building
sisterhood, sibilance and early romance dancing

-A million versions of Miss Mary Mack and Jimmy
Crack Corn, later blues and news that traveled from
distant drums through footwork thrums, braids and
bellowing

Posted in 18: ROOTS | Tagged

A Little Kindness

Let's please try not to be so barbaric.
If we must kill baby seals, cows or hogs,
let's just shoot them with tiny darts filled with
strong doses of the purest heroin.
                                                       If we must shoot humiliated children
                                          armed only with kamikaze belts
                           and pavement stones, let's do it with tiny darts
             full of a potion that makes them hungry
then open all the restaurants and offer steaks
carved from cows killed with wonder drugs.
And if we must bomb ancient cities such as
Belgrade let's do it with giant waterbombs
                      only after the advance uncover teams
             infiltrate the city and steal the towels.

Posted in 18: ROOTS | Tagged

A Very Calm Demeanour

For John Lennon's 61's birthday Oct. 9/01

It's always good to be prepared for death
             because of course it could happen any time-
                           the Dalai Lama instructs us how the live
                                         as if we're shadowed by a sniper –
                           but with gangs of terrorists bombing the U.S.A.
                                         and Americans firebombing the Afghanis
                           with pneumonic plague breaking out in India
                                         and maybe China and Vietnam as well
                           traveling the airlines in the same way
                                         as bubonic rats get around on ships
                           and civil wars raging through Africa
             where everybody who's anybody's a refugee
or an orphan of refugees or of AIDS
             a very calm demeanour is required.

Le Devoir dit nous sommes tous am?©ricains
             and Putin says humanity's maturing
                           but as for me I'd prefer to say that I'm
                                         an orphan growing up knowing my mother
                           died of AIDS and not knowing my father at all
                                         except that he's a solider who raped mama
                           while she was trying to flee a bomb attack
                                         or we're starving and a humanitarian box
                           falls from the sky and lands in the danger zone,
                                         there's enough pasta to last a week
                           enough penicillin to prolong a life or two
             and we're crawling towards it and expecting
at any moment to be blown up by a mine
             a very calm demeanour is required.

Posted in 18: ROOTS | Tagged

Grass

Won't you take my jeans off?
I feel like I'm sixteen again-
dark fields, the coldness of grass on my ankles-
I'd forgotten what it's like with nowhere to go.

I feel like I'm sixteen again-
I can sense your discomfort-
you've forgotten what it's like with nowhere to go,
accustomed to the privacy of your bedroom.

I can sense your discomfort-
although you're here anyway, it's just you're
accustomed to the privacy of your bedroom.
You'll get over it.

Although you're here anyway, it's just your
body, your mind's over there beside the fence.
You'll get over it.
Nobody's going to interrupt us-trust me.

Body?-your mind's over there beside the fence-
Focus on me now, come on-
(nobody's going to interrupt us-trust me)
I think I've had too many wines.

Focus on me now, come on-
this may be our last night together-under the stars.
I think I've had too many wines.
Am I starting to repeat myself? (it's important to know)

This may be our last night together-under the stars-
so won't you take my jeans off?
Am I starting to repeat myself? (it's important somehow)
dark fields, the coldness of grass on my ankles.

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Robertson Panegyrical

for James Fagan

Out where sun-sweet grasses bat their stalks
at stumps and living trunks of silver gum
slender leaves in susurrating fall of blooded green
and grey, where piney hulks are switching
misty arms to fencing sky and cockatoos

break succour from the scratch of sappy cones
before shrilling departure, whump of wings
and flash of jewelly comb, where jumping jodies
teem cyrillic etchings over littered bark
and dew's unparalleled horizon softens

even raking steel that hunkers idly
by corrugated rounds of wisdom's error
roofless and raw, where treelings bend
as sails to weather's lick and all description
loosens in its scaly bed to fly

uprooted from the facing page of this
encyclopedic echo and assay, my brother
humming for the sake of things and hurling
twigs and lichen stones far into blue
as he imagines reels to catch the crash

of matter's weight in foliage and field.
You sound he says like a bloody angel.
On as cloud comes scudding from hills
toward the coast with metal salt
fizzing upon our tongues, adventure

promised in broken bough and ragged sheer
of wire, riffing on every sighted rook
and keeping step for step to contours learned
by rote or road, wheeling drift of flies
robbing focus as they hug his wake

billowing as smoke in glancing light,
on to cross alchemic ground between
this paddock and the next where diesel
slops from cans and technicolour pesticides
seep colloidal ruin, on as evening's rain

begins to deck the slickening posts
and polish knotted iron enfolding
nominal lines of residence, as startled sheep
retreat in jerky trot to safer quarters
only to start again with bleating stutter

and gallop, on as shadows gather
palming lumps of rock from hand to hand
never stopping neither seeking home
but circling displaced and distant,
ever close, the cool world closing in.

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Single Line Poem

after Tom Raworth

Poem on a single line beginning poem on a single line

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Girls on the Avenue

Waddayamean you've never seen 'Pure Shit'?
A titles-to-credits rampage of black Melbourne wit

meets the scorers and the scored: so so so beyond bewdy
seeing it's near enough to a patriotic duty.

And here's where the girls come in: permed, waxed, douched and flossed
once the avenue's crossed

they'll be slippin' up o-kay! (There's a fortune a day
just pulling cocks!) Whilst here, in that washed and grainy way

we are just are, the story so far: I'm alive you're alive,
and if this isn't '74 this sure is '75,

the dawning of The Age of Near Enough Victimless Sin
( which is, as I've said, where the girls come in).

Don't But but but but me sport. It's obscene
you've never caught 'Pure Shit'-waddayamean?

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Bev Braune Reviews Pam Brown

Textytext thing, by Pam Brown
Little Esther Books, 2002

My topic is local. The poems rarely leave whatever street I'm on. They are as mobile and as mutable as my daily life. (from Pam Brown's Statements on poetics) [1]

The art of looking for the text, the thing it's in and re-thinking it, is Pam Brown's forte. In reading this collection, I find myself thinking of Brown's development. She is a poet who reads, travels, observes and re-thinks her own backyard.

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Bev Braune Reviews Melissa Ashley

the hospital for dolls by Melissa Ashley
Post Pressed, 2003

Melissa Ashley brings us a collection of stories considering realities, mythology and personal experience. While a veneer of the strange wraps her images, the translucence of their reality is distinctly prominent. This is a book about definition, about who defines what and how. The poems in Ashley's first volume of poetry are seriously concerned with corporeal actualities and female self-definition. Readers are called on to understand that the happenings referred to are relevant and real. We are asked to see, feel, talk-about and (perhaps) understand. She takes a Lacanian approach–comprehending experience is a slippery rhetorical matter.

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DJ Huppatz Reviews No Other City: The Ethos Anthology of Urban Poetry

No Other City: The Ethos Anthology of Urban Poetry
Edited by Alvin Pang and Aaron Lee
Ethos Books, Singapore 2001

At Changi Airport's arrivals hall, you're greeted by the sound of birds, which is quite disconcerting at 2am. This simulated birdsong is symptomatic of the city-state's attitude to nature. For Singapore, it seems, nature is dangerous and unpredictable, better replaced with more predictable, more aesthetically pleasing technologies. Former Prime Minister Lee Kwan Yew once famously asserted that the greatest invention of the 20th century was the air conditioner. Thus it is more than just an urban condition that is constructed in Singapore, it is an aesthetic condition that incorporates all aspects of life.
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James Stuart Reviews Robert Adamson

Inside Out: An Autobiography by Robert Adamson
Text Publishing, 2004

From his earliest involvement, Robert Adamson has been an iconic figure for contemporary Australian poetry, both as a “post-symbolist”, lyrical poet, and as an editor and publisher. His achievements are testament to this, whether one is reflecting upon his 17 odd collections of poetry, and the consequent awards, or his various engagements on ventures such as the editorship of New Poetry and the founding of Paperbark Press. He has also played a significant role, along with many others, in bringing contemporary American and other poetries to the forefront of Antipodean awareness. Perhaps what is less known is the life that made this contribution possible.
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