Egypt

Posted on July 1, 1998 by Michael Farrell

i reckon its egyptian when acolytes breathe in
banks sway & twelve black speakers come on stage
marigolds gleam in poems & protect us yes but
giant capes are more effective shoes that
leave no trace of me when picking through
the winkles & amazonia without podia posing
in ways that put supermodels to table i didnt
smoke dope yesterday & im not going to smoke
dope tomorrow because im going to be on the
triple j hot 100 with all the other symphony
players talking in the shadow of the valley &
hearing no evil in silent movies of menstrual
men the egyptian conniption is that beckettian
figure in white linen deciding our toilet breaks
the girls eating leaves with crackers in their hair

Posted in 03: NEXT WAVE | Tagged

Preparation

Posted on July 1, 1998 by Patricia Prime

Wrapped in a heavy overcoat
of herringbone tweed, as if
freezing, he became a recluse.

He had forsaken painting
for drawing and was busy
filling sketchbooks in preparation.

Portrayal of the whores
caused him anguish.
The artist did everything

possible to give his image
the smell of cordite.
The charms of the horrible

intoxicated him. The menace
of his face derived, it seems,
from silent movies.

The strong gaze he turns
on us from his photographs
seduces, possesses and tries to shock.

Posted in 03: NEXT WAVE | Tagged

We Didn’t Sit in a Cafe and Talk about Our Lives

Posted on July 1, 1998 by Eddy Burger

Well I’d been out there and I’d done stuff, and I didn’t meet anyone – or, if I did, we didn’t sit in a cafe and talk about our lives, but then, maybe I didn’t even go out, and maybe I didn’t do anything – maybe things did things, or maybe nothing happened, or everything did – everything did everything, though not simultaneously, but at anytime, or out of time, so maybe I was here or there and things were happening, and other people and other things we re doing things or not doing things – for instance, maybe I did something, and then I didn’t, maybe I walked down the street and picked up a plate, then I stepped on a twig, and then someone in Holland – maybe one of my cousins – picked up a paint-brush and painted nothing, or painted a trap, or a wing or a plate – he might have picked up an acorn and eaten it – he might have chewed it till it became a fine mash, then spat it into his hand and squished it into a hole in the wall, or into a bottle-top or a shell. He might have broken off the end of that shell and put it into the mouth of a suckling kitten. Maybe things were exploding everywhere, or, maybe not exploding, but constantly and dramatically changing. I might have walked into the street, when suddenly the floor beneath me dropped twenty metres and the building across the road leapt into the air. Peter, the guy I work with, came up to me, and maybe I didn’t even recognise him at first because his face had stretched and his mouth was still back at the cross-roads and it took a while for his words to reach me, but then he said let’s sit in a cafe and talk about our lives, so we were in a cafe and I said yeah, well, this and that’s been happening, and he said something about pillars – so many pillars in this cafe – but what about your life, I said, and he just laughed, he laughed and laughed – what was that funny something someone in the Gilbert and Sullivan Society said? oh yes, that’s right, now I remember, but on the subject of his life, he said, yes, it is sometimes like that – a horrible thing, horrible, horrible, but it’s also good cause that’s how we like it.

Posted in 03: NEXT WAVE | Tagged

Kurri Sonnet

Posted on July 1, 1998 by Greg McLaren

Chocolate on your breath at the bus-stop
is instant forgetting. In five minutes
Kurri will recede from bus back window.
Maitland will loom too slowly. Hamilton,
Teralba. Soon Redfern, Sydney Central.
Now the 5:31 from Cessnock slides
down the hill, and Rover Motors’ motto
could be Slessor’s: “on time, all the time”:
so says the once-silver lettering now white,
barely so. The shrinking town set atop
two flat hills is a nasty surprise we
no longer live in. We are going home.
I kiss the taste in your mouth. Going home,
away from dickhead rednecks, names unknown.

Posted in 03: NEXT WAVE | Tagged

Rain

Posted on July 1, 1998 by Tracy Ryan

‘Mine, O thou lord of life, send my roots rain’
– GM Hopkins


1
You drive as the rain drives
now steady now squalling
a car full of storm and vespers

One voice in the mass
seeks you out and pierces
like those cruel frequencies
dogs keen at
unfelt by the rest of us

Another dimension, your pain,
the banks and brakes, the chervil
and the birds – the rain, even
invested and utterly private

Just for this moment I cross
into it, hurtling down
the relentless lane


2
To master hurt by sipping at it
to acquire the taste
or burn the lips senseless

Conversely to spit it out
like words a stroke wrote off
resurfacing


3
Stepping out
real rain can’t touch you

Drought of another order
I have been there forgotten
Tell me again

It’s a kind of home
you’re guiding us through
we may miss some allusions but
will stick with you

Posted in 03: NEXT WAVE | Tagged

The White Boat

Posted on July 1, 1998 by Dara Weir

The birds are sleeping, it’s far from morning,
except for the birds who rightfully haunt
the dark, and the low-life, lazy geese
who’ve given up their fly-way rights
to live at ease around the man-made pond
below the ridge.They come around the hour
of the wolf and wake me up. I can’t help but
love their haunting, honking grief.
It sounds like grief tonight.
A white boat in full moon light is rocking
on the lawn. It rocks and rocks
like a giant’s cradle or a mammoth’s bassinet.
It rocks like a cradle for a god or a devil.
The white boat doesn’t want to go home.

Posted in 04: UNTHEMED | Tagged

What they Remember

Posted on July 1, 1998 by Brian Henry

For the record he assiduously adhered to the speed limit
Except for that one time
That time he daisied around the bend
They say he pursued the lascivious side of life until the end
He performed miracles in his sleep
He fell in with the religious crowd while an infant
That squirrel still carries a pellet behind the ear
They say he was a generous man
Orphanages foreclosed in his name
He always knocked before entering
They say he had a tendency to enter through a bathroom window
And no one home
And no one home
They say he never broke a bone
He never spliced a comma
Or used exclamation points in a profligate manner
The Fourth of July was his favorite holiday
The fireworks scared him half to death
They say the Fates smiled on him at birth
Someone cut the cord
He’d no sooner look you in the eye than salute the president
They say his car would stop on a dime
They say he drove an injured animal to church on Sundays
And put his groceries in the trunk
They say the groceries sat in the front
With that poor animal in the trunk
They say he had a nervous twitch
He never owned a bird
They say he drove his cockatoo crazy with his continual knitting
He wove his way into highfalutin circles
He didn’t know a thing about antiques
They say a peeping Tom at the window caught his eye
The rest of him remained free
Freedom of choice kept him awake
He slept only on Wednesday
He slept like the dead on vacation in Cuba
They say he could play any tune by ear
A keen financial acumen marked his life
They say he bled the coffers dry
He paid his tithes religiously
Any sudden movement would throw him completely off kilter
He looked cute in a skirt
They say he could thread a needle with his eyes closed
He peeked when in public
They say he never missed a beat
You couldn’t knock it out of him
They say he could have been in the movies
He forgot a line or two at times
He recovered remarkably well for his age
They say he had a thing for candles
Brittle brittle days
They say he shot the bolt a bit early now and then
Now and then he stayed in for the long haul
He got caught with his pants down once
Under the bleachers
Under a full moon in the park
They say he never bounced a check
For honor is all a man has
What good is a man without honor
He yelled Damn! when he fell from the monkey bars
For honor is all a man has
He forged solid relations with his neighbors
They say he could hit a nail on the head
They say he never worried about mutual funds
Compound interest drove him to the brink
He never touched the stuff
Except on Wednesday
He pitched horseshoes on Wednesdays
On Wednesday he was puritanical about everything
His ancestors were tramontanes
Hard to pin down
You couldn’t pin down his ancestors
For they were tramontanes
They say his soul outshone the sun
They say we didn’t know him as well as they did
He made no mention of that squirrel in his will
They say he didn’t give anyone anything

Posted in 03: NEXT WAVE | Tagged

untitled

Posted on July 1, 1998 by David Hornblow

Children don’t fall flat
but there he is
flat silent and broken
if he were awake
he would certainly move
into a more comfortable position

It’s a weird world
morality is fluid
people get shot
people get fucked
extraordinary things happen constantly
then a young boy, alone
on a shop awning
is not so strange
it registered, though

From an open window
he walked towards the front of
the overhanging
looked down
chewing on nothing to get some spit
there were no cars directly below
so he went sideways –
a supporting rod lead from the building
to the edge of the awning
a large bolt fixed it solid
he lifted a leg over
where the bolt protruded
and looked down
misjudged
his weight was committed
and he fell

Straight
like an arrow
head first
arms stretched out in front
he was diving
there was no water
I closed my eyes

When I opened them, moments later,
I was surprised, confused
expecting to see him
stuck up to his waist in the road
and ripples in the asphalt

Posted in 03: NEXT WAVE | Tagged

Guava

Posted on July 1, 1998 by Thuy On

let’s just drive she said balmy night wanna do it outside outside the attack of air unconditioned risk of suspicious eyes no walls to inhibit c’mon we ’re young decadent shameless remember no strings attached fine whatever just get inside me outside Brighton beach beautiful yes flickering amber lights fishermen patient watching stilled waters low murmur of ethnic radio heavy rocks contrast to white yachts with poncy white upper middle class names yes isn’t it nice hand in hand like every other couple on the pier winding like the scream but I or we want a fuck and this isn’t it god too cold wet scratchy sandy exposed no blanket you wanted it like this he accused deal with it I want my sheets pristine no sand in my jocks bloody wuss fine let’s just drive I don’t know where any where drive no not in the car such a cliché cop out where’s the adventure in that outside Turner’s elements sublime no awkward adolescent rockin in the back seat I’m not scared dare you god it’s getting late maybe we should give up no I want to do it now only young once remember wanna be like Dorian Gray exquisite sensations now don’t care about consequences don’t care no just drive Gen X who knows where the spot is where x marks the spot directionless artistes you and me we’re both bloody fruits Guavas to be precise Grown Up and Vaguely Ambitious hey what about here under the West Gate Bridge a grassy knoll cars speeding above us what a vantage point lights golden arch across the sky brighter than stars hail civilisation how surreal like a bloody arty-farty flick in pretentious boutique cinema past midnight now past one fuck the glass slipper I’m no Cinderella you’re no prince but that’s okay who wants happy ever after any way just the moment presentness now postponed future love & lust what’s the deal don’t analyse it we’re so different I’m an Austen girl girly swot you’re a laid back cyberboy no matter who cares polars do connect will connect just get inside me outside.

Posted in 03: NEXT WAVE | Tagged

A Twist of Hemp

Posted on July 1, 1998 by Brook Emery

Not knowing a cloverleaf
from a half-hitch,
I sentimentalise ropes
and knots. Lariats
with their cunning
slipknot, the bound strands
of bowlines so furred
and stiff with salt they’ll never part;
even the drop of the hangman’s noose,
the knot pressed to the neck just so.

In the back of the removals van
I’d tie a dozen knots, granny smiths
and bows, when one would do,
but still my ropes went slack
and the load would shift
no matter how hard I pulled.
Later, I’d curl them round my elbow
and drape them from the rails
in anticipation of tomorrow.

All this connection and control,
the words unfurling with the anchor,
the twitch of the tug-o-war,
daisies coiled around a wrist,
or the twist of hemp before beheading,
the knots that tighten in your throat
and stomach, the love that won’t let go,
the tangle on the bedroom floor
that only a clasp knife can undo

Posted in 03: NEXT WAVE | Tagged

Bed-Sitting Room

Posted on July 1, 1998 by Michael Grane

I’m sitting in a dingy room,
with a woman I don’t love
eating take-away pizza
and I want to tell the world
that she knows I hate anchovies.

She tells me that all writers
are losers wearing their hearts
on their sleeves and how proud
she is of her son who’s in jail
for murder how he’s going down
swinging and then she squats on the floor,
pisses into a green Tupperware container
serial number 387. JJ KK M.O.P. 382.

I look around the room and see
second hand feathers on the bed,
red plastic roses with blue stems,
and shining in the moonlight
one gold and black vibrator,
serial number F.A.D. 8564.006
And I want to tell the world
that the following morning
I got the hell out of her room.

Posted in 03: NEXT WAVE | Tagged

Hawke for Hawke

Posted on July 1, 1998 by Graham Rowlands

Hawke’s grandparents for Hawke. Hawke’s parents for Hawke.
Hawke’s special relationship with Hawke’s mother (for Hawke).
Hawke’s special relationship with Hawke’s father (for Hawke)
& Hawke’s father’s special relationship with God (for Hawke).
MY WORD MY WORDS: THE COLLECTED SPEECHES OF A THREE YEAR OLD—
Hawke’s special offer of his picture book to any purchaser of
ten or more copies of THE HAWKE MEMOIRS all signed by R J Hawke.
Hawke’s scholarships & Hawke’s Rhodes Scholarship for Hawke &
now the Robert James Lee Hawke Open Scholarship (for Hawke).
Hawke’s drinking. Hawke’s drinking records. Hawke’s drinking
to anyone who’ll drink to Hawke. Cheers. Bottoms up. To A A.
Hawke as advocate for Hawke & the Australian Council of Trade Unions.
Then Hawke as President of the ACTU for the ACTU (& for R J Hawke).
Hawke’s affairs that would have remained only Hawke’s affair
if Hawke hadn’t cried about them in prime time to win votes.
Bill Hayden as Minister for Foreign Affairs & Governor General—
quite literally Bill Hayden for Bob Hawke as Prime Minister.
Concensus for Hawke. Hawke at the centre of his own concensus.
Hawke’s special relationship with perms & hairdressers (& mirrors)
& cricketers & yachtsmen & golfers & punters & tycoons (& mirrors).
Hawke’s special (if not unique) relationship with dinkum Aussies &
his own signature & autograph books of all shapes & sizes (for Hawke).
Hawke’s special international relationship with The Greater Israel
with Lebanon, the West Bank, the Gaza Strip, the Golan Heights &
with Hawke’s & Bush’s U S of A & Hawke’s & Gorby’s old U S S of R
& Hawke’s very very special relationship with none other than Hawke
in full frontal crying over Chinese tanks pulping Hawke’s Chinese
as Hawke would cry over spilt memoirs hawked, remaindered & pulped—
Hawke morally outraged & Greatly moved by the morally outrageous &
working himself up into a frenzy of rhetorical snot trailing down
like the Red Flag hanging limp over the last of the Red Flags—
that rendezvous with History if not with Destiny for Hawke
& The Silver Bodgie & Old Silver & old R J if not J C Hawke
old (Bob for no jobs) Robert James Lee Hawke (for Hawke).

Posted in 03: NEXT WAVE | Tagged

The Lemons of Lands End

Posted on July 1, 1998 by Adam Aitken

It was worth it, forty pence
for the Cornish Express.
(the broadsheet, not the bus) in a grocer shop
Lands End way.
And the wait, so long; for the bus
would never come they said,
no one here had seen it.
A ghost in the drizzle machine.
We gypsied on through fog
that kept us hypothermic,
but did not listen, and sung
that name, Lands End
which drew us on, what we headed for.
Unknown residue of North Atlantic light
not far from here. As west as you could go.

Meanwhile we’d wait, get dry, that sour shopkeeper’s
rather-sell-you-nothing face
not big on trust; but did relent, and sold us
what we never knew we missed –
lemons, half a pound; the acid
scurvy cure: citrus six pack,
imports in a battered mildewed box
going nowhere else,
thick and bubbly skinned
desiccated by iridescent spore,
coral bloom behind a stack of Daily Telegraphs.
Warming in our hands.
What they were
what they had always been, sweeter
than they looked.

Posted in 03: NEXT WAVE | Tagged

Serial Numbers

Posted on July 1, 1998 by John Tranter

And tell the truth – the tumult of various expendable
business plans, and the evening blinked in like a landing jet,
apparently graceful, in fact screaming nuts and bolts –
shaking metal plus desire equals travel industry bond
finance downturn explains his desperation –
he never got over the way his father hated him,
and shook a fist at himself in the mirror, rushing out
to join his pals at a gathering, cheese and wine
and social exchanges a whirling confetti – for a moment
the pack of snarling gibbons recognised something simian
about the crowd at the poetry reading, their embraces
heartfelt yet somehow insincere – talent
given muscle by a bicycle pump, show biz
slang and chatter bouncing off the plexiglass –
model twaddle, chop throttle, sling hash and babble –
there – I don’t remember a thin Singaporean
speaking gently into the handset about the banking
teletype network linking the island republic
to a pit of treasury dread in Yokohama – banknote
suction whirlwind – the old investment managers
fuck up due to lack of basic training in futures hedge
management – chattering over the sherry in between
profit and loss is not the safety rope,
he’d chosen to be an alcoholic, heavily crinkled,
a choice made up of thousands of little weaknesses
day by day, wearing down the rock of his self-esteem.
The young professors traded gossip and influences
– I had lunch with Mister Hartford – oh, really? – just
lunch? – like kids with cigarette cards and pictures of Batman
when they should be practising their knots and lanyards.
Now the secret no one talks about – lack of talent.
You see? Dead quiet. Her cow-lick was a flexible
bang, while the quay water alfresco wavelets
wobbled through those long railing antlers, bracket,
I mean, slicing up the light into vertical samples,
each related to the one parallel, drawing energy
from each other, a team of singing brothers –
one dollar smells like its sibling in the wallet – print,
print – there’s a ferry wandering and churning the surface
now sprinkled with rain. The thunder there
was hypnotised – widespread, miniature, far ranging –
flattering the city with dreams of a distant time
when everything was hunky-dory and a hamburger
was something to get excited about. Not the saxophone,
not the forgotten instruments, the cowbells
across the evening pastures, shit on the boots,
or the dew like crystal points on the morning radio
news traffic report not needed here, no traffic,
nothing happens in this town that God don’t
know about – he’s dreaming it, and we’re Him.

Posted in 03: NEXT WAVE | Tagged

Somniloquy

Posted on July 1, 1998 by Andrew Zawacki

This is how I know: because summer kept escaping
from the wine, and people were left behind
with no explanation; because it’s hours

until the paperboy leaves, or the beekeeper
wakes from his dreams of a beekeeper waking
to clean out the combs; because wind spent the night

in all the great houses, turning the corner onto familiar
streets; because a neighbor watered her lawn so someone
could look for someone else, and lose again; because waves

and nothing to stop them; because of unwritten letters;
because windows where light got trapped for a moment
and was overheard past midnight, promising you.

Posted in 03: NEXT WAVE | Tagged

Lebanese Poetry

Posted on July 1, 1998 by π. o.

He came over (to the
counter), ordered a coffee, and asked me
if I was Lebanese (cos he
was) – I said “No” / Greek.
He asked me,
what I was reading and I said “Poetry”.
I asked him,
did he like it, and he said he did.
I asked him,
if he knew a poet called Nazim Hikmet
and he said:
“When did he live?”
I said,
at the turn of the century (in
Turkey) – he spent a lot of time in prison
layed down
a few steps
…but
the bloke, couldn’t say he had
so I asked him
if there were any good poets in Lebanon
and he said “Omar Khayyam”.
I asked him, if the papers (in
Australia) published any poems
and he said, they did
but their meaning (their
meaning) he said, was too BIG (too too
big) and a lot of it
got lost in translation. He said, the poets (in
Lebanon) were very clever; They’d
show-Up at the market, and start
reciting their poems.
One of the poets (for
example) would start reciting a poem
about the NIGHT (say)
i.e. How beautiful it was, with the moon
and all the people walking up’n’down
the esplanade, and so on
while the other (poet)
would take an opposite view: A poem about
the DAYLIGHT (say): The kids (out on
the streets) playing in the gutter
and so on; And this, he said
would go on back’n’forth back’n’forth (all
night) until one of ’em
ran out of things to say (sticking closely
to his chosen subject).
I asked him, if he could
remember one, and he said he could.
He said, he could
remember one about “Horses + shoes”!
One of the poets, he said
started waxing-lyrical, about how the RICH
walk around on plush carpets
and about how the POOR
have to make do with the hole in their shoe
and the audience (and the
audience!) he said, gave him
a tremendous ovation, when he finished
cos they liked him.
Then it was
the other bloke’s turn, he said
and he began reciting a poem about
hundreds of Horsemen
racing towards a red-ribbon on the ground.
He said, all
the Horsemen were lined-Up (behind
the starting line), and when the GUN went-off
the horses-hooves hit the ground
so,ooo,ooo hard
that the whole sky became filled with
horseshoes.

Posted in 03: NEXT WAVE | Tagged

Shroud of the Gnome

Posted on July 1, 1998 by James Tate

And what amazes me is that none of our modern inventions
surprise or interest him, even a little. I tell him
it is time he got his booster shots, but then
I realize I have no power over him whatsoever.
He becomes increasingly light-footed until I lose sight
of him downtown between the federal building and
the post office. A registered nurse is taking her
coffee break. I myself needed a break, so I sat down
next to her at the counter. “Don’t mind me,” I said,
“I’m just a hungry little Gnostic in need of a sandwich.”
(This old line of mine had met with great success
on any number of previous occasions.) I thought,
a deaf, dumb, and blind nurse, sounds ideal!
But then I remembered that some of the earliest
Paleolithic office workers also feigned blindness
when approached by nonoffice workers, so I paid my bill
and disappeared down an alley where I composed myself.
Amid the piles of outcast citizenry and burning barrels
of waste and rot, the plump rats darting freely,
the havoc of blown newspapers, lay the little shroud
of my lost friend: small and gray and threadbare,
windworn by the ages of scurrying hither and thither,
battered by the avalanches and private tornadoes
of just being a gnome, but surely there were good times, too.
And now, rejuvenated by the wind, the shroud moves forward,
hesitates, dances sideways, brushes my foot as if for a kiss,
and flies upward, whistling a little-known ballad
about the pitiful, raw etiquette of the underworld.

Posted in 03: NEXT WAVE | Tagged

Fremantle Anchors

Posted on January 1, 1998 by Michael Heald

They’ve let their breath out now
and are taking it easy, lying back
or propped on an elbow, giant chain
trailing like strings of bubbles.
Most look straight through them
as if they’re a shrivelled fence,
though children’s hands approach
and nibble them like fish,
the way they do the flesh of the old.

Arrows shot in slow motion at stability,
palms like shovel-blades, without them
those arks of Europeans couldn’t have stopped
and steadied themslves for the decisive
stride ashore (the strain it was
told in one stock bent at right-angles,
sail-power as a circus strong man).

Fabulous bones from the throat
of famous motion, amongst them
you notice your own free breath,
lifting and falling like the swell,
drift cautiously as if that fearsome weight
might jerk you to a dislocating halt;
get a vision of these as moments
of an iron acrobat’s tumbling pass.

Posted in 02: UNTHEMED | Tagged

To the Soviet Embalmers

Posted on January 1, 1998 by Rod Mengham

This one cartouche surrenders
the famous curse. Nil advice

on sharing the tasks
preparing the ground and pruning.

Pick-your-own name as a performance
I am out of touch with

mortal illness. The memory skids to
her box of tricks right there
in the Attic vase. Numerous other

sole agents setup their stalls:

impassioned coughs and
counterfeit magpies

drink from the well before the assembly
detour ends. You may magnify the quandary
and its whispering roots;

for the martyr nailed to local colours
unable to utilise the construct

is just outside the rocket stadium
in the strong toils of reverse thrust.

Posted in 02: UNTHEMED | Tagged

Looking Back on th Sixties

Posted on January 1, 1998 by Eric Beach

lust pure lust
beyond persuasion
beyond ego beyond gender
kids are a trip
& a vicious skipping rope
drowned geoff in two inches of water
somewhere up in th blue mountains
geoff
last to take off his undies at nimbin
waylaid by smack
held up by suicide
I chased him to th railway bridge
d own past th R.E.
he told me to fuck off or he’d smash me
once he was good & angry at me
I left him
he drove my car down th steepest hill in brisbane
cracked a concrete post, this ex-major watering his lawn comes over to get geoff
out of th mangled wreck, geoff tells him
‘fuck off’
‘it’s all blue in here’ he tells us
in his blue hospital pyjamas
we we re on magic mushrooms
next bed this old guy is examining his cock
his mother tells him sharply
‘put it away’
my lovely terri who took my brother to bed
after long intimate draws at chess
had her arms around a suicide
angel to him devil to me
in th next room unable to sleep
I think of how terri fell out of her dress
me at my typewriter staring out th window
then turning to her
buttons flying
h ow about a fuck she said
couldn’t we go out first he said
movies she said
but I want to talk he said
about previous sexual experience she asked
I’m clean he said
how come he’s so sure she thought
I’m a widower he said
are you still in love she said
he took her to bed

are you going to move in with me & my five kids or what she said you’re kidding he said
yeah but you panicked she said
I like it just here he said
stamp-collector she said

Posted in 02: UNTHEMED | Tagged

On the Train to Geelong

Posted on January 1, 1998 by John Mateer

The train pulls us along.
Who knows the difference between travelling
and waiting. The window
has a flat tawny landscape. Einstein
has the clock. Factories
muddy with rust and pastures fenced
by threads of sunlight tear
past our eyes. The posts and roads
running alongside the track
are too busy pacing us to wave.

Like blue mushrooms appearing overnight,
the huge bourgeoning You Yangs.

As their spore, the ash of stars,
we start speaking.

Posted in 02: UNTHEMED | Tagged

Pseudopanax

Posted on January 1, 1998 by Joseph Zaresky

In the botanical gardens stands a tree –
nothing like the real panax
but trying, year after year.

Pseudopanax, the day will come
when they who pass by without a glance
will make a crowd in front of you:

the director of the gardens herself
will dip a little brush in white paint
and strike out pseudo from your sign.

Posted in 02: UNTHEMED | Tagged

If I Was Delacroix, I’d Be a Dickhead

Posted on January 1, 1998 by Arthur Spyrou

After the murder of her children,
there was a devastation in her eyes
that brought to mind The Garden of Delights.
The way she looked over her shoulder
across a pre-Raphaelite form,
wading from deep water to the beach
as if she understood the war being waged against her
by the world
urging it on like a wounded animal
throwing a smell across the centuries to now
through hamlets, hammocks, palaces and streets,
the one cruel smell
of forests burning in the memory
of her loins,
her one cruel copper smell
of woman.
And I detect
from the adoring way Delacroix painted her
amidst riotous nudes saddled
on zebra, leopards and boar
reasons why I once had found her flawless,
and something of the reason
why I left.

Posted in 02: UNTHEMED | Tagged

Johnny Wheel

Posted on January 1, 1998 by Trevor Poulton

sergeant john wheel was blue/ very

blue but lost his way/ like crooks do whose glory
days are waning and find solace lifting barbells in a
gym/ with children peering on/ johnny/ you could
trust him/ he was beyond police street directory of
life/ bit psychic/ took you right into his head

where it’s hard to plan your escape/ john wheel just
pulled the pin/ some say he’s locked up in hills
kyneton way/ and that everyone’s out of his mind/
watches native birds light up the bush around him
at dusk/ their

speeding is just self preservation nothing else and that
the spent shells of gum trees means re growth/
a mate reckoned once that wheels sat on his double
bed/ shared a joint/ tried to talk him out of death
but he also wanted information/ pauli

would say nothing/ but somehow he felt touched/
wheels never painted him into the wall but could
h ave/ he’d help you if he felt there was something
wrong when you could find him/ but he wasn’t like
most cops/ writing up tickets or out of the van

pissing on with licensees at the back of hotels/ or
making love to single mums in the housing
commission flats/ we all knew what was going on/
carlton cops could never keep secrets/ there was a
senior/ always drunk/ every week tell

you how he manslaughtered someone during an
interview/ but never got charged/ once I read
wheels name on the front page of the sun/ asked
what was the breakth rough/ just said meticulously
it was intuition/ probably thought he was having a

joke/ sergeant john wheel the loner/ tracked down/
the young constable with the bro ken heart driving
north non-stop across the border to brewarrina
chasin’ this poet coral when he was supposed to be
on watch-house/ wheels brought him back for his

own good/ that one made us laugh/ I use to drink
with him a bit/ talk in general terms/ at stewarts
hotel/ across from the cop shop/ where everyone
use to mix back then/ sometimes you could spot
him in the side lounge with autopsies professional

crime/ the points of his eyes/ would tell you not to
walk in/ one day he said to me he was leaving/
said/ ‘it’s a promotion & premonition’/ he said
‘you’ve got to have more than one reason for doing
things/ more than one motive otherwise

you fail’/ chewing his cigarette end/ wired up in
stripes/ and government supplied shoes/ ended up
on one of those/ victoria police protection schemes/
doing time/ not necessarily because he had done
anything wrong/ there was a contract

out on his kids/ even the hat felt pity/ ‘one of the
few cops not frightened to over step the mark’/ he
said/ ‘but that put a stop to him’/ reminiscing with
a cronney the other night/ he said to me/ ‘you don’t
call it burning out/ you call it fuckin’ history’/ then

he told me/ with those words it was my bloody
shout/ you appreciate/ colourful language in
carlton

Posted in 02: UNTHEMED | Tagged