Recording time


Just finished recording twenty recent poems … 19 of which I have updated on this blog, and one has gone missing … or should I say “has been temporarily misplaced”.


Ironically, its the one about me being stuck in a small country town for three days after losing my car keys after a “Music, Art and Lifestyle” festival. Enough said about Dungog.



Here is the link to the recently recorded poems.

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Benighted States of Generica


Playing with words and travel observations in the world


Disunited states

New Lexicon

Inertia

North Provoked’er

South Provoked’er

Flurryda

Maim

Correctyagut

No Work

Alreadygone

Cantaffordya

Michigone

Illofnoise

Taxes

Loserana

Vaginia

Tendency

Industrial outskirts peppered with trailer parks
Then come the home stores
White goods furniture and lifestyle
Fast food car yards and junk

Glimpse or you miss it
There goes the town, gone
Living the Generican Dream

All over the world


Cathartic cleaning


We’ve all been here i reckon …



Cathartic cleaning
Room to room

Do I use it?
Do I like it?
Do I need it?

Boof – out it goes

Bags of linen out the door
Lots of little boy toys
Left on the nature strip

With superseded gifts
Tasteless souvenirs
And dusty reminders

Of previous pasts

They all disappear
Over several days
Off to new homes and gardens

Strangers finding joy
In finding things for free


Inches away from millimetre perfect


Hanging around in Melbourne pubs and clubs in the 1980s, being cynical and feeling sorry for myself. Ah, to be in my early thirties again! Not!



Teenage fashion junkies
Playing poor
Fifty dollar hairdos
Labels on their pants

Hip shack rhythms collide
Push through the sweat
Women yawn together
In the breaks

They wait for the split
When boy meets girl
Wishes of fulfillment
Played out on the dance floor

Coats on stranger’s tables
Melting glasses left
To stand bereft
Throb of disco calls

Ears and necks offer
Glitters of fleshy bait
For the bodies below
Cynicism blocks easy flow

Too many night clubs
Around the world
Make the watcher wary
Everything’s a game

Time loses meaning
Lust remains the same
Dancing video sets the pace
Tempts awkward dancers

With existence
In another place


Stars in the carpet


(Bronte space thoughts 2012)


Vacuuming stars at midnight
From a grubby seaside carpet

Nick Drake background hums
My seventies London soundtrack

Feel sixteen at sixty-one
Rushing fast to sixty-five

Single bed room
Sanctuary and prison

Full creative life
Empty of passion

Put away childish things
Time to be a proper man

Right.


Bermuda Palms


In 1977 I spent 9 months in Bermuda programming and installing a database for an international insurance company. I worked hard and played harder in those days. I also spent a fair amount of time alone and introspective, observing stuff. Like palm trees.


Who do the palms wave at
When the wind blows cool
With the rain slanting down?

Is it washing dancing on the line
To a private sunshine tune?

Or a bedraggled puppy
Racing home in soggy confusion?

Are they just moving their bodies
To nature’s ancient rhyme?


Smoke in the darkness


(Bermuda race riots 1977)


Smoke in the darkness

Unspoken fears
Bubble to the surface
Like scum or hatred

Anger blows away

Illusions of friendship
Reveals another racist

Jungle bunny talk

Makes me want to vomit
Out the unctuous stench
Of misplaced white pride


Understanding “sweet sorrow”


Ah, love and loss and heart ache. Where would poets be without it! Better now thanks. Twenty year old poem that still works, I think. Feel free to shoot me down in flames if needed.


She’s gone
Through the aperture
A last glimpse
Then
She’s gone

Tears at the airport
Happy kind of crying
Home in an hour
Found the I-love-you-stones
Just on departure time

Later in the bathroom
Blubbed a bit
Having a leak
Looking at the shower cap

Then her toothbrush
Her henna shampoo
The telltale towel

Not to forget
The well placed
Hairy hair bands
Around the doorknob

Remind me daily of her absence
From this place
Yet her presence in my life


springs cumming – november 1983


Living in Melbourne in the early eighties, I became obsessed with the poet e.e. cummings for a while … this is my stumbling attempt at his style.


captivated

by smiles gestures and rubbings

he was

funny

when it happens along

i thought

when you least expect it

and

straightens your back

with a spring

in your step

into spring


Day-Glo Daze


Re-worked this timeless oldie … images and observations from a northbound road trip to join a hippy sports day in a distant valley.
I made it up about the hob-nailed thongs! 


Day-Glo spacy waistcoats
white overalls hobnailed thongs

modern rural highwaymen
armed with stop/go signs

bright pink earthmovers
make a night-bright sight

stunning moonrise on the full
achingly cold mud puddles

Day-Glo orange Frisbees
scorch the long emerald grass