Writing|Witticism

LESS SWINE 'FLU, MORE KRAFT GLUE.

Photography|Figure Ground

Writing|Ocean Collaboration.

Where eight catalogued balconies oversee the peirs of mohogany, history has cast off, jumped down on the deck, letting it's bound sheets sail ahead and steer another voyage, inside this room the mind's rudder busts loose, the sails become soaked so heavy, the mast it breaks.


Sculling, feeling the stern unbending, yet soft as silk flow, water rushing against my silent-creaking oars, the weight of the water, the crushing sea, my legs against the stern, ripples thrumming gently in the still-night, moonlight shafting down by way of the cloud covered skies, my only thought the task at hand, my present mind of the moment-only, the moment, the wood against the grain of my work-worn, rough-tough hands shifting in a rythym as I draw, nearer, slowly sculling.

Silence until I begin to listen; the wear-polished rowlocks working into their sockets, the always lapping, always tapping, like the pattering of rain-sky, dropping down on a cozy cabin, snug against the tearing, hard-blown night, but not so now, another night, a moment, as the moon breaks again, through, and picks up, even the reflection of the candlelantern amidships on the object of my oarsmanship, the water, a black-clad mirror passing none into, and not one out, the tight tight water keeps me above, in dryspace, away from the crushing blackness of the underdark, the endless, perilous weight, pushing, pounding in my ears, peircing ploughing intoo me, the never-finished, under, the strength of everyone ever, never could hold it in, a whimsical powerful never sated never saming morass of elemental, unedifying, uncompromising and always actual, collective (un)concious...

I glide above this existence, untroubled by and over al of it, and, nearing the aft of the woman, the haven of my half-life, the wife who is at once myfreedom and binding, I know, as I crafted her, so was I crafted into her, held to her, my life tied into hers.

Photography|Partyville

Writing|Ice Flow Blues

Full moon panic as the black dogs howl,

I'm silver-spoon manic with the soft-black cowl,

The mindless antic of a cat on the prowl,

Feeling frantic 'cause the odours are foul.

Big eyes glaring from a face full of fear,

Straight wide staring, sharp shocking and clear,

Running through the dark while the sticks behind crack,

Something's in the park, something's on my back.

The moon howls quiet and the cloud hangs low,

It's a minimal diet in 20 foot snow.



-ICE FLOW BLUES|CANT FEEL MY SHOES-

-ICE FLOW BLUES|THERE"S A LOT LEFT TO LOSE-

Concept Art|Photography

-from here...



















...to here-

-A photograph of the paradox that is illuminated darkness, as lit by your very own screen.

Writing|Negativity

Musing for a minute in my madly mauled moleskine,

As I kick back in the back of the old dive I'm in,

The hardest thing isn't finding a good way to begin,

It's finding out how to make an old bird sing,

Or a new tat not sting,

Or to make a 'phone ring,

~

Waiting for that fateful call;

Knowing what you hear might change it all.

Leave you feeling either grand or maybe ten-feet-small.

Still there's nothing you can do, but wait to bare it all,

To a corporate soulless buck,

As you hope, that with a bit of luck,

You'll get some of your words there in his mind; Stuck.

Unless You'll crumple as he says he takes no truck,

With crazy junkie hobos and you'll tell him to "suck-

-on this" as you raise your hand,

But you cant lift a finger cause your thumbing a rubber band,

And, he can't see your fingers cause you're on the 'phone, "Damn!"

So you'll slam the phone home,

Collapsing in a nervous wreck,

Screaming madly, "Feck feck feck"

~

Now you see that you're alone,

In a deep wide sea,

Even though you feel free,

You know it's only to see,

That you've been everything you can be,

You've no more energy,

And now you cry your guilty plea,

You're not home in time for tea,

You call "There's nothing left for me!"

And fall flailing, fearfully.

Photography|Travel

Writing|Tea

Hitching up that stretch of road and finding fault from the first, he hardly had to hike a half mile before a ute took him through to the next town, he had another amble and again, an angular, awkwark automobile angles over to the edge and he edges on to his objective. At the house where he was heading, and in the garden there, there are people that he knows so well, people that he knows by sight, by feel, by smell, he calls to one and enters an abode of considerable interest, a house entitled by the action of the ritual of the drinking of the leaves.

Artwork|Brooch

Poetry|Thursdays

Choking back down the breakfast that I ate for brunch at the time when you ate lunch,

I nearly fell off the bike I was riding to class but I steadied myself, swallowed and avoided the glass.

A man stepped out and I was about to shout, as he stopped, stunned and waited for the clout,

But I swerved round, with my mind far away, as the suited civil servant stood speechless.



Arriving at a time that was not quite what was right, I ditched the bike and ran inside, only to find,

All the things that I left behind, swept in line, into two neat piles,

The technician always smiles as I pass her in the corridor,

But the guy in the bathroom creeps me out even more.



And it's a real strange thing when you're studying,

Half the time you're stressed and crappy, but the rest you want to sing.

Just like writing a bad last verse in an esoteric poem,

Like a presentation where there's nothing left to show them,

Hoping it will all just hang together in that final line,

And sometimes it all does, and when it does it works out fine.

Photography|Landscape

Writing|Witticism

The sea is boiling hot because the mermaids are beautiful…

Photography|Womad

Poetry|Obscura

Banging out words on my new-school writer

To the tune of two-step trip hop, cigarette lighter

Burning bits of my broken blemished bathroom basin

Shattered from that time when you smashed your face in

Smashed up from that time when you tried to break in.

I remember all the other times you lost your keys

And laugh that I know someone more disorganized than me


Falling through the bathroom skylight right towards the floor you thought

Of all the times you’d seen that floor, but never quite like this before.



And that time stands still when you’re going to die

And that your life keeps flashing before your eye

All boring 19 years combined to make you sigh

And that you can think this fast makes you want to cry

And that you hope the bathroom floor is clean and also dry

And that you wonder if you might perhaps just possibly fly

But all you do’s collide,

Crumpling in an ugly way

So that when I walk in I say

Banging out words on my new-school writer

To the tune of two-step trip hop, cigarette lighter

Burning bits of my broken blemished bathroom basin

Shattered from that time when you smashed your face in

Smashed up from that time when you tried to break in.

I remember all the other times you lost your keys

And laugh that I know someone more disorganized than me


Falling through the bathroom skylight right towards the floor you thought

Of all the times you’d seen that floor, but never quite like this before.

Artwork|2008

Writing|Homage to Dylan Thomas

[silence]

FIRST VOICE (very softly)
To begin at the beginning. Summer, Moonshone and starring night in the small town, twinkling and dew-glistened. The dirt roads, settled, dusted down by yesterday’s drays, the water, still in the horse troughs, the new-town-hall, Mr General’s General store, the side streets, named by Monarch, Alphabetical, the houses baked-blind in the heat, like Old Joe, by the pump, stopped seeing the sights when he lost his sight and now sleeps, siteless, about the town. The town is flywired tight against the night. The biters, bloodless, whining. The Marsupial Moles are eyeless too, and see; nothing more than the sleeping people of the town; Nothing.
Shush, the children are sleeping, the drovers, the drivers, the shearers, the harvesters, blacksmith, schoolmaster, postie and publican. The matron, the mayor, tailor, tack-mender, swaggie, simpleton, the shirking codgers and the dowdy wives. Little girls, abed and sweltering, fly far away to ocean shores and ice-cream, or the tempting touch of snow upon their cheeks. The boys are bushy bearded, ranging through the gums, or jacking wildly as a Bullaroo. But the bulls are dozing standing near the stations in the scrubland, and the sheep in the flyblown paddocks and the dogs pant, and twitch from dreaming, and the kangaroos are eating what the sheep forgot.
You can hear cicadas singing, and the hot township steaming. Only you are awake to find the whole town, soaked in starry blackwash, veiled in velvet and asleep. None save you can hear the black before morn wash round and engulf the town, see the moon sighing, set into trees where the Boobook, the Galah, and the Currawong, Blackbird, Kookaburra, the Curlew the Blue wren, and the Bird of paradise, perch, silent, waiting.

Dawnlight clambers slowly up the eastern end of town, Old Joe stirs and turns over, under the bench, under the tree, under the gaze of P.C. Joe, same name but half as old, out to make sure no one has stolen the town square yet. Mr General yawdles, groans, and returns to dreamland, where,
MR GENERAL. “The ickle chookins eated all the grocers and the broccoli’s come to eat up me!”
FIRST VOICE. Mr Boag, Mayor, rises, and, sockfeet slapping sadly on the sweat-damp sandstone, finds his hired help has left, again, right under his snoring nose. Sighs in weary anger, and makes his own breakfast of soft boiled bacon, and hard baked eggs.
On the corner of John and Victoria, Tom Tilly, Tailor, threads his way through his thickly cluttered kitchen, and stitches up;
TAILOR. “Something satisfactory”.
Sweating in the hothouse of his livingroom, Jackie Jones, Republican and morgue manager, mistakes his cellar for his larder, and grasps hold of;
FIRST DEAD. “Allie Marchbanks, inspected the wrong prospective mineshaft and fell for fifty feet”.
FIRST VOICE. Jackie wriggles free and runs, ungainly, up his steps and into a nice fresh pint.

Artwork|2008

Writing|Uni Life.

He’s tied back down to a nine by five and he feels like the freedom he knew for a few short weeks, for a fleeting slice of summer, replaying always in his memory like a loop of esoteric film installation, was never real, that it was a film that he lost, that he was lent and left lonesome in the leeway of the couch/bed/futon in the studio in the town where he no longer lives and, as the crushing reality of the next few years comes crashing down he wonders whether the headlines from the papers on the tables for the coffees of the people in the house where he is living now, are making minute modifications in his mind, leaving his world view biased and broken, and whether the way the world is run results in how his eggs are in the afternoon, when the hunger hits the high point of the seismograph that charts the rumbles of his sore stomach: it gurgles gratified as over easy eggs ease their way, not over-easily in, filling like the theatre on opening night when the big name co. with their big name show rolls out along the walk, smiling wicked grins of, “yes we are better than you”, money honey-grumbles, and he finds that even though the hours he keeps are leaking later every night, until they seep through in a sudden flood to tomorrow, that every day brings new and nearly always nice experience, and that his appetite is never sated long for song and dance and chocolate and friendship.