the old stone house

stepping out through the trees
eluding us as if
the night were a hoodie
though the morning
has risen for hours
a rickety stone house
barely standing
ages as testimony to
the crafters
beckons me
and my horse
dismounted we walk
eyes transfixed
spelled
magnetised
the years scream and laugh
cry and talk to us
of passes by and
those who stayed for longer
of those born
and those who passed
inside the stone
they wait or at least
part of them does
we listen for a time
then drink from the eaves
refreshed and remounted
we amble back through the trees
where the day
which blazes noon
is lost to us
for now

drinking the stars

at the time of the great battle
a time when demons strayed
deep into our world
the trees quivered
and the frogs knew
what was to begin

from the forest
deep inside
a drum hummed
so low
as to wake even the
sleepiest of beings

raising his cup
the strongest and most feared demon
was about to drink
the elixer of life ....

the sun and the moon
would not stand for this
and alerted the great gods
who decapitatede the head of the demon
before he could swallow the elixer

his head of course became immortal
and out of anger
he would
swallow the sun
and the moon
only for them to shortly reappear
in our mortal skies


this is ...
apart from a wonderous story
the true and correct
explanation of the eclipses

baloney

L Ron Hubbard
went to the cupboard
to fetch him poorself
a religion

When he arrived
he found workers who thrived
on the leftovers
of his next million

drip

black cockatoos
fly north
in the morning

splash
teardroplet eyes
on refinery town

brimming with dreams at my feet

I got a box of cd's
from a record company
to give away
to my msuic students
disks they didn't want
disks sent in hope
all that passion
all those late late nights
squashed down to flat plastic
and ending up
in a box under my desk
hundreds of albums
thousands of songs
I can feel the weight
of the artists
sighing
looking up longingly
treading water
over here .... no over here
pick me .... pick me ...

there's a real nice looking
bunch of chaps
with shoulder length shampooed hair
and fantastic stances
and expensive guitars
wedged up against
the doppleganger of Britney
with ruby red lipstick
and a ridiculous pout
lying against
the next lryical hip hop
master of the mouth
takin over the streets
rewriting the genre
or so he says .... p-lease

anyway
there they lie
profoundly hidden
and rather lonely
my students snap up a handful
but the box
is still brimming
brimming with dreams

which somehow makes me think
about the art v technology debate
ah ... that old chestnut
but that's another blog

so for now ...
dream on!

little darlin'

sometimes, as the waves break
and the cockatoo sings to me
I remember you

and

sometimes, as the mists clear
and the horizon beckons
I remember you too.

the impossible hat stand of regrets

Apart from the odd visit
or market day
I've been away for a while
.... but now I'm back.
Inventoria and I have returned
from the radiated lands
pens firmly in hand
eyes firmly on the circus.

Now the first thing I do
is visit Estelle ...
if you don't know her
I humbly suggest that you read
this very blog's entry from
feb 07 ... "your own personal jesus"
.... anyway, she's quite the lady.
Estelle gives me a hug that says
... "gosh it's good to see you
but I ain't gonna say it"
Estelle darts mesmerisingly about her flat,
the park below reminds me of
something I left years ago.

There is something different about her.
The look in her eyes flickers between
frustration, sadness
and that of an unknowing child.
Her steadfast glint, her unwaivering precision
is waivering. I wonder what getting old ....
and I mean really old is like.

She interupts my self absorbtion in her
state of mind by asking me a question...

If you were about to die ... old boy
she says to me ... today, right now
what one thing would you regret?

I fumble slightly and smile at her ..
well it's nice to be back I say.
she doesn't return my sense of flippancy
but calmy says .... well you don't have to answer it now

The afternoon ambles onward
the two of us wrapped in it's spell ...

Estelle tells me much of Kings Cross
the Clunes and their gallery cohorts
Olsen, Hughs, Klippel
she talked of evenings at the California
on Darlinghurst rd
or just opposite at the Arabian ...
two cafes that would look sadly out of place in the cross today.
I hear about her friend, the courageous and beautiful
Juanita Nielson who paid a high price
for us to enjoy the trees on Victoria Street.
I remember her name on the telly
as a kid ...

and on we discuss ...
i tell her of the saturday night scum
the cars, the plasma screens
the distinct lack of bohemia
but it's not all bad I say
I paint you the worst of it
I know she says ...
looking tired, I decide to leave

She gives me another hug
a warmer one it feels
and says visit again ....
won't you?
and answer me that question

As I turn and head down her
oppulent hallway
my shoulder brushing her impossible
hat stand
I'd regret I say to myself ...
I'd regret
hhmmm ...

Kings Cross has gone Soft!

Early Sunday morning
Kings Cross ...
after a good sleep.
I dare not head around the corner
up past the slowly fading bourbon,
but set my boundaries
firmly about the Fitzroy Park.
Have you seen the knitting?
It surrounds the limbs
and posturing branches
like a good old fashioned
hippy jumper.
The trees have little coats,
knitted with care,
stitch by stitch
by a troupe of artisitc ...
...umm ... knitters

Even the non organic structures
get a gurnsey ...
Street poles, bike racks
bus stop benches
and the police station too.
All soft and woollen
in constabulary blue.

I've noticed the odd knit
about the streets lately,
here and there.
I touch them as i pass.
It's kinda cosy
like wearing a beanie ...
but boy have they gone
to town in the Cross.
Especially here in the park.
Head on out and have a look
and a feel...

It's good to see needles
being put to good use
arond here ..... for a change.

mcpath

smoke filled tavern
northern scotland
15 men drink warm brown ale
share their thoughts
and hopes
and rations
stoke their minds
a fiery haze
then walks in the inn man's daughter
with a bright blue dress
and a phantoms gaze
that would kill a thousand monsters
from the lochs of nessies salad days


he turned around
walked on down
to shoot this whole world
upside down
to die die die die with you
to die die die die by your side
to die die die die with you
to die die die die by your side


next night high society
he has to hit it with the best
and a champagne haze
that all melts into insignificance
even if he's panned wide
or out of phase
then walks in the inn man's daughter
with the same blue dress
and that phantoms gaze
that would kill a thousand monsters
from the locks of nessies salad days

as the shadow comes, it goes

A shadow passes near I feel
and tips me with it's wing
as eager as a ring worm
formless, faceless, fearless

A breathe or two ... or three or four
a walk amongst the old worlds
all grecian urn and statuette
will set things straight
like stone

A half diversion
painted thickly
creaks and clinks unoiled
my armour of rice paper
blows away ontop the breezes
blows away far out to sea
leaves me standing here half naked
leaves me standing here ...

this passing shadow passes

a poem for the equinox

brush stroke stanzas
eloquently told
sparring old witches
spells sevenfold
the market square is buzzing
yellow magic fills the street
the magpie saw it coming
like the owl and lorikeet

memory in a box

I overheard an old fella
talk about his memories
the ones he brought out
each springtime blooming ....
he kept 'em in a box
safe from the frosts of bitterness
away from the petulant story tellers

and when he scented the daffies
that blew in from the hill
be they earlier each year
with earnest he said
It's time to bring 'em out
dust the old boys down
and give them a damn good airing

where was I when ....
remember the time ...
those were the days ...
oh how I felt ....

good,bad, sad and exhaltant
thoughtful, dreamy or whimsical
there they were
hung out to dry
living a bit ...
all over again

the problem he said
as I stretched out an ear
is that the box gets bigger
and bigger each year

what a strange fella
I remember I said
I'd rather keep mine
wrapped up in my head

at the gold coast with gwen and jeanie

went to leave the gold coast
in the queue
behind me
gwen and jeanie
missed the flight
had to wait back in the lounge
with double g and tees
probably happy
except can't smoke the styvies
without goin outside
so annoying really
true ... yeah true
but it's all good
.....yeah
it's sunday evenin
cry tv

if the news
won't bring ya to tears
then
random moments of kindness will
it will .... I tell ya
like that nice woman
so deserved it actually
yeah she did ....,. yeah
actually .....
yeah
I hate flying
me too
yeah i know yes
it's so bizzare that many miles in the air
yeah i know
yeah
i hate taking off
i know it's so bizzare
mmmm
yeah i know
it's so bizzare

moments whistle past
my cheeks alive with breezes

god love gwen and jeanie
but i'm off
back to the cross
kings bloomin' cross

mr fox and the duck

business be business
said the fox to the duck
sorry to say
but the wind speaks it thus
can you not hear it blow.... ?
quack said the duck
pretending to be
oblivious to her plight
oh how your eyes sparkle
mr fox
and your tail blooms
like springtime
mr fox
so tricky
so slinky
so dazzling to watch

and with each compliment
mr fox's cheeks
grew redder and redder
flushed with success
and panting for more

and your paws
so soft but oh so deadly
master of the night
you are mr fox
as clever as ....
well as clever
as a fox is

and on it went
compliment after compliment
right through the dawning
till sunup and beyond
upon which the fox lay down to sleep
lulled by the praise
ringing in his pointy ears

and once soundly asleep
the smart little duck
waddled away from the fox
to the farmers house
upon which lands he dwelt
and peeked in the back door

whereupon the farmer exclaimed
good morning little duck
what brings you here
a fox mr farmer
a lazy and gullible fox
lays sleeping in the yard
under the shade of the apple tree

damn fox said the farmer
grabbing his rifle
and his last piece of toast
heading out back to sort things out
yes mr farmer
yes said the duck
business be business
can't you hear it on the wind?

====

the taliban====
the talisman====
the forgotten man
the book you'll write
the something new
the news today
the proper way
the tv prey
the sombre line
the soldiers dead
the vote was rigged
the watershed
the biggie lies
the fireflys
the endless stars
the crowded bars
the bottom feeders
the morning frosts
the poem today
the only way
the taliban====
the talisman====
the life you choose
the lot you've got
the life you choose
the lot you've got

the tranny

the transistor crackles
beeping
this background noise
commenting on stuff
like a noisy blog
a blind tv
at the ears of racegoers
that's how I remember
or on my windowsill
tuning in to 2SM
before FM was a wave
that blipped through
our ears
and blipped
at our brains
standing still like a mini
skyscraper
on the grass
in the summertime
can't hear it really
not over the lawnmower
or the cicada's
but it's there
somewhere
crackling
beeping
blipping away

who painted this mess?

oh what a temper
billowing and flamed
the doorkeeper holds her back
high heels scraping
pink nails flashing
a crowd gathers by the maccas
like the pie stand
at the footy

the fruit seller
sighs in arabic
as if a friend he knew
long ago .... had
just died
I wonder

sometimes
when I bustle home
this messy pathway
full of shakespearian tragedies
in peaked caps and mini skirts
leaves me empty
and sometimes
it's a life sized picasso
or if I squint
a turner

fleeting past before I knew it

in an ambient moment
a feathery glow
that hangs above me
twisiting about my body
as a warm wind does
grabs hold
and won't let go ...
i try hard to compose myself
look unruffled
but her grace
overwhelms me
and i fall
unprepared

my last thing

If I only had one thing left
I'd share it with you
Under the drizzling sky
....or the blankets of blue
Between stormwater corpses
.... and a peddling crew
Ousted by sanctuary beckonings
.... what else would I do
If I only had one thing left
I'd share it with you

the idea of south

from the blue blue south
that chilly skin corner
the maverick and the captain
steer a course north ....
toward the midday sun
that peeps it's dusty eye
for never long enough

rickety wooden jalopy barge
bolts that loosen
with each bow crashing wave
slaps hard on the icy water
skews their bones like
tangled pipes
takes their breath away
like the morning

underdeck the bounty flaps
and waits for death
while not one soul will wonder
why or where they came from

the captain billows
watch your stern
there's islands out here ..
between the swells
that'll rip your joyous butt
apart before you see em even
blow this ship away
like sand
and send us all to hell

the maverick jeers and flirts with fate
throwing his rustled beard to the breezes
tempting the grand old ocean
with a rum stained glare
lead us home you beasts
you watery mountains
you churning anger
lead us home

and having heard this
the idea of south
came to an end ....
the dusty sun grew longer
and the bitter days soon
were passed

fa'afafine from roslyn street

in samoan culture
when a family lacks girls
a boy will often be
brought up as a girl
to be treated as a woman
not homosexual but
a third gender
the fa'afafine

household duties are gender specific
and heavier domestic tasks
are delegated to the fa'afafine
whether they like it or not

now this throws up
a conundrum or two ......
is gender a social construct?
is this the role of parents to decide?
should we respect the cultural norms?
what about the feelings of the boy?
how about girls who want to swap gender?
isn't life interesting?

my respect for the fa'afafine
is a personal one ...
and it goes like this

back in the 'good old' days
when roslyn street
had a european ambience
there was a community aura
people lived there
just didn't blow in on
friday and saturday nights
to get plastered and puke everywhere

there was the amsterdam ...
that notorious cafe
that sold the odd joint to travellers
was loved by daily telegraph
and a current affairs reporters
as the great expose

anna had a great place next door
good tea and rolls
and a grumpy but wonderful nature

barons was there
the late night leather clad
backgammon bar that
was right out of prauge

and jason's guitar shop was there
grotty and wonderful things
adorned the walls
and every inch of that
little shop

the only thing that still remains the same
in this now neon and tacky corner of town
is the piccollo
..... go there if you haven't
before it too ends up
in the cultural graveyard of regrets

anyway .....
i'm tending to business
at jasons guitar shop
and it's a little quiet
on the customer front
because an amiable drunk
has spent what seems like
a day or two
camped very close to the
front door
scattered cans and bottles
ciggies and torn blankets
he has a penchant for song
and he knows a lot of 'em

after an hour or so
i decide to play a gibson sg61
really loud through a boogie
... bad call
he wants to join in
and almost crawls through the door
billowing still

ok that's it i say
no you'll have to stay outside
whatya mean young fella
lets have a sing song
c'mon don't be like that .. . he groans

i manage to keep him out of the shop
... still no customers
as you can imagine
but he continues to billow away
out front

now all these goings on
were being observed
i was soon to discover
from across the road
upstairs from the amsterdam
from an apartment window

i was rewiring something
when i heard a big burly
bottom end voice say ...
ok that's enough
we've all had enough
go away and leave the young man
in peace ... go on shut up get up
and move .... and you can't sing for shit ...

i turned to see the amiable drunk
gathering his things quietly
a large samoan man
in a dress with lipstick
and a hairdo weilding a cricket bat
was standing over him

what a sight
a 6 ft plus samoan man
in a floral dress
and pearl bangles
and a cowering drunk that
looked like he'd just seen
a pink elephant
right outside the guitar shop

the fa'afafine gave me a smile
ok sweety
he won't be bothering us
anymore

yeah thanks i say
as he ....
or is it she
spins about and marches
back across roslyn street
with long locks flowing
and a cricket bat over a shoulder

unuploaded?

neglecting a duty
to myself
writing poems
on scrap paper
unuploaded
throwaway dribblings
some bits stick
together and become
a river or an ocean
or starters for the fire
amongst lists and lyrics
somebody's number and
the great new idea

hurry up wind
bluster away
clear this pedestal
of all these ink serpents
knock me out cold
this volume is closing
the tea house draws nearer
cloaked crier is calling
hurry up wind

never mind his bollocks

she cracked
half a smile
and stretched
her withered finger
out in front of her face
leaned through the window
of the taxi
and deliberately said
fuck you
her red hessian
shopping bag
was dragged along
behind her
like a see through
ball and chain

he blew smoke upward
leaning half in
and half out
of the two dollar shop
leering at the girls
parading the walk
like tired flamingos
his half undone buttons
revealing a faded
johnny rotten t shirt
customers give him the shits
which i guess is why
he sells drugs on the side

she twisted the red
hessian bag over her shoulder
and marched on
she was in a mood
a lit cigareete was thrown
at her feet
she stopped
stared at it
then lifted her gaze
past the sex pistols
to his grinning
crimson eyed face
....... "and as for you
you sleaze bag..."
she swung the bag
square into his bollocks
knocking him to his knees
a tear rolled down
his puffing cheek
she straightened herself
and then fixed her hair
with her bony hand
.... " and as for you ...
you can fuck off too"

c'mon boy ....sign that there paper

lester ambled through kings cross
the gaudy greek taverna
and the sky
were the same colour
which is probably why
he didn't see it
actually he walked straight
into it .....
a card table on the footpath

not too odd for kings cross
could be a jewel maker
a seller of watches
could be old paulie moulds
and his band of ratlesnakes
or a reader of the wisdoms

....yes it could have been
but no

and so there it was
on the corner of
darlinghurst road
and llankelly place
the actual card table
of the gods
and as has happened
since time bespeckled
when you see it
nobody else can
only you and you
alone

lester moved his gaze
about the table ...
sitting at 3 of the 4 chairs
was an elderly man in a scout uniform
an old woman in white that he could see right through
and that cartoon guy with the gun who tried to shoot bugs bunny

the ghostly woman nodded to lester
and spoke to him
without speaking .....
lester sat down

darlinghurst road carried on
as if he wasn't even there
as if none of them were there
which is kinda the way it was ...

the scout in his ridiculous
brimmed hat and badges
officially slipped a piece of paper
toward lester
across the table

cartoon guy jumped on the table top
sign it there son ...
don't bother taking your time
there's nothing to read
just sign

on the paper was nothing but a large X

the scout slapped a silver pen
in front of lester
cartoon guy aimed his cartoon shotgun
square at lesters head
c'mon boy sign that there piece of paper
ghost lady frowned
and he reluctantly retreated

lester leaned forward to grab the pen
it rolled away
his hand felt heavy

lester noticed the sunshine
and the bikes
from across the road
some kid leaned in his ear
smoko

all the while the pen
was just out of reach
the card table dipped
and swallowed itself
the trio
splattered like an out of tune tv

with an almighty breath
and a focus as deep as a mountain
lester grabbed the pen and
with his other hand
held the paper tight
scribbled his signature next to the X
as the world turned
in on itself
and as the sky became orange

lester seemed alone
the air was strange
but beautiful

then rosebud appeared ...
as she has done before
on her bike
with a basket in front
calling to lester
from across the road
well done
you did it
it's about time somebody
recognised that lot
and had the guts to sign
you know if you'd asked them a question
or hesitated
you would have slapped your arse
hard on the pavement
fallen down like all the others
grazed and confused
nothing would have changed
but you didn't
you broke the curse
and from today
and until we decide
this be the way
it is

undevelopment proposal

under section 181
of the impossibility act
this zone will be
undeveloped.

there will be no construction
no change to the building facades
all existing structures
will be left untouched
preserving a history
and a culture
no precincts will be erected
of the retail or
residential variety ....
or any precinct whatsoever
for that matter

there will be zero
carparking spaces made available
thereby encouraging
public transport usage
bicycle riding
or the use of one's feet

it is also proposed
that due to this undevelopment
there shall be no inconvenience
for nearby residents ....
no 7am jackhammers
no wolf whistling plasterers
no dust coated windows
no truckin convoys
and no bloody diggers

section 181 of the impossibilty act
also states ....
and states emphatically
that this undevelopment
may lead to
a sense of community
amongst reidents ...
buildings that compliment
their surroundings ...
a trend away from the cheap
"lunchbox" designer dwelling ...
and an old world charm

in fact
we here at muse constructions
will be hanging up our shovels
building nothing
knocking nothing down
leaving all as is
bricks unscathed
walls and their stories
left in tact
to sing and remind us
that things can be built
with beauty
and care
ornately and crafted
to stand the true test
of time
as an art
and a place to be

this undevelopment proposal
will be on display
at the kings cross muse offices
for comment and discussion
for a very long time

270 left to go

this road stretches out
white sun beat down
and a heart marked
by love
like nothing else could mark
beats an extra restless second

I get a redneck goodbye
at the filling station
cause that's what they call'em
in dusty road poems
but it's kinda
unromantic
cause you gotta fill yourself

and somewhere in that farmhouse is
a life unremarked on
a cotton and straw life
a ute and gate life
a slip into town life
I imagine what it's like

and the sunday markets
have a quilted grace
a chance to stare at jars
and take a pee
I don't talk to anyone
except g'day
and nobody talks to me

back to the grind
the constant grind of steel

this road stretches out
white sun beat down
and a heart marked
by love
like nothing else could mark
beats an extra restless second

me and my ducks

i have two ducks
that follow me
most places
along orwell st
and up to the fountain
they love a swim
and to scatter the pigeons
then on to the dreaded
darlinghust rd
we waddle each morning
to sunny cafe
where they stand on chairs
sipping water and crunching
on toast or snails

snails are a treat
and so is the grass
it bothers me more
than it seems to them
and so without complaint
or sarcastic quack
we go to the greeniest
place we can find
just over the hill
and along a bit now
i'll sit under the tree
while they roam about
duck like ....
oh what a wonderful day

a distinct lack of bohemia

gosh
another fancy pants
night clubbin ....
apparently one bloke
owns 17 of them
all here in the cross
didn't even know
that many existed
we've all heard the stories
you shoulda been here yesterday
but i'll tell you something
for free
there's a distinct lack
of bohemia about this place
the pockets are thinning
the onslaught oncoming
I can hear it from here
an apathy well trodden
stand your ground
you saucy old bohos
do it not for yourselves alone
but for a future aesthetic
where all words and thoughts
stand on an edge
tipping
directionless
gather your shields
your ink and your spears
slow them at the gates
the coca cola gates

a year for china shops

tomorrow morning
i will make sense of this
all this loose makeup
and throwaway lines
the forced mirth of a bull
whose horns are but
peep shows
carrion seeds
in need of some living

I can't turn a corner
without my horns
bumping
into the new furniture
a seasoned dictator
a horny minatour
tapered and practical
useless to most
but that be the numbers
a starry starry night
don mclean style
baby its another year