Thursday, 26 November 2009


black cockatoos
fly north
in the morning

teardroplet eyes
on refinery town

Wednesday, 18 November 2009

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
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

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!

Monday, 9 November 2009

little darlin'

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


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

Monday, 2 November 2009

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 ...