Alchemy (2007)

(the third of 3 Brett Whiteleys)

... he became his admirers. - W. H. Auden, 'In Memory of W. B. Yeats'


You’ve succumbed. Tall Poppy,
they crave to say you’ve over-stepped.
Don’t go too far. Stay too far. Settle
your petals against the sand; today’s
a hot one on ego beach. Where we
can see, between the flags!
Swim on a rope.
_________How’d you expect us
to eat all this? What,
weren’t you thinking?
What weren’t you thinking?
_____________Too long
in the kitchen, sniffling;
we want to feel your pain
but not forever. Brett,
it seemed someone was missing,
was not listening.
___________Your rockstar
mirrorgazes; hallucinating
momentary masterpieces,
blown away as studio dust
or shot up as lunch.
_____________You
painted our waiting,
expectations in exquisite detail.

We’ve been tailgating you,
true, your faulty tail lights.

This was a painting of ambition,
Icarus flightpath. Ambition is there
on the canvas, waving, screaming,
drowning in world. It writ large.








Alchemy at brettwhiteley.org

videopoem #1

the books - smells like content

vindictment (2007)

all about you I guess, snapped pencil freakcase who know all & better you awkward as source code you hyperverbal / you question mark in parentheses / yet another tangled wizard’s sigil

[Sure, let’s all erect vindictive monuments. (Maybe this is yours.) Depicts: your retreat into desert. Lived off sand. Thought it through your fingers. Read visions off the moons of your fingernails. Pursued by built-in bestiary. Juiced all gately cacti in sight but still a raging thirst. Only so much the eye can plan and prepare for.]

but in fact i love you yet again you the poem lived / thinking in tongues

[An error has occurred. Start with what you have. Could it be yours?]

you once troubling precocious, nascent psychic talents intimidating highschool teachers (we go way back) / always your scarf stitched with cryptograms, formulae

[I don’t have the patience.]

careers in prophecy? ditch day-job to contest/corrupt all assumptions

[Software is not for you: it does things you’ve asked for. You realise your mail keep bouncing?]

time to resign yourself to fallout, the recluse's winter? but you persist repairing dead philosophers / philosophy as repair, beyond repair & yet life in the beast still dehydrated gills / dabbling in junk gather skulls unzipping peripheries

[Squeezed prophetics out of manga-dreams. You the hero / a thousand traces. Such an immortal. Statue of light.]

you’re not the only delusionist flexing to grandmaster the Web / yours just another unseen site / face the fact I am half your traffic

[That’s right, ring the psychic hotline. Don’t like the forecast? So… ring another hotline.]

two aspects

"... the idea of portraiture and the idea of the recreation of the word. I took individual words and thought about them until I got their weight and volume complete and put them next to another word, and at this same time I found out very soon that there is no such thing as putting them together without sense. It is impossible to put them together without sense." - Gertrude Stein, 1946.

Pictured: Picasso's portrait of Stein.

telltale (2007)

bloodshots (red cables cross my eyes) –
_-telltale,
______obvious I’ve used

_________________lip-cracks / foodless sta-
______________________sis / cold-core bones

_____________________-afternoon: slight OD,
________________-fell asleep online

___________________evening:
__________you arrive home /
___________my straight act:
_______________________no trace,
_______________________paraphernalia locked away /
_____________________affectionate lies

bud (2007)

Have history with you
makes it hard to be
with you when I am. It’s
so beautiful outside, but
outside of what? Hey
now the sun is mighty
loud. Birds call me out,
heavy on the roofs.
Disciplined gardens.
Sidestepping trenches
& amber barrier mesh.
Just another castle
under construction.
Slick & unimpressive. As
if some new wild epoch
could bud in the suburbs.

optional (2007)

which hut? /
train passes overhead /
options fly / day party:
sun as DJ / the clouds
the wider painting /
meditate with
confidence, sleep with
confidence / world
comes more as an
abstract / how to
put these / two
birds talk on a wire /
together / hut them?

repackaging 'evil' (2007)

on the track to the city
a snake says, ‘trust me’,
and what could be
simpler? it’s just an
advertisement, but
clearly everyone
is implicated

/ way the ads burst
volumed at our outer
skin to nudge the inner
what big hoofs more
than a little tampering
with our brittle
___________/ forever
surrounded by cranes
fishing for significance
they hold our dossiers
as if ‘connect’ means my
brand is your brand but
i can’t get no, no no no


Note: "i can’t get no, no no no" - The Rolling Stones, 'Satisfaction'.

As published in Snorkel #9, April 2009.

audio

If you'd like to hear me reading Self-portrait (with wires, city & no clothes), click here to download the .wav file. The file is optimised for playback via QuickTime. Other players (e.g. Windows Media Player) may require a codec to play the file. For some reason I think the audio has been ever-so-slightly sped up, so that my voice sounds higher than normal (as if I'd just inhaled a balloon full of helium!)

The poem was originally published in Verandah 22, and this reading was recorded for the Images & Texts on the Verandah exhibit at Deakin University.

ear tells me

"When I write, words or phrases come to me. I don’t go to them or start with a plan. I start with scraps and pieces and something comes. I never know. I never sit down intentionally to say something. It comes to me. But as I work more on a poem a meaning is established and then I must continue until I feel it's done or undone. To an almost alarming extent -- alarming for me -- sound creates meaning. Sound is the core. If a line doesn't sound right, and I do always have single lines or single words in mind, if a line doesn't have some sort of rhythm to it, if my ear tells me it's wrong, I have to get rid of it, or change it, and a new meaning may come then."

- Susan Howe (pictured), from The Difficulties (1989).

desist (2007)

(after Stan Brakhage's desistfilm)

the night (is it night?) is
_____-____________-teeth,
_sitting round dumbing stuff
________-we have cool haircuts
_______-if this is the 50s,
_____both sexes thrown in dark room
__________-music loud enough that we can’t

____music through a glass, a fly

_boredom sits
______-reading your shoe
__________________tugging our own hairs

_surface-bound
_-sit round dumbing stuff
__________starting cigarettes
____________stacking a house of books,
__his shortlived match sculptures

_later run out
screaming deaf into treescraped
__ horizons, bracken
__________________-slow our fire
_________descend to
__________________________magnified touch

_at some point back in the room
caught ourselves paused
__-dancing it was kindergarten
______________plus an ashtray

____________________our flesh blur
___________________________strung
__________________________refused that kiss________


As published in Sein und Werden 'cinematique', Spring 2009 (print edition).

Note: A poor quality copy of Stan Brakhage's early work desistfilm can be viewed here. There is sound, but you'll need to turn up the volume. I recommend tracking down a copy of the Criterion DVD By Brakhage: An Anthology in order to approach his films through a medium closer to the one they were intended for (i.e. a cinema).

notes on status (2007)

Today you toddle off
elaborately inane, to where your profile

fills out like a bin-liner caught by the
wind.

– John Forbes, ‘Colonial Aubade’


ha survive in a corporate office
without actually working (just
live there, haunt the espresso
machine)

see brother, la revolution begins on every page, in
every line

in gel caps /
in the deepest blues

only to find that
nothing beards us like a lack
of ritual responsibilities

a life of not being able to
pop a balloon with a stick of celery

(not the place itself but your slim scared imaginings of)

like spring racing ‘carnival’,
fashions in the field yet
another vocabulary for
status to shake around in...

deep in the bowels of
some corporate tent or other
you realise luxury is irresistible,
has its own set of ‘classique’ emotions

& one day, with a dab of brio and your lucky haircut,
you could have your very own war

(thief!)

perfectionism (2007)

make all these minor adjustments what does it matter no one
turns up except other
DSMIV entrants other tangled wizards
their pet tangents
_____________-brands of solipsism software variety the
_______________price of life
_______________________-me making my
_______________________-minor adjustments
beginning to believe technology's a blind alley though we too are
technologies writing ourselves blind / written out /
the trees still living seem hunched in doubt
______________________________hey!
_________________________________turn up the light or
________________________________________is that as
____________________________high as it goes?

mondays (2007)

monday nights catching up with the
boys operating system updates new
Radiohead all these burnt offerings
leap druglike from hand to hand behind
raised boot of the car not mine i’m not
'the driver' i have no poison file me
under monk the
___tv jokes bounce off me like sponges

though dead soldiers pile
til the bussie busies us
with his pisa-phallus of
_____________empties

look at us the weary
tribesmen surrounding
a table fire built from
mobiles, keys, sunnies
_(dancefloor handbags?)

damn pokie pub twittering
machines money travels
thrilling nowhere adventures
___________ of a 10c piece

because suspicious of everything
while counting down your stardom
rain on your parade since mine's
already soaked i really dropped the
room make mental note to email you
__________another long apology

as 4 blooded men we agree
PCs are distraction files
& files of nectar for the
dumb-bum bumble bee got
tissues? only 1 sting til the
____drowse of the next life

we make our exit as something
heroic but this too collapses
__eaten under the idiot lights

watch out if not for nuggets
of bottle glass we could
walk barefoot as bronze
kids in a holiday eden
engrossed in our triple
____________scoops

at this intersection of
stressors taxi honks
when cut off & therein
how language, as
threat, first
_________pounced?

stem (2007)

a watched rain never falls. alone in our many rooms craving left-aloneness.

*

stem overgrown with thought. seated in lotus position.

*

we map disappearances. small birds wrapped daily. cannot drink the river.

*

rowing three hours each way between us. to arrive at degrees of fidelity. granting the eye permission to lick.

*

think we’re coping better with crop failures. though there are times we want to murder the fruit. unpeel what is peeled. how we never know how to hold what's dying.

*

in spite of our ghosts, go scuttling in party shoes. go scuttling, eyes wrapped in sheets. ditching dharma, ditching precepts.

*

our housedust. a lint magnet. stem the breath with fluff. dustmites fed on skinflakes.

*

if the rain would pile upon itself. if the harvest. bring breath to what is said.

*

lotus position. the spine a stem.

*

to err. still planting the heart. craving left-aloneness. listening for dry echo.

*

i say tremble then. break with the room. strew dust. be spilt.

*

you say stay faithful. wear blue on blue days.

Image & Text reading

On Thursday the 4th of October I was one of three featured poets who took part in the Image & Text reading at Deakin University. I was honoured to share the bill with Angela Costi and Judith Rodriguez... plus there was an open mic section which included Peter Davis.

Thanks to all who came along and took part. The readings were fantastic. Thanks also to Karen Le Rossignol for organising the event.

I selected poems which (mainly) fitted in with the image / text theme. This was my set list:

Drive-thru
Vipassana
pollen
Heartwood
Art, Life and The Other Thing
Saturday, Brunswick St
Self-portrait (with wires, city & no clothes)
I will not carry

Images and texts on the Verandah - an audiovisual display

As part of eXposure season at Deakin University, there will be an audiovisual display featuring poems and artwork from Verandah 22, including readings of poetry by Tom Cho, Rhys Tate, Virginia Spicer and yours truly. A rendition of my Self Portait (with wires, city & no clothes) was recorded especially for the display.

The Verandah 22 display will run from Monday 17 September to Friday 5 October in the Phoenix foyer, Building P, Deakin Burwood. Entry is free.

Update 11/12/07: The audio file of my reading can be downloaded from here.

pollen (2007)

night air aroused
drawling with spring

*

pollen delivering words
as raw silk
through the unseen
caverns of my nose

*

in the middle of the street,
also high on pollen,
deadkids play lazy karate

*

halogen lamp oversees
glossy 'for sale' sign,
spraying its light,
mistakenly conjures
tilts of red from garden roses

*

on a nature strip,
legless ergonomic chair implies
a silent office of Zen


A previous version of this poem was published in Frame Lines issue 7, February 2009.















Below: Scanning electron microscope image of pollen grains from a variety of plants. (This is a public domain image sourced from here.)

While we tried to love... (2007)

reception clearer now
(no white noise haunting)

been straight
for just on 2 months

equipped with
transaction burns,
synth tears,
mounds of sugar fiction

& imagination
(a sleek, amber-winged insect)
crawls over the drumskin
of my cheek,
drums polyrhythmic
code into me

the latest flight dream,
we were frenchkissing clouds
with our teeth

*

escape the bed
before you
to check the newsfeeds
(a pretense)

another internet death today

none of us can hide the blame:
it's there in every click,

early reports,
'love' in the headline

Verandah 22 launched!

Verandah 22 was launched yesterday at the Melbourne Writers' Festival. As usual, the launch attracted a large, enthusiastic crowd. It was great to see everyone there, and to meet some of the editors and contributors.

I was presented with the 'Books4U Literary Award' for my poem Self portrait (with wires, city & no clothes), and did a reading of the poem. Adam Davis and Tom Cho also performed their work - Tom's delivery of his piece AIYO!!! An evil group of ninjas is entering and destroying a call centre was highly entertaining! Special congrats to the incomparable Toby Davidson, who breezed in from Warrnambool to collect the Penguin Literary Award.

Congratulations to all the other prize winners and contributors, and to the Verandah editors, designers... and everyone involved in the conception and production of this edition. It looks fantastic, and the content is top notch. I especially like Jessika Tong's poem Transformations.

Verandah 22 is available now from good bookshops. In Melbourne, try Readings, The Brunswick St Bookstore, or my personal favourite, Collected Works Poetry & Ideas Bookshop.

Mid-city meditation (2007)

I take off my shoes
so the grass can imprint
abstract designs on my ankles

can't see any other meditators
in Alexandra Gardens

a precious day

sun gushing,
pooling on gemgrass;
river metallic

cars on City Rd
sounding like the ocean
(peaceful cars)

I slow
& stop thinking
for some seconds

then I remember
to take off my sunglasses

& it becomes a lot brighter
behind closed eyes

I notice this,
then revisit the breath

an easy breeze
stroking my face

I revisit the breath,
revisit the breath

until half an hour later
I hatch
from my trance-shell,

look over at my shadow,
my head made of grass

*

8pm that night
I meet Monica on the bridge

we gaze through the sci-fi city,
make new pledges,
smile out...

a 4x4 crushing
a skater's stray deck
jolts us back to the wheel


As published in The Cartier Street Review, February 2009.

Eggs & Roses - post-gig review

Thanks to everyone who made it to Eggs & Roses last Thursday. I enjoyed meeting you all, and reading my poems in an intimate setting. It's always a pleasure to read to an appreciative and friendly crowd!

Thanks to Alexis Harley and the La Trobe English department for having me. And kudos to Catherine Padmore, who also read from her fascinating novel-in-progress.

This was my set list:

Drive-thru
cashed
The Breaking
unplugged
Vipassana
A Taste of Cindy
I will not carry
Saturday, Brunswick St
apology
Self portrait (with wires, city & no clothes)

Verandah 22 Launch - update

I can now confirm that I'll be doing a reading at the launch of Verandah 22 at the Melbourne Writers' Festival. I'll be reading my poem Self portrait (with wires, city & no clothes), which is featured in the journal.

Apparently I'm also going to be presented with some kind of literary award.

As mentioned in an earlier post, this free event is happening from 2pm on Saturday the 1st of September, in the Bagging Room at the Malthouse.

surveillance (2007)

9:38am sinuses go to war

navel gazes back at me, floats
a question:
“who did this to you?”

these burns, slits, scratches
are fabulous

(eager to share)

enjoy the waiting,
skin’s self-repair

*

11:16am have erased everything
sold my guitar

tantrum in-grown

dust rushes the room

thankfully
still know all the words for food

*

12:00pm ‘life gets you
in the knees’

scratch reflex
spreading parasites

while the sun multitasks

*

5:20pm sky is boy’s & girl’s
(pink clouds stretched)

still know all the words for food

& know you from photos
(in some your face survives)

*
5:46pm was once a great lover
of books

serrated fingernails,
bleed from scratching

smell of breath mints

*

8:12pm maximum dark

eyes suck on monitor-glow

no recent updates

a joint to curl me:
night passes quickly this way

muted TV
reminds me: haven’t eaten

*

10:18pm haven’t eaten

(all these demands)

taste my teeth:
breath mints

head tilts toward kitchen

*

2:13am the flawless setup

wired, rigged
no need to rise
from keyboard

eyes unblinking,
learning you

*

2:14am frosty monochrome
intercepting your walk

(that onscreen brittleness)

& full volume
your pulse
charging the speakers

Eggs & Roses - Thursday, August 23

On Thursday the 23rd of August I'll be doing an extended reading as part of the 'Eggs & Roses' spoken word and literature series at La Trobe University's Bundoora campus.

I'll be reading my stuff (both old and new), discussing the origins of my work, and generally talking shit about the intersection of poetry, technology and madness (or something along those lines). Questions and audience interaction will be encouraged!

Eggs & Roses is running every Thursday during second semester, from 4:30pm in room 431 of the Humanities 2 building at La Trobe Bundoora Campus. A campus map is available from here.

Hope to see you there!

Verandah 22 Launch

Verandah 22 will be launched on Saturday the 1st of September in the Bagging Room at the Malthouse, from 2pm. The launch is part of the 2007 Melbourne Writers' Festival. It's a free event.

I've been to the last two launches, which were both well attended, with refreshments aplenty (that means free booze for you boozehounds). I imagine there will be some readings involved... I'll try to provide more info closer to the date.

fashionably (2007)

time I reach the party
all the drugs
have already been played
(a recurring theme)

my selfish friends!
I just wanted a little toy-toy for me!!!

to let the drugs
do the talking

get the monkey off,
write myself off on

okay, I’ll drop the code
if you’ll quit coding with me

all you can offer
is flattery
& these wedges of lime

sure, there’s booze & pot
(downers covered)
like you said

but I arrive &
everyone’s leaving

whispering “life’s too short
for this dreck”

(am I that undanceable?)

leaves me no choice but
to steal your lines
drink you dry
crashland on your couch:

when you kick me awake
I'll be itching,
pestering you

to make that call
(fingers crossed),
drive across town for pills

apology (2007)

sorry for the slow reply

I’ve been sick again,
spitting air,
haunting town without a face

(this face no longer valid)

hungry words flock
to define me:
'cut-price', 'reheated', 'uneven'…

so uneven I’ve been cutting
around the gardens rather than through,
scared fresh breath of pines
will make me retch

I’m watched by a list of eyes,
tailed by some voodoo priest
giving off his dark light

can’t do new people
can’t chase a thing
taste a thing

I mostly hide tight
up in this one-window bedsit
flicking switches
experimenting with the light

no call for music,
or food

I gaze jealous down
at the playhard kids
screwing with their own wiring,
scalping tickets to fastland

they’re ready to ambush me
with scissors,
lick the medicine out

although wait for it, the icing:
my phone is dead
(I killed it)

but enough of me,
how are you?

please accept this
small peace offering:
a freshly picked posey
of eyelashes

Stand up for the Burrup!

On Saturday the 3rd of June I joined my wife and friends to 'Stand up for the Burrup'. What's the Burrup, you ask?

"Western Australia's Burrup Peninsula is the world's largest outdoor rock engraving site, containing rock art of world importance possibly dating back to 30,000 years ago, including possibly the first ever representation of the human face in history. Woodside Petroleum and the Western Australian Government are planning to turn part of this site into a natural gas production facility against the wishes of some of the site's Aboriginal custodians and the scientific community." (from http://www.standupfortheburrup.com)

Stand ups have been held around Australia and internationally to protest Woodside and the WA government's plans. Representing Melbourne, we stood up in Federation Square, opposite Flinders St Station and Young & Jackson's (see picture below). Representatives from the ABC and Australian Associated Press were present to cover the protest, and a statement of support from former prime minster Malcolm Fraser was read out.

Visit standupfortheburrup.com to find out how you can support this cause and get involved.

Verandah 22

I've just received word that one of my poems, Self-portait (with wires, city & no clothes), will be published in Verandah 22, which will be launched at the 2007 Melbourne Writers Festival.

Stay tuned for further details of the launch party!

Something essential...

I got meme-tagged by sam of the ten thousand things... a nice little meme which originated from They Shoot Poets - Don't They?

Here 'tis:

“Give us at least 10 quotations pertaining to poetry - from 10 different writers &/or poets which best coincide with your philosophy vis a vis ars poetica. They can be posthumous or otherwise. The order is not important - unless it is to you.”

Sam rather charitably added the following disclaimer: "If the number ten is too daunting, go for less." Although I've managed to pull ten together from everything I've (n)ever read. And yes, for me the order is important.

In every cry of every man,
In every infant’s cry of fear,
In every voice, in every ban,
The mind-forged manacles I hear.
- ‘London’, William Blake

The people need poetry that will be their own secret
to keep them awake forever.
- #355 (‘Now I’m in the spider-web of light’), Osip Mandelstam

Reality is not simply there, it must be searched for and won.
- Paul Celan

The human body is the best picture of the human soul.
- Philosophical Investigations, Ludwig Wittgenstein

each word is a room built around us
- ‘Pitching Woo’, Karen Weiser

The great city has a hundred million rooms so any combination is possible
- ‘Day at a Time’, Michael Dransfield

Money is everywhere, but so is poetry. What we lack are the poets.
- Federico Fellini

i had always had mixed feelings
about being considered a poet “if robert lowell is a
poet i dont want to be a poet__if robert frost was a
poet i dont want to be a poet__if socrates was a poet
ill consider it”
- David Antin

If you can do it then why do it?
- Gertrude Stein

In the beginner’s mind there are many possibilities, but in the expert’s there are few.
- Zen Mind, Beginner’s Mind, Shunryu Suzuki

And I'm going to tag exoiced (aka Brow of Calm), Yarni, Nathan, EZB and Reyes Cardenas.

digitalia (2007)

every day here
at the image farm

dum-dee-dum
crop & resize

I’m shrinking into, becoming
synonymous with my work

am this low-cost ‘virtusurgery’

am ‘his’ & ‘her’ sightlines

*

every day here
looking for some other face

out in the pseudo-rain,
packet traffic

not another me for chrissakes

will someone come visit,
feign interest

have their cowled, smoky needs
deluge my inbox?

*

photograph is a spell,
curse

seductively true

*

desked, but
pumping the brakes

(praying for
glue to meld the storm together)

I am a fat, balding forgery
with a swipe-card

faulty (2007)

your speed-reading eyes
stalled by things I don’t have names for:
birds, trees... nature stuff

so we invent names from our lexicon:
banking bird, valium tree

our poems detail
glitches of perception,
are loose & easy,
repel ghosts


An earlier version of this poem was published in otoliths 12.

Scissors?

chose pile of scissors as my profile pic

oh no symbolism help !!

(may these scissors fall into the hands of fools)
(may these scissors fall into the hands of fools)
(may these scissors fall into the hands of fools)

Vipassanā (2007)

Meditation
shouldn't be misunderstood
as another search for an exit

It is a way back
to where you are

First letting the eyes stop,
calming the antennae

Then all punctuation dropped,
an unhurried torch
shone throughout the body

The mind does not need to shop

Silent as smoke
except for the radio
from the apartment below,
bleeps counting in the newshour;
swooshes of traffic, birdsong solos,
hum of the nearby city

Of course the body hands out flyers
for a protest march
and sometimes a slow bee visits,
buzzing at every itch,
every knot of fear,
every burn of venom in the blood

The ongoing task of sitting
may be learning such restlessness
by heart
(the heart has many commas)
while mind writes smaller and smaller

Though my first teacher taught
that mind and heart are the same bell,
fused in a single word:
chitta



Note: The literal translation of vipassanā (Pali) is ‘insight’. The word is used to refer to ‘insight meditation’, and a specific form of Buddhist meditation practice which is taught in various strands of modern Theravada Buddhism. See the Wikipedia entry on vipassanā for more information. I practice vipassanā meditation each morning, following the method taught by S. N. Goenka.

Below: An image from Ansuman Biswas' project Self/Portrait (sourced from thelab.org)

unplugged (2007)

day two of rehab

the raw bed
no exits
air soured by puke

steel-cold / sleepless,
fingers heavy with days

deserted eyes
lucid-dream:
running city steam-alleys
to cut a repair deal

ever try a sprint lying down?
(it's exhausting)

& the stories I hid in the city
have scattered, escaped into films
(my brainchild their goldmine)

outside of visiting hrs
a squad of ghosts
makes another sweep

Mascara and POAM

The first edition of online poetry journal Mascara has now hit the virtual shelves. It features poetry by Christopher Kelen, Jan Owen, Nathan Curnow, Ouyang Yu, Keri Glastonbury, Charles D'Anastasi, Ross Donlon and many more... including two poems (Drive-thru and Portrait of Ledong Qui) by yours truly, along with a shameless 'look at me standing in front of all these books' photo.

I was also the 'feature poet' in the April/May issue of POAM, 'museletter' of the Melbourne Poets Union. They chose to publish Inscriptions as an example of my work. A previous version of this poem had appeared in Unusual Work.

Down slow (song of samsara) (2007)

Be careful when you sing a song of broken love, a song of Samsara.
Just when you think you are relieving yourself of Samsara,
you might begin romancing it.
When the song sticks,
your broken love is replaced by a new love...
and you're it-
Samsara. ______________________(from Stonepeace)


naked
beneath the drugs
this is what I am

this is my face:

skin torn up
like carpet,
pair of choking eyes


have to get sick
____ to slow down


standing in the quickfire
the lanes of dust
grabbing at particles

my hands
trying to eat clouds

the roads between us
the fish of light
the millions

have to get sick to slow down,
freeze the eyelake over

see the fish of light
frozen swimmers
a library of ice


let's learn to swim down here
while we're dark

bodies solved

our bodies much older
than we, than we think


have to get sick
to glimpse you
_______________ you
not some death girl
forearms awarded
parallel wounds

(you were laying new roads
with the knife)

skin torn up
like carpet,
pair of choking eyes

this is what you are (too)

beneath the drugs
down slow


A previous version of this poem was published in Poetry Sz issue 25, March 2008.

hutt 2.5

hutt 2.5 (the 'special 2nd bonus birthday issue') is now online, featuring poems by Andy Jackson, Donna Kuhn, B. R. Dionysius, David Prater, Billy Jones, Jill Jones, Joanne Burns, Nathan Ladd, Tammy Ho Lai-Ming, and yours truly (cashed).

hutt is an inspired online poetry journal published by papertiger media.

ConFest

Over Easter my wife Monica and I headed to ConFest (short for Conference Festival). We camped amongst friends old and new, got back to nature, attended workshops, did meditation and yoga, witnessed live drumming and firetwirling, took part in a sacred ceremony, went swimming in the river, got lost wandering around in the dark, participated in the 'spontaneous choir'... and the rest! This was my third ConFest, and while I don't think the festival itself has changed a great deal since I last attended a few years ago, I think I have changed significantly in that time - which made it a very different experience this time around.

I put on a workshop entitled 'You call that poetry?!' which consisted of readings and a freeform discussion addressing questions such as 'What is poetry?' and 'Where is poetry today?'. We were treated to some amazing performances; a number of poets brought their poems along to read out, while others recited their words from memory. I kicked things off by reading Opening Meditation and went on to talk about the relationship between poetry and meditation, a topic which I hope to cover in more detail in a future blog post.

Thanks to everyone who attended the workshop, and everyone who made ConFest such an inspiring, spontaneous and rejuvenating experience! I think the poem How to be hungry (which I had planned to read in closing the workshop) sums up some of the truth-seeking, life-changing spirit of ConFest: 'unplug everything'! I hereby dedicate it to those who aren't afraid to resist their programming, rethink, reshape, and reclaim the Earth for the Earth's sake.

Stu


Below: ConFest settlements (photo by Monica Barratt)

Two poems to be published in 'Mascara'

Two of my poems (Drive-thru and Portrait of Ledong Qui) are scheduled to be published in the new online poetry journal Mascara.

The first edition of Mascara should appear online in April - watch this space for details.

the last day (2007)

it was just one of those things where a bunch of people think the same thing at the same time probably while working at shitty jobs or playing the starved artist somehow scraping by

like us we were sitting in vacant lots mid-city with drum-fires the smoke curling south & bumming cigs off passersby taking turns to snatch at sleep on shipwrecked couches flaky cats screeching round our feet

& just when we were on a roll passing the sickly port thinking “nowhere will ever be safer than here” four windows appear in the sky & open up the weather turning inside out clouds flipping over

and the chemical weather shopped til it dropped sucking every two-bit bargain in sight the sky stretched like a swollen eye & we tried outstaring it praying for a blink gazing at derelict heavens mesmerised like children mainlining their first Christmas

“the sky holds what kind of right?” I remember asking whoever was listening what right to smoke us out of the hole we were in oh no question we were holed but fuck me & crank the Starship Humanity the sky or whoever was cloaked in it really went to town dinner suit opera tickets & all

combusting the unworthy & all the usual biblical stuff flies dropping like um flies emergency service choppers somersaulting like plastic bags a plague of dead monkeys pissing in my hair

this wasn’t our favourite God surfing in with magic drum on his keychain that inspires flowers to change colour this was a being from one of those other humourless galaxies where no really means no

& there I was muttering what do you want, being, you want to pretty up the landscape huh & I’m coaching myself through it thinking just stay with it & man the controls brave captain

while making cute googoo gaga noises & an old adage from TV backs through my mind “go in the direction of your fear” they used to say that at the end of every show

this the final episode & if my dreams ever walk again you will arrive around dusk our hidden studio by the river with our remaining stash of light together taking one last look

hands / office (2006)

this is Modern Art: / motivational / poster of the pyramids captioned ‘Achievement’ / the sky absent, savagely cropped / (how to measure achievement when the sky is absent?)

*

across the open plan / cool paint-tones emit calm / it’s “too nice a day” / sun nothing but hindrance / wimp blinds / glare-stained monitors / staff listless / doing time behind / panes of heat / call logged re: the aircon / drip workflow / has sprung a lake

*

Bruce, who loves Friday drinks / is not alone / after-work trains become sparsely passengered / & this is (isn’t this?) / who ‘you’ are today / a drowner / “Gabe ‘n’ me are hitting the Deep End after work…” / your looks / your talent / you could be / “… anyone else?”

*

cubicles, ‘pods’ / officespace bouncing / with sweet soda FM / looped playlist / X-Factor? No, I don't / I am an island / correction: a shoal / mousy Support Analyst / acned / phonecall evader / in shooting out the apartment / this morning, toast in hand / neglected to carry enough / defeat music / to see out the day

*

aforementioned Bruce is seasoned / old hand, old hands / wandering / knows where to sit, stand / for best access / the bar, ripe officegirls / sloshed against a washroom wall / No sorry I’m feeling / a little married / tonight

*

dead links on the intranet / What’s the name, the girl from Accounts / the off-tap? / I’ll copy you in / something wicked this way / brushed by tiesilk / Are you hitting on / we’ll put it to the bored / bang on about / the ethics, if you like / “These aren’t the right minutes!” / I smell a / Steering Committee / duty-free cologne / & bulk-price handwash

*

two weeks pass / Bruce gets taken out / to lunch at the brasserie / I forget, what’s the name of that swank-shack on Bourke? / clears his desk upon return / then escorted by security / heaving boxes labeled ‘Fragile’ / out the revolving doors / a chance slap of wind / scattering flock / of white papers / to blot the gutter rain


A slightly different version of this poem was published in [untitled], September 2009.

Below: office 'motivational' poster that inspired this poem.

Work (2006)

“rest awhile work
is imaginary”
– Michael Farrell, from my skeleton


The poet (Michael Farrell?) is overheard
on his mobile
on the train
on the way to work:

“re: carrying bones / keeping score
(to be down with what the gulls want)
I can only tell you what I don't know;

I don’t want what someone else
has worked for & thought about, & spare me
those whirlwind biddings done by jinnees.

Though I will
filch some hot young language
if you have any.”

He closes the call with a ciao,
snaps the clam-phone shut but
keeps talking anyway,
slips into best voiceover voice:

“Forgive these anonymous, these
fresh white collars

heavybreath suit thick with
Old Spice, gripping
a leather handle

& the morning girl
dressed as a fashion
store with her still-wet hair.”

Having bought our attention, the poet
blows us off to the office with a parable:

“A man crawls out of an argument
with his wife (the most stolen car in the city),
begins masturbating over a fire,
teaching art &
the remnants of what beauty did
in its prime.

He pulls a fair crowd, but sure enough
once talk turns to grace & forgiveness
they lose interest & disperse.
Despondent, he hits the bottle like a demon,
quits the bank job, never works again.”

hypothetical (2007)

a failed hello in the supermarket aisle half-smiling we reach for the same packet as if we share some pages

pity you’re not scoping for a thin read

& here I was thinking powerdressing was some 80s throwback but there you float designer swan black plumage all clopping heels & purpose

& anyway hypothetically how long before I’d spill about the ‘best employer anyone ever had’ & the drug I take when I’m the only one in the office

yeah ok office schmoffice it’s a meth-lab sometimes you just have to eat what they give you

& yeah my flared jeans are 6 years past their use-by my shoes too chunky but no way am I ditching this gimmick t-shirt that says ‘tac-tics’ instead of you guessed it

second thoughts sorry bout the meth-lab thing that was just to freak your mother

Pool (2007)

chemical blue of the pool one hot sacred day the sun a dreaming demon clothes strewn through the house on cool tiles and carpet I want to submerge with you electrified water flecked with fidgeting light our flesh blurred slow beneath as if ghosts from the waist down our arms arcing the weight of the water beadlike bubbles fizzing on the surface your head floats to me regal like a mallard leaving a v-shape in its wake your dark-wet hair clings faithful to your neck your hand crabbing over my back you kiss like liquid our mouths pour cool streams our lips skate salt tongues slip quick and vivid we brushtouch like passing fish our flesh become sealskin we slide body off body and without warning you decide I’m a fire to contain splash and drown me digging waves with the triangle of your hands unrelenting wall upon wall until I howl for an end spray back with interest the fool that I am trying to house you bury you in waves of my making enraged like some stung vengeful seagod until we’re done clowning return to ourselves recall our nakedness how the water carries allows us to magnetise so quick to forget the burning stones at pool’s edge the buzzing pollen garden since these are but toy reflections in your eyes and we need inhabit only the inner circle that we trace with our toes as we spin the sky round on the tall axle we make with the centred sun & make our full disappearance fucking in circles together at noon


Note: This poem was written in response to this thread on Bluelight.

porn (2006)

i.e. where sex is a form of greeting begins with the basics tits
blowjobs etc you stalk the elusive chase-thrill until chore of
the addict quest to out-gross you underperform no wonder
_________________________________________you
wonder why not bring the drugs in front of the camera the
post-shoot bloods cramps visits to quacks gynos & cashola
cut on desks in shoebox low-rent offices strewn with adult
store novelties stockpiled microwave dinners actress
ephemera industry awards
_________________matter of fact that’s been done
seek & ye shall seek what you want’s a free pass cultivating
mind dirtier than mysterious mid-rock-festival portaloo
discovered by timetravellers allegedly researching lives of
beggars & toms in 17th century london squalor
____________________________oops this was
unplanned uh whatever your day off home alone an
exercise in deletion clear browsing history clear private
data now the afterfade you mindless gutless pointless


As published in Otoliths 14, August 2009.