new year post

perhaps the pantaloons poetry is too expressive
or nonsense or computer generated—whatevs
I cannot keep up with it
But do enjoy the mostly invisible feeling
 (as my friend she sits near and taps)

41+ years on,
the perspective has changed alright
is it just noise?
or just faster (and faster) cars ?
Dylan's Welsh tidbit biscuit fare..

I used to know myself
the flow of words seems so absurd now
seems the end is night
every morning in bed about 3am
the dark thinks crowd around and stare

trying to locate some grommet of certainty
or a pleasure node somewhere there in the abyss
or inside another person or inside me
a hole to comfort, an escape hole
a latch hole, a hidey hole, a pocket of tricks

oh God the slightest movement of a chair
imbibed in silence, contains all the secrets
the pathetic secrets, oh God the pathos

boiling down the year to its end
the essence is sticky, sweet, ugly
little dead insects in it
dark burnt umber in it
it's a useless sauce, nobody is surprised tho

reaching for certainty sticks with the mind
but the mind doesn't stick—dump the mind
dump the mind
dump the meandering mind
the careening animal mind

find the fool
there they are in the corner,
recognisable in that old party hat
ask them for a dance
see them rise slowly and come forward
an opening dance
for the new year [2019]

A tale of two roosters

we had two roosters too many
just black balls of fluff
tumbling around the chook yard
in the beginning

they soon grew into two beautiful big boys
with red red combs, orange and black flecked
feathers fingered through their long tails
long horny spurs

their coming of age
brought a reign of terror
to the yard

they fought of course—
with each other,
with their dad
(who was a nice subdued old bird
we kept him cause he never attacked the kids)

and they molested our ten hens all day
as they tried to go about their humble business
of pecking, finding grubs, laying the odd egg
turning our quiet yard into an endless scene of commotion

so last night after dark
I took the first rooster
quickly from his perch
without any real struggle

and out in the yard
I held his legs in one hand and his head with the other
and pulled hard, and long, so all the little neck bones cracked
like a busted necklace
and he groaned and quickly died

when I carried the second rooster out
his old father flapped down from the perch
and made a low croak, as if to say:
“No—not my son!”

but I didn't hesitate
I had made up my mind
and I broke the second roosters neck too
though he was stronger and took longer to die
letting out one last crow unexpectedly

I carried the limp bodies down to the creek
laid them down
threw some green grass over their orange feathers
and left them there as food for foxes

there was no crowing in the morning
and the yard was peaceful
everyone going about their business
of pecking, finding grubs, and laying the odd egg

the visitation of the black cat

beware of failure
failure is a lean black glove
clutching at the heart
it folds us into ourselves
in the gloomy crush
of fatal introspection

its stink starts to creep
into all the things you touch
the faces which you see
the voice with which you speak
hate curls from the wound
like a thin white wire of smoke

those so confident
smiling, laughing in their luck
are cool and at ease
above the mincing machine
slicing up the hearts
mowing down all us poor fucks

beware of failure
which enters by a thin door
oh, but in my house
a black cat has come to stay
and i suppose i'll ope the door
in case some more
purr in from off the motorway

rising smoke

reading the poem that won the prize
a pleasant feeling brushes my mind
like popping candy in the neurons
and an inner warm glow assures me
that I am in the hands of a master

I grip it for a while in my hand
then put it down and get on with my life

dissolutely flick down through Twitter
let out the cat let it back in again

there must be something left unsaid
if only I could forget all those words
i just read—

out on the compost heap I rake up
the poems into drifts dozens deep
and set fire to the verbiage pile
the smoke rising in a tall tower
a message to the sky, a rocket ship

but even this act of surrender
is a theatre, a dishonesty
for there never is a final act
the show is endlessly revolving
playwright, actor, audience—all in me!

meditation on darwinism

evolution co-exists with conservation
evolution aims to conserve itself

the most ancient thing which can be conserved
is also the simplest

even destruction may only be obtained
at the cost of preservation elsewhere

in the very end, all has been preserved
and all has been destroyed at least once

this is an example of divine līlā (play)

alonely union

the dark part
 of Taurus
kneads open the oval
 lemon gate
the agate
 pillow lava—
this is what they call
 "following the path
of union"

opening wide
 the African Elephant
eloping with an anteater
the terrible frieze
 a grey massif
 a carpeted concrete pile
vertices of iron—
this is what they call
 "practicing eternity"

an eucrite verandah
pachyderm pale centre
 we must overcome
all barnacles
in the dry dock
there is no afterlife like this
being home is so called—
 "only the one and alonely"

Poem written near Mt Turallo

up in the trees
where the yellow cracked turbidites
slide in cubes down
 a crevised road

there i get out and
 let air into my chest
perfumed by the highest leaf

over the terraced horizons
 i spy through the trunks
the distant valley where i live

its blotched hills with half cleared
 patches - familiar marks,
distressed with human work

standing on this road, this cut
i can feel the pain
 in the wild terrain

nested here, even in
 a reserve, we cut it
we, the disease
we, the doctor
we, the cure

loading rocks into my car
illegally, wrapped in blankets
 to decorate the garden

what i seek to capture is how
before the rod of time
 broke this place

there was no reason to remember
 a beauty