new collection on amazon - a garbage truck tilted over on the sewer side

A new collection covering most of the last five years, and with the unnecessary title "a garbage truck tilted over on the sewer side" is now available not here but here at amazon. it has typos misspells bad grammas & etc all included as gratis.

thoughts from the mind spool

3rd attempt

if we want to be free
then see:
the jailer is "free"

if we want out
then out is inside
partytime in my mind

*

i am rubbing my head against
the wall
in my heart

trying to get in

i have unlocked the world
seeking the key

the key which is locked inside my heart

Punch on the nose

I get moving
slowly
like a hammerhead shark
on the floor of the ocean

down here
nervous system rules supreme
to feel is to respond -
is this the ultimate freedom?

come inside my silver suit
hold the real me
around the waistline
but be cautious in case
the packaging splits

with eloquent fabrications
we keep the truth inside

traveller

have you been there?
if you have
you will know what i mean

if you have been there
you'll still be there
no-one ever really comes back

the game from then on
is just keeping up appearances

in my pocket
i still have the ticket
that was torn
at the door to this theatre

don't forget
we all have a train to catch
at the end of the night

past present presumings loaming

not-i
 |
across a snowy plain a pony |
post chase fish waste caste | annoyance dance
haste washed face | incense | fish paste

bang! diner -
open a can of spic and span
presume you are annoyed at me
i wish all the people in the world would like me

but not even all the people in the world like chocolate
so what hope have i got

we leave a swish of scum washed up
pasted on the tidal flat beside embryos
eggs weeds, sea life, false promises

i would like your mouth
's insides, salty and samey, the fish
saying hello

o

swoosh open like a rockpool scourged of foam
teeth knocking about, little shells and fish
ointments of the ocean, Neptune's necklace

after the nuclear embargo, we claw back into
erotic environments, cooling pools, flames
blue incisions in the sky - face baked rockets

this is the end of 'i'

x

past pirates
make out
in the desert

forkword floats
on an ocean
of bile

placed carefully
an iota
toybota

please fish out
the wet ones

we are all the same

we are all inane
& insane

Nichols Gorge Wetwang

what is a number?

just a little indivisible piece of nothing wrapped around on itself

the number plane
like a cave sodden field
a worn face
of dolines cut with
 spilled acid

only a sort of inertia
prevails against these accidents

stretch marks in my text
record connecting white neurons
like drops advancing down a pane
the opium flower in my mind meadow

I smell a gag being removed -
take a quick breath between suffocating words -

a whiff of geist

2028 eclipse happens to open a wormhole to
our antient selves, looking back beyond apophic destruction
(self inflicted or otherwise) to taste
the day again, when the sun was fresh
and time was spinning before us carelessly

we cast our eye upon the sentient world
still crawling, fidgeting, like ants across a pancake
and hold our gaze there - burning into the earth
pounding down upon the blundering beasts
with fury and precision and dreadful cause

a father's hand on his child's peaceful flesh
understands vengeance is a curse bestowed genetically
strengthening the bonds that condition us to survive
our beautiful society - verb words loosen truth
happiness dilutes bliss, knowing undoes pure childish wisdom

if we forget our ancestry, these events can seem meaningless
like a random casting of the dice, cutting off heads
splintering glass buildings, plundering floods and lahars
but this is just the rocking of the cradle that bore us here
the angry voice of the father against the railing child -

the father that we are destined to become

necronomica (extract from a dream)

today, i had a strange illusion, in my dream, a swan came to me and spoke with a bound leather tongue-

lembit aszkrith fugard imkimaka/ whelred infant degarmind rtak /
dank water parted / india seas squirted beyond paramour /
faith healed wigwam / /then opened the book of demonicness
paper seulled with blood /fastigata plantain swithnign

<>

the war is thus:

either the (necronomicon)-(i.e. infinity) exists or it doesn't exist

{n.b. a moment's contemplation of infinity is insanity}

there is an eternal(? some say finite) battle between the forces of finity

and those of the in-finity. finity denies that in-finity exists.

infinity doesn't have to deny anything, for _if_ it (kthulu) exists,

then the finite exists only within it, is part of it.

it does not matter, it is irrelevant even to ask _where_ infinity exists

it can be inside a crack, inside the smallest atom, or at the furthest distance

from here in space and time.  wherever it be, it be all-consuming

it is entirely made of mouths

it is entirely made of anything-you-posit

and also entirely-not-made of anything-you-posit

and anything-that-is-never-posited, which can never be posited

it is made entirely of that - [c.f. amor fati]

2

finity is by necessity a frame (the covers of a book)

in-finity lurks everywhere but is nowhere _within_ the frame

its bulk cannot be accommodated there

it is simply "the most burdensome idea" it is of course the most

horrendous thing, whilst being simply a concept

in that concept is the seed to destroy the universe (has already

thus destroyed it countless times, is destroying it now, is

tearing you apart _now_ as you read this word)

the frame is our cot, our armour, our net keeping us safe inside

but the _knowing_ can reveal that we are never safe

all that keeps us sane is that we (_forget_) again and again over and over

this is the true frame, the bookend, our own birth and death

beyond which is the blackness of our forgetting.

<>

these are normal words from a normal person/i hope you like/suchwith the end of days/we will all be medieval (leather) again/nay, grubs in swamps/swans/aye heavenly beings/are even now--this, is the normal grounded state

wattyle byrd

whirring bugs
suck the air dry

a sentient sound
heaving unpleasantly

hot wattles dangle and hang
on limp-winged animals

paused on kite strings
above sandy black deeps

rowing the flesh boat
up an estuarine lagoon

we come here
to unfold a picnic

a lunch you prepared
quince jellies and soft cheese

on a chequered canvas
avoiding sand insects

a squirt of ephedrine
to balm the tide

the waters' movement
loaded by decaying detritus

mirror in your glasses
floats a thin briny smile

with silence
dividing the silence

a séance
disturbing the living

existential poem

if a poet is created by the act of writing a poem
then does it matter
if the poet rejects his creator?
does the poet then cease to be a poet?

or if only poets valued poetry
then would poetry have no value at all?

children born and raised by illicit vices
sometimes bare the richest fruit as they tear away

so also the poets, borne of the mother muse
fly and dance carelessly into the setting candlelight

effortless movements

i am suspicious of
any signs of effort

by them
i can tell
if you are doubting

the static noise of
calculations
disturbs
the whole whoosh of emotion

but gently take me
through your
effortless movements
in verses

walk amongst
the glass castle
of purest feeling

where a single breath
shatters
that candle flame
at the altar of the heart

premeditated

to premeditate
is to do something before meditating
like putting on a cup of tea
or reading a note to oneself
from six months before
and remembering something forgotten
then deciding to forget it again

doing all these things
and then when we sit down at last
we notice that all the meditation
has already been done for us
by other people
and it is ok just to relax

in embers

an iron green envy
seizes the inside of me

but it is only
a butterfly passing by

like a cat licking milk
i lick the mirror separating us

cold suddenly warm
but i am drinking my own blood

wet tears sprinkle down
from dissolving dreams

the paper devouring words
like a flood over a vagina

i release myself
to the growing tide of clarity

and experience the divorce
of fantasy from reality

igloo

i await news of you
in my igloo
tie my intestines in knots
poke flies in my eyes
vomit convulsively
as if there is nothing else to do

when you write
i hold each letter in my hand
for an hour before i read it
and collapse afterwards
exhausted by the drunk punch
of your mind

later my own words come out
disordered like shrapnel
from the explosion of
my lust
sealed with spit
i thrust them down the letterbox's gob

youth bemusement

the rain sprinkles calmly on a wet wet land
your eyes are mirrors in the midday sun
my body a beach stroked by the tides' hand
the sun is crying on an idiot's corpse at one
the moon is fallen shattered from an empty page
spilling black pitch from its porcelain cage
                                                             igniting my rage

dad

what are you afraid of?
i used to be afraid of monsters
but i'm not anymore
now i'm not afraid of anything

Dad look at the river down there
we're really high
we're on a bridge
there's the river again!
why don't they have lights in tunnels?

are we getting off here?
no?
Good!

svilver

life has a knife
concealed
in her pleasant hand

once you see it flash
you cannot forget it
so easily

there is a treatment
for the pain
of seeing

but the medicine
taken over and over
becomes the poison

as one
we at last succumb
under a fatal dose

brother blab

oil poor stupid peloponnesian

mind shaping fanatics

speaking of fantastics and unshaping truths

like cotton candy is a styrofoam solenoid

ask for a toothpick ashanti shanti

get a wogan forearm spearing!

so gobbledygook down

a squashed frog

like a goodboy doughboy plauboy

a minor prayer, play ball

"it is bad for them to do what it is bad for them to do

so we must stop them from doing it

although they think it is good for them to do it

we know that it is bad for them to do it

so we must stop it

with force if necessary"

take your plasma tv

i raise you an army

watch them on your plasma tv

see them smash your plasma tv

this is the interface

between truth and reality

igneous

emery bored again?
my yawn
spans eternity

I stand in the glass square
a museum piece
my heart a zircon
cut from the centre of the earth's liver

cup a shell to your ear
what do you hear?

that is the sound
of my birth
echoing down the ages

from a foolish far frog hollow
when I emerged
my cry was witness
to the very first star

my religion

Me?

i am a mean old
Manichaean
my seer like insanity
brightly isolating me
from the sober darkness
of certainty

the fool i am playing
is a kind of
inoculation
against death

gon/ome

like an octopus
i left her behind me
but still clung on
with a stick on pad/ so i could feel her heart /beat

enormous impossible
that is the btwigged truth
trust in me/ it's justice.
meat server/ rendevous in a bad park

god gor-geous
that licking stick
part truth part deaf to lies
bande/apart be a big winner/ be real

riding swiss hide - notes

take the
cool silver tube
into your mouth
the little prick
tucked behind your front teeth
and squeezzze
the truth out

*

i dream
of yr limey insides
like a tourist
calculating
with infinite precision
how to blow myself
out of love for you

*

i come home
to sleep in the warmth
of yr deep wisdom
the folds of a mother
or another
inert for a moment
and make it seem forever

newton inside

i am a bathtub remote control space l[17,3]n insider plastic freedom candyfloss

touch the wires toge[85,3]r - fizzbit[77,11]m[94,3] my brain[103,4]xzzli[110,5]fwiq[142,3]b[109,4]

newt[40,3]only[15,4][134,3]s alive by acc[46,3]ntz

(courtesy of the poem compressor)

so far fruit tree fruit machine

so far so far
All the fish in Alabama got a massage from their mama
two little fishy hands on the back of a viola
like this poem if you like it
or wash your hands of it

tea time, coffee hour
incense amusement in the insane arcade
this corner of the life-ride
tear a patch from yr bee-hinde

what is it all about so
what is it all about?
i just need to focus on the question
i just need an hour or two to so sort it out

gimme that placemat Australian flag beer holder device
impeccably folded about a two penny canteen order
how about we talk it over
how about we chew it over for an hour

inside my brain - two halves - like a pear sliced open
likewise the disconsolate vowels move me
and these pairings seem pleasant but unconnected
fruit tree - fruit tree - fruit machine - open sewer

peel open yr mama however whatever two halves do
two halves don't do, or maybe wanna open to another
insectoid placenta father further open to a mama
likewise famously anemone opened to another - and closed

pull my arm off pull my leg off pull my finger
get a sugar bowl full of foamy indecency, feed it back into the slot
pull my arm again pull my leg off pull my finger off
click clack front and back, clattering down the princess highway

in an ole jalopy made of melons
made of sliced fruit
falling open
only
to the insider

the bewitch queen
ameoily - wherewhile fantastic
play of light through fingers
indelicate exposure half oppressed

i would like to understand that too
but the two halves are disconnected again
like a spare wheel in the trunk
that doesn't feel the road directly
but savours the roar
from a safe enclosed dark and musty place
dreaming that one day
it might kiss the hot asphalt

lips and hips
nuts and bolts
bits and parts
lifts and left

i am a world weary worm mammoth
buying my time between spasms
left école to study jewels
jewels flowing through my fingers

unbelievably bored, morose
bored of trinkets beached whales
to be buried in the subjunctive mood
is to be damned, eternally damned, in dreams

re: words cannot touch
>>>words cannot touch
>>>that which cannot be said

re:re: words cannot touch
>>>>but that which cannot be said
>>>>touches all these words

life just gets more and more complex
heading for the big spring cleanout
in my head
in my deathbed - wipeout gameover

there is a purity to ignorance
which is fascinating, draws us in
purity in ignorance is called innocence
buggered by that old rogue, experience

i'd like to begin the beguine again
have soft hands again
handle the old slippery fish
life is complex now but it is rich

having children changes everything
like a hole in a shopping bag
i stand and watch the resulting dissaray
with sweet bemusement

S

lightning never strikes twice
except in the heart
where bliss touches herself
in the innocence of absence

the forest

idly walking in the forest of eucalypts
in my heated mind
i am surrounded by naked ladies
jammed heads first into the ground

a crack of branches distantly
snatching at something on my face
is it only a butterfly with wet wings?
lightly powdering my cheeks

in a dream i ride an elephant
slowly over lichen-clenched boulders
bells dancing on my ankles
a trumpet pressed to my lips

meditation on mt budawang

there was a beat sermon
had upon a mountain
but Budawang beneath its closed lid
bears an unlamented mystery still
unearthed flint and bone
is so much story left untold
because it was unasked -
but now those mouths are sealed forever (shit!)

the earth under us is our script
so pick it up where others left
- it is all the same poem washed

beneath the fortress of uncles
where little spirits sniff at us
with forked tongues
or blue painted ones
under antiseptic eucalypt
an unread library tipped on its end

cured fauna creating words
in Bakelite shells and crinoids' stem
worm cast and feathery graptolite
sealed into sandstone leaves forever
the mark of every little scribbler
counts for something or nothing

to press mind
against ancient beaches
is to implant a new mythology

***

each piece of jaw is a hollow key
to some lost alphabet
one early example to set the type
turned up among the siftings
“The Clyde to Braidwood”
seen “beauteous and wild”

as proof this eulogy
touches the sublime
a young scrivener moth
carving its place into the trees
ignites cacophony
inside the sarcophagi

***

I needed some supple thought
influenced by the atmosphere
to lift me outta here
left in limbo
thoughts akimbo
everything comes to nought

a land without antiquities
this barren field of Australie
rich with unfound legend now bears
a delinquent's insignia
chiselled into timbre
- the touch of civilisation

if only those kids knew
how many had already had it off
at that rocky place
and spun their myths
out of that same hot kiss
it would explain the tears they grew

and the sweat
from having to invent the seventh note
on the organ all over again
sucking carboniferous air
inflaming new lungs
with the salty afterburn of success

we are like two fish
flailing at the crusts
of the antient incontinent
in our quest to release the power
that ropes us together
we spark the mystery -

Happy Valentines Day, GOogle

and all the little posts out there
we missed you
till st valentines
unmixd the smokey air

nothing there

ok it is done
hubbub approaching
murmur of voices
how can i get out of here alive?

slit wrist silky smooth
the little knife
still accumulating imaginations
warm and sticky in the groove of my hand

those old days
i was lonely then
chasing a golden meaning
a fever in my eyes

the hope grows sodden
with tears and blood
running loosely through my fingers
coalescing in the keys

vulture rock

like a scavenging bird hangs over a decayed cadaver
the fire rescue helicopter pauses above the steaming mountain
in descent they plunge into the succulent stinking flesh
to extinguish the rotting mound, a black smoke like rubber
consumes her face, oily flames licking into every hole
with hooked beaks, wattles tossed in muscular winds
explode with the feeding of the bushfire; an insane banshee
picking the bony scrublands dry. Not a morsel remains
on a vast and level plain, bright and painful to the eye.
Dots hover in the sky, disappearing upward into wide circles
a radio cry, then the static whisper of pure white ash

salsa verde

your blood
is hot
and blue

when i come near you
i know the season
in your veins

young and fresh
it sports like a
mountain spring

how do you remain
so complaisant
with this potion in you?

lies, all lies

poems
are as smoke
seeping through the grille
of words
from an unseen fire

bliss echo

essence of emptiness
upturned

like a mug of water
on my body tonite

pleasances meet
at home

where the wholeness
is found at last

i am a corpse
feeding the little worm of thought

i am the greatest feast
of feasts

i am the eternal unknown
unravelling an inch

every day
into the mind's open waiting mouth

a limitless force
moving with immeasurable grace