2: '& Then?'
In surrealist texts fountains jump on dogs & software eats Beethoven's
bone marrow. In Dude, Where's My Car? Andre Breton is channelled through
the voice of a Chinese woman who repeatedly asks '& then?' through a
drivethrough intercom. Eventually Chester trashes it. Does Chester lack
imagination? Jesse continually dreams of a life other than the one he's
living & they're both too wasted to remember the bizarre chain of events
that made up the night before. Yet both are open to the chain as it
continues & unlikely to have resisted its beginning.
[ : Dreary beauty
[ : Description
[ : An 'I' like Prufrock
[ : A revolutionary 'I'
The boringness is that of the dreamer ...
... Rewrite poem with more expression ... my god your llama just knitted
an exit sign ...
' ... culture ... must refuse to be merely the image of Society's lack
... (refuse to represent a "meaning" rather than being lived by all)'
Debord by Jappe
'if we must we shall break our wretched lyres & do what artists have
only dreamed of doing'
Do we buckle for forgiveness? Finding depth instead of cardboard?
Or do we grip our integrity like a plaster swan? Each relationship beginning
at a new level of desperation and suspicion, till all we feel is the
ostrich peck, our hands firmly on the wheel of our long lost car?
Thunned: Kinsella's 'Hunt'
The longer the fall ... She copies herself into literature. Pretend
to externalise desire. I got caught up in the transfer. The red hunt
cracks on kids' backs. Fascination: keep feeling. It's not permanent
but it's captured. Once we thought of more than sinking or floating
I remember you like a doctor. Is that the way? Let me rather believe
the ash tree. We're half dead together. I loved an author -- possibly.
The salt's mixed with the old.
Like a blonde Demi Moore, a sour totem on the land. Mr Oizo and I get
the cows in. We look to the horizon and if that fails, the moon. It's
the same in England, it's the same with foxes. The taint survives as
taint. The mood too is passed down ... Oppose for a different prize.
That's what we say, violence a form of discourse. Why cry? Who follow?
The audience lap affronted. Imagine following a bull into the bush.
The joke is we think we get that it's not. The war appears in the change
room. The desire to be prior.
Hedge. Until they read novels, until they killed. Can't victory still
be a sign? I chase after infection in my own way; the fatal baseball
game resumes: I've moved into victim's base. They go on growing the
wheat, go on growing the wool. Freud says they listen to themselves
I'm still a teenager. (Easy targets.) What hurts are the analogies.
It's the new minimalism -- said the hogfed of grapes. The truth's for
mice to speak. Reverse the eruption and cure the mountain. Saved by
a god of a comic turn.
For the visitor. For the journey. A screen for camp, yet noone to play
it. The child becomes symbolic against its parents' wishes. How can
they? Is death so small? The town dogs go mad. The poem has its own
will. Thrown upon self- knowledge, unaffected by despair?
Today's red sorbet's enough story. Finding a killing ... there, padding
lightly over the land ... The paperweight in the hand turns the origamists
away. His abject tongue given tulips to carry (to New Amsterdam). I
gather my bible friends, my English history friends, they underline
what I need.
My hands are in the abstract, my mouth shoots concrete. Do your worst.
Icon pursues icon for its aesthetics. But there's more! (The rhetoricians
want it.) They face each other in cinematic illusion.
I found one, and though its name was a lie, I liked it. You missed something,
there, near your belly. How sunny was it? Was it in your eyes? Give
an animal a break. I marry a group of birds. Is that abuse? Swift --
Montaigne -- Ovid - and beyond. Blood thins, thickens. There's your
path ... and there's your town.
Mirrors happen. Thunned. Kaleidoscope-drunk. The images make play out
of the drive. A Velasquez I never looked at, not properly. I knew what
dad's world required: I couldn't enter that theatre/realm. Where words
ironised the water from Christ's side. The kids are pleased, they'd
been afraid the simulacra wouldn't stretch. Treachery or denial? Or?
The taller, the greyer the tree, the lighter the air. Bushman's 'coincidence'.
They lose on the swings. I hunt a kiss. Titania.
The pain wasn't constant: these moments were edited. Fish reborn as
sentimental. I tell a film of my life. You'll feel. The water though
the dogs are after.
One step further (off the paper) off the wall. Even if the bike goes,
will it say anything? Outside the tradition, I mean. During the afternoon
it vanished. Graphing of a disco dancer patient. We'd been wearing the
wrong glasses, and assumed the wrong lenses.
Spiritual feelings -- awkward. Leading to blood. Building ships for
a little love. Do you show how poor the fruit, how rich the jam? The
genders fell apart in the storm/crash.
The dogs wake. Don't give me -- don't tell me ... The pin becomes the
spear and the paying's dear. When needed it heads that way, but the
needs get mixed, and the route uncertain.
The symptoms come early. A bit of past reglued, retouched. Some have
the sense to keep off the horse, and just let it go (or kick against
the rails). But then some just want the riders home. Knowledge like
a school fort. We lash out for lack of breath. Everything repressed
is bleeding out. To truly be a victim, that would justify the pain?
And -- inevitably -- god. Humans can't help adding levels, becoming
replicas of what they enter.
The bird fell: topheavy. The guilt makes us stop and do it again (with
more drugs). How about truth? Each politics like a net. Enough fur to
drape a spectre. I'm tiger, aren't you Him?
Closer, in more directions. Don't call me ... So much of life goes west.
Can I keep on looking, without being drawn in, stung? Here I'm not a
hunter, look at me "through the lion's neck". This sting's for tripping
What I like's small enough to keep. Like a gold chess set, nothing happens.
I forget it's real in the canter. Actions refer to a purpose -- not
each other. Reaching in or out for compensation. Lose a sense of prey;
allowed a wolfshead.
He contributes a body part. Bullets light enough to float. We talk on
in the empty court, and as every sentiment receives but echo, restick
the straws in our mouths. The dream of the shared toothbrush recurs.
Didn't you kill my brother?
Sermon on rust. Tired -- can't stop. Spare some looseness, some spareness?
We cut it up rough so we'll know tomorrow. The twostep's a radical dance,
whether you want to do it or not. It's obvious that the rabbit in the
bathroom ... Analyse that! (Pinks flower.)
The advantage, if you don't stop, is what you get on the way. I show
respect to what I shoot down, in case the shots are painless. There's
no once. Art won't get noone out of this.
I don't waste time on the shitty when you're with me. There's no dead
aspect. In lieu of you/me. Theseus touches the dewy red leaves.
lives in East St Kilda, Australia. He recently produced a spoken word
CD for Meanjin magazine, enhancer;he is also the Australian
editor of Slope. His pamphlet
living at the z was recently published by Vagabond Press. Some
poems of his appeared in Jacket;
four other poems of his appeared in LPZ5.