Thursday, 17 August 2017

Anyway, Waterfall...


Stuck on the last page
of the poetry book blues,
BB king died the other day and
Nuthin new to be news but news is a trap,
Now is like my kids today while autumn
Not yet falling to winters crystal sunlight
and the some leaves still clinging,
Like how now is too beautiful to express
And a violence in splashing too many rocks into
a side of the forrest walk wishing pond,
so small and graceful it could be for fairies,
now is I can’t tell you what they wished for
nor what they’re dreaming of now
in peace spacesuit breathings beatitude,
now thinking my adult attitude over complex,
rememories of why I had to leave the poetry gig early
and caught all Lego piece light words
for moth switch right anyway
upon just the right metaphor,
two Hindu men that day pointing to my aum badge
and saying things like O that’s the why of the world!
The fork of the river!
and yes it had a beautiful longer version anyway
and the beautiful people were too painfully curved
into bad capitalistic machines
not toys made of the parking metre,
yet, why is always too beautiful
for this old tree stone from the hills…
all the meanings left behind
I can’t remember,
for now is a silent deep well
that the moon leaves in the sun,
especially when that girl who
I thought connect realizes
I’m gone a leap of the last verb,
And cockatoos are some of the most
playful birds for no reason,
spirals for any no reason
there on facebook in no one’s everyone,
simple wondering what stuck together songs
and stories gunna build
themselves tomorrow
outta ordinary,
what excuses for air currents swirl on
end-of-light shadow ball wall outta memes
and themes such as Whitman randomly
poking his face out of a frame on my table
and with lifted bushy eyebrow, telling me;
“why yes son Maya is the dreamer
and Heidegger is a hydrogen seashell
left upon a powerline on Brunswick rooftop
near a waterfall, but you knew
that didn’t you?”
and yes its all gunna collapse when
ink pin steps forth and drops anyway,
in the mean time I finally lit
my writers candle in my darkness
and am breathing,
so look;
the unicorn herds
run across the blue grass sky,
the naked men and women who ride them
never needed to wear clothes their whole lives
and the cashless catchless knowing
of who does what in their society,
and the don’t worry,
now is the hazy ‘ol
green not-too-real ground in fuzzy smile,
a centre up that thinks it’s all too perfect to anyhow,
and so spaceships with Elizabethean bathtubs
fly by…

Friday, 4 August 2017

Journal Entry 21st May 2015


Ok trying to do this quickly, got too much work to do. Too much on my mind too much in the world pace, but 3 pages every morning is the jam. The sticky sweet goo of mind encapturment. O but you spelled that wrong! And every day contains the same old discomfort and inaccurate blashmamy that is description. How exact can the swan flight into storms of grieg’s piano, how well does the grey leech out of the sky and exact its presence everywhere, as if to say sorry son the colours over so you gotta get to work. 

And that’s what I fear and crave, desire and dread, work, good work bad all work all the same work, here I’m working at my mothers house making kimono bags for no real reason whatsoever it seems cause not sure if they’re even selling, and all a meaningless exercise except I’m getting to pay off the debt to my mum. The thousand dollars I owe her for living beyond my means and having a massive holiday in Vietnam. And O the reward before its earned, my life, the out door ed scuba diving bush walking etc… the doofing massive psychedelic experiences, the kids beautiful and healthy, the time off writing poetry, all time without real employment.

Now don’t get me wrong I worked freakin hard in those vinyards and for that –hang on coffee break- nursery, but it was all for naught in the real career sense, and yes they say that the average human goes through about 3-4 career changes before they get to the one they are meant for. But really, how many others do all that in their teens and stick to something, become successful and some even rich. See I don’t even care about being rich, I just want to be successful, that is, make a difference where-ever I place my time.

 This success, this striving O how can I put this feeling into words, like walking into a sunny room and having this 12 flocks of sand pipers land at once and look at me through their branches, waiting for me to send them on the winds of literature analysis or English, like the din of the class fading into my dreaming out the window and me just closing the window subtly and the whole class, stopping their little games of inattention and social rages on a 34 degree day in the afternoon and launching into fine focussed performances of Dylin Thomas. 

And me tuning into all the different personalities with mutual respect that each is craving channel, needing a way for them to accept the world in its mad chaos, its inexplainable misunderstood turmoil. The idea that’s its ok not to know something, that its ok if one doesn’t know how to learn, that it can be found, that a way through the dark forests or the bright neon clubs or the desert winds of the mind in the midst of chemical mayhem, the midst of becoming a man or woman, that a way can be slashed, forged, barged, waltzed. 

O all these the symptoms of me right now, the mega teenager, the raging hipster jock nerd that never grew up at highschool cause the ceremony didn’t fit, I never got to waltz at the graduation, never got to respect the classroom cause of my social inadequacies, and the run away from the art class, the run away from all of it, under bridges with a bong in my hand and an ego to supply who ever needed a likewise escape. 

O there is no escape now, whether primary or high school teaching the desire to go back to school is strong, but is it just in the shadow of not knowing what else I could do or be happy with? Is it all just a trick of association, cause of course if you are interested in poetry, teaching is the natural option? What about the fine art of the kitchen, the delicacies of the plate art? Or the love of massage and health? What about the garden, or the publishing industry? What editing or literary agency or copy writer positions will be made available when I finally graduate? 

One thing is for sure I don’t want to rush, and yet some part of me does, says o you have no time! Just do it it’s a great idea etc… but these next 40 or 50 years or whatever of my life, I want to spend in love with my life… O I want to do it all, the great romance with ground, sound and sky, the forrest and expanses of existence… fly on…    

Tuesday, 1 August 2017

Lonely Soul


"Just keep on flying" sings the Shadow sample, and so I dance here for all introverts like me. Those who, through great flights of consciousness and time current, end up alone and dealing with the prison/comfort paradox our brains can become. O and my thanks to DJ Shadow for this and all our tune experiences...


Tuesday, 25 July 2017

Cold and Reason


Jammin with a mate long ago, this poem is made of many smaller poems. So while alittle random it talks and sings about the cold darkness of time and age, and ends by renewing old prophecies of love.




Sunday, 23 July 2017

Ode to Evolution





O what nourishment divine fractal core thread,
 what sap root sun feeding do they deserve?

 Those who skyscrape to ghost bleeding
 mitote maddness the skyfather's flesh.

 Those who watch the acid rain of
human darkmatter falling and
 piercing the earth.

Those who crack the bone dragon eggs
to still-born peace and speak unholy word
 in their bomb hearts.

Those who manipulate
to produce death products in
cycled desert cracks creeping,
searching for another
farmers suicide.

Those undead armies
of Hitler's scientists for profit.

 Those who made headless
the spirits of the forrests, now
 wondering the felled wastelands
 amidst the lost paths of the extinct.

 O those who committed sane
 the Banks of Wall St's fraud,
the trillion headed axe.

Those political frauds the billion edged bulldozer,
policy dying beneath drama, hypnotized consent
 a blasphemic core sin against the meaning of light
now imprisoned in smart TV's.

Cowards!
 Death clouds of obscene chauvinism,
 all you do is feed on our suicidal tendencies.
 All you do is kill the new gods our children
 deserve to create.

All you will ever claim in the holy name
of water's flower fruit is your own destruction.

 We will survive you.
We will survive you because we give back our umbilicus,
because our tree core is permacultured to every fellow
 spirit kin, every animal saint, every ray of the universes
 star seed in our beings eye.

 We will survive because of
 how we weep as your teachers,
forgiving but never forgetting
the witness to your own suffering
 and its exponential virus teeth marking.

O yes, you will hear us now you
the 1 percent, you the careless,
you will not bite again,
 from now on,

you will be the one to starve...

Thursday, 20 July 2017

The Dark Lake


I dreamed I was dragged out to a huge dark lake via social powerlines, out with the golems of testostorne AKA the frenemies of my youth. They had invented this new game where the cities mega watt powerlines were partly stripped and hung towards the waters edge. Adrian was the genius, “a new way to fish boiz…” “fuck yeah!” “holy shiz balls man!” “idn’t that err… kinda suicide?” was my response. “Only if you let go of the fire fox too early, when you get close enough, the bolt earths in the water.”

 And so it was on.

 I watched in excited horror, in Schoedinger’s perceptual torture, how they would fly under huge bolts of lightning which would zap into the dark water. I only picked up the courage to protest when I saw the dead fish float like stars killed, their silver, their twitch, no one gathered them, booze was the only thing passing their lips. “Stop you bastards! You’re gunna kill the lake!” it was a broken shrill in the end… Surrounded in an instant, Iphones and snarls, regret was amidst the most prevalent of the distant and strange world’s things. “Awww common Jas, you just haven’t had a go yet, don be a pussy!” I could feel Sam wink.

The next part came in blinks –all the hands on my limbs, the death monkey sniggers, “remember if you jump off early you’ll be fried like your beloved sex toys…” Then the light flashing above, the realization there was no rubber tyre on the line to stop me, someone had taken it. “Now swim boi!” Frantic water and breath, a howling pack about to…

And that was the end of my dream.

I woke in a sweat. Terrifying right? The demons of my youth destroying the life of my subconscious? Luckily, I count Carlos Castenada as better than Freud where dreaming is concerned. And thus nightmares serve no purpose for me. To me, if you leave the defragging process of the mind in a mess, all you’ll ever be is a mess. So in my waking state I day dream the rest.

I was sure to be zapped, the teenage golems were beating the power lines with sticks and they zapped in their monstrous threat. I kept swimming, into the darkness… How far must I swim? I thought. A huge island of dark water rose before me in waves. I was terrified again, I had heard stories of the giant who eats children, those who swam too far. I never thought they were real. I turned back towards the shore.

Surely these boys were bluffing. Had Sam found out about me and Harmony? I mean, she doesn’t even like him! And anyway, he wouldn’t kill me over a girl now would he? I looked back over my shoulder. ‘Hey its gone, phew… what the hell was tha… " and then terror shook right through me. Something had my hoodie and I was being pulled back through the water. When I looked back again, a giants face smiled at me from the water… But that smile, it was soo familiar. So familiar that I did not fear a thing anymore. Next I’m in his hand, I’m rising high into the sky, I can hear his thoughts, we slush and stomp our way over to the screams on the shore…

Wednesday, 12 July 2017

Awareness Poem


This poem, written during "the dirty thirty" April prompt challenge, follows a theme; the word "stillness" verse "awareness" comparing their use-fullness. The prompt was trying to make a blade of grass exciting. And so of course, I took it in a very spiritual sense, exploring some of my experiences in meditation technique and the sensations of time and connected-ness. For with the sacred skill of this awareness, we can connect to planet consciousness. Enjoy my friends!


Sunday, 9 July 2017

Dimension 35c





What to do on a sunday night? Lounge room dance session!! Yep regular part of the new me, 5-7 of these a week. 'Cause I've realized I've been neglecting one of my favorite mediums. Like, why only dance at gigs, doofs and clubs? #mythankstoterrafractyl.

Wednesday, 5 July 2017

The Willie Wag Tail and the Goldfish



They met
 beneath a half moon summer,
she the free fool, a Willie Wagtail,
thirsty, surprised to hear
 the large wineglass surface speak
 in a deathlike whisper;

“Please,
 eat me, O angel of light and death.”
And there was double the surprise,
 for he was an angel of light and death himself,
 a moon lit golden fish, an orb like gift…
“My human gods have abandoned me,
 why do you hesitate?”
“I do not eat angels like you,
 it would be a sin against the animals…”

And art that the only beauty?
No, they could each take no more
and swam and flew to the depths
 of their despair, each gasping their
 light to hideously defining shadow…

A world passed,
yet there was still none like that surface.
To her, the water’s voice was just like
 her own air-free-heart yet filled with
 a completed miracle…

And so she returned.
And only to an orange and still thing.
And only to her leap of a world bridge faith,
 a piercing, a kiss-full ripple of the sky breath
and dropped crushed soft abdomen
 of silver moth left over from her children.
Yes, it worked for a while,
 love began to move,
Slowly,
rising and descending.

Each day
 he glimpsed her god and gasped her in,
Gifting her sips of his waters poetry as she
perched upon the rim. And then her children,
they grew and drank the same and he gifted gladly,
 for they grew wise and bold and he laughed bubbles
 at their wise remarks.

 And love was love for a while.
 And so powerful in tides of the storms
and the sky blue wonder. And so powerful
 because it was the end of the world
 when that wonder began to win.
At last a great drought ended too late
on a crescent waning moon…

When they all fell in around him
 there was one fifth left,
there was unmeasured sipping guilt
 and their eyes half submerged
with his last metaphor escaping.
And yet there was a feeling,
like each to their own leaping,
 a world bridge,
their own
kiss-full ripple
of the sky breath
returning…

Sunday, 2 July 2017

Questions from the Fire


Ok its winter, and so I've been a little obsessed with fire. Fire the great path back to the eternal now, as original inception of our dreaming. In that vein, this poem poses questions. Questions that come from how far we can remove the old paths, the old cycling, "seen it all before," that would keep us trapped in electrical boredom and devolution.

Poems note; the word "Yod" is a word in the Kabbalah that is used in the first letter of god, and it represents fire as the first spark, the initiation of anything. Further, the "shadows that Plato screams about" refers to his philosophical story of the cave of shadows, where humanity is stuck looking at shadows instead of the original forms of things that are actually pure light, i.e. what casts the illusion...