chances are

i've been cleaning the house up slowly, preparing for... armageddon? my doctor says i should view this new development more positively, and despite the obvious paradigm shift i do consider the diagnosis for a moment but then the beat poets whisper in my ear through the aid of modern technology telling me we are all merely mammals, all eat, shit, crave, love, lose. i'd like to think i carry their flame or at least a spark of it but until i stick it under a spoonful of goof ball juice or sleep rough i am just a pretender.

i take my battle to the page where recycled words turn full circle to bite me in the tender parts and i am trampled by my best intentions. but grouping my thoughts does not make them any more palatable so i have to find the freedom in ripping on the page where nothing really matters. we've all cleaned up broken glass before, where temptation sits glinting, asking the question, daring you to answer.

i want to speak secrets locked up in vaults, dry truths that blow dust under closed doors and down cul de sacs. i want to run with the lions in cites dangerous, chew up my shoes in parts unknown. i want to clear out the dander of shelves full of notebooks to find just the right word for every occasion. i want to break free of the place where grieving is a noun and not a verb. i am not grief, i grieve and then i am done.

and although i am often beyond the pale the grip of addiction still splits me with a force as hard as good and evil, as powerful as yes and no. so i'm hanging with the hedonists and too timid to commit to the spirituality of it but behind my eyes and in my synapses there's a crackle with the possibilities of another lifestyle, another talent, another virtue. chances are...

thirty

lou reed is not tom waits.

turns out that morrissey was writing gay love songs.

elvis in leather, oh my.

when it takes longer to listen to a song than write it 

you must have a bustle in your hedgerow.

the verb to use for listening to music through earbuds

is mainlining.

blondie is.

back to the reed/waits thing, they are both actual angels,

it's just...

some songs demand spontaneous dancing, they are your totems.

twenty nine

to talk about adoration
with the moon.

initially i didn't know
the moon,
but she knew me.

now i only know the moon
from a lover's perspective.

what about the moon
of limited pleasure?

sometimes she pulls
back, but only
with a view
to fullness.

to talk with adoration
about the moon.

twenty eight

take me on that tangent

that you go on,

you know,

the one where we mount 

trusted steeds,

ride through the high streets

shouting *fuck the world

and other noble insults

at the gawping mainstream.

take me to that place

where everything is natural.

where we fill up

on the wonder of the stars,

work hard in the sun

and rain serves to cleanse

and nourish

and grow the amazing.

twenty six

the bitch card.

i'd rather sail the void
than swim it,
rather dance with devils
than meet them in the park,
i'd rather walk away from the fight
than bring it,
rather burn from both ends
than live in the dark.

i'd rather plan the revolution 
than use it,
rather play my own game
than sticking to the rules,
i'd rather find a pot of gold
than lose it,
rather burn my bridges
than hang around with fools

i'd rather play the bitch card
than let the fuckers win,
rather take my chances
on one almighty spin,
yes i'm throwing all my chances
on one almighty spin.

i'd rather live a good life
than fake it,
rather have my heart ripped out
than get down on my knees,
i'd rather give you everything
than take it,
i'd like to help you neighbourboy
but you're just so hard to please.

i'd rather play the bitch card
than let the fuckers win,
rather take my chances
on one almighty spin,
yes i'm throwing all my chances
on one almighty spin.

twenty five

as i unbelieve my body

play something sexy and evil,

there's a word for the surge that you give me

while i'm looking for  a very mellow drama,

draw my blood baby.

strip my skin so i can be truly naked,

draw my blood baby

while i'm looking for  a very mellow drama.

there's a word for the surge that you give me

play something sexy and evil

as i unbelieve my body.

twenty four

eating late night bananas and inviting nightmares
i anoint purple as the colour of madness
mediocrity does its best, which is little,
disarm me now.

i anoint purple as the colour of madness
just because it sticks doesn't make it love
disarm me now
prepare for a night full of prizes of mystery.

just because it sticks doesn't make it love
mediocrity does its best, which is little,
prepare for a night full of prizes of mystery
eating late night bananas and inviting nightmares

twenty three

*side effects.

may cause expansion of the heart muscle to actually give a fuck.

caution must be taken with the opposite sex as your hotness may increase dramatically.

may result in your singing voice to improve in tone & pitch.

may cause hair to become long & luscious.

potential to cause elation & charitable thoughts.

always take with chocolate.

for best result take with copious amounts of alcohol.

warning: increased virility.

this drug may give you the ability to *walk a mile in someone else's shoes.

if any of these symptoms persist, stop seeing your doctor because your life is great.

twenty two

"The Katauta form was used for poems addressed to a lover. A single katauta is considered incomplete or a half-poem, however, a pair of katautas using the syllable count of 5,7,7 is called a sedoka."

shined your eyes today

sideways smile and deep blue pools

saw comfort reflected there.

tucked under my arm

my muscle memory flares

teddy love knows no endings.

twenty one

pantoum.

i crave you like oxygen, like evidence
i seek you like drugs, like good advice
dreaming naked and dripping with significance
the cake's on the table and ready to slice.

i seek you like drugs, like good advice
and it's no accident i think of you nightly
the cake's on the table and ready to slice
kissing scarecrows makes them more sprightly.

and it's no accident i think of you nightly
resisting the urge to howl out your name
kissing scarecrows makes them more sprightly
slip on your gas mask and prepare for the game.

resisting the urge to howl out your name
dreaming naked and dripping with significance
slip on your gas mask and prepare for the game
i crave you like oxygen, like evidence.

twenty

i'd rather sail the void
than swim it,
rather dance with devils
than meet them in the park,
i'd rather walk away from the fight
than bring it,
rather burn it from both ends
than live in the dark.
i'd rather play the bitch card
than let the fuckers win,
rather take my chances
on one almighty spin,
yes i'm throwing all my chances
on one almighty spin.

nineteen

around the corner
who knows.
uncle graham is getting older.

the wheels turn
my leg's keep peddling.
uncle graham needs an operation.

distance separates,
but memories connect.
uncle graham's been put on morphine.

the sum of my parts
takes on all comers.
i'm visiting uncle graham next sunday.

eighteen

lucky country blues.

if it wasn't for the fascists

and the spiders 

and the flies,

if it wasn't for the desert

and the floods

and the climate change deniers,

if it wasn't for the borders

and our racists

and the cultural cringe,

if it wasn't for the wholesale

sell off of our natural resources

and the spiders

and the flies

and the fascists

and the destabilisation

of our way of life by

the corporate money whores

that have infected our land

like herpes... 

seventeen.

fan mail for daniel.

if i painted you a picture

i'd use lots of black paint

and red, & brown

because life is shit.

i'd use a fat brush

and lots of strokes

to show i know you are complex,

made up of many parts.

if i sang you a song

i couldn't sing in tune

i wouldn't need to.

i'd just have to yell a lot

with passion, to sound like

that nihilistic shit you listen to.

i have written stories for you

sunk low then lower to impress you, 

tattooed your name on my arse.

- your loyalty drags us all along

you and your crew, we rise and fall together.

you are my brother from another mother,

you are strong like ten men

and stunted like a puppy runt.

you are clever like a dictionary

and feral as a fine porn mag.

zen brother, big brother, drunk brother

you taught me men can 

feel and listen, every day

you help me find

the middle way...

      it's just between fuck up lane

      and fuck you avenue.

it's in our blood brother

to travel on dreams

and trade in the romance

of the road.

sixteen

before sunrise
there is a serenity
and no confusion.
i wake
absorbing the calm,
walk outside where
the nightbirds are losing
their melancholia.

the air 
is harder to breathe
because everything good
must be fought for.
the atmosphere
touches my skin
as the sky lightens
and opens an embrace
to the potential.

fifteen

closing in on paranoia
within this dystopian vista
there must be hope,
or there wouldn't be
anyone left standing.
we all roll the dice
whether we're gamblers
or not and some days
it's a battle to leave
the house,
the room,
your arms.
shadows skew my clothes
tho my outlines are
always flattering.
i could live here.
i'm not sure which way
is healthier, 
but i do know that
without an interconnection,
without the gamble
and the fear
and the hope
then we are all parasites.

fourteen

deciding to embrace mediocrity
as a step out of the void
i write a pome
it will not be full of insight
right now
i am a shallow puddle
place my fantasies
in the hands of strangers
i remain in the cave
i never promised you...
anything.

i do have dreams of my own
diary entries in tattered suitcases
if my life really were
a car accident
then i probably look away
so where do i stand?
or sit?
at your notebooks
a voice whispers
at your notebooks.

thirteen

with a blindfold on 
we can quench our
other senses in 
a sublime cynicism
that will rub you up
the right way and
the wrong way.

the whole darkness has
consumed our electricity
to elevate our 
esoteric activities.

the mercies you seek
must be fought for,
muscles must rip and
beasts must bay at the moon
before this is finished.

there comes a point of 
tipping and i was rapidly
reaching for it, like
i reach for the branches
of really tall trees,
like i reach for the stars.

st. vitus dances
on my spine as our loins
explode with truth serum and
clarity comes in the arms
of the fireworks that extend
into the sky.

twelve

the moon knows my phases

i show her my many faces

and she reads them all.

she is not active like my mother

slow moving through the sky

and i, drinking tea

in the moonlight

rely on both their counsel.

i love her with a varying intensity,

her song has no title and no tune

yet i still find myself writing nightly 

in her glow.

the sun on the other hand

has less compassion and

offers more comfort.

i am here with the ants

jostling for her attention

the way i did with my father

back through the times i'd

rather forget but instead of regret

i channel the energy to

keep the pen moving.

escaping anything in the sunshine

and wishing on the wind.

eleven

female desire drives evolution
but what happens when
animal magnetism becomes 
the scent of despair?

the idea of sainthood
is mysterious, but ultimately
isn't the idea of miraculous
goodness something to 
which we should all aspire?

ten

bukowski was an arsehole.

that's one of the reasons i love him.
if i'd known him in real life 
i would have hated him too
                                                i reckon.

sure, he played it up some days
he was a barfly
                                                of considerable note.

i love his film clips, black and white,
he's driving a beat up bug,
the windscreen is smashed
and the dash is taped together
                                                  with something.

analyse his scars and you will see
that life was not easy but adaptation
and resilience
and art
makes the medicine essential
and the art
                                                    imperative.

nine

the statues that inhabit my dreams
i sometimes see in my waking life.

the bus drivers beep at me
as they sail past the bus stop, 
their honorable time keeping
keeps me alert to its passing.

in nearly diabolical thinking  
on borderline nonsense 
there is a logic to this path
paved with rationalisations.

i find lotion is good for the skin
that keeps on growing, and knowing
the treatment but not seeking 
the cure is half the allure
of social networking sites.

eight

cento.
(A poetic form composed of lines borrowed.)

from bad girls of pulp fiction.

"i'm a working girl" she explained,
"i test mattresses."
but what happens when
the roles are reversed?
i'm not supposed to see
customers outside the club.
still, there were nights
when mary felt lonely.
she told him "but only if
you promise to wear
two of them."
what started as an innocent 
experiment became a life
of fast times with a
dangerous crowd.

seven

in reflecting (on) this experience

i like to take the easy road

the hardest way possible.

my ipod blares my favourite tunes

and sometimes the lifting comes,

sometimes i'm backstage

at an abba concert

or flying like a glider

without the plane.

sometimes i am wonder woman.

i adopt the mannerisms

of former movie stars

that look more like 

complicated cravings in a

world that has sophisticated

itself up its own arsehole,

confusing the *compelling for

good/potent/art/

merit-orious.

so i look to other conceits

and ways to amaze.

the answer just may come

from the graft, the physical

stretching of the sinews

and tendons producing both

heat AND value.

the shadows are long,

this day has taken its toll.

six

i rack my brain
for inspiration
instead of courting
insanity. stars
wink a sardonic
kind of glare and
the pressure is not
exactly helping.

the captain dreams
while the armada
drifts into dangerous 
territory. is it
paralysis that
wracks the ships,
plunging us into
the dark waters?

one day the heavens
will affirm my wishes,
one day the moon
will bring me home.
i reach for the sky
not to surrender
but to contain
the amazing.

five

"ahhh bourbon - the coffee of night time."

"ignorance - not even close to bliss...."

"there's NOTHING quite like walking out the door & realising you've dribbled white toothpaste on yr black sequins."

sequins black on your toothpaste

white dribbled

you've realised

door walking

quite nothing

there's bliss

too close

even ignorance

night time coffee. 

ahh bourbon.

four

raspberries

are not blackcurrant

thank god.

i eat the red

as a way of seeing

through my heady ego

to feed my body

i know they're both real

like the wolves.

the holy war of depression

has ended

thank god.

and all the saints have

vanished from

the cabinet

so i count my blessings

instead.

three

manifest destiny

the confrontation,

the silent scream 

sends me reeling

i am the eye witness

to your complete breakdown

feeling like this is all

one big dream.

it isn't.

manifest destiny

i tell myself

to make it easier,

to make it to the car

to make it to the clinic

to believe that detoxing 

will kill the ills that

refuse to be truly

understood.

but the drugs make 

judgements of their own,

an axis of evil

where no territory is safe 

and every conversation is

an incendiary device.

i need to fight fire

with fire.

one

this one
is coming
on, like a good trip
in, like a king tide
back, like a recurring dream.

i'm flying, but i'm not
because i am behind the wheel
of a motor car so
the feeling is the same.

i'm driving, it is an emergency
(it would have to be)
and the traffic is there 
but i am with them,
i am going with the flow.

the flying feeling never leaves me
as with disbelief and lucidity
i drive and survive,
straddle the lanes
to a destination that never happens.