WHEN HE CAME

There was nothing clean or
familiar about him; he had
travelled places, that's all:
strangely compelled to enter
the unknown, repeatedly.

And there had been mad
people, blind beggars, pretty
whores and those fringe
dwellers everyone abhors.
Every collision changed him
quite substantially.

So he was a dented, some
would say a quite demented
man; a broken tangled
dusty dirty man; a murmuring
turmoil at the city gates
looking to loosen everyone
he met with his salacious spirit.

And he came right up
and stood outside the walls,
whose brick and mortar rhetoric
seemed to him quite wrong,
and, even worse, those
tight knit pilgrim songs
that never raised a blister.

He shook his sandles then
quickly turned, surrendered
to the immense and foreign
world, swallowed down
the long road, murmuring.

IF

If birth is like

a fish being dragged

out of water

and 

life is like

a convulsive thrust

in hope of an ocean

then _______

BODY / MIND

My body / my strange animal

sends messages from the war front

that I can't decipher.

My mind / my desperate Descartes 

seeks the soothing false balm

of disintegration.

IMMUNITY

My immune response
a midnight red flag
unfurling down my back.

My assailant
some mysterious threat;
I am suddenly alien.

Emergency waiting room;
the tyranny of linoleum;
desperate passivity.

Steroids and antihistamine;
the flag is slowly folded;
my assailant remains a mystery.

EDEN

Every rib intact
Every body named

The god-snake
deconstructs

Story begins

RECAPITULATION 2

My jesus gravity
still wants
to pull in everything:

word
deed
history

good shepherd
fallen off the page
(more lost
than any sheep).

my myths
my mistress heart
my truth

my brooding babylon

from no hands
from no church

gravity
sheer gravity;
my soul.

UN-AUSTRALIAN?

I trudged out where those old poets,
all melancholy and jowls, rhapsodise
of mud caked on their boots,
to suburban crowds.

And the crowds proclaim
how Australian it all is:
the literal and metaphorical bullshit,
the mangy dogs, the honesty of utes,
the you beaut cacophony of wayward
chooks, muck safe ensconced on pages.


And who would murmur what is that
to us and why's our truth always
someplace else? And if that's truth
then what's it make us?
Are we then un-Australian?

BRUBECK

West Coast sounds more downtown
Manhatten, like the rhythm of desperate
feet; like the cardiac murmur: red green; 
crowds pushing at the seams then 
released; the frisson of a pulse marking
time; the flourish of a horn weaving threads, 
through the brush stroke steady on the skin; 
the bustle of the sound; the movement of 
the crowd,  the rock ready jazz of their limbs. 
Body of the bodies of them all; busy 
with the business of the world; shoes on 
the sidewalk all marking time; sound along
the avenue walls; skipping to the regulated
beat of the endless procession of feet
and the weave and the rush where there's
never enough of the music of the madness
of the streets.

MILES

In some dark, cavernous club,
he puts his lips to brass
and plays a weaving sonorous
delight; smooth spread then
shuffled: musical card play;
we hear, we feel our fortune
rise and fall: some truth that's
ours beyond the scope of words;
he plays, we hear jazz feeling
out our dark: the lonely busy
primacy of sound.

RETIREMENT OF AN EXPLORER

It was quite a thing to be home,

where all was made to brace

against the gale; except his canvas

mind, that strained the anchor, and

breath that turned to water on the pane.

He had written books that tried to mirror

oceans; black ink could never

catch the monstrous deep. His maps

were celebrated, in safe places,

he saw the lines as nothing but deceit.

His body felt the gravitas of years

where he had once been lean and quick

to flight; the oyster world, that slid

into his soul; now deep discomfort

through his lonely nights.

CREATIVE MELANCHOLIA

He stepped back from his creation and allowed himself a phantasmagorical moment: fire-flash success, homecoming parades, applause, back-slaps, pretty girl hugs and you the MAN high fives.

She looked over the creation with that quizzical look, said it was nice, and asked him to remember to pick up milk on his way home from work.

They said nothing, regarding the creation, as they tossed it aside and generated their standard rejection slip.

He lugged his creation up the well worn steps to the attic, added it to his crowded menagerie, and wondered what might come of it all after he was gone.

EROS DELIVERS

THE CYCLOPES

APHRODITE

HUNGRY CRONUS

NARCISSUS

LEDA

DIVINE APPETITE

Cronus overthrew his old man, Uranus, so was forever nervous of his own offspring.

His power lead him to eat his kids. A little trickery and lucky Zeus escaped.

THE CYCLOPES

Those one eyed freaks learnt their skills underground;

prisoners who Daddy never loved;

resentment fuelled the fire of those blacksmiths.

DIVINE OFFSPRING

No one to date but the first born son: Gaia gets it on with Uranus.

There followed the ego-centric Titans and some mighty ugly monsters.

Uranus locked the scandal undergound.

APHRODITE'S ORIGINS

Cronus castrated his old man, Uranus, just to make mother Gaia happy.

His old wedding tackle fell into the sea.

Aphrodite rose from twisted love and violence.

LEDA

Zeus, the master craftsman in the art of subterfuge, feathered over his divinity.

Olympus thrives on all our secrets and, gods knew, Leda liked a little swan.

A live feather boa and a surprise entry; when gods come, it can be a beastly business.

SISYPHUS

As soon as he got it up, it was back down again;

the ultimate dilemma for a control freak.

If only he'd been kinder to those who crossed his borders.

Back up that hill you go, King Sisyphus.

ZEUS

Zeus.

Migraines.

End of story.

IF YOU'RE GOD THEN EAT YOUR BREAKFAST

Here's the thing they don't tell you about divinity when you're training: it's essentially a juggling act, right? You've gotta keep the whole lot propelled into continual existence. So nimble hands and keep your wits about you. Right?

I knew one god, dropped an entire planet, the whole thing just smashed to pieces; five major civilizations scattered like broken eggs on the cosmic floor.

Of course he was embarrassed. It wasn't as bad as being knocked off by your mortal underlings but still. I said to him, "Franky, you've made a right fucking mess of things there, haven't you?" And you know what he said to me?

"Sorry Barry. I was in such a rush this morning, I didn't have time for breakfast so me head was a bit dizzy when I clocked on for work."

So lesson one: if you're intending on making a success of this divinity business then make sure you get some breakfast into you. Right?

HIS OWN PRIVATE EDEN

Little big man’s built another nest: torn fashion magazines, yoghurt and a pair of musty socks.

Yesterday he waltzed into a crowded food court: hands waving alleluia in the sky; pants down around his ankles; privates dancing carefree in the breeze.

Little big man doesn’t subscribe to wearing underwear.

He’s in his own private Eden. Lucky bastard.

BROKEN MORNING

The sidewalks were covered with glass but the trains were still innocently efficient.

Stars were simply objects in the sky. Old women stitched nothing more than patches.

Nothing would return to what it was. Brute night was gone but grace had long departed.

HABIBTI

She was not a cat. She just had long hair. He found strands on the bed, or on the couch, after she'd left. She laughed when he said the cat’s visited me again.

They met once a month in secret. She was afraid of honour killings. He was afraid of losing her.

He called her Habibti despite the colour of his skin. She called him Baby despite her far younger years. They made love and watched DVDs. They ate chocolate.

And then she caught a bus, and then a train, back across the city to where she lived.

She never talked about their future. He never talked about her silence.

END POINT

The surprising thing about his discovery was that he was not surprised.

He already knew his life had followed a certain trajectory. And he knew this had always been his nature but he had never been so alone, in the skin of his predicament, as he was on that morning. 

Even the cold surface of the mirror failed to recognise him.

He shook his hand, in front of his face, hoping that movement might translate into visibility. 

It didn’t. 

He opened the bathroom cabinet, took out shaving foam, and covered his face.

The foam became a cloud of indeterminate shape and meaning suspended in mid-air.

He clawed the foam off his face, took up the canister and threw it at the mirror. Shards fell into the sink and he slumped to the floor and started sobbing. 

It was winter and the tiles were cold and nothing could be heard but the dripping tap. There was a scent of shaving foam in the air and a broken mirror that would be easily replaced.

RETIREMENT OF AN EXPLORER

It was quite a thing to be home,
with the wind rapping promises
at window panes, and his mind
full of sails and horizons and
the great life that was stammered
through departure to return.
He had written books, as though
words could mirror oceans,
and his maps of foreign shores
were universally acclaimed.
But all he saw were lines 
and notations that were soundings
of mere measurable depths
and easy claimed domains.
And he knew it as deceipt made
to entertain those dreamers who
consumed adventure stories in
their safe and cosy rooms. But
beyond all publications, and those
warmly greeted speeches, was
the all he couldn't utter and the
distance that remained.

COMPOSITION

My old fat typewriter
held, in its belly, a silver
spindled chorus line
of letters. On late nights,
when everything felt lost
in that certain dark
of neatly ordered suburbs,
my fingers worked and
words were high kicked
onto pages. There was
hope in that midnight sound
and hope in the black
pressed pattern of the poems
and hope that I folded
neatly into daylight
and sent to the immense
and foreign world.

1960'S DECONSTRUCTED DAFFODIL

Unconvinced by solid regularity,
my lonely cloud breaks up, rains
down on golden daffodils; their
paisley spinning petals tongue
my mind; so trippy happy pretty
pretty cool; everything constructed
- meaningless: the way you walk
and talk and act so wired; why
not just unplug your robot mind;
meaning comes when ego just
lets go; take off your noose tie
and expand your life; feel the way
the air is breathing you; my fingers
peace like branches in a tree,
settle your bird frame, come,
land on me; everything is merging
into one; everything is heavy
as a cloud; everything is rising
like the sun; our mind blissed
life shines gold as daffodils.

HOWLIN' WOLF

Six foot six and bull muscle
fierce: the stage is barely big enough
for that man, who looms over
the mike like the genesis angel
over water. He peers out, takes
a measure of the room, brings
the harp up to his lips to start
the murmuring:

Something coming
right out of the night,
the sound his Mamma
labelled Devil's Music.

He stretches lungs and sounds
out a long dark yowl; soul trouble
shaken down, low as thunder;
all that lonely never left behind,
homeless boy now singing
in a man: oh don't you hear
me crying.

CROSSING OVER

I had an intimation of this loss
when I was a schoolboy
catching ferries, and I would
watch the crewman coil
the rope that had secured us:
solid shore adrift and all
that churning thrust from
engines firing just below
the deck; pushed out beyond
to drift and turn and make
our river crossing.

We were a murmuring island
wrapt in mist, estranged
from shoreline certainties,
and Charon's presence was
a broken bridge, skeletal
in the white air. The river
kept no memory: our
trail dissolved in all that
moving deep and we lost
sight of every place we'd been;
shrouded by our journey.

SONGLINE

Sometimes, at night,
the Belgrave Lilydale line
sang a dark commuting lullaby;

soft metal murmuring
from Box Hill to Laburnum,
amplifying through the cemetery,
looking to be heard;

awake in the sleeping house,
not naming the consolation I felt,
my first taste of the blues:

the ordinary music of departure.

ENGAGING DARK MATTER

Why should conservatives be
the stalwarts of mythology?
Who gave them the right to choose
who plays the boogeyman?
And who says liberal should be
so insipidly reasonable?
So much spin, no imagination,
no visionary plan.

Straight jacket facades
and not a whisper of a gargoyle;
girdlocked existence with
no dark alleys to escape;
market projections and
scientific extrapolations;
who carves the monster
waiting at our gate?

COLONIAL ASPIRATION

We make our almost motherland
in the image of what we've known;
we drive all the foreign to the edge of our sight,
plant roses and make ourselves home.

We build our almost motherland
with smooth arches and cobblestones
and hope that its strength will give us our worth
at this crumbling edge of the world.

WATCHORN'S EMPORIUM 1845

For a time, at least in her mind,
she slips beyond the tyranny of place,
her fingers trace over elegant satins;
she inspects fine shoes and parasols,
children's beaver hats and Valentia boots,
Cheshire cheese and Westphalia hams
and currents and candied peels
and she dreams of a world far away.

THE COMPANY MAN 1828

The Royal Chartered Company arrives;
the despot of the North takes up his residence.
If they kill my sheep, I swear to Christ, they'll die.
Nomenclature still holds that memory:
Slaughter Hill, Suicide Bay, Cape Grim.

HOBART 1818

The crowd roars at the scent of sport and profit;
manic eyes and taut faces are desperate for a win.
A voice screams, "Show some fucking balls, get into it!"
He's answered by the opposition's jeers.
Ticket of leave men stand beside their former gaolers
but now their hate is focused on the scene.
Then someone grabs the skinnier combatant, 
yanks his head back and doses him with rum.
"My money's on a clean kill you black bastard
so take that blade and give your brother some."
Then the skinny man is shoved towards the other
and the crowd cheers as the knife is driven home. 

______________________________________________________________

That most shameful, cruel, and barbarous custom of encouraging the Black people to murder or mangle one another for the sport of the learned, the polite, and the refined Europeans: for the amusement and gratification of those who are denominated Christians, has, for some time, required a more effectual prohibition than the Letter of the Law. Last Sunday afternoon, on my way from Church homewards, I was much grieved and distressed, to hear and to see that the public peace of the Town, and the holy rest of the Sabbath, were most impiously violated by the blows and cries of the Blacks, excited to uproar and outrage by the Whites who take pleasure in the sufferings of their fellow men, and, who will propose and give a reward, that the unoffending may be slain, or injured, merely to gratify or indulge the diabolical passions of a base mind, yea "their feet are swift to shed" or to cause to be shed, the "innocent blood".  

The Hobart Town Gazette and Southern Reporter, Saturday 26 December 1818

THE CHANNEL

They come down here somedays, from Hobart Town,
sight-seeing on their jolly little boats.
They welcome me on board and call me Queen
and make a fuss with curtsying and bows.

I do those things that always make them laugh
as we drift lazy down past Birch's Bay.
I knew two boys whose bodies were tossed there.
I quiet whisper Paraweena's name.

Behind my eyes I drift through memory
as far as Partridge Island, further south:
that knife, my mother's blood, my father's grief.
I keep the knowledge quiet to myself.

Then some gentleman comes and takes my hand
and places silver firmly in my palm,
then leads the crowd in giving me three cheers.
I smile and wave to them as gracious Queen.

_____________________________________________________________


On the journey down the praises of the fairy-like coves and bays that were passed, were mingled with anecdotes about Mrs. Cole, of Green Island, and her brave husband and daughter, and surmises about the appearance and manners of Queen Lidgiwdge Trucaninni, to the promised introduction to whom, strangers and young Tasmanians looked forward with some curiosity. About midday Green Island was reached, when a boat was seen pulling off for the steamer. Though she would have been greatly welcomed, Mrs. Cole did not leave her island home. The boat contained Mrs. Cole's man servant, in fact, the only other human inhabitant of the island, an aged servitor, and certainly not of a very impressive appearance. He, with another man who had accompanied the royal party to the island, helped to row the boat, which, besides the oarsmen, contained Mr. Dandridge, for a long period the watchful guardian of the aboriginals, and her sable Majesty, who sat in the stern, steering the boat with a dignity and a skill that did her credit. Arrived at the steamer, Trucaninni was the first to step from the boat on board the steamer, on which she was helped by the kindly hand of the Mayor, Mr. Crisp, who, so soon as his gallantry had placed her safely on the deck of the steamer, shook hands with her, and loyally proposed three cheers for Queen Trucaninni - he wisely abstained from tempting to utter "Lidgewdge" - and the cheers were heartily given, evidently as much to the astonishment as the pleasure of the royal personage, who, however, smiled complacently on all. But when the Mayor added the more substantial guesdon of a piece of money, she better understood the compliment, and grinned from ear to ear; was in fact so delighted, that it was with some regret we noticed that so few followed the Mayor's example. The welcome over, Her Majesty was speedily quite at home, and felt perhaps all the more confidence that she had in her possession several silver impressions of the likeness of her sister of England. Trucaninni's dress was neither costly nor elaborate. A coloured handkerchief, principally red, bound her head, certainly not turban fashion, but as might be seen in the harvest field; another handkerchief of the same pattern incased Her Majesty's neck, her shoulders were covered with a black cotton velvet jacket that was wonderfully suggestive of a pea jacket but for the gaudy bit of silk ribbon which fastened it at the throat. The rest of her raiment consisted of a cotton print dress. She wore no chignon, fall, or other fashionable headdress, and her thick dumpy feet were as guileless of covering as were her hands. Loyalty having in so far exhausted itself, the steamer passed over to Snake Island within sight of Green Island, where anchor was cast to allow those on board the opportunity of enjoying "the picnic and fishing " held out as inducements to the excursion. The fishing was, however, a lamentable failure. With the exception of 3 or 4 flatheads and twice as many small sharks and dogfish not a nibble was to be got, and picnicing was not to be thought of when there was provided on board the steamer one of the amplest and most excellent dinners we have ever sat down to on any similar excursion. The Providore deserved praise, and had he heard all the good things said of his catering, his cars would have tingled. After dinner a considerable number of the passengers went ashore and strolled over the island to gather shells and sea week and pause over many "a flower grown wild." Trucaninni also visited Sable Island, and there gave Mr. Baily, the photographer of Liverpool-street, the honour of two sittings, which were hardly over when the whistle and bell called all on board. The return to Green Island was occupied in getting up a subscription for Mrs. Cole which Mr. Dandridge took on shore and handed her. He was accompanied by a gentleman from Melbourne whose name we regret we did not ascertain, as after seeing the old lady, he very materially supplemented the ship's gratuity. During the passage to Oyster Cove, the Queen enjoyed herself much, imitating some boys in whistling, and trying to teach them some of the call cries in the aboriginal language. When nearing her destination she said she had been very happy, and pointed to her home with apparent pride as "my Oyster Cove." A boat was waiting to take her ashore, and before descending she had to return many a kindly shake of the band. A cheer, which she re-echoed, was the parting salute; and thus in regard to most on board passed from the sight for the last time the last of Tasmania's aboriginals.

The Mercury, Thursday 13 February 1873
____________________________________________________________________________________________________

FLINDER'S ISLAND CURSE

Their bones were broken in that island trap;
busted ribs clawed their breathing flesh.
Desolation overshadowed dreams:
four walls, a catechism, civilizing imprisonment.

They turned on her, that one, Robinson's bait:
 "Look what you brought us to," they said,
"You're cursed to live to see your people dead.
You're cursed to be alone, remembering."

_________________________________________________________
Through the courtesy of Mrs Dandridge we are placed in possession of an outline of poor Trucanini's career. When a young woman she was instrumental in aiding Mr Robinson to collect the natives after the "Black War." and she, with them, was sent to Flinders Island, where so many of them fell under Death's scythe. In connection with this matter she often repeated the upbraiding she received from the poor natives for persuading them to give themselves up, and further stated that they had told her she would be the last of them as a punishment for that action. Since the death of her husband, William Lanny, the last male representative of the race, she would add to this story, "See it has come true," and she was right.

Launceston Examiner, 13 May 1876
__________________________________________________________________________________________________

HIGH TEA WITH TRUCANINI

We sipped our tea from fine china cups,
in the imported confines of our decorous world
and we spoke of the latest American news:
the gold rich Black Hills and the problem of the Sioux.

Then someone said, "Thank God we're past all that."
and we quietly agreed, with a nod and a sigh,
then we moved on to fashion and theatrical news
as she sat there, as black and quiet as death,
in her red velvet jacket and her cotton print dress.

MIND MAP

Things to include in a map of the mind:
prodigal avenues populated by fictive ghosts that claim to offer truth;
strange forests and murmured world words that declare a deep allegiance;
the grave of gods and other self-created expectations;
the roadside clutter of spent ideas and eras that have faded;
a library of vivid, well remembered words;
the banquet hall, foundation stoned on breath and sense connection.

RESIGNATION

I will not go down the mine today,
those rocks are all too heavy.
I'm tired of my eyes knowing so much dark;
they're forever blind in the daylight.

I will not go to war with the hammer and roar
of chisel hard chipping at midnight.
I've never found gold in those desperate holes
and I've known no peace in those confines.

REAL COMMUNION

Today, bread will just be bread,
nothing more, no symbolic flight;
there will be texture on  the tongue,
the hard edge of a bite
and the brief, convulsive claim
of swallowing.

Today, wine will just be wine,
nothing more, no hint of a liquid
sacrificial force; there will be rich
fruit notes and languid subtle warmth;
surrender realized
physically.

LOOKING FOR RHYTHM / FINDING SPEED

I walked around all day
looking for the rhythm;
tossed up old memories,
like dust heavy rugs,
but there was only
small change underneath.
I ate lunch early.
There was bugger all to eat.
The tomatoes didn't help.
The toast offered
that subtle consolation
of perfect melted butter
on the tongue.
Greasy pleased, but uninspired,
I exercised,
hoping the rhythm of feet
pumping pedals to a height
might excite some creativity.
There was none of that
so I free-wheeled down
the other side
like a drunken lunatic:
forty four years old
and fuck the consequences.