anachronoclast

future echoes

Mon, 07 Dec 2009 04:03:46 GMT

I fear that I shall
Run out of words
That there are only so many
Times
Just so many
Ways
That I can tell you
I love you
Before the sincerity of
That phrase
Will be attenuated by the
Repetitious redundancies of our
Inadequate language
That we will become
Inured
To our own
Limited
Expression of that which we both feel

How then can I trust that an
Acquired numbness
Of your ears to those words
Will not translate to a
Numbness of your heart to
Their intent

How then can I let you
Know that you are the
Other half of my
Self

How often can I then say

I love you

Between now and the end of our lives

And have you know
I mean it still

so much happenin' here...

Wed, 07 Oct 2009 04:57:08 GMT

Coming up this month:

Saturday Oct 10 - my annual "it's my birthday and I'll feature at my own damn gig" vanity gig at the Dan. Dan O'Connell Hotel, Carlton, 2-5pm.

Wednesday Oct 21 - featured reader at a new monthly reading in Frankston. The Prose, Posers & Poets group have requested me to read and do a Q&A for them at Frankston Library, 6.30pm.

Monday Oct 26 - the Prose, Posers & Poets group have also requested that I co-feature at their other gig in Berwick. On the bill with me is the wonderful Alicia Sometimes. That's Berwick Community Centre, 6.30pm.

Also, I gots meself one ov dose blog tings: WaddaMyDoinEre

But not sure what I'm doing with it.

didn't realise the second had been published...

Wed, 07 Oct 2009 02:59:09 GMT

But this gives me the happy.

The Poets Against War site accepted a second poem from me last November apparently.

Never told me, and I'd forgotten to look:

evaluation

And the earlier one:

rememberance day

That's all.

yay.

Tue, 23 Jun 2009 02:38:10 GMT

Poetry Reading

Featuring myself & Michael Reynolds

At...The Drunken Poet

Is that a redundancy?

Thursday July 2 from 8.30pm. Includes very open stage.

The Drunken Poet readings are the first Thursday of each month at The Drunken Poet; a funky little pub in Peel Street, directly behind Vic Market.

Poetry, Guinness, a jukebox, pages from massively old comics pasted on the walls of the toilet (well, the gents for sure, not sure about the other)and pictures of poets hung all around the walls of an Irish pub all make for a great night.

If you can put up with my poetry to see Michael do his thing. :-)

Acrostic

Wed, 10 Jun 2009 02:45:05 GMT

Looking at self through another’s eyes
I see me as I would have me be
Meeting of hearts as much as of minds
Entwining bodies twinned in soul
Reaching to hold each other close
Extolling freedom, awaiting return
Natural love together as one
Chance brought you and I together
Enrapt it seems that so we will stay

Thu, 21 May 2009 02:45:37 GMT

you saw something between us
that did take its time
making itself known to me
and i now have response
to question you've been
asking
with eyes
and a smile
that i can no longer
prevent
myself from falling into

a bird or two beats
your hand in the bush
but neither can match the
touch of one you love

and i tire of living in fear
and without

so i'll ante up
drop my chips on the table
we'll play the cards
as they fall
win or lose

it's your deal

Fri, 01 May 2009 01:04:33 GMT

she was walking towards me
on the street
and she was beautiful
her hair
make up
entire ensemble
immaculate

made me stop dead in my walk
to the tram

do no misunderstand
I was not on the pull
did not wish to talk
her into tryst
or otherwise

but when she passed
I stopped
and said
“darling, you look great”
paid compliment to
pertinent aspects
of her apparel

her reaction was one
of such indignation
and aggression
I may as well have said
I wanted to violate her body
right there on the street
when I was done with her mum

and I was displaced
misplaced
within shelly's peach melba hat
except that it was the subject that
berated me
to point of calling police
for crime of simple compliment

in face of her tirade
I held up hands
confessed that while I was
inebriated
my comment
was not meant to
initiate contact
I had not asked her name
and I was heading home
in opposite direction
but that i'd thought
that she was such
and obvious effort made was such
that pause for simple
appreciation
was warranted

and moving on I wondered
why
and I wondered
when
we lost the simple
capability
of simply paying
compliment

and then I remembered shelly
and the snow drop kid
so many years before

and mourned for a time
I am too young
to remember

Fri, 01 May 2009 00:37:21 GMT

on cold autumn evening
lone drinker sits
amongst empty tables
outside pub

each passer by spares
him a curious glance
as they pass

he rolls a cigarette
to explain being out
in the cold

writes in his notepad
to excuse
drinking alone

I knew everything I needed to know…

Mon, 09 Feb 2009 05:25:53 GMT

…because he told me so.

At least that’s what the promo said

And growing up I felt I could believe it

He was on the television every night in my youth

Stored his light plane at an aerodrome a mile or two down the road I lived on

I saw him, on numerous occasions, in the main street of my hometown

Smiling, greeting friendlily anyone who said hi

And now he is dead

With his wife, in his house burnt down

Not 15 minutes drive from my parents’ home

But one of hundreds of stories of loss

Some I have stronger connection to

And to all with friends and family

Awaiting knowledge of outcome

I sign off as he always did

May your news be good news and goodnight

http://www.theage.com.au/national/newsreader-naylor-dies-with-wife-20090208-810t.html

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

Mon, 05 Jan 2009 01:51:00 GMT

In 2009, anachronoclast resolves to...

Take whitmanschild writing.
Apply for a new time.
Pay for my metaphysics on time.
Learn to play the taoism.
Start an existence fund.
Go to sin every Sunday.

Fri, 21 Nov 2008 05:46:56 GMT

Latest edit of an older and much longer poem.

Evaluation

Picture if you will a photo
A photo of a town
A damaged, war torn town
Unrecognisable from any other
This town could be any one of thousands
And probably is

Picture in the centre, filling much of the frame
A building, a house
Broken, falling down
Its original design lost in the aftermath
Of a bomb, or bombs
Dropped by an enemy
The inhabitants had never met

Now picture in the foreground
Poking from out the rubble
A small hand, a forearm
Broken
The colour of the skin indeterminate
Obscured by blood and dust staining its surface
The face of the child unrecognisable
Beneath the debris
This child could be any child
Of any age
Of any gender
Of any race
But one child among millions

Picture all this, if you will
And then call this picture ‘price tag’
For this we are told is the price of freedom
This the price of peace
The death of children
Ours, theirs
Yours
But what price the life of this child

What price this child

And who decides this price of peace

A country whose own children fight
In an army that will kill more of them itself
Through miscalculation
Equipment failure
And human error
Than the enemy will ever see
And their names, too, will become numbers
Tabulation of acceptable loss
But one more price
In the fight for that we cannot win
Through war

But what price the life of this child
And do they think us so unwilling to pay it
That we would not forgo a meal to see once more his smile
That we would not risk the insecurity
Of reducing a military
That cannot protect us
To see her play again
Of limiting a deterrent that does not deter
To hear them all laugh again

But murder is nothing new
War is nothing new
It is a part of us
And has been for as long as our races can remember
And longer
Since man first learned that by bending his knuckles
Curling the tips of his fingers into his palm
He could turn the end of his arm into a club

And no country is without its evils
Its injustice
Its closet full of skeletons
For all colonisation is genocide
All succession, each claim to territorial rights
Is bloodshed
And all conflict gives death to those
Who did not chose the fight

But all I can ask is
What price the life of this child
This life
This potentiality unrealised
Never to run again
Play again
Never to grow
And laugh
And know love

This life extinguished
For reasons not adequately explained
Justified

Or any fault of this young corpse
Lying among the rubble
Its home has now become

had to share

Fri, 07 Nov 2008 02:42:52 GMT

steampunk keyboard mod is PRETTY!

and also coolest toaster EVAR!

that is all.

Mon, 01 Sep 2008 15:54:33 GMT

let me wake with you beside me
as but a dream
allow me to forever delight
in the desire for your company
let morning light shine not on
mundane reality

for truly the wise do say
may all your dreams but one come true

be for me
my one dream
that does forever remain
unfulfilled
let me love you from afar
let this be that
unquenchable fire

street faces 4

Sun, 08 Jun 2008 02:47:18 GMT

there is a couple on my tram tonight
they are known to me
not by name, but as faces
that i see regularly in my travels
they sit as they always sit
he on her right side, she...on his left
they never smile

they appear a little alternative
his hair is almost as long as hers
he reads from music mags
rolling stone, guitar
she never speaks unless to respond
to his muted side of mouth comments
they don’t hold hands

they are moving now on this
near empty tram away from the
one person near them
she frowns and shakes her head
they are wearing scarves their
team’s colours flying
i know from the guys at the pub
that their team won
they do not look happy

and now as i walk beneath
trees on this midnight autumn street
from the tram to my home
i wonder
and i hope
that somewhere they have beauty
that maybe they too stop
to kick the leaves

Mon, 12 May 2008 03:40:39 GMT

Serfing my Liege

When first I come home each night
It is your face I see
Your photo displayed prominently
You behind a mic where you belong
And I remember

When I go into my study
I see the painting you gave me
A nude, of course,
Some water colour detail
A female behind, prominent lips
Of a cunt displayed
And I remember

The painter, as well as the poet
The sculptor, too
The guiding hand for so many like me
Mentor and friend
And I remember

And think of memories shared
Of butterflies and ants
Of the power of words
Of a heart so physically fragile
And so spiritually strong
A hand held out to one
Just finding his way
And I remember

That poetry is alive and well
In Melbourne
And among the reasons for this
It is you who should be forever numbered
For what am I but your legacy
Another hand to hold a torch
With your grip imprinted on the handle
In all that I do I honour you
And I remember

With thanks, with respect
And with love
And hold you within me
Always

I will remember

Street Faces 3

Fri, 08 Feb 2008 02:26:22 GMT

I watch the old wino struggle to search through
The discarded butts at the tram stop
To find some with enough tobacco
To add to the empty pack in his hand

My drunken urge of generosity forces me to approach

I say ‘hold open your pack, brother’
And as he does so
I slide at least 8 cigarettes into it for him

His head continues to hang at an angle
I’m not sure his abused old neck would let him change
I register the drool hanging from his straggly beard
As eyes I’m sure aren’t open enough to actually
Form an image of me
Mutely suggest that the open pack he still holds
Could use a few more

I am at first annoyed at the idea that
Someone with nothing
Thinks that what I gave him
Is not enough

But I smile
Give him a couple more
And walk away

The food in my bag burns a hole in my
Samaritan conscience
And I wonder why

Street Faces 2

Fri, 08 Feb 2008 02:24:33 GMT

The girl at the tram stop is young
Kinda cute
Bit of a hippy

She talks to me of the coal she bought for her hookah pipe
Wonders if the tram will be here soon

She’s a little drunk
Carries her coal
And two shaken bottles of beer
Says she insisted the guy at the shop double bag them
But he didn’t
It broke and she dropped them
From the bike now chained near the stop

She’s gonna leave it there and catch the tram

I pull my canvas shopping bag from my pack
And hand it to her
She demurs
Says it’s too good
I let her know I have more

Then I give her a smoke
We light up together
And talk of inconsequentialities

The tram comes
And we ride it together

I tell her to have a beautiful life
When I get off at my stop

Fri, 25 Jan 2008 10:54:25 GMT

loose button
decolletage unrestrained
temptation beckoning

Vale Hone Tuwhare

Thu, 17 Jan 2008 01:42:46 GMT

Poet Hone Tuwhare, one of New Zealand's towering literary figures, has died in Dunedin aged 85. http://www.stuff.co.nz/4359408a10.html

NO ORDINARY SUN

Tree let your arms fall:
raise them not sharply in supplication
to the bright enhaloed cloud.
Let your arms lack toughness and
resilience for this is no mere axe
to blunt nor fire to smother.

Your sap shall not rise again
to the moon’s pull.
No more incline a deferential head
to the wind’s talk, or stir
to the tickle of coursing rain.

Your former shagginess shall not be
wreathed with the delightful flight
of birds nor shield
nor cool the ardour of unheeding
lovers from the monstrous sun.

Tree let your naked arms fall
nor extend vain entreaties to the radiant ball.
This is no gallant monsoon’s flash,
no dashing trade wind’s blast.
The fading green of your magic
emanations shall not make pure again
these polluted skies . . . for this
is no ordinary sun.

O tree
in the shadowless mountains
the white plains and
the drab sea floor
your end at last is written.

http://www.honetuwhare.co.nz/poems.php

Thu, 27 Dec 2007 02:16:34 GMT

snow falling softly
on picturesque terrain
my joy shared

Just one of those random things

Fri, 30 Nov 2007 13:09:42 GMT

You called me out of the blue
Hadn’t talked for a while
Said you’d been thinking of me
Today
Felt strong urge to call
Asked me what was happening
In my life as if wondering
Why the urge was so strong

But all was as usual
Nothing special to suggest
The urge was preternatural
You just called me out of the blue

And I know those urges
Those spur of the moment
Changes in character

Like that one time
Many years ago
On a bus bound for home
I rose from my seat
Much earlier than needed
And on my way to the door
Saw a girl I went to school with
No one in particular
Not a friend
We had not been close
But we knew each other
Her brother hung out with mine

She asked how I was
I responded with my usual
Shy perfunctory ‘hi’
Walked on

But two seats on I stopped
Turned and said ‘well, thanks.
How are you?’
We talked briefly
Nothing of note
Just a random urge
I got off at my stop

I’m told that when she slid
Into the truck the next day
That her seat was torn
Clean from the car
And sat square in the road
With her still in it

You called me out of the blue
Wondered why the urge was so strong
And I sat up until the dawn
Just to check that I’d see it

Tue, 27 Nov 2007 01:46:31 GMT

story related to me by a friend about someone he served with. wanted me to write about it. comments on fallability of this draft very welcome.

Fallen heroes.

I slew 3 men in combat
3 men intent on the deaths
Of my unit
My friends
I did not hesitate

I slew 3 men in combat

But the taking of a life
Though it saved the lives
Of those I know
Served with
Loved as brothers
Was still no easy thing

I slew 3 men in combat

And the award I received for bravery
Preyed upon my mind
My heart
My soul

I slew 3 men in combat

And I wondered were they as me
Sons
Brothers
Did they have those who missed them
As would those
If I had not come home

I slew 3 men
I took 3 lives in combat

And as I tied the knot
And the rope pulled tight around my neck
I wondered
If I would see them again
And be able to ask them
How they felt

When I slew 3 men in combat

bored at work

Tue, 27 Nov 2007 01:42:57 GMT

curious

Thu, 18 Oct 2007 19:06:28 GMT

i'm in perth and the navy are in town. that's american navy.

tonight i was drinking with two marines and a navy seal; fresh back from iraq.

for the record, i don't condone war, but i don't hold it against the average military employee (army/navy/air force) who is sent to do the stuff, no matter how fucked up, that their government decides.

i was chatting to a marine (no names i don't do that here) asking why. he's from indiana and his situation is that if you don't go to college or join the military, you can't get a job. he has a 6yr old daughter he's trying to support. he has decided that he will put his life on the line to give his daughter anything she needs.

in iraq, one of his friends got pretty badly shot up. this guy picked up his friend's arm to return it to him hoping that maybe it could be reattached. no luck there, but his friend is alive.

why do we do this to our brothers, sons, and fathers. and sisters, daughters and mothers; one marine i met was a woman. pretty cool lady, too.

this is rhetorical. but i have no time for anyone who attacks the average member of the defence forces; just the higher up fuckwits that make it necessary or send them off to do these things.

the world i want (no borders, wars, conflict) does not exist. i just hope this guy keeps his head down.

another request

Wed, 10 Oct 2007 02:40:13 GMT

did a bad thing a few years ago. took a beautiful poem by drzero and put my own twisted spin on it.

sorry.

but this reads funny when we do it live and someone requested it. mine are obviously the icky italicised lines(and i know i suck at formatting in lj).

If poetry is fire
then consider this kindling
This collection of expression inflames me
as these words spark ideas infernal
to make paper burn beneath the pen in my hand
If poetry is fire, I walk around town,
searching for a match

If poetry is fire
Then what I did to your house last night is art
Small creatures, fur aflame, run through forests
Supporting my performance, spreading its message
Trees throw my words to the sky as ashen leaves on the wind
If poetry is fire
Hand me the petrol

If poetry is water,
then this is my ocean
Surrounded in this flow of words
washed in the tides of inspiration
waves of speech, streaming through my mind
If poetry is water, I think I may well drown
and die content

If poetry is water
Get wet with me
Come closer as I jump in puddles
Splatter you with my art
Join me on the open sea with barbed hooks
Ripping life from its depths
If poetry is water, stand still while I empty my bladder upon you

If poetry is earth,
this is my terrain
In amongst the hills and forests and
pleasant green lands, phrases shift tectonic
grinding the literal and verbal landscape
If poetry is earth, every mote of dust
shall bear contemplation

If poetry is earth
Join me in the mud
Roll in the mire, the muck of our existence
Sink fingers into the detritus rotting into the ground beneath us
Let me show you where we began
And where we end
If poetry is earth, I may never wash again

If poetry is air,
please listen to the sound of my breathing

If poetry is air
Pull my finger