Mimi, for you

This is my blog of thinks. The words and pictures on this page are mostly my own, plus a pithy pastiche of wordly inspirations. Yes, many of my pieces are truthful and shamelessly personal. But not all. So please do not conclude assumptions on the state of my heart or mind from my pieces. Sometimes my heart dribbles text, I wipe it here. For you, I am Mimi.

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To The Future

Here’s to our eighteenth birthday. Here’s to the minute the digits dance over to the AM and I AM eighteen. Here’s to the end of childcould and the start of adultshould. Here’s to the census, the vote, the speech, picking at invisible lines under our dresses, laced with insecurity, beaded insincerity, stained with immaturity. Here’s to an age of growing up. Here’s to next new year’s dismay. Here’s to the recreational poison, to the haze of blessed oblivion. Here’s to dancing with friends, lovers and strangers, to dancing alone just to prove there’s a beat in our souls. Here’s to the silent veins of fire, revive the still universe, remind the infinity of the impossibility of light, on a suicidal midnight. Here’s to the brittle shards of electric hope that dissolve in the harbour below. Here’s to Xmas eve, Xmas morning, xmas dinner, xmas sales. Here’s to feeding the machine with your own blood and bone. Here’s to circumcising your soul and selling it on the silk road, for a pop of nan, of Auntie Jan, of a tireless joke and a generation’s lie. Merrily on high. Here’s to next Straya day. Here’s to patriotism, nationalism, racism, sexism, alcoholism and good old-fashioned bloody Australianism. Here’s to the union claw- claiming our sky, our children, our girlfriends’ titties- floating in the fermenting ensign. Here’s to this year’s daffodil day, to bandana day, to bandaged bears and badges and noses red from the crying, ask me how I beg for coins for cancer and expect an answer, I don’t know. How do you save a life through advertising? You parade death like a new born, boast poverty like bravery and bare tragedy like ecstasy, because pity never paid for treatment, miracles aren’t bought with prayers, they’re bought with determined stares, you give me money and I’ll take your guilt, and turn it into smiles and beaurocracy. Here’s to the metaxy between sympathy and empathy. Here’s to International Earth Day, Earth Hour, here’s to every minute we get on this sphitzing sphere of doom, our tomb. Here’s to sunlight, here’s to rain, here’s to joy, here’s to pain. Here’s to standing drenched in the tears of the Earth when the next bus doesn’t arrive for fourteen shivers, for three flash rivers, for zero lift-givers. For the passing of a Mr Whippy in the rain. Here’s to the day that rain becomes a wave, that river becomes a glacier, that sun becomes a pendulum hypnotising us into extinction. Here’s to the scientists who read their data like scripture, who hypothesise the rapture, here’s to the day we regret doing nothing...or the day we regret all the worrying. Here’s to Mater Natura, Mother Nature, you mother fucker. Here's to the future. May she rest in peace. Here's to the future. May she be forever young.

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If we kept our spirits up wouldn't they decay away our minds, If looks could kill wouldn't we all be dead except the blind, If we wasted not would not we want for more than bacon rind, And if everyone ginned and bore it,what a bore would be mankind

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A rage against the shameful semantics of the word Feminism in contemporary society. Reblog if you believe in feminism, sister or brother.

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The Storm, a poem

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Material Girl

Pretty little girl, Tickly pinky skin, Crinkled bitted fingernails, Niggling at a sin. Icky sticky digits, Willing tick to gook, Jimmying sinew sticks in, Spitting, spatting spook. Quiver dizzy bones, Limp, and frigid whirl, Rinsing tingly spit up scars, Pretty little girl.

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The Hero Generation

Is it a bird? No. Is he plain? ...no. Well is he an angel? No. Is he a dream? No. Is he a star? No. Is he a spaceman? No Is he flying? No. So he's falling? Yes. And he's earthbound? Yes. Will he die? No. I thought him a hero. Yes. But he's not. No. And he's falling. Yes. Should I catch him? No. Can I catch him? No. Will you catch him? No. Won't you catch him? No. Why won't you catch him? No. Why won't you catch him? No. Why won't you catch him! No. Will you catch me?

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Roly Poly

Mini people rolling over pillow toes and feetie foes. Rolling and rolling, the circle of life, bowling and bowling them along, Roll and roll and roll and roll, through forward rolls and sausage rolls and rock and roll, and naked rolls, and readied rolls, and rolls of cash and rolls of files and rolls of moss and rolls of roles, Rolling and rolling, the ticking hand of time, the lapping of the sea, peek-a-boo with the sun and the eggs boiled hard, boiled soft, rolled and broke, bowling and bowling them on along, Rolling punches and prices and partners and pants, and rolls of fat, and rolls of eyes and rolls of pins and pins that roll and prick the roll of skin that bleeds a roll of blood that rolls on and on, and roll the dice and roll the coin, and roll the pastry out again, and roll again, yes roll again, no roll again, roll on along, Rolling and rolling, the great hand of Moloch, the pulse of Paterson, the bop of the day of the Laodiceans' crime, the chime of Big Ben, the bending of light and time and space and rulers, and Hawking's legs' whir while the harbour explodes, the ball drops, the lights melt, the livers are leaking, the kid's knees are scraping while their phones are dying and we all run low on battery but we don't know why, again and again and we never know why, no one can convert it, we just can't work it, the calculators are hungry and won't work no more, no more, no more, and it never gets dark, no more, no more, the what's the time google search, the scrolling on the google search, what's the time google search, the scrolling on and on on the timeline of the book that never existed and scrolls yet further still, scroll to find the time, scroll on and on, the scrolling, the scrolling, on and on, bowling and bowling them along, Roll in and on and out and down and on and on anon and off and on and up and on and on and on, Rolling and rolling, the string of the fates, the beckon of death, and the earth, and the air, the water, the fire, call on, roll up, the ghost and the Gods and the spirits and the sceptre, which cuts and cuts but never kills, we're bleeding, we're bleeding we'll never be killed, Yama brought Moksha, will bring Moksha, again and again, we're not eating again, the spaghetti monster in the sky, Samsara, again, the circle, the cycle, the psychopumps manifest in the punk and the pop and the youth and the time, what's the time google search, Azreal and Nergal, the grim sceptre carved notches that told us the time, what's the time, again, it's the time again, the watch, they watch, and Anibis keeps his scales, the little girls are weighing and waning and dying again and again, and Hades, Dahaka, the Ghede and Hel, snatching and clutching and chanting and scrolling again, we're scrolling again, no scrolling again, and on and on and on and on, bowling and bowling, them along, Roll and roll and roll and roll, right on, right through, roll on and on and on and on, and through and on, and on along, roll on and on and on and on, and through, roll through, right through, right on, roll on To death. We're rolling to death.

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Shadows in our Psyche

I sucked at the wisdom they left They left it in black and white Caffeinated and starry wise Shimmering during a midnight I will never see. Text, Bones, Unrelenting and hollow Howl. They felt in stories that shook the soul of Academia. They left their words, Their paper now gone, And they left a legacy long. Much taller than me. I am young, And if a fly lays claim on my lunch, I'll shrink some smaller still. An a-range nothing with no story to tell. No feelings to fire me into the Creative cosmos of existential eternity. I am just me. And no one ever remembered Me, Poet, Of the last century, Ad.

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Strange Suit

I saw a little garden gnome, His cap a biro red, His cloak an AstroTurfen green, His toes amuck with lead.

His nose was chipped from telling fibs, His void for all to see, To all who gazed up to the oak, For linchéd there was he.

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Schrödinger

I used to have this perpetual desire to write poetry. It wasn’t perpetual in the sense that it would last forever, like a perpetual haze, or in the sense that it was a perennial plant; rather it was the kind of perpetual that is used in very mediocre English essays. “The perpetual theme of temporal imagery is manifest in blah blah”, like in those convoluted nothings of an essay in which a lot of very big words with very many meanings are used in a way that doesn’t fit any one of their very many meanings and each phrase contradicts the last and the word manifest is used so many times you want to manifest your boredom in the form of projectile vomit all over that nothing essay so at least then you can try to make shapes out of the vomit chunks which might appeal to some spark of sense in you. Vomit-chunk space vomit-chunk shift space larger-vomit-chunk space, reads as a face, in any language. That sense of perpetual is what I mean. No, it didn’t sit well with me either, that perpetual desire to write poetry I mean. I once wrote a poem about it, which is ironic I know. It went as follows:

I feel like an ant

Carrying another

Except that it’s dead

And I am its mother.

I told you it was crude. The full stop at the end says that. It says stop. It says yes, I know what I said and I’m sticking by it so you better deal with it. And consequently the reader does deal with it and they are forced to realize the meaning behind the immediate crudeness, which is still important because a tone always supports the meaning. What it does means is that as a failed poet I am ashamed of my lifeless oeuvre and I must carry around this burden whilst simultaneously fulfilling the mindless tasks obligatory while being a functioning member of society, when in fact I am an anomaly, an individual, an ant who is also a poet. If you didn’t get that, I’m sorry. Not for you but on behalf of me and my failure to convey meaning. Although it is something of a paradox really. If you did get the poem and, god-forbid, even like it then it is meaningless (as it is no longer a metaphorical dead ant-child). And if you don’t, it achieves meaning (because it is a metaphorical dead ant-child). Although meaning cannot really exist if it is unrecognized, like that cat that may or may not be in that box, so really either way the poem is both and neither a failure and/or a success.

While you’re recovering from that brain buster, I’ll apologize for my handwriting because that’s nice and easy to digest and might even make you feel better about yourself after the existential crisis I triggered with my paradox. I always have existential crises when I think about paradoxes. It’s atrocious I know it (I am now referring to my handwriting) but I won’t change it now. My grammar I will not apologize for. I have exemplar grammar and any deviation from what is otherwise unfailingly correct is either a typo (likely, I am have very clumsy fingers and a little dyslexic) or done on purpose for some effect (which is very likely too because I often do that). As can be seen above, I have used enjambment and rhyme to break up the poem without the need for punctuation so as to emphasize the effect of the full stop at the end, which remains as I explained earlier.

I don’t think anyone ever got that poem so it remains true which I like despite the negative feeling behind the poem. The perpetual one that is. Ephemeral! Everything is ephemeral, they say! Everything. Life, most of all. Not it’s not. Not at all. Life is the longest thing anyone every knows, how the fuck can it be ephemeral? Even if you’re one of those bugs who only lives one day, your life is still ephemeral because it is the longest thing you ever experience. It may seem ephemeral at one point or another, but probably only when you’re writing a very mediocre English essay and a) you think of the word at all, because no one I know uses the word ephemeral in day to day passing, and b) your mind is so mushed from writing a wanky English essay that you have so little sense as to think life can be ephemeral. Oh and c) you’re super depressed because you’ve sold your soul to the English faculty, which we all know to be the stem of all evil in the universe. Either that or that cat that may or may not be in that box.

Despite the fact that I really hate the word ephemeral, I used it once in a poem. Despite how much I hate it, it is a very pretty word. Ephemeral. It’s like one of those purple furry flowers with a curtain of very, very tiny purpley pollen bits on a string and I think I made them up. Ephemeral. See it? It’s the “ph” sound that sounds fluffy and the ‘e’s that bounce off those soft but totally independent consonants that make the purple. I have a bit of synaesthesia, which is lovely to have when I write, but horrible to talk about because no one will ever believe you. Either that or you’ll be with someone who claims to also have it and you never believe them which is equally as frustrating. Anyway, if you don’t know, synaesthesia is where you associate sensations, be it a sight, smell or sound or whatever, with another, unrelated sensation. So when I hear ‘ephemeral’, a sound, I see purple, furry flowers, a sight. Other people (claim to) see colours when they eat, or colours when they hear music. Colours are a common association. Also, twins have it more than normal people. Here’s a poem in which I both use and allude to synaesthesia. Also, I practiced my handwriting since last time so maybe it’ll read better.

  My core liquefied

Knots and butterflies

A melancholy nausea

Emotional synaesthesia

Twisted columns rage

Of melancholy raze.

And nerves and nervous clash

H’orderves and surface thrash

Crunch and clench and clamp

Of fucks and shits and dams

Of fluid: blood and tears

Worry acid, pears.

It’s you that’s upheaved chaos,

It’s you that’s cause and come and coerce

It’s you reacting me

It’s you, it’s you and me.

So the explicit mention was in “emotional synaesthesia” in which I referred to the “melancholy nausea”, i.e. the emotional sensation of melancholy being associated with the physical sensation of nausea. Throughout the poem I extend on the notion of emotional and physical interconnectedness with the blurring of what is concrete and intangible in my writing, through apposition and the manipulation of homophones and phonetics and stuff.  In the second line I use the terms “knots” and “butterflies” which are both real objects and metaphors for sensations in the stomach, and later I compare “nerves” which are literal things in the body and “nervous” which is only a feeling. The enjambment in “fucks and shits and dams/ of fluid” plays on the dual meanings for the sound ‘damn’ or ‘dam’, one of which is an intangible swear word, in the category of that line, and the other a very physical structure which relates to the enjambed line that follows. “Tears” is similar in that it is a homophone so it is the pronunciation which changes its meaning, rather than semiotic associations. At first it appears to be used in conjunction with “fluid” and “blood”, but in order to fit the rhyming scheme it must be enjambed to form the verb governing “worry” and rhyming with “pears”. The overall effect is one of confusion and chaos of senses and sense, which is exactly what the concept is about: the emotional turmoil of a sour relationship.

That’s sad. The emotional turmoil of a sour relationship. What a universally sad subject matter. A lot of my poems were sad. I don’t know why because on the whole I’m a very happy person and I have no reason to believe I wasn’t then, except that I can’t be sure because you can only ever be 100% sure of the present because everything else is stored in your memory which is imperfect as we know. And yet I never once wrote a truly happy poem. Although, I’m not sure if anyone ever did. Well not a good one at least. And not about the beauty of nature or God or anything like that either. That’s a very sad thought. Maybe that’s the problem, though! Maybe, all the writers in the world can’t write anything happy because no one’s ever done it before and that thought depresses them all so much they inhibit their own happy writings. And they don’t publicize this because they don’t want to inhibit some writer whose not yet thought of that thought yet from writing a really good happy poem. Now there’s a depressing thought if you ever thought one. Ignorance really is bliss.

So I wrote a lot of sad poems, and a lot of anguished poems (like the one above), and a lot of crude and complex ones (like the first one) and I also wrote a lot of poems that weren’t exactly sad but they weren’t any closer to happy either.

There is this one that’s not exactly happy, but it’s a bit nice. It’s like that stop all the clocks one by Auden but they’re not dead in mine, so it’s happy in that sense. Though they could be dead I guess, I just never thought they were. Yes I guess they could be dead. Now that I think about it I don’t even like it that much at all. It’s a bit stupid really. And honestly, I’d be alright if I never wrote anything happy in my life as long as I never wrote anything stupid. So sorry, but I don’t want to put it in now at all. That’s really depressing that is. I don’t even have a poem to end on. But it would be worse that way. It’d either be sad, which is depressing, or stupid, which is even more depressing. And now you see why I stopped writing poetry.

P.S. I attached it anyway. I don’t think they are dead after all but I’d like your opinion. And I practiced my writing some more. And it’s not too bad really.

You are the squint in my yawn,

The tickle in my sneeze,

The breath in my hiccough,

The buckle in my knees,

  You are the warmth from my sun,

The drink with my night,

The salt in my sea,

The cause for my might.

  You are the text to my subtext,

The means to my meaning,

The sight to my insight,

The teen to my teening.

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He Stole My Me, My Self, My i

Don’t touch Even such A glance Reasons chance, Reasons change, In my range, A shot, a cry An I for an eye.

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How To Write A Poem

I wear blue like the ocean,

And you happy like the sun,

And our gaze could bear the summer breeze,

For together, we are one.

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Free Verse

Naked phrases Hanging loosely in the currents of Lukewarm conventions. They sway about, Like toddlers with their Crunchy pillow bums wagging Because of a beat that pulses in their Veins. And that will not be accepted In modern society. Because their gaga to Gaga Is not rhythmically accurate, Nor melodically compatible, And their hips are lies- For they are prepubescent And made of the corpses of trees That were closest to living When their cooperative cadavers became A political issue, But they are dead in that they cannot Disappoint expectations As free verse can And always will.

And they, The naked phrases, Shiver and shrink into themselves, Aware that they are Alone And wagging their bums to An audience Of winey, cheesey mums and dads Who laugh like this is more funny Than than time Davo streaked along the beach. When he was 21 and all the fun Had just begun. Fun had a funeral. And no one could free their schedule And the DJ wiped his phone and his artistry with it. And the florist broke her GPS And the subway soon swayed in the rot of putrid petunias. And the priest read Dick Dawkins and retrained as a management nothing. And the church itself was flooded by the tears of the lonely and global warming and God missed the memo because it wasn’t flagged as important So the church grew mould- the cousin of the subway petunia rot- and the DJ developed a fungal infection that melted his creative hemisphere and the nothing manager festered in his atheism until he stank out the city with his stale activity. And the city was evacuated. And the mould and the rot and fungus and everything that was stale and festering threw a little party and God adopted them as the new dominant race, for having a free spirit.

Naked phrases copulating in all their Revolting indecency. Naked phrases avoiding meaning Or founding it. Naked phrases purple with poetic placenta- Just birthed from the womb of the Williams Or naked like a fully clothed corpse- Who is leaving this world with nothing In a virtual coffin That actually cost an arm and a leg and a heartbeat. Naked phrases drowning In the interstitial fluid Of life. Free verse doesn’t sound as nice And no one wants to remember it But I can’t think of The last time I wanted to listen to life. And no one Ever Wants to remember life.

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Christian Boys

With their lashes and lunches

Of juice and bread,

And their pencils in bunches

With hearts of

Lead.

And they speak like The Book-

That's not at all.

Their sinses forsook

For the Lord of our

Fall.

But the birds and bees

Cannot condemn,

And you'll kiss in the trees,

But the apple's

GM.

Christian boys

Have more wet dreams.

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Toy Story

Smile a while My china baby,

Let me be your kiln, Fire your porcelain And Add the sparkle to your glaze. It’s there already painted It only needs a spark.

Little doll, don’t you freeze, Stuck inanimate in the ices of gloom. As a mammoth in a glacier Once so large, and now forgotten, Secret in crystal skin.

Or a bug in an ice cube. Never wonder how or why, There’s a bug in your ice cube, Only that it ought not to be. You ought not to be Sad, you see. Okie?

Or a corpse in a frozen lake.

Thaw, Ice prince, Thaw.

Petit puppet, Mini muppet, Cut your strings and Sing. You needn’t make a sound. The sweetest song of all Is passed by lips unopened Just pluck the air With your skinny smile And the faintest chord with spread. The faintest, warmest, kindest chord That was ever bred.

You’re on your way now, My clock work soldier. You’re well wound, You’re number’s pulled You’re newly found And freshly ruled.

You may not have a place to go, But you’ve got a smile. And always will. And it will keep you warm and walking, Until your cold and dead. So smile a while, My china baby, And just maybe, You’ll be a real boy yet.

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Gingerbread Love

Hey let’s catch up You chirp Like some vapid tweeter Who I follow still. Catch up? You can’t catch me I’m the gingerbread man! And I’m running until the sugar that made me, The sweetness You added, With your tender bite, Is moldy and rotten and festering like a Gingerbread corpse. You can’t catch me I’m too far gone.

Sure thing! Let’s get coffee. Maybe I’ll drown in it. Me and my gingerbread.