Life after death? Number five (and the final) of this series

Finally I have reached the last of the five old poems that I pulled out of the notebook. This one has me channeling Ginsberg and messing about with tabulation. June 1996, and I really must have been an enfant terrible.

I don't care what anyone says, I still like this one. Far more so than a certain poetry tutor at university anyway. I should post some of his poetry one day, that really would be good for a laugh!

[MEOW. Kitty, get back in the cage!]

The Outer Hebrides

hip cool

cat

knows the score.

sweet sixteen and

never

been

fucked

in his arse.

one hundred

and fifty dollars

is all

it takes

he fakes

for fifty more।

Comments

blackie said…

Heh he. I hope you know this one by heart so if you visit the maison d'Etre coffee house you can indulge in a little beatnik action. Beret optional.

4 August 2008 at 19:59

Debbie Courson Smith said…

Perfect for the poetry slams held in this country.

5 August 2008 at 01:00

stromsjo said…

Well, I'd say someone should stick to his day job... ;)

6 August 2008 at 06:57

Kris McCracken said…

Per, that is very cruel [even if true] ;)

I don’t think that there is much money in poetry anyway, these days. I always regarded it as my weakest talent in the world of writing.

I’m a prose man, you see.

7 August 2008 at 15:07

stromsjo said…

You certainly have a way with words. Incidentally, I learned today on Ackworth born, gone West that there's a poetry film coming up. Whaddaya know.

12 August 2008 at 05:59

Ah, Joe, you never knew the whole of it...

I still have the robot on the job. Here you can see the Tasmanian Museum and Art Gallery . And here is a poem: Soliloquy for One Dead Bruce Dawe Ah, no, Joe, you never knew the whole of it, the whistling which is only the wind in the chimney's smoking belly, the footsteps on the muddy path that are always somebody else's. I think of your limbs down there, softly becoming mineral, the life of grasses, and the old love of you thrusts the tears up into my eyes, with the family aware and looking everywhere else. Sometimes when summer is over the land, when the heat quickens the deaf timbers, and birds are thick in the plumbs again, my heart sickens, Joe, calling for the water of your voice and the gone agony of your nearness. I try hard to forget, saying: If God wills, it must be so, because of His goodness, because- but the grasshopper memory leaps in the long thicket, knowing no ease. Ah, Joe, you never knew the whole of it... I like Bruce Dawe. He just my be my favourite Austral...

There was nothing left. No reason, no conscience, no understanding; even the most rudimentary sense of life or death, good or evil, right or wrong.

Here is a self portrait. I’m calling it Portrait of a lady in a dirty window . Shocking, isn’t it? However, it is apt! Samhain , Nos Galan Gaeaf , Hop-tu-Naa , All Saints , All Hallows , Hallowmas , Hallowe'en or HALLOWEEN . It’s Theme Thursday and we’re talking about the festivals traditionally held at the end of the harvest season. Huh? No wonder Australians have trouble with the concept of HALLOWEEN. For the record, in my thirty-two L O N G years on the planet, I can’t say I’ve ever seen ghosts ‘n goblins, trick ‘n treaters or Michael Myers stalking Tasmania’s streets at the end of October. [That said, I did once see a woman as pale as a ghost turning tricks that looked like Michael Myers in late November one time.] Despite the best efforts of Hollywood, sitcoms, and innumerable companies; it seems Australians are impervious to the [ahem] charms of a corporatized variant of a celebration of the end of the "lighter half" of the year and beginning of the "darke...

In dreams begin responsibilities.

A life at sea, that's for me, only I just don't have the BREAD. That's right, Theme Thursday yet again and I post a photo of a yacht dicking about in Bass Strait just off Wynyard. The problem is, I am yet again stuck at work, slogging away, because I knead need the dough . My understanding is that it is the dough that makes the BREAD. And it is the BREAD that buys the yacht. On my salary though, I will be lucky to have enough dough or BREAD for a half dozen dinner rolls. Happy Theme Thursday people, sorry for the rush.

This will hurt me...

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