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

If you want to be loved, be lovable.

Henry admires the view.

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

Zeal, n. A certain nervous disorder afflicting the young and inexperienced. A passion that goeth before a sprawl.

Here I have tried my hand at the homemade sepia-toned photo. I wasn’t happy with the way that the sun had washed out some of the colours in the original, so had a bit of a fiddle because I like the look on Henry’s face, and didn’t want to pass on posting it. I have a tip for those of you burdened with the great, unceasing weight of parenthood. I have a new recipe, in the vein of the quick microwaved chocolate cake . Get this, microwaved potato chips . I gave them a run on Sunday, Henry liked the so much I did it again last night. Tonight, I shall be experimenting with sweet potato. I think that the ground is open for me to exploit opportunities in the swede, turnip, carrot and maybe even explore in the area of pumpkins. Radical, I know. I’m a boundary-pusher by nature. It's pretty simple, take the potato. Slice it thinly (it doesn't have to be too thin, but thin enough). Lay the slices on the microwave plate, whack a bit of salt over the top and nuke the buggers for five minut

This will hurt me...

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