A man of genius makes no mistakes. His errors are volitional and are the portals to discovery.

Springs and Magnets

They come from grey concrete buildings, fibro dwellings
faded pastel suburban nightmare landscapes varnished
viciously with repressed energy that explodes at night.
The night is like any other, the kids move slowly yet
surely creeping across crumbling bridges from afar
(and not-so-far), nervous impatience growing steadily.
The room is a pulsating beat spewing forth blue veils,
whispering secrets as eyes adjust to the flickering lights.
Fascinating flesh tones shifting at an unfamiliar speed-
slow motion flashes interfused within the experience.
Through the smoke and the pounding ultra bass
ambience, they twist cool, yet somehow impersonal.

Comments

KL said…

A chapter/section from the book that you are writing?

14 February 2009 at 22:56

Anonymous said…

Honestly this looks like the rest rooms for men at the Great Darke County Fair in Greenville, Ohio.

Abraham Lincoln
Brookville Daily Photo

15 February 2009 at 04:07

Kris McCracken said…

KL, no, but it is a stanza of a much longer poem. Not quite an epic, but not far short.

15 February 2009 at 08:31

Kris McCracken said…

Abe, the most interesting thing about this grey concrete monstrosity is that they built it right in amongst a whole bunch of Georgian sandstone buildings.

Is he Great Darke County Fair any good?

15 February 2009 at 08:32

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...

Hold me now, oh hold me now, until this hour has gone around. And I'm gone on the rising tide, to face Van Dieman's Land

Theme Thursday again, and this one is rather easy. I am Tasmanian, you see, and aside from being all around general geniuses - as I have amply described previously - we are also very familiar with the concept of WATER. Tasmania is the ONLY island state of an ISLAND continent. That means, we're surrounded by WATER. That should help explain why I take so many photographs of water . Tasmania was for a long time the place where the British (an island race terrified of water) sent their poor people most vile and horrid criminals. The sort of folk who would face the stark choice of a death sentence , or transportation to the other end of the world. Their catalogue of crimes is horrifying : stealing bread assault stealing gentlemen's handkerchiefs drunken assault being poor affray ladies being overly friendly with gentlemen for money hitting people having a drink and a laugh public drunkenness being Irish Fenian terrorist activities being Catholic religious subversion. ...

This will hurt me...

Search This Blog