This will hurt me...

  Night light. The road to Whyalla, South Australia. Listening to Music, Getting Horny The air is acerbic, bitter, abominable in its annoyance— but then, the music. It hums, a mellifluous aurora, diaphanous as gossamer, sliding into my ears with astonishing aplomb. I do not want to be here, beleaguered by the banalities of daily life—its atrocious hullabaloo, the appalling humdrum—but the sound, the sound is different. It is always different. The beat is a clandestine caress, as capricious as it is compelling. I feel it move through me, not delicately, no. It hits with a benevolent violence, awakening something deeply familiar. An ineffable ache stirs, somewhere between ribcage and hips, a strange, sublime longing that becomes suddenly unavoidable. It is this: the music touches, then taunts—now casual, now intense, now furious, moving like lithe fingers across skin. My thoughts blur, my body answers. A dreadful conundrum: to sit still or to feel everything. The melody does not care...

Experiment on the way home #1. Sandy Bay Road, Sandy Bay. July 2013. Here is a poem that I wrote in two minutes about another poem that I wrote in one minute. I consider it... ...an experiment. I Wrote A Poem , Kris McCracken I wrote a poem once. It was a good poem. A poem like no other poem you have never heard. The poem - that I wrote - a draft a play a practice exercise game. It was a good poem. But I threw it away. Experiment on the way home #2. Sandy Bay Road, Sandy Bay. July 2013.

Another day, another photograph of rigging. You will note that today, there is no frigging in the rigging , as the navy has just passed a law against such activities. Henry and I did a little experiment before: poem writing. After a long and arduous explanation of rhyme and metre , we set about writing his first ever poem ! Henry supplied the core concept, and the key words that rhyme, I banged it together into something [hopefully] servicable. Without further ado... Henry's First Ever Poem If I were a little fish I would have but just one wish my one wish would be to fly doing such would make me cry

Here are the silos down in Salamanca again on a brisk autumn afternoon. I am sick of the sight of those silos, yet I keep taking photographs of them. That is the first sign of my debasement. I need a good dose of revolutionary zeal. I need some consciousness raising. I need a stiff drink. Here, have a poem from a younger version of me. Dialectical Materialism #12 To inhale the feeling that radiated the room was to breathe in visions of tropical beauty, lazy days lying on beaches to taste an unknown something that reached right down into my testicles. Motionless in a darkened corner, my chance had come, but alas, a strange fear gripped me and I could not. I'd have liked to pay some service to your eyes; a deep blue sea raging fiercely on the inside as angels cluster around the blessed iris. And yes I know that I'm the most useless being to have ever walked on this earth. But you will never know how much I wanted you. (I'll never say)

Here we are on Hunter Street, outside the University of Tasmania's Art School looking towards what remains of the working port. It's an interesting nexus of ideas at work here, and is replicated in Launceston, where their Art School is located with an old railyard. Deliberate? Who knows! Here's a romantic poem today. Woman Her hair... shimmered. Her eyes... sparkled. Her smile... glimmered. Her neck... glistened. Her pancreas... excreted.

Here you can see the Tasman Bridge as seen from the CSIRO building down in Battery Point. Now here is an experimental poem! i n s i d e o n e e m work। a d e o s thing rder to