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Showing posts from July 27, 2008

Peace is peaceful

I'm quoting The Dude in the title today, just so you know where we all stand. I've dug into the grab bag again and hark back to the morning of July 17, at a point where I only had one dirt magnet! It seems quite a while ago really. I am going to cheat today and again post someone else's poem, to give an idea of where my tastes lie at the moment. So here is a very lovely poem that Henry seems to enjoy quite a bit. Small Frogs Killed On The Highway James Wright Still, I would leap too Into the light, If I had the chance. It is everything, the wet green stalk of the field On the other side of the road. They crouch there, too, faltering in terror And take strange wing. Many Of the dead never moved, but many Of the dead are alive forever in the split second Auto headlights more sudden Than their drivers know. The drivers burrow backward into dank pools Where nothing begets Nothing. Across the road, tadpoles are dancing On the quarter thumbnail Of the moon. They can'

And to the man on whose shoulder the world must depend, I pray for peace and love: Amen

Apparently, there is some sort of organised sports festival about to happen. They are calling it "The Olympics". Can I be the first to say that I am officially 'over' the Olympics already? Does anyone actually care about them? I haven’t been interested in the Olympics since the Soviet Union was on the scene. I'd rather watch Ezra sleep (although I would prefer that he did it at night). I would like to say that I don't hate them, it's just, "The Olympics? Meh!"

The living dead? Number four in a series

Here we have a juicy little number from July of 1997. T'was an excellent year: I discovered the joys of political theory, 'playing it cool', Wilco's Being There , a certain degree of 'swagger' and was turned off the UTas English Department for good. I also managed to get some poems, and even more prose pieces published here and there. I have chosen, however, yet another 'off the cuff' bit to post, as I think that time has been far kinder to it than the tosh that got in the luvvie journals. romeo and juliet now that i love (love!) you and you love me (lights out outer than outer can be) can’t can’t do any more (can’t!) (why cry now i can’t see?) me and you happy to be neither too far neither to be

Love is the power to see similarity in the dissimilar

Having two kiddies and just one blog inevitably means that I must strive - like Fox News - to be fair and balanced. Thus, today I present two photographs. The first, a serene little number featuring the lovely Ezra in the bath. As the video that I have posted previously , the littlest bloke doesn't mind a bit of a nap in all sorts of places (so long as he has had a crack at mum's boobs, of course). I have gone with black and white again, because heaven knows I have no idea how to take a decent colour photograph in the bathroom underneath those orange lights! One day I am going to get a halfway decent camera, until then, Photoshop will simply have to make up the difference. The second of the photos is of the not so little bloke, Henry. Here he is doing an Elvis impersonation in the children's room at Rosny Library. Check out those hips! Only twenty-one months old and he's already got the ladies swooning to his swagger. It's a good thing that I have such good l

Maybe poetry IS dead:Number three in a series

Here we go again, another quick one, this time from November 1998. This poem is a little heavy handed in the symbolism department, but I like it nonetheless. It rather depresses me that I play the 'homoerotic' card to shock (give that I don't find it all that shocking); but I figured that religious iconography, homoerotism and prostitution all add up to something offensive to someone out there. Forgive me, I was young... Last night i met Jesus no time ago. walking the wall “Jesus!” i cried. (inside) mine eyes fell down trouser level (the glory!) Christ stood still watching my every move.

It's been a hard day's night, I should be sleeping like a log

It appears to me that the terrible twos have appeared early in this household. This realisation, coupled with the reality that I was unsuccessful in getting more than thirty minutes consecutive sleep last night, Henry and I shrewdly decided to go on a LONG walk. Although it would be hard work on my tired, aching bones, it would put us in the position where we would be unable to murder each other without prompt arrest. A strategic course of action, I feel. The thing that garnered most interest from the odd couple along the way was a decent-sized ship pulling up on the other side of the river. Upon return and with the aid of Google, we found out that the ship is called British Liberty , it is listed as a “Chemical/Oil Products Tanker”, or to be more precise, a “Liquid Tanker”. Indian sailors primarily operate it, and its call sign is “MFLM9”. The marvels of the Internet also means that its every movement can be tracked at sailwx.info . Very nice! We decided to take the scenic route

Bez práce nejsou koláče

Jen has had quite a craving for cauliflower and broccoli ever since Ezra was born. There are only so many times I can pull out my Cream of Cauliflower , Cream of Broccoli and Cauliflower and Broccoli Gratin recipes, so my hand was forced to look elsewhere. Where I ended up was with a very nice Cauliflower Soup with Roquefort . Below, I have included a picture taken just moments before it was rapidly demolished. I have also included the recipe for you to try at home. Cauliflower Soup with Roquefort Ingredients 1 decent-sized cauliflower 75 grams of Roquefort cheese, crumbled into small pieces (any other blue cheese should do the trick if you're struggling to find Roquefort 2 bay leaves 25 grams of butter 1 medium onion, peeled and chopped 2 sticks celery, chopped 1 large leek, trimmed, washed and chopped three largish potatos, peeled and diced (I used Dutch Creams) 2 tablespoons crème fraîche, plus a little extra to serve (I used sour cream) salt and black pepper To serve: C

Poetry is not dead: Number two in a series

Alright y'all, continuing my own take on the promotion of gen-yoo-ine Tasmanian writing, I have another McCracken original poem to share with the world. I am saving a couple with nice homoerotic undertones that I really do like for the after dark crowd, and today will offer up a pithy little piece about fancying girls from the lazy days of early December, 1998. time gentlemen please is it the way that she belies a ‘no’ of ‘yes’ (surely Audrey herself interminably is) rooting out questions (or answers) perhaps no more doings of sin ever the equal of you

It's all about the bucks, kid. The rest is conversation.

That Aesop dude was one smart cookie. For a Greek slave in sixth century BC, he sure has Henry figured out. Consider today’s photo. Exchange the pitcher for a drink bottle, and some filberts for three Smarties, and this guy is right on the money. The Boy and the Filberts A boy put his hand into a pitcher full of filberts. He grasped as many as he could possibly hold, but when he tried to pull out his hand, he was prevented from doing so by the neck of the pitcher. Unwilling to lose his filberts, and yet unable to withdraw his hand, he burst into tears and bitterly lamented his disappointment. A bystander said to him, “Be satisfied with half the quantity, and you will readily draw out your hand.” Cast me in the role of ‘Bystander’, Henry as ‘Boy’, get Michael Bay in to direct and we have box office gold!

A man's got to take a lot of punishment to write a really funny book

Today's image features (yet again) the new man in my life, dear little Ezra. To my eye, he evokes Caligula at his indulgent, spoiled best, draped across his mothers’ forearm. All that I can really say to this image is, “I wish I could do that”. That said, I wouldn’t want anyone to think that Ezra resembled Caligula in other ways, of course, unlike another certain mini-Mussolini that I can think of. Ezra is the most laid-back dude that I think I’ve ever met. As Blackie (of The Ruth Spoon ) noted in an earlier comments thread, the second biennial Tasmanian Living Writers' Week is coming up (from August 15 to 24). Canny readers will note that the week will last ten days, but remember, it is a writers week, not mathematicians week. I would speculate that they might be emulating the decades of the French Republican Calendar , but c’mon, we’re talking Tasmanian writers here! Anyway, I figured that it wasn't fair to keep putting up other people's poems without offeri

We few, we happy few, we band of brothers. For he to-day that sheds his blood with me shall be my brother

A quote from Shakespeare's Henry V today, although it could just as easily be from Henry McCracken. As you can see in the photos below, Henry was initially reluctant to pose for today's portrait of the boys in the household. This reticence stems from our refusal to pay him ten thousand Euros for the ten minute photo shoot. His argument has been that if it’s good enough for Naomi Campbell, it is good enough for him. My counter argument runs along the lines of "if Naomi Campbell were my daughter, she's be out back in the wood shed getting a darn good strapping". Despite the lack of a good strong strap or a woodshed, Henry conceded that perhaps Naomi Campbell was not the best role model to seek to emulate, and that he would happily comprimise and pose for a small bowl of lime jelly. Not happy with the next shot, we upped our offer to one small bowl of lime jelly and two smarties. This resulted in the following photograph. As you can plainly see, the stress