This will hurt me...

Lately I have been trying to look at things from different angles. Here is a fan on the roof of a building opposite my office. It reminds me of Boba Fett , and without the deadly laser. I have written a poem inspired by a meeting that I attended yesterday. Steering Committee They are the ones that know , or should at least. They are the ones that can , or could at least. They are the ones that don't , they don't you know?

It's been a week since I last posted a photo of 10 Murray, and I thought " that just won't do ", and went with this one. I particularly like the little ladders on the extreme left. I've long speculated that this is for harried DHHS staff, who've hastily decided to end it all with a swan dive down to Parliament's car park, but changed their mind (or indeed, while on the ledge, decided to 'get more height'). Here's a poem: Larry Larry's got it going on going on going on Larry's got to get going going gone down south left at the side of Larry's got it going on down south.

Despite the morning fog, you can't keep the bright orange paint of the Aurora Australias under wraps for too long! It is a wonderful sight in the mist, and a pity that it is wasted on a journey into work. Go on, have a poem. again The dissolution of an agreement, and disassociated from his very being, Desmond was disgusted. Disallowed an explanation and discouraged from discussion, this distorted his disadvantage. The discomfort upon discovering the distasteful details of dishonesty, Desmond discontinued to care.

What an embarrassingly late first post for the day. This is what happens when you don't prepare ahead! Above is the Hydro Tasmania building from my favourite angle. The powers that be decided to allow the bigwigs from HQ to spirit me off to Campbell Town for a pow-wow drawn from all of the fiefdoms across the land. Even better, I had my very own slot in this meeting to present my report! Even more better, I don't have a report! I can now see the logic that drove decision-making processes of the powers that be. It is a damn fine thing that I'm not shy and I can string a sentence or two together, lest I make a fool of myself! Anyway, I wrote a poem. thank you thank you for not thinking today about me.

A big ol' convict built warehouse with a small satellite dish, I'm not sure if this is art or not. I'll be honest with you though, I like the building, but I like the sky more! Have a poem that Henry and I wrote in one minute and thirty seven seconds. It rhymes ! Smells So I listen to the breeze while trying to appease my wife who did sneeze and brought me to my knees. She's such a naughty tease with a penchant for sleaze cripples me with ease and it makes my heart seize.

Things are looking up in Mawson Place ! [Thank you, I'll be here all week...] This one has a slight 2001: A Space Odyssey vibe to it, only without a bunch of randy monkeys carrying on. One imagines that Friday and Saturday nights more closely resemble that particular scene. Here is a poem: I She argued that I - as in me - must be mistaken . Knowing myself - the I in the equation - I doubted it. Far more likely - reckoned me - is that she has erred. Nobody is perfect, she says. However I must be close .

Showcasing the excellent zoom on my camera, this snap was taken laying flat on my back underneath a very tall tree. The leaf in question was very near to the top, a good seven or so metres away. I quite like this one. Here is a poem based upon an unfortunate experience that I had just last Sunday evening... To find a poo To find a poo is a shock. "Whose poo are you?" Looking hither, looking thither. The culprit remains at large.

This one is from a few weeks back and involved me on the ground, the Aurora Australis in the foreground, and the Diamond Princess in the background. The bird I didn't spot until post-production. Here is a poem. a poem an incident of indecent actions, activities and understandings can mean something or mean nothing to others. it is all about where you stand, or whether you sit.

From a few weeks back, when it snowed. I think this one is very "1970s Yugoslavia". Here's a poem pilfered from an overheard 'conversation' in the bus mall. Oh, the humanity! Thirteen years old. Grossly obese. "I fucken chundered EVERYWHERE " A moment, she reflected. "It was fucken AWESOME ." An evolutionary milestone.

Here is a seagull sitting on by the dock on the bay estuary. This one was leering ever so seedily at some Swedish backpackers who were eating chips on the dock. One might assume that the chips were being eyed off, but did you know that studies have shown that 10 to 15 percent of female western gulls in some populations in the wild are lesbians? Sometimes the things that I hear on the bus can be easily turned into poems of great profundity. Boyfriend my bloody computer doesn't work shitloads of software doesn't work heaps of memory doesn't work a thousand bucks doesn't work he made me breakfast this morning but he doesn't work

Here is a rebel gang of seagulls who routinely hang out on Elizabeth Street, just outside of Town Hall. I call the the Town Hall Mafia . Here's a poem: Humdrum You have had nature explained to You and You are bored with it.

Here is Henry wandering along Seven Mile Beach, on Hobart's eastern shore. He was looking for something, but was not quite sure what it was. I have a new concept to introduce today, the thirty second poem. It's an innovation sure to take the world by storm! Perfect Nobody’s perfect. Well, there was this one guy. But, I killed him. He was making me look bad.

Peeking over the fence, you can see the Hobart CBD from Battery Point. I think that this poem truly signals my break from sanity. babies babies babies babies babies babies babies babies it tastes like babies babies taste like bananas tastes like bananas it babies babies is tastes like ripe babies babies plump babies tastes like something

There is nothing finer than a paddle in a kayak on a brisk Autumn's morning! Here is a pair that I regularly see on the Derwent that seem to travel up from Taroona all the way to Cornelian Bay and back. That's a fair trip, and will get the shoulders aching. I've written a poem on the bus the other morning, and it rhymes. This is a rare thing for me, so consider yourself blessed. Abourist If I were a tree a tree I'd be a finer tree you could never see if I were a tree I'd never flee you'd not see me run away from thee

Go on then, here's the river again! The weather is starting to turn and the Antarctic vessels are returning to berth in advance of colder weather down south. Here's a poem. A Poem You! Me? YOU! Me? Yeah you. Me? Come 'ere! Me? Yeah you! Me? Comeoneovererebeforeifuckencomeonoverthereandfuckendragyouere! Me? You!

Canal is too fine a word, but I guess this is an off shoot of the Hobart rivulet that runs off through Sandy Bay. The week after I first moved to Hobart, this baby was rushing high enough to be classified as "flooded". That doesn't happen much. Go on, have another poem! Last night I met Jesus no time ago walking the wall (inside) mine eyes fell down [ the glory! ] Christ stood still and watched my every move stood right there (only closer) nothing but a smile and a wink

Here is an Australian Navy warship that was parked just outside of the office a few weeks back. They must have done twenty fire drills the way their sirens were blaring all day! Here is another one minute poem . things things (i say most things) most things are right not quite right to the point the point, she said, is that now is more than how . it was unbearable she was confident but unruly thoughts are always going nowhere fast Man give me one good man - she said - just one i say she said.

When I first moved to Hobart in the heady days of the mid-1990s, I used to have to walk up this lane carrying all of my groceries for the week. The lack of shorter alternative routes should explain the voice. Somewhat unwisely though, I also chose to jog up it every second day for "relaxation". It was an odd kind of folly, and demonstrates the extremes that vanity will drive us! Go on, here's another one minute poem , this time penned at the bus stop. indignation get it? got it. et cetera cornered into thinking specified instructions yeah... and she can tell you every detail every fucking detail.

I was thinking that I hadn't had a boat for a little while, I must rectify that. This is from a couple of weeks back. As usual, I like the juxtaposition of the ropes of the old timer and the sleeker lines of the modern. I do like the romance of sailing boats, but there is something to be said for the stabilisers of the modern cruise ship! Here is another one minute poem . A new kind of thinking? isn't it interesting? and isn't it odd? like a psychological melodrama or like an empty ...

If you stroll around Battery Point for even just a short while, you will find no shortage of evidence that we are indeed another colonial outpost of Mother Britain. I do wonder what these names mean to most Tasmanians though... Here's a poem that took me forty five seconds to write on the bus yesterday morning. I'm not sure as to the wisdom of posting it sans reflection, but sometimes I just can't be bothered. untitled i loved that time way back when way way way back when when you weren't talking to me. me. back then you knew everything and I knew nothing. but the nothing I knew knew your everything meant nothing.