Home Invasion

Geiger County

Puppy Stones

glimmer after glimmer

I went to see Craig Powell read some of his poems last Wednesday night. This one is from a chapbook titled Poems For a Marriage, 2008.

The Goldfish Pond

When you gaze in as a child you wait for the fish -
the rocky ooze and then a glitter of bronze
or tangerine. A few moments only. Every one
has its own darkness to swim to. As though
you were staring into the heart of the earth.

Now like a child you sleep facing your wife
more restful knowing you could open your eyes and watch her.
In the morning you can tell her the dream you had.
You were four years old gazing in a goldfish pond,
glimmer after glimmer, one depth and then another.

Tie them down

Has Rolf Harris met Gerry Harvey?* Because when it comes to casting ill-natured judgement upon the voiceless and vulnerable, they appear to be of one spirit. This is from today's Age:

"Aboriginal children were never disciplined or expected to adhere to rules until adulthood, the 78-year-old [wobbleboard virtuoso] said in Melbourne. 'Till then, they have a totally carefree life to do what they want, and that quite often involves smashing everything that they have.'"

Does the former British Paints spokesperson have any evidence to back up such a broad brush assertion? He doesn't say (or it wasn't reported); but, mercifully, he does offer us a solution to the problem of generational dispossession, discrimination and disadvantage among Aboriginal peoples: they should "get off their arses."

Interesting that he now regrets including the lines "let me Abos go loose" and "they're of no further use" in the original recordings of Tie Me Kangaroo Down, Sport. He appeals to historical context when he says:

"It was a mark of the times, done totally innocently with no realisation that you would offend at all … just trying to create a fun song for a bunch of Aussies who were drinking themselves stupid on Swan Lager in London at the time."

What a shame our nation's most zany royal portraitist didn't also appeal to historical context when mouthing off about Aboriginal dysfunction.

Interesting, also, that at his Melbourne appearance yesterday he was wearing a Ken Done tie. I suppose Ken is a mate of Rolf's. One of the blokes he might have clinked Swan Larger stubbies with in a London pub many years ago.

Actually, considering that he is suffering extreme disadvantage himself at present, Ken should thank Rolf for promoting some of his merchandise.**


* The billionaire land-fill merchant who recently described homeless people as no-hopers.
** Due to an overabundance of honour (or trust, I suppose), Ken, a celebrated placemat decorator with commercial interests in primary colours and souvenir depictions of someone else's Sydney, allowed his financial advisor to whittle away a $61.5 million dollar fortune over a four year period to merely $8 million.

Exciting First Lines I

At once whatever happened starts receding.

(From Philip Larkin's Whatever Happened?, 1953)

Multi-story Walt

Walt Stains

Relic

Rainy Road

Tongues roiling
Like an exorcism
Fit of veins
Clench of words
Frothed like spat-out skin
Like storm drain soup
Bleached into each
Pair
Of red mongrel eyes

How do they want
To be wanted?
How do they know
How to ask?

I'm riding through
On the 393
A shifting voyeur
Craned in these contexts
Spilled on these panto
Fetishes
Home on another rainy road

Single Walt Whisky

King's pleasure

Well, things were tight in King County, Texas.

McCain:  151   93.2%
Obama:   8      4.9%
Other:     3       1.9%

At the close of counting, a posse was dispatched. The eight Democrat voters were rounded up and shot. The three Other voters were forced to do the shooting (before shooting themselves).

Janet Reframed

Are they ours?
Hovering above the table -
You've said you wouldn't know
How to trust me
When they came -
But now
You see
Like messy little clouds
Are those angels actually ours?

(This might have been foreseen)
My friend
(Urgent
Naive to the point of fragile):
There are no angels
The surface is blank

Yet here again we are
Stopped on opposite sides
Lost in another of his loopy stories
Each a companion to yet each smaller
Than himself
Thinly crafted like the furniture
Stumped around at our feet

And the table
Creaking slowly upwards
Slinged in the centre of us
Polished and somehow
Doubly impressive today
An Edwardian showpiece
With quatrefoil stretchers
And barley twist legs
Juddering to its agreed height
Just above our noses
Where it rests now
But with no apparent hostage
Of angels, I urge

Yes?

Oh, but it's his turn
To close in on the verges
Set fact beside fact and find
Something
Neither of us wants to see
Or wants
To be charmed by the invisible
Is a step in the wrong direction
To own it is proof