Joe Hockey the Barbecue Clown Part II

In Part I of Joe Hockey the Barbecue Clown, Joe became distracted whilst cooking some chops and sausages for his constituents. Subsequently, the sausages burnt.

Joe Hockey: Okay. We've lost them. Sorry.
Neutral Bay Battlers: Boo!
JH: More Labor taxes.
NBB: ...
JH: Carbon.
NBB: Boo!
JH: So let me see what else is in the esky.
NBB: Yay!
JH: ... (rummaging) ...
NBB: Boo!
JH: What?
NBB: ...
JH: ...
NBB: Yay!
JH: ... (rummaging) ...
NBB: ...
JH: Ah-Ha! Roo patties.
NBB: ... Y ...
JH: Eh? Oh Christ, the chops are burning.

One Angle

Joe Hockey the Barbecue Clown Part I

Joe Hockey: Right, the chops are on.
Neutral Bay Battlers: Yay!
JH: Yep. And the snags.
NBB: Yay!
JH: But none of that organic muck the Birkenstock crowd prefer.
NBB: Boo! ... Yay!
JH: And beer. Fifteen slabs of full-strength Avuncular.
NBB: Yay!
JH: Yeah, but none of that nanny state herbicide the fun police prefer.
NBB: Boo! ... Yay!
JH: And look - a pinata!
NBB: ...
JH: It's Karl Marx.
NBB: ...
JH: As a pig.
NBB: Boo!
JH: Full of sugar-coated Whitlam-era shibboleths.
NBB: ... B ... Y ...
JH: Lollies.
NBB: Yay!
JH: Oh Christ, the snags are burning.

The Shopping Scientist and Mr Rat Part I

The Shopping Scientist: So, what do you reckon Mr Rat?
Mr Rat: About what?
The Shopping Scientist: What you're eating.
Mr Rat: I'm not eating anything.
The Shopping Scientist: Yes you are. (sotto voce) The reporters are here, remember. Is it sugar Mr Rat?
Mr Rat: No.
The Shopping Scientist: Well, if it were sugar, and you were eating it, you might be able to tell us whether it was fresh and hence a good buy, mightn't you Mr Rat?
Mr Rat: Probably not.
The Shopping Scientist: Well, probably yes that should be, actually, shouldn't it? Because sugar is just one of the thousands of ordinary shopping items we test for value and freshness.
Mr Rat: Sugar doesn't go off.
The Shopping Scientist: Oh, I think you'll find it does. As you and all of the journalists gathered here would know, each packet of sugar has an expiry date.
Mr Rat: Which doesn't mean anything. And anyway, if you're relying on the expiry date to work out whether something's fresh, why am I here?
The Shopping Scientist: You know, I'm going to end this conversation now. I mean, no one forced you to test the Ratsack yesterday ... that is all I will say.

The Defilements

Poetry-wise, Arthur Rimbaud lived a very short life. As Wallace Fowlie notes in his introduction to Rimbaud: Complete Works, Selected Letters, the Symbolist prodigy's "literary work was over" by the time he was 19. In November 1891, he succumbed to cancer (a tumour, which was first thought to be an arthritic disturbance, claimed his right leg in May of that year). He was 37.

The following poem is the third in a collection of erotic sonnets called Les Stupra.

Dark and Wrinkled

Dark and wrinkled like a deep pink,
It breathes, humbly nested among the moss
Still wet with love that follows the gentle
Descent of the white buttocks to the edge of its border.

Filaments like tears of milk
Have wept under the cruel wind pushing them back
Over small clots of reddish marl,
And there lose themselves where the slope called them.

In my dream my mouth was often placed on its opening;
My soul, jealous of the physical coitus,
Made of it its fawny tear-bottle and its nest of sobs.

It is the fainting olive and the cajoling flute,
The tube from which the heavenly praline descends,
A feminine Caanan enclosed in moisture.

Doubled

I approached
calmly
Like an animal
that has eaten

I took nothing
from the air
except
death

I wanted it back
the moment
before this

so painfully
I doubled
and lurched

somersaulting

into breath

or

finally

some kind of forgiveness

Eggplant

Sneaky Satires

According to Edmund Gosse,* John Donne's Seventh Satire "closes with an outburst of splenetic raillery against political personages in high places."

But I'm buggered if I can find any more than five of Donne's Satires. Meaning that I may never have a juicy (Jacobean) example of "splenetic raillery".


* Writing in The life and letters of John Donne, dean of St. Paul's.

Found Under the Sink

Lacy Jags

From Walt Whitman's Leaves of Grass (the original 1855 edition):

I too am not a bit tamed ... I too am untranslatable,
I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.

The last scud of day holds back for me,
It flings my likeness after the rest and true as any on the shadowed wilds,
It coaxes me to the vapor and the dusk.

I depart as air ... I shake my white locks at the runaway sun,
I effuse my flesh in eddies and drift it in lacy jags.

The Dancing Mania

The Dancing Plague of 1518:

Most of the 400 people of Alsace affected by the still-misunderstood mania died from heart attack, stroke or exhaustion. They had been dancing without rest for days.

The Dancing Plague of 2008:

Most of the traders on the floor of the New York Stock Exchange affected by the still-misunderstood mania went home rich but complaining. They had been dancing without rest for a few hours.

Key concepts:

- mass psychogenic illness
- genital retraction syndrome (or "penis panic")
- ergot poisoning

Curious observation (by historian John Waller):

"... there is no evidence that the [Alsace] dancers wanted to dance ... [they] showed expressions of fear and desperation."

Autumn Ivy

autumn ivy
tickled by sleepy draughts
gathering in whorls
ingeniously
on stone
until first light

shape of man or lizard
climbing through
a window
open
partially
inviting
any deciduous invader

cool ledge
body gone
last dim slink
then rapidly
unnervingly
unseen

no one suspected
it was a bedroom

Better For the Remembering

Remembering small black moons,
the burnt patches we circled with our fingers
or fingered with our circumscriptions
whenever we spoke of night
or the impermanent surfaces of home.

My skin on yours,
an overcoat stretched to meet
each suggestion of colour,
each hint of a bruise,
but covering only the flesh,
that was your birth sign,
passed from your mother and father
who also knew the circular marks
of incomprehensible Love,
the bewitching talk,
the double-dyed surprises,
and all the dark vertiginous exhilarations
it gives rise to.

Your eyes slunk against the cold,
your body a grey heap
pressed into mine;
your kisses picking and playing
a folk tune around my neck:
darkness embroidered again
without resolution
but better for the remembering.

Cocky Bridge Builders

"These babies don't break."



"..."

Scaredy Cat Kevin

"[Climate change is] the great moral, environmental and economic challenge of our age." Rudd address to the Brookings Institution, Apr 2007.

(… “moral” …)

"Australia needs new leadership on climate change." Rudd address to the National Press Club, Nov 2007.

(… “new leadership” …)

"Scientists – including the CSIRO – are telling us that Australia must achieve emissions reductions of 60 per cent by 2050 if we are to avert the significant economic consequences of dangerous climate change. These reductions can be achieved while maintaining strong economic growth." ALP renewable energy policy statement, Nov 2007.

(… 60% by 2050 …)

"Unless we take decisive action to tackle climate change and cut greenhouse gas emissions now, the future health of the Great Barrier Reef will be at serious risk." ALP reef rescue plan, Nov 2007.

(… “decisive” …)

"We share a vision for an ambitious, equitable, environmentally effective, economically responsible post-2012 global agreement on climate change and will work together to this end – drawing on our complementary regional and global relationships." Rudd address to the London School of Economics, Apr 2008.

(… “ambitious” …)

"Today, this generation - our generation - stands at the crossroads of history." Rudd address to the National Press Club, Dec 15 2008.

(… 5 pathetic per cent …)

Kerry the Baptist

Plague?
No
Then ...?
It's the back ...
Famine?
Well, the ...
Locusts, Flood, Fiery Destruction?
No, my mouth ... it's the back ...
...
Coca Cola (gasp)!
Yes ... well, I didn't ...
We must dunk you child!

When I'd've preferred nothing

Unscripted epitaphs

He was S-A-D and A-V-E-R-A-G-E ... what? ... I'm being honest!

Owed nothing, which is good, I 'spose ... what? ... oh yeah ... suppose ... hmm? ... yeah yeah, but that doesn't count ... uh ... no, he ... look, he ... I ... he returned ... not ... oh, for Christ's sake, I'm running out of space!

Never exploded.

Ran guns for the Taliban ... shut up, they'll get it.

Grew to dislike Bunnings (where I got this chisel).

A poem by Robert Frost

The Road Not Taken, 1920

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

What are they doing now?

Christopher Pyne's twitter:

Forgot my plastic comb!

Found one in Mrs Peterson-Smythe's bedside drawer. Between her bible and cigarettes. I'm attending a sing-a-long at the North Adelaide Centre for Demented Aristocrats.

George Brandis' twitter:

Ripped into an Asian shop attendant. Cited the Trade Practices Act. Two spring rolls at $1.50 each. I give her $5. She gives me $1.50 in change!

Told a primary school kid to tuck her shirt in. Cited the Public Nuisance Act. She started crying. Cited the Offensive Behaviour Act. She called for help. Gave her my card and cited the Get Over It Act (LOL).

Helped an old lady across the street. Cited the Good Samaritan Parable. She told me she voted Greens last November. Spat on her bonnet and cited the Self Defence Act.

Over coffee, a friend was sounding out middle names for his new boy. I said how about F--king Legacy Costs and cited the Welfare and Taxation Acts.

Ron Boswell's twitter:

Eating a pie.

And another ... these are good. Though the gravy's burnt my tongue, and some of it has dribbled on my pants, near the fly, which I haven't seen since the 60s (ROTFL).

One more. I can't stop!

I'm in the dunny now. Barnaby just texted me - he wants to know where I am. This kroger's for you old son!

Belinda Neal's twitter:

I'm giving up on this rock melon. The f--king thing broke my knife!

F--k!

Who was the c--t who sold me this piece of sh-t anyway! It's not RIPE!

Mogadon's kicked in. I'm going to watch Oprah now.

Malcolm Fraser's twitter:

I've often wondered about the interior of her majesty's bedroom (innocently, of course). What would her ceiling look like, for example?

Some gutter snipe just swore at my wife! Said she was a "hag" and a "traitor lover".

There really are too many adult book shops in this area (Mornington). They attract the wrong crowd.

Aneurysm

Dull hum
A beetle's walk
Blizzard of whittle sticks
Warm noodle aggregate
My brain
Infinitesimal carrier
Clumped dying knot
Sea sponge
A maze-like ooze-athon

Rosetta Keats

Traitor's Pass '47

Arnold

There round the dock goes Arnold,
elfin ears scanning
the morning's dark tide
on Cockatoo Island.

Walking over to the caisson,
kicking gently at its slot;
a high arm pointing out buds
of steam aft of the pumping station.

Everything as it should be,
zephyrs flashing on the brim
(his private joy); powerful suction
twisting the thickening brine

Down the scummy terraces
dawn workers pass my grandfather -
jockeying near the pit. A shouting match
ensues; bounty of doomed sea life
slithering on convict stone.

Fascist Rebirth

Oh dear, Robert Doyle is planning to eliminate "badly talented buskers" and "bogans" from the CBD. He also intends to re-open Swanston st to traffic.

In a 3AW interview, he explained that he will train a squad of South Yarra tattle-tales to patrol the streets of the city judging the talent of its buskers. These women will also assess whether any smelly or dishevelled pedestrians they encounter are bogans. If an individual is deemed to be a bogan, they will be arrested, taken to the newly-established Bourke st police station, beaten with rolled-up David Jones catalogues, and have the word "BOGAN" tattooed on their forehead.

While listening to Doyle's description of Stasiland Melbourne-style, Neil Mitchell was reported to have involuntarily ejaculated in his trousers.

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

Comments overheard ...

... in the seaside hamlet of Hackneyed.

"At the end of the day, I'll put the bins out, watch a bit of teli and go to bed ... Yeah."

"When all's said and done, there won't be anything to do or talk about, I suppose. Oh, we could play scrabble. But oh, tsst, silly! No we couldn't coz that would've already been done. Boring!"

"When push comes to shove, release your hold and tell the rude man 'alright, so no more armed robberies!'"

Dreaming

Legend has it that in his younger days, and with a belly full of merlot, Piers Ackerman once plucked up for a round or two in Jimmy Sharman’s tent. Funny story. He raised his fists to his nose but was instantly stricken once his lumbering adversary began to move. The next five minutes were sheer vaudeville. Two grown men chasing each other round the ring; one grunting and kicking up dust, the other skipping and shrieking like a clown.

The pitiful Piers, short of breath, was eventually hounded out of the tent, the car park, then the town, when it became clear he was all mouth. Next stop Sydney, and a job with The Daily Telegraph!

All you

Two tight fingers
Trying to hide the kernel
In a whorl
Your self already flown
Scattered or maybe
Eroding
This moment's coiled identity

Two pressed into one
Dead and no longer pushing
Deeper into the eye
Failing in their hunt for singularity
Failing in their slack retreat

Everything seems simple
When all you want is
All you get
Is all you