… & ### - for Pam Brown

… & ###

for Pam Brown

after endings and spacings

thanks

 

we knew our bodies were political

           as soon as we could crawl                

               

 

it’s punch chew eh son

(sounds like CJ Dennis)

 

in for a rollick linger

random jot

 

strange days

(and when were they not?

 

here there fragments of the cat

yes simmered to infinity

 

sit at home looking out my window

imagining the world has stopped

 

and it has!

I take my poetry drops  

 

you promised crooked pages

on the never never

(first principle of poetry publishing –

lose other people’s funds

and … slowly enough…

maybe they won’t notice?)

 

two bad summers then one not at all

reef bleached

 

I, strident                

 

who is it this time?

writing straight conversation

seasons nose to arse

to illustrate how things go on without our sayso

 

why worry is emoh ruo

for us the inner world instead

and all around my handheld device

even the great books there

but no one lives that long

 

Stertorous should be some mountain in an ancient world

 

now there is a disease for everyone

(one more ironic failure of calling it democracy)

 

a sideways glance

bird’s view to you

 

on to apocalypse where we began

 

life behind a police line do not cross

plastic tape film crew pretending

as close as we got

 

sozzle up and it’s just desserts

don’t even need a Friday mind

 

drily execrable

(everyone’s survival

was somebody’s bad news)

 

shiraz

(a spell of sorts)

some say interpunction

glyph news

 

I looked for money and printer on e-bay

now my problems are solved

 

in hell still today

they are tracking the changes

they give the commas names

 

in iso out with my pet cloud

 

a semi-colon for your constipation

 

the band here’s called ‘Snot and the Silver Sleeve’

 

all seasons black here on country

was, always will be

but the boats

a swim for it

who set the fire to inferno?

who ate the macro-fauna?

 

Smoko won’t hold hose

 

remember

nation of toilet paper hoarders?

(this since the present age began)

a scuffle in the aisles

notice how little of the pandemic reaches tv fiction?

       … sinister

 

I’m cooking up a new series

to be called ‘men who made Australia worse’

starts with Little Johnnie Howard

goes

 

so much for which we must blame

I am showcasing the Wollstonegrad rat

(Gina Rhinehart gets a spot too, don’t worry)

 

cross my mind and hope to

 

being alive is one thing

Les told me he often wonders who wrote his poems

and I think that’s probably a good thing

like becoming a river spirit

because you get the right sort of encouragement

just in time

 

memories of dreams crop up where else but

 

morse binary reductionism

sing with me dot dash

 

during the second year in pyjamas  

clocks tell time elsewhere

but that could be here

 

try not to touch

it’s flit or fit

and wash till your gone

(the natural responses)

 

they put the Cretan liar in charge for a bit

(actually a few years)

was Zeno’s arrow on the swerve

and taught us

 

…

 

Afghanistan is over tonight

we were the willing

did what we could

and now, from offstage

round neck the comic cane

(stealth drone)

it’s actually a western

those extras just happen to be there

could probably still be hired

 

did you ever hear that coffin sound?

means another poor boy’s in the ground

 

###

 

do you know what happens if you hit enter

immediately after ###

just try it, I dare you

(I mean has to be on its own separate line)

 

a similar thing with

 

***

 

double dare!

(but it’s not the same)

 

a villanelle snuck unseen in

the rhyming haiku’s dark

speaking of which

 

you can’t see Neptune with the naked eye

unless you’ve had yours peeled

 

never

            the

                     less

 

something is always crossing my mind

let’s call this a transit

(sake of argument

or could declare them floaters)

 

now I only appear where I am

 

always right in my bubble

friends agree

and plenty of evidence there

 

Elysium – recovering life in particular

Gladys-hell, we call lockdown now

 

chips spit if you fry in a damp pan with oil

 

minor intervals, notes bent to fit

 

and sorrow goes to anger too

like Barnaby Joyce come back

all red in the pizzle from over excitement

second in charge again

it’s not a world you’d recognize

 

more coal, please

thermal, coking too

 

lyre fervid

smoke just the heads

the seeds go pop

 

and by the way

we still want to know

what is Arvo for morning (?)

 

pinch and punch tomorrah