posted on September 11, 2007 at 2:09 am

walking up n down buns-wicke street blowing a bone
after the motel man seemed quite antipathetic to the idea
i drift off to times in this city as a childe of les n joyce
these houses on stilts and the wild vegetation
under the house with howard n angela playing
i threw a dart in russells leg
he just stood there looking at me
with “how could you?” in his eyes
he didnt even call out to mum
we go to a swimming pool complex called the oasis
the water in the different pools is freezing
look heres the film of me endlessly jumping off a diving board
dad thinks its funny in reverse
so in this version
after my white freckly body hits the water
and goes under
there is a strange tumescence in the water
and with a great gush
lo the boy appears again
and ascends back up
to land perfectly surefooted back on the diving board
dripping dry suddenly
uncle ralph n auntie stella didnt seem to like me much
they could already see me going bad when i was 6 or 7
auntie stella was an oddity in our midst
an australian………
everyone else was english
sometimes my dad would do funny impressions
of the way she called mum joycie
and couldnt see that (in those days)
you didnt call my mum joycie
any more than youd call me stevie
but thats what (we) australians do
we put an ie or y on the enda yer name
whether you want it or not
it evens up the odds a bit
takes you down a peg or two
anyway brisbane was wild in those days
so amazingly hot
(always there at xmas!)
ralph was an old pal of dads from the british marines
this guy i could imagine in warfare
he seemed like the real deal to me
whereas my dad i found it hard to imagine him
bayonetting the enemy
it wasnt what my dad wanted to do
he wanted to have a cigarette with em
and talk about cars
but uncle ralph
i reckon he was more a warrior type
i could always hear em telling my dad
he was too soft on me
and that i was too cheeky
if only they had known that one day
i’d be back
walking up the main drag smoking a spliff
with a little box that could play 15000 songs
and headphones that cut out the outside noise
and i was listening to it all in random order
and i was getting a sign from my dead friend
via my little music box
and i stopped in to the same night owl shop
n bought raspberry speed
in a funny little can
and the r. speed n the spliff n the yoga i’d just done
and the cold shower i’d just taken
and i saw m the v
and im-ber
wave at me from a bus
and then my song came on my shuffle
a song i did with martin k
and for a moment it all locked in
like 5 lemons coming up in a fruit machine
the planets were aligned
i moved up that hill more like a rubbery youth than olde manne
energy n wherewithal surged in my body
and i dreamed a million wondrous things
which i instantly forgot again
i bought a wheatgrass juice which is liquid light
i turn up eventually at gig
now the judy wright centre
is a lovely venue no matter how you look at it
and its really nice to do yer thing there
i saw linda neil do her new passion club the night before
with tragic mandarin love story as closer
i knew how it looked from audience
i mingled with people
i signed stuff for some very nice people
ranging from young ladies to one woman even older than me
im much more the congenial mature author
than wild abandoned rocker
which is much less stress on ye olde system
and i try to be polite
and i try to focus
its hard sometimes to focus
i just keep drifting off
all the time
i fall out of character easily
you see im not really any one fixed thing
maybe thats true for everyone
but i sense more continuity in other people
than i can feel in my self
i am mercurial in all its good n bad implications
after spending a whole life thinking who i could be
i am at last realising i am just potentials
to be realised by whomever im with
no one gets a full real me
not the church
not my family
not my friends
certainly not my enemies
not strangers either
there is no full real me to be had
personalities rush in to fill a void when it becomes apparent
to one i am a saint
to another a villain
to some a genius
to many a fool
actually most people have never heard of me
and they dont give a tuppenny stuff
but anyway
its weird dealing with the public
i thought i would like it
and then i hated it
and now its ok but weird
pretty girls n ugly oafs
fans n people who want an argument
old ladies n shy young men
who can remain even handed?
can one be good at everything?
can you be a good poet n a gracious stranger?
of course you can
but was charlie baudelaire a nice bloke?
i doubt it
i think at the end of the day
being a nice bloke gonna get you into a heathens heaven
quicker than being an amazing poet
tho the world doth verily need more of both
i do feel like a bit of a dying breed here
the neo renaissance person i guess you could say
or a good all rounder at everything
someone who can maintain a certain aesthetic
thru out different disciplines
a certain thing you can depend on getting
anyway thats my lofty ideal
anyway thats my petty ambition
trying to be reasonable
trying to understand
trying to not let my restless mind
vent its wicked side on somebody vulnerable
trying to ignore outside appearances
(probably the hardest thing for any human to do)
i want to treat everybody the way i would want to be treated
i have also extended that to the animals and the trees
i want to create things that turn people on
just for the sheer sake of it
the creation and the turning on, i mean
poetry has no reason
poetry has no ulterior motive
the iliad is not grinding an axe
illuminations are simply illuminations
a beautiful day has no agenda
a bird in the sky
however beautiful it is
there is no reason for beauty
beauty is magic
you can sift for beauty in poetry
as you might sift for gold
poetry cannot be for money
its hard to fake good poetry
only ern malley could do that
ern malley accidentally wrote in my opinion
the best aust poetry EVER
next year they should get me to do erns entire oevre
set to music i would have composed
itd be a show stopper im sure
one way or another….
i dig poetry
i dig looking thru my klimt book with nk
when i got home
wow says sk n nk n the woofle whos also looking
boy that klimt
ooooh oh hes so damn bloody good
every curly line
every flower n womens faces
and ghosts in the ether
and lovers and naked rude ladies
everything screams his trademark genius
a style thats is so blindingly original
yet so hard to see what it is thats doing it exactly
very hard to replicate klimts style cos its elusive
the stuff is fucking unbelievably brilliant
i could never paint like this
but i might be able to capture some of these feelings
with music
let it all cross fertilize
its all permissible in art n music n love
thats it
my message
over n out

61 Responses to “memories of a free (poetry) festival”

    Error thrown

    Call to undefined function ereg()