Mr Guggenheim has much to answer for
Kandinsky's wheel
is turning in the sky
like a moon with spokes.
a small blonde child climbs
from your pocket
and nestles under your chin
safe
warmed
you feel the breathing
you sense her lightness
and her depth
her sleep is the shape
of your eyes
her dream is the music
of your voice
my heart is the coloured stream
of her curving love
and my heart is within you
I want it back.
Friday, 7 June 2013
Poem: Flying Fish: 1976
Flying Fish 1976
Skates teem
across the hard silver ocean
high clouds flatten upwards
towards the tight sun
and we
from a crag between niches
discuss
the lust of form.
one of my most favourite poems I wrote in 1982 AQUAMARINE
AQUAMARINE
the skin of apricots
float in these pools of summer.
afternoon warmth filters the bay.
routine bodies sigh
in an idyll of smoothed senses fed aquamarine.
weightlifters lift the white beach
and svelte bright nippled women lie back,
orgasmic brown-gold,
entering their inner temples
of the gull-tongued shimmers of bliss.
the children are either
bones or complete
and splash in the blue tide
like sticks, or like pink jelly.
he lies back thinking of sex with a woman
who is the colour of sand and biscuit and silk.
he glances across the white beach
for some sexed creature
he can no longer invent
nor less require
in the brass glare of summer's nakedness.
the answer of the sea
is the slapping of water on wood
and this could last forever
could could
in the shallows of the play
the way love could
could could
the hollow boats rock and talk in the bay.
the skin of apricots
float in these pools of summer.
afternoon warmth filters the bay.
routine bodies sigh
in an idyll of smoothed senses fed aquamarine.
weightlifters lift the white beach
and svelte bright nippled women lie back,
orgasmic brown-gold,
entering their inner temples
of the gull-tongued shimmers of bliss.
the children are either
bones or complete
and splash in the blue tide
like sticks, or like pink jelly.
he lies back thinking of sex with a woman
who is the colour of sand and biscuit and silk.
he glances across the white beach
for some sexed creature
he can no longer invent
nor less require
in the brass glare of summer's nakedness.
the answer of the sea
is the slapping of water on wood
and this could last forever
could could
in the shallows of the play
the way love could
could could
the hollow boats rock and talk in the bay.
my poem from 1983: Halcyon Street, Cessnock, NSW
Halcyon Street Cessnock New South Wales 1983
the houses in Halcyon Street
are made of old wood.
in summer the tin roofs warp up into the sun.
children play here and there
in their safe yards
or in their safe streets
or in the safe yards of others.
Halcyon Street is quiet by night.
The miners hold the miners' wives
and love them
or beat them
or manage between.
even by day
the street is quiet.
the miners are mining the dark
and the wives are mute.
it is only the children
playing here and there
in their yards
in their streets
or in the yards of others
that make a sound.
Van Morrison - Madame George.mpg/who else could get away with singing: the love that loves to love the love that loves to love the love that loves to love the love that loves to love.....this is Krishna Tantra Mindfulness Entrainment in a Pop Song! It's beautiful, and it's a song about a Trans-sexual, about buying her cigarettes and matches at the shops, and about a Drug Raid. It's beautiful Tantra.
intelligence and obscenity/ the new paradigm.
I was scrolling through the blog's various filtering systems and was asked if my blog contained Adult Content. I thought, well, it contains intelligent, cynical, and loving comments... but I don't think that those are called Adult Content anymore. This turtle house blog doesn't really go on and on and on about various cunts and pricks I've met on Earth, so I guess it's not really Adult Content.
gosh, I still love the word Paradigm, - and there's nothing half as satisfying as a Paradigm Shift...but I'm fucked if many people reading the blog really know what it means, because, I guess, they're not Adults...
gosh, I still love the word Paradigm, - and there's nothing half as satisfying as a Paradigm Shift...but I'm fucked if many people reading the blog really know what it means, because, I guess, they're not Adults...
Last Poem for today, from about 1980 I guess: it's called Sunday
SUNDAY/ The Door-less Room
he sits in a room
where the walls tilt away in ratios
that he doesn't have ways to understand.
there is a window at the end of the room.
the window is half opened, half closed.
the room is white
with the warmth of a dwindling summer.
autumn's mercy is at the window.
a season of leaves.
brown small birds skid on air.
air ploughs, almost brown,
spirals into white warm song.
she is in the yard.
he senses the sound of her skirt
in the fading breeze.
among the leaves.
beyond the yard are ten thousand yards
beyond his thoughts
there are ten or twenty years
leading to the sea.
there are twenty seas ending on shores.
on the twentieth shore
there is a yard
in that autumn yard there is a window
behind that window
he sits in a room that seems to glow
the window is open now
and so he climbs out.
he sits in a room
where the walls tilt away in ratios
that he doesn't have ways to understand.
there is a window at the end of the room.
the window is half opened, half closed.
the room is white
with the warmth of a dwindling summer.
autumn's mercy is at the window.
a season of leaves.
brown small birds skid on air.
air ploughs, almost brown,
spirals into white warm song.
she is in the yard.
he senses the sound of her skirt
in the fading breeze.
among the leaves.
beyond the yard are ten thousand yards
beyond his thoughts
there are ten or twenty years
leading to the sea.
there are twenty seas ending on shores.
on the twentieth shore
there is a yard
in that autumn yard there is a window
behind that window
he sits in a room that seems to glow
the window is open now
and so he climbs out.
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