Monthly Archives: February 2013

 

Denis Murrell’s  ‘Untitled Details’ 

from a current exhibition at the Macau Museum of Art

(as captured by the Lizard)

 

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Flailing to Byzantium

Rae Desmond Jones

 
Old age is so poetic
With increasingly desperate attempts
To assert significance
Despite substantial evidence to the contrary

Redress the gap with money?
But you have never been wise,
& your mathematics is appalling.

Politics has appeal –
Winston Churchill puffing out his cheeks
With that wonderful (but phoney) voice,
Besides you never liked cigars.

Passion retains its dubious ascension
Where you still show creditable enthusiasm,
However it does bring back memories
You regret & others with which (at your age too)
You feel ashamed.

Be wise & sit on a cushioned chair
On the verandah –
You can puff a pipe & cough
Now & then, when you lose a word
Or train of thought.

There is always that elephant in the room
Trumpeting sotto voce over the evening news.

When death arrives
You hope he might politely knock
& if his visit is short it will be over quick
& you will be gone

 

 

 Debby Sou Vai Keng’s  ‘A Touch of the Invisible’ 

 

from Inexplicable Collisions

 

an exhibition opening this Friday night at 6 pm 

at CCI — Creative Macao

 

15. a-touch-of-the-invisible-No.-1-觸摸無形之一

 

 

 

 

 

 

It doesn’t take long to forget

 

Richard James Allen

 

our lusts and desires our shudders and urges our repetitions and revelations our confusions and disquiets our flickers and our secretions our dampnesses our rages our flurries our convulsions our hiccups our furtive glances our shy cover ups our stepping in for the kill our taking the bullet our intellectual vanities our sordid little pleasures our bones and tissues perfectly in tune or blithely forgotten our obsessive minds our broken minds our rising above our minds like departing space ships leaving their landing gear forever on the surface of far away planets our desultory attempts at this and that our failures to recognise our failures to clean up our messes to cut our losses our broken hearts our country and western songs the warmth of our beanies and the safety of our silly acquired gestures our capacity to recall the pitch of a string vibrating our cleverness and our manipulativeness and our faculty for imagining the work of god’s hands the climbing ropes that connect us as we fall our being born together and growing up together and never forgetting each other though we never think of each other the imprint of our personalities and the muffins that come apart if we try to put too many raisins into the mix our utter selfishness our desire for dick soft sweet hard long dick freed from the tyranny of rubber our lapping at each others torsos and soft crevices our need to put fingers hands wrists elbows biceps shoulders heads and nipples up past the fronds of dewy damp hair through the crease between the legs and into that deep cavity that ends in the universe our giving so much pleasure we almost forget about our own we don’t care about our own we see the smallness of our own our utter hopelessness the utter helplessness of our situation our wish to care for those whom we love above all else the completeness of our love for those we love our ability to love everything to be love our terror of dying alone our greater grief for those who are left behind our frantic attempt to pass on the best things the good things before it is too late our finding in giving the whole reason for our being our sheer blindness as to what has come before us and what will come after the prisons we have constructed of our certainty and uncertainty our difficulty in staying concentrated on what really matters or even what doesn’t the tiny frames of our technological great leaps forward the brass band parade of our self-delusions our willing gullibility to the spin the pitch the hype the fear in our eyes the market we have made of each other our specialty in selling and hating the signs we have set up that are meant to guide us the countless accidents we would rather not think about the numberless mistakes we have made and those we have yet to make the to do lists the shopping lists the prize lists the contact lists the wish lists the new year’s resolutions lists the love and hate lists that go out with the papers for recycling the innumerable turning points in our innumerate stories the band-aids we apply to our pains the self-help lines we forget we have left on hold while we are talking to someone we could love but don’t take the time to the lost in space reruns we struggle to set our set-top boxes to tape a year in advance the beautiful woman we catch a glimpse of through a window on our way home watching TV in her slippers alone the prayer that we may be useful before we perish.

 

 

 

 

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What if there was no more bloody rain…

Rae Desmond Jones

 
a middle aged lady in a corner
holds the Sydney Morning Herald high
in The Last Drop Café as feathery lines of rain
piss down on Marrickville Rd

an umbrella drips behind that door
– we should complain –
what if there was no more soggy rain?

If you wish for this (& get it)
our planet’s air will tear
then electric storms will poach you –

may the icey earth freeze-dry you
into a milky eye of glass –

then I hope a randy camel
will chew your balls right off,

so go choke on a polluted reefer
then drown in a sea of mud,
aah that feels good!

now a pretty waitress brings me coffee
topped with cinnamon, sugar,
the colour of desert sand

 

 

 

 

The space between

 

Vivienne Glance

 

With no sense of purpose, leaves scuttle

back and forth down the laneway.

 

Back and forth, a willy wagtail jidji-jidjis

onto the sun-cracked tarmac

 

turrets of meaning strut along the edges

of its voice and render me silent.

 

In silence I try to climb this façade of species

see my reflection in the moat of its eyes.

 

The wagtail leaves the ground for a wall

pecks and peeps – a happy greeting –  a warning?

 

There is no stopping the pulse of that tiny heart

trilling out of its vibrating beak.

 

The white stripe on its back, like sun shafts,

cannot keep still, to stand still would be defeat.

 

I trip on the fragments of tarmac

buckled with weeds and ants.

 

There’s a kind of sadness in my concrete fortress

a deep tremor holds me rooted in glued-together thoughts –

 

I wonder to myself

if the wagtail is smiling.

 

My artistic conception of life_sm

Smut on wooden seats thirty years ago, now I speed to Suzhou
280 kilometres an hour, flying by endless pallid high-rise blocks
en route from peasantry to this spurt of pleasure in shopping,
more luxury goods pumping social capital sold here than anywhere.

Monopoly Suzhou_sm

The old games and gods are disappearing, scrub any thought
of a golden age, our luxury is silver, speeding past the sustainable,
using others to entertain, feed, arouse, nurse and wipe up after us.

Suzhou, garbos_sm

 

 

 

Nurse

 

She’s blowing

into my pyjamas. Into my pyjamas

she’s blowing & blowing, & a doctor

is hammering. He’s

hammering & hammering. My pyjamas

full of nails. On which wall

should I hallucinate a ladder, a nurse

climbing that ladder? Desperate

to escape. From me? The doctor? Not me: tethered

to this bed by a chain, a heavy chain

that Nurse attached to my collar (the collar

that identifies me as a Category Three patient). Which

brings me to the question: Why

am I here?

I know

why I’m here. I’m here

for Vigilance, a Simple who, for his own safety,

must be constantly monitored. Who left that window

in that basket? They did, the padres, the

pushers of glass with knives to cut

the Mexican square from which, again, as always

I’m excluded, left to fend for myself, set upon

by bandidos, a bullet smashing my jaw. It’s

floating, my daughter’s violin, set free, moving away

from the room where the game-bags are kept. Who left

that dog chained to a post? Who’s sewing it, what’s left

of it, into my skin? – my skin of glass (for vigilance) into

which a nurse is blowing, & a doctor is hammering.

 

 

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