Monthly Archives: August 2016

Donald Trump may lose
the general presidential election,
but he may win BIG time
within a b-r-o-a-d-e-r $cope.
Can you imagine The Donald Trump Show
like The Howard Beale Show
in the 1976 multiple Academy Award winning movie
Watched by 40,000,000 Trump-voting viewers
in prime time Monday through Friday,
it would feature political commentary
by Donald (“known knowns, known unknowns and unknown unknowns”)
Wisconsin Governor Scott
(“Collective bargaining isn’t a right, it’s an expensive entitlement.”)
Chris (Bridgegate) Christie and Sarah (Iquitarod) Palin;
business analysis by Steve Forbes, Jr., Carl Icahn and T. Boone Pickens, Jr.;
good time religion by Jerry Falwell Jr. and Ralph Reed, Jr.;
sports by Iron Mike Ditka, Hulk Hogan and Bob (The General) Knight;
entertainment by Puff Daddy and Kid (Devil without a Cause) Rock;
and sponsored by NRA, IDPA and AEA.

Danny Gentile #30 – Lamprey and Candle-Fish

Lamprey & Candle-Fish

A mouth. Then a tongue with a single tooth. Like Dracula
permanently sucking on the body of some gigantic victim.

It is a tenacious thing that is clinging on for (genuine) dear-
life. Unfortunately, it is not quite capable of that illumination

that the name suggests. We have to leave that to the Candle-
fish; even then it will take some determined orchestration.

Every politician should have a Lamprey. Give it to them
so that they will have an understanding of what it is like

to be there constantly, often unnoticed. And in the darkness
of retirement, give them a Candle-Fish, let them dry it out &

stand it upright, try & coax a flame without a skerrick of flint
or even a gas cigarette lighter. The fish, gives its all in this

odd immolation. The Lamprey continues, attached to some
great beast, travels on, through a life of incessant feeding.

From Nine Poems on Aquatic Life

Anna Couani #207 slippery poem

like in the dream
where you walk through a room
full of beautiful artworks
that you made yourself
irretrievable on waking
the poem can glisten
in its dreamlike state
tantalising with its phrasing
leaving a small tail to pull on
but evaporating on waking

Anna Couani #206 unlost poem

there is that poem unfortunately not lost
but actually published and republished sometimes
and you wish you’d never written it
especially when people like it
people who would only like something like that
because of the thing you don’t like about it

Anna Couani #205 to do list

find starch to use as glue
old type in box
add colour to artwork
use plate oil to change
viscosity of ink
print as monoprint
colour print on reverse side of rice paper
use pigment in glue
press book
post on Facebook
take book out of press
take close up of poppies
upload photos
write list of instructions
before forgetting
transfer list to other book
scan textbook for lists
of instructions
create lists from YouTube tutorials
remember to write list
find small saw

Danny Gentile #27
ANZAC Memorial Walk – Today

1. (incongruity)

Frank Sinatra
behind razor-wire
on the ANZAC Walk
made my day.

2. (surfboards)

Surfing must be
a meditative activity
searching the horizon
for a moment
to carry you in.

3. (horizon)

Here the world
continues enlarging
away from the shrinkage
of internet and television

and like the First World War
this route carries you
across the precipice
from one world to another.

Linda Stevenson #30 August 30 Morning


This morning
my cat lady
smells of it;.

Cat urine is too much for some,
they move to the back of our bus.

She notices.

I move closer
I can deal with this annoyance
she needs to talk.

Kerri Shying R # 62 New Order Pruning

New Order Pruning

The scent – a camphor laurel
was our first thought
my friend standing at the car door
such a rare occurrence
in the street these days

all inside all erecting screens
and nooks
forever out

startled I saw the tree
the old tree – the verge tree
the one that had held the rope swing
Donna’s rope swing for her kids
before she moved away
tired of having the cops called
by the neighbour in between

a week before
that tree had been a fright
like the minute you see your kid
with a Mohawk
where the choirboy curls once grew
all the limbs lopped
but still a stump

I say I saw a tree
I saw nothing
I saw the ground the ground
before the house
mulched up fresh
with tree
one must suppose

the smell
the smell of eucalypt the
complex life of her
stunned us

Yesterday I took the dog
on my walker I wheeled up there
with coffee bags and with my
hands I scooped up what I needed

in the night we breathed
in and out

one heavy linking lung
of memory peace and plenty

undead tree
zombie street
be mine

Janette Hoppe #30 Throw Down

For Kerri

two fingers in
and all knuckled up
recently diagonal in this king sized bed
I’m getting to know myself
a little more intimately

in stroke
and Kerri’s ‘cucumber husbands’
remind me of the time
I found my house guest
doing something indigestible
with the fruits and vegetables
I should have tweaked
when the door was locked

I couldn’t look at vegetables again
especially those elongated sorts

my eyes permanently damaged
and other than chasing Alice
down the rabbit hole
or prescribing carrots for better vision
I just had to breathe…
close my eyes and breathe
erase it from my memory

oh this madness!
perhaps it comes from dusting off the cobwebs
or perhaps from the hash cake
saying “EAT ME” “EAT ME”
this first time getting to know myself ritual
is not really panning out
in this tightly clustered head
and like Alice I am lost in a fantasy world
with carrots and cucumbers hanging around me
like florets round the central flower
that showy reproductive structure
oh the madness!
oh the madness!
just breathe,
close your eyes and breathe
do not commit this sin to your memory.

Lizz Murphy – Poem 236: Lilt xxxii. The Shankill Butchers

LILT xxxii.

c. 1968

I buy a mini kilt
c. 1975
and a gold maple leaf pin
with green and white borders
My grandmother says
people will think I’m a Catholic
I say sure it’s all one god

c. 1975

We’re in Australia
Ten Pound Immigrants
My mother writes
glad you went they’re cutting
the throats of mixed couples
I say there’s no god worth that

Mikaela Castledine #232 A writer is still a writer

A writer is still a writer
when they’re not writing
its not like some other profession
one you’ve retired from
or a membership you’ve let lapse

it’s more like a nationality
born to
or become a citizen of
the Principality of Writing

you will always belong
even if you’ve gone native
in some foreign occupation

still hand on your heart
called to attention
singing the anthem
rearranging the words
in your head

and even if you’ve been turned
traitor traitor tergiversator
your tongue decoded
the lead freed from your pencil

still last of all
you will scrape a signifier in the dust
with the toe of your boot

Mikaela Castledine’s ‘It’s not spring’

It’s not spring until you go out in it
not if you are inside soaking in your gloom
or curl bound in the
moleskin softness of your sheets
looking at flowers forcing into bloom
on the screen in someone else’s feed
it’s not spring until you go out in it

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