Monthly Archives: September 2016

Robert Verdon, #314, National Museum, Canberra

politely perusing

old notebooks

legible handwriting from 1938

caplocked muskets, fixed bayonets

that helped to conquer

perhaps even on this contested site

memories of the old hospital they 9/11ed

in a lethal celebration of free enterprise

bell-shaped dresses from the 1840s

muslin and army uniforms

telescopes and coolamons

and Lenie Namatjira

Captain Cook’s discarded cannon that they cleaned up

a Hmong family garden near Melbourne

the Griffins and a platypus

and things from my youth

this is time and horror

and science and art wasted

as they, the practical, go about the business

of business

29.9.16 (#272) band practice by Myron Lysenko

band practice

the fat male vocalist
a little flat

Kit Kelen #274 – vestibular neuritis

vestibular neuritis / labarynthitis
first time in the ambulance
you might not notice much of your surroundings
the boys even put the siren on
for fun … or why does a dog lick its balls?
but the thing is time is different in there
every bump like a big swell in a little boat
you try to row but there’s nowhere to go
at least
no gunshot wound
not heart gave up
no sudden onset gangrene
really – I am so fucking lucky
and to fall over
just a wheelchair ride from the clinic
truly a charmed life!
still and all
my sight is sorry
my head explodes
as it spins
as I stay as still
as life allows
by golly
those crickets have volume today
between the brain and the inner ear
something has snapped like a guitar string
perhaps I was tuned too high?
or the weather brought it on?
I have been here before
and it was worse the other time
days till I could make things still
now closed eyes hypnagogic
visions one must not waste
when the head is still
the world is
a terrible thing
so tuned to the sphere
that the spin gets in
move your head
and the world goes round
butnot the way you’d want
it’s a fault in the wiring
the doctors keep shining
bright lights into it
that only makes it worse
I should explain abut the dizziness
but I don’t want you to have to understand
let’s just say
but you look like a drunk
but you’re having a lot less fun
you can’t hold food down
everyone takes some kind of balance for granted
… imagine the rug pulled out from under your feet
continuously, maybe for a week, even when you sleep
imagine the struggle to sit up, to stand
so like a bad dream
but you have to dream on
I spent a lot of time
worrying this could come back
and now it’s back
I’m still worrying
watching, waiting
for the signs
it’s funny how worry habituates
you’d think the coming of the trauma
would let worry off the hook
no such luck
in such times the duty to observe
is the best blessing
that’s why we’re here now
I cannot see what I write
but I will read it later
come amanuensis
take this down
dear friends
if I am not answering your messages
as quickly as I usually would
it’s because I cannot look at a screen
or not for long
the cosmos is a telling thing
aren’t we always being told
for instance now
I’m told to focus
to keep my eyes on a single object
and mainly
to keep them closed
find a single point in the blank
stare out the wall
dare the world still
and breathe
hear the birds again

Béatrice Machet # 247 temptation-7-8


# 247 Temptation-7-8 


Tentation du nom et derrière l’histoire de générations mais le tien dans un tremblement te ramène à ma terre. Je dis ombre où se tapit le désir et chambre où crépite ses braises. Ce qui entraîne le ciel à sa suite.

Temptation for a name and behind the story of generations but yours in a shiver leads you back to my soil. I say shadow where desire is crouching and room where its ambers are crackling. It drags the sky in its wake.


Tentation d’un récit une à une les pages sans intention de bâtir. Insaisissable fondement les souvenirs. Du ralenti à l’accéléré. Pas un aveu qui ne chavire dans un éblouissement. Mon récit alors soif désaltérée à la fraîcheur du silence dans le vif de la respiration. Rien ne se dit c’est dans l’oubli pourtant on parle et c’est déchirement interminable.

Temptation for a tale one by one the pages without intention of building. Unfathomable foundation the memories. From slow motion to speeding up. No confession that would not wreck in marvel. My tale thus thirst quenched by a chilly silence in the very alive of breath. Nothing’s said it’s into forgetting yet one speaks and it’s an endless shredding.

James Walton #28 And so it goes


And so it goes

There is a barber shop in Richmond,

ten dollar hair cut plus a stubby.

Lift your elbow carefully, if it’s a short

back and sides. The cheap pharmacy

is over the road, a few doors down.

The Viking in the tattoo shop has

an anchor through a heart on his shaved head.

Don’t get, Andy can tell you all about it,

the mushrooms at the trendy hotel,

you can count them on less than one hand.

The renovated pub had glass walled toilets,

the diners stared in not very comfortable,

since rectified by an architect not channelling Dali.

My conservative workmate John was always

buckled up at the neck and wrists, to hide

the moving exhibition on the rest of his body.

One Hundred and Sixty Thousand Dollars

of coloured ink graffiti gunning,

had him presented at shows all round the globe.

Unknown to us, even then, when it happened,

so queathed in modern art, he vanished in full view

of the Sports Bar’s gasping patrons

in artistic shades at the designer urinal.

Lizz Murphy – Post 268: Head v.

Wim van Egmond & Felieke van der Leest – Dance of the Water Fleas

Print on canvas – 140 x 105 cm, 2005
Photo of different species of water fleas by Wim van Egmond and brooches Water Flea Brooch with Swim Ring Necklace by Felieke van der Leest
(Photographer – Wim van Egmond )

Juan Garrido Salgado # 28-28 Un poema de imagenes después de los 1980 / A poem of Images after 1980, Chile

Un poema de imagenes después de los 1980 / A poem of Images after 1980, Chile # 28-28


Ahí están ellos nuestros hermanos
ellos y ellas son los nombres,  tienen casa donde llegar
están allí, estan en nuestros corazones
son memoria, llanto, risa y baile
están allí, como una montaña de piedras y memoria
como un mar orillando nuesta lucha y sueños de justicia

Están allí como rostro de piedra y viento
conversando con la eternidad en busca de la revolución traicionada

There they are our brothers and sisters
They are names, they have home where to go
They are there, are in our hearts
They are our memory, crying, laughing and dancing
They are there as a mountain of stones and past
like a sea bordering our struggles and dreams of justice

They are there as a stone face and wind
talking with eternity in searching for the betrayed revolution


una cara al cielo

Linda Stevenson #44 September 30 St. Christopher


St. Christopher

Some say when you have mislaid your talent

just beef it up anyway,

any old words, ephemera, the plod

of small things,

paraphernalia, formulae.

If that happened to me, I’d stop…

dead stop in my tracks, not

scattering more moist sounds

to the world’s wind, already laden as it is

with too much spittle.

I’d look around for what I’d lost,

maybe ask Saint Christopher;

he’s helped in the past, practical items

turning up under sofas, in cots,

by sinks, or deep in grass.

Anna Couani #217 Demolition 6

reduction linoprint 6 in a series of 6
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