CLOSE

gotta get a new arial ‘cos it’s falling apart whenever a mouth opens, or it’s

off to the more demure parts of Wisconsin for milking marriage, babies and cows


Wisconsin

© 2005

Scroll

MAKE POETRY HISTORY

the lyrics of Genghis Cardigan

aftersmell

take away the challenge, leave me the rest
for the complete opposite reasons I’m feeling fragile again
although it’s a confusion of honesty fucking me over
there’s no safety in the knowing, the prediction coming true

and even if this is  a ____ that lingers in the aftersmell
it’s no less a sadness, an understanding frustration,
an exceeded quota long before …

another night of patronising those cheap magazines
as the t.v screen gives way to valium – half-watching –
black’n’white re-runs of subscriptions –
as yet another ‘surrogate sunset’ fades over all that went so wrong

sunday’s reserved for dreaming up a new excuse,
monday thru’ friday for refinement, and
after  a saturday spent attempting sex in a hopeless situation;
I phoned up ___ to ask him what went so wrong

it lingers in the aftersmell it’s no less a sadness,
an understanding frustration, an exceeded quota
cut limbs are the aftersmell, a single act of madness,
an understanding frustration, an exceeded quota
long before hate’s scrolled my way

aftersmell

© 1995

april draped in orange

she dreamt thru the pain an april draped in orange,
you know he never hit the same place twice
the ring on his finger, spoke not of protection
but of weakening inhibitions.
over on Eleventh Street just 5 doors down,
fades the memory of the remains of a girl and though eventually
they took him downtown ‘n’ finger-printed him for it,
no professional beard could ever return her crown

no soft embrace, as tears stream in profile.
june’s all grey again

she lives in hope of seeing april draped in orange,
you know she never eats the same thing twice,
faded tattoos on her fingers, coded hints on navigating
her favourite intersections.
behind her dangerous angles and confetti eyelids,
there remains the memory of a girl, it’s just a memory

no soft embrace, her tears stream in profile
there’s no smiling face, to make it all worthwhile
no soft embrace, her tears stream in profile
there’s no smiling face, to make it all worthwhile
june’s all: june’s all grey again

© 2013

buck-toothed fb freaks

met a man in a laundrette gift shop,
he swore the things he said were true
haunting tales of anal bleaching out in the suburbs
see gangs of buck-toothed facebook freaks
sporting signed Eddie Maguire masks
stump fucking two-dollar shop King Kong piñatas

and they say, and they say, and they say, and they say
I’m not racist, some of my best friends are
casually racist, some of my best friends

in desperate times they fall for disparate pleasures

a rising tide of prancing feaux-ties all
vying for tax exempt status
bears all the hallmarks of another inner city
wife-swabbing craze where
patrioticons emerge from mancaves with
alarming levels of testicular anger
seven degrees of separation from the king maker to king hitter

and they say, and they say, and they say, and they say
I’m not racist, some of my best friends are;
old school mates I haven’t seen in years,
the pretty girls I used to fancy
who have really let themselves go,
home alone while hubbie’s out reading meters,
the fucker sticking up lost-dog posters
and everyone waiting in line at the rose tattoo revival
staring daggers at the boutique bigots drinking
‘locally sourced’ almond milk with their cunting burgers;
all circle-hating to photos of Andrew Bolt
licking his own fair skinned balls

© 2014

chasing averted eyes

if you never blink you’ll never miss anything,
so I saw how she had a small child growing
out of the top of her head and
I saw then she knew the fear of growing up
it lies in banging your head

she found life akin to chasing averted eyes
and tuberculosis bob hinting if only
the world it were a better place,
but pedantically speaking the letter ‘b’
is the real tip of the iceberg

liberation postcard arrived after dark,
daunted she encourages the dust,
you can lead a road movie to water,
you can’t make her drink it,
can take the bob out of tuberculosis,
you can’t take the tuberculosis out of
bob’s is a face only he could have:
niente de speciale

“I must not rely, must not rely so,
must not rely so heavily on pathos,
I must not rely, must not rely so,
must not rely so heavily on pathos …”

to her school was a building counting sheep
without any pretext of sleep,
‘cos after darwin she had a distant horizon
hanging over, hanging over her head

© 1995

dirty george foreman

stugg, bugg, olav and the ‘white bill cosby’
crowd around the bar at suzie wong’s
knocking back ‘acidic jews’ and ‘hitler utes’
eyeing up the corner stall
stugg returns from his reconnaissance
with a little ‘fat left on the grill’
claimed it was all a misunderstanding
so we honoured him in liquid form

equal parts pennywart juice and mountain dew,
a dash of vodka and baileys poured from a shoe,
now it’s called the ‘dirty george foreman’ and the
slim-fit, saggy arse hipsters drink it all night long

drooks steps in about a quarter to 12,
“taxidermist or terrorist?”
dismisses all talk of a quadruple yahtzee
and cattle-prods the “sebastians”
oh how the body count starts to rise,
‘One-Hat & Cat’ play a final encore, leaving
stugg, bugg, olav and the ‘white bill cosby’
racing naked at dawn

red cordial, fairy floss and a splash of rohypnol,
add extra-virgin olive oil, and pop the cherry on top,
otherwise known as a ‘jake the peg’ now the
jazz hat wearers say they started it way back in the day, yeah the
jazz hat wearers say they started it way back in the day

© 2012

four dead americans

little boy, little girl, little everything on the edge,
falling down, falling down, around their knees,
with pockets heavy with hopes weighing down
featherhearts kept for sleeves for floating away from a
supposed serenity so agonisingly sweet

mediocrity bob avoids like hawaiian shirts
he’s happier in knowing they belong to someone else,
extradited from rundle street cause he’s too well read,
he made too much noise with such thoughts in his head,
all those blasphemous referrals to a ‘work experience’ god

slipping inside her pocket with the change
dimming the lights to hide what’s surrounding
loitering with intent to learn to live with her
painting bars on her fingers to feel more secure

the smart money’s on dan and yesterday’s heartaches
with monday’s public holiday his love’s closed for repairs,
but four dead americans later he’s under scrutiny
the publicity’s bob’s to do with as he sees fit,

“apple pie emotions won’t satisfy your desires”
someone once told me that the simple things in life are often american

© 2015

hey! it's Olav Klutz

the absolute arbiter of ‘trust-fund’ vs ‘the street’
hey! (yeah) it’s Olav Klutz
rounding out his twenties ghost-reading the
Handbook of Eponymous Diseases

penultimate betrayer of lipogramic conceit
hey! (yeah) it’s Olav Klutz
exiting his forties hunting members of the
Sublime Society of the Beefsteak

hey! (yeah) it’s Olav Klutz
self aggrandising his eighties leading the
Norwegian Dance Government in Exile

© 2014

idiot san savant

I never meant to alienate the female racquet-ball community
cutting myself, desperate, for some pity
from Alabama’s finest ever to tread the boards
committing those crimes that time forgot, the idiot san savant

now I’m promoting the Indiana underground
bare-hand fishing league
bitter-sweet, Indiana, 500 days on from
side-stepping, border-hopping, cross-dressing,
jebediah bush-fucker in a strapless evening gown
you know it’s illegal for a dude to fill those threads
so good down in Florida

confessing to crimes that time forgot, the idiot san savant
confessing to crimes that time forgot, the idiot san savant

just how the fuck do you worry the squirrels of La Crosse, Wisconsin
illegally vacuuming the White Mountain National Forest of New Hampshire

© 2014

romane bohringer, sophie marceau

it was Sunday after the grass catcher
on the ol’ blue mower finally died
leaving the lawn to its own devices as our landlord cried and cried
Dan supplemented Bob’s noise across the unfettered green
with a vacuum cleaner

and I dreamt of a girl with a false eye made of corral
who rose late and slept with dolphins
she used to complain of migraines when the wind was strong
and waves could be heard crashing with each blink of her lids
- romane bohringer, sophie marceau

soon there were: bearded men in flannalette shirts
trout fishing in her crystal clear gaze
undiluted by sorrow or experience –
young lovers embraced in meetings by night

somewhere. she swore half heartedly at the red headed baby
who peed at first contact
she wiped her cheeks clean and reassured
the embarrassed parents in tow
- romane bohringer, sophie marceau

and I used to believe in the power of blackmail
until my third cousin told me, he could never
fall in love with a beautiful woman,
10 minutes later and I did again
- romane bohringer, sophie marceau

© 1996

this other jesus

she had her mother’s ring finger and the
cowlick of a small town mayor
her father left home at sixteen got a
job in a travelling weight loss firm
cutting pictures from magazines that
rubbed him up the wrong way

she had a litter of puppies that looked like a
young richard nixon and just wouldn’t bark
even when you spiked their drinking water
cutting the hair of maitre’ds who could ill afford her ill health

this other jesus couldn’t save her life to save her life

by mid life she’d hit the wall, watching
re-runs of the boston marathon
shacked up with a faith based hispanic on a
postage stamp in guatemala
her lover left home at eighteen past
seven on a morning like one other
filling graves in wisconsin, a crazy
work for the bob dole kinda scheme

this other jesus couldn’t save her life to:
this other jesus couldn’t save her life to save her life

just turned eighty last seen slipping out the back door
from her very own birthday,
she’s stroking nancy reagan with a
left over romney campaign mitten
wouldn’t spare that life to save her life

© 2005

tijuana two-step

tuesday night, wrestling your sister and there’s
no such thing as the tijuana two-step
“gourmet taco de la manzana”:
Tasmania will never be our Mexico
porcinni dusted lamb chops above a bottle-o
demographically it’s all accent no ‘Southern Necessity’

sitting pretty in Adelaide, all the pollies with pedo dads got voted out
and St Corey Banardi won’t let just anybody: touch Humphrey

modern art without the man-on-man love:
Hobart will never be our San Francisco
if we ever find out who took the Beaumont children
Kangaroo Island can always be our Alcatraz

sitting pretty in Adelaide, now we have a bi-curious express way
and I know a man called Bernard Finnigan

© 2014

wisconsin

gotta get a new arial ‘cos it’s falling apart
whenever a mouth opens, or it’s
off to the more demure parts of Wisconsin
for milking marriage, babies and cows

if I have any regrets I’ll give you one
or possibly we’ll share this all time favourite
I’ve got two red chairs from the ‘little white schoolhouse’,
let’s get together and reminisce

say hello to the ‘swinging nixons’ out of oshkosh, winnebago
prone to sleep with whoever they greet be they nuns or teddy bears

if you send me a rose wrapped in your voice’s echo,
I’ll return your two poet sisters nailed to a third,
sanitation’s bigger than trust it begins with a
letter from the government
all the while now, expecting on the backporch
–  another male order tide
an unrelated woman shoved two________ up against me,
best Syttende Mai ever

say hello to the ‘swinging nixons’ the scourge of ol’ Milwaukee
prone to sleep with whoever they greet be they nuns or teddy bears,
proving once and for all that ’Chase’ Wisconsin is better than the kill
it works better that, it works better that way

© 2005

Songwriting

status report

total
completed
rehearsed
performed
recorded
CLOSE