What Does It Mean? (Emilie Collyer)

O

One

One has

One his has be

One it his mean has this be

One I it when his .mean something has before this Can be ?

One the I with it positive when don’t his as .says means is something that has been before He this .Can same be for ?

One of the artists I spoke with considers it a positive thing when people don’t recognise his work as art. He says it means he is creating something new that has not been seen before. He likes this phenomenon. Can the same thing be said for words?

? for be same Can phenomenon likes before been has new creating he it He art work recognise people thing a considers spoke artists of

of spoke a people work He he new been likes Can be ?

? Can been he work a of

of work been ?

? work

work

ko

o

Sail (Sam van Zweden)

I heard

they built streets

in Europe

on dead river beds

throwing down tiles

in denial

when it rains

streets flood

al fresco floating down stream

deluge-diluted lattes

gondolas drag-racing trucks at the lights

 

Melbourne just built roads

forward

three-inch grooves

mosey trams along

and when it rains the way it has

for weeks now

these grooves become tiny Yarras

eventually their banks burst

giving me no other choice

no other way forward

but to sail

 

A Grave Turn (Ashley Capes)

streets have a saliva sheen, the stones bathing in it. fog is school-pants grey, thick on the tongue. the older trams shudder until they stop and the conductor retires. drunks smirk with red-balloon cheeks, dallying through each step. it is a grave turn. they milk their charm and spend it on ghosts in make-up, loosen their teeth. a clean wind moves the leaves from side to side, the clucking of winter within.

 

our snapshots –

the photo booth

becomes a grave-marker

 

Bag Bog Cat, the Caterpillar an’ the Glue Man (Andrew Galan)

Horse serrations vibrate floorboards ta’ squeal a rockin’ billycock woe
· · an’ we was diggin’ ditches an’ shovelin’ mud an’ burnin’ faeces
when the Caterpillar said sorry, sorry was for not eatin’
· · ‘cause we was workin’ for the waste disposal company
so bring a there Bag Bog Cat, bring a there with that bone-saw
· · an’ we was wearin’ overalls an’ iron face an’ corduroy cap

Carve on this here thigh, suffa’ the bitta’ ol’bite
· · an’ we was diggin’ ditches an’ shovelin’ mud an’ burnin’ faeces
tearin’ inna’ flesh, flesh fresh from the Caterpillar wrack
· · ‘cause we was workin’ for the waste disposal company
so tap another, tap another ta’ croon that Bag Bog Cat syncopation
· · an’ we was wearin’ overalls an’ iron face an’ corduroy cap

But the Glue Man knows, he knows we can’t afford the teeth (or the meat)
· · an’ we was diggin’ ditches an’ shovellin’ mud an’ burnin’ faeces
so shoo, shoo the Glue Man, that stoep belongs ta’ the Bag Bog Cat
· · ‘cause we was workin’ for the waste disposal company
eat at home Glue Man, this table ain’t yours, nor the rusty han’held
· · an’ we was wearin’ overalls an’ iron face an’ corduroy cap

Tin wheel gurney with flamin’ sheet, that ain’t nothin’ for the Glue Man
· · an’ we was diggin’ ditches an’ shovellin’ mud an’ burnin’ faeces
still grill bug with all its chewin’— this too be Bag Bog Cat’s
· · ‘cause we was workin’ for the waste disposal company
so the Caterpillar, it’s gunna crawl down, it’s gunna scuttle down
· · an’ we was wearin’ overalls an’ iron face an’ corduroy cap

Placemat of piranha on a waste of land outside the Machine of Wha— gotcha
· · an’ we was diggin’ ditches an’ shovellin’ mud an’ burnin’ faeces
so grind thighs ta’ think, ta’ think on sugar sweat cloth’d wrack
· · ‘cause we was workin’ for the waste disposal company
a ferocious run a’ slicin’ll strip them bones in teeth-saw lines
· · an’ we was wearin’ overalls an’ iron face an’ corduroy cap

So she saw her long brown hair with nonsense syllables
· · an’ we was diggin’ ditches an’ shovelin’ mud an’ burnin’ faeces
(can ya’ do what ya’ want what can ya’ want tonight?)
· · ‘cause we was workin’ for the waste disposal company
the Caterpillar did foot-stomp lov’d Granna’ Range who cut usin’ garden metal
· · an’ we was wearin’ overalls an’ iron face an’ corduroy cap

New lard suds wash hands from the Caterpillar lock
· · an’ we was diggin’ ditches an’ shovelin’ mud an’ burnin’ faeces
but across the bar the Glue Man divines (he divines the range of every enemy)
· · ‘cause we was workin’ for the waste disposal company
so— with a ratta-tat-tat —the Glue Man could feel the gun under jacket
· · an’ we was wearin’ overalls an’ iron face an’ corduroy cap

The Glue Man could smell, he could smell the weight of every round
· · an’ we was diggin’ ditches an’ shovelin’ mud an’ burnin’ faeces
a street a’ways threw coaches ta’ clash— shook the Caterpillar
· · ‘cause we was workin’ for the waste disposal company
so one on another, into broken board hold, toss tied survivors
· · an’ we was wearin’ overalls an’ iron face an’ corduroy cap

The rifle— crack —outside said (sweet ya’ don’t beat the Caterpillar jive)
· · an’ we was diggin’ ditches an’ shovelin’ mud an’ burnin’ faeces
so what are we ta’ the lone star? The same stock riff
· · ‘cause we was workin’ for the waste disposal company
wishin’ for that one boulevard ta’ bolt for this Bag Bog Cat
· · an’ we was wearin’ overalls an’ iron face an’ corduroy cap

Long uniform footfalls— stomp —down the Caterpillar door
· · an’ we was diggin’ ditches an’ shovelin’ mud an’ burnin’ faeces
low on blue horizon (first on the line) so comes the Glue Man
· · ‘cause we was workin’ for the waste disposal company
we thought we told ya’ Glue Man ta’ scat, scat Glue Man scat
· · an’ we was wearin’ overalls an’ iron face an’ corduroy cap

The upstairs food court (Andrew Galan)

Rubber tyre rolls

bain-marie aisles

grips heavy toddler

centrifugally snug

three kids run beside

reaching pushing

scream delight

across fluorescent tiles

tread bounces

down metal staircase

arm waves round’n’round

momentum carries

curry fur bear

a half loop

to ground

lady upstairs cries

drops at silver screen

where tall figures

wade ocean

with giant yellow sucking straws

one turns to audience

wide mouth whispers

“There’s something here.”

The List Grows (Emilie Collyer)

This is what you can’t do.

It’s a list that grows.

Like that taunt boys

used to write on blackboards:

the more you rub

the bigger it gets.

 

Pink bits proliferate.

Women with stern hair

write papers about how

porn is ruining us all

while the rest of us gape

at youth. They don’t

 

have a list. Yoko Ono

tweets about loving

old trees. It offers some

comfort until my friend

rolls her eyes and says

It’s okay for her,

she’s Yoko Ono and tells me

 

John and Yoko

weren’t that happy together

when he died.

It’s still a tragedy, I say,

the man she loved was killed.

I watched a documentary

 

about Mark Chapman,

the man who killed John Lennon.

I could understand his desire.

Unloved, he wanted to

take away from the world

a person everybody

 

loved. We all want that

sometimes don’t we?

The difference between

us and Mark Chapman

is that we don’t

all do it. The list

 

grows, of things we

can’t do or won’t do

or would have done

once. If the list were

a colour it would be red

or at least it would

 

have been when we

first wrote it.

Now it is faded, pink,

like those pink bits,

so ubiquitous they

lose their titillating

 

power and no matter

how hard we rub

it gets harder

to feel

anything

at all.

 

Wrinkled Time (Gabrielle Bryden)

 

Madeleine L’Engle

wrinkled time.

 

crumples, crinkles, dips

waves, ripples, loops

stringy twirls

oscillating tendrils

freewheelin’ in non-linear time

 

Breath ceases,

baby cries for the first time,

life circulating.

 

No straight lines in nature.

 

If you think you see one,

crystals spring to mind,

take a closer look

and you’ll find it gone –

Mandelbrot had a fractal theory.

 

Look intimately at a spider web

to see a straight thread

between two points.

 

Human-made straightness,

requires extra energy.

 

If there are no straight lines in nature,

why would time deviate from straight?

 

Spherical earth rotating,

sun circulating.

 

Rotund moon held tightly

in ring-shaped trajectory.

 

Electron spin,

atomic, molecular orbital.

 

Sound waving gently through the air,

light bending with the squeeze of gravity.

 

Dingy shaped red blood cells floating

in plasma streams and rivers.

 

Lost girl stumbling in the dark,

finds herself back where she started.

 

 

The Petrov Poems: Done (Lesley Lebkowicz)

He slides the documents
out of the KGB safe
into an envelope
and settles his future
under his shirt –
its straight edges buckle
against his belly.
He buttons his jacket.
It’s the end of the day.
He saunters out the front door
along Canberra Avenue.
Cypresses line
neat concrete paving.
He slows his breath
to breathe naturally
slows his pace
to walk slowly.
At home he shoves
the thick envelope
under the mattress.

For the first time in Australia
he feels like a spy.

The Petrov Poems: A charm to keep him safe (Lesley Lebkowicz)

He won’t leave until April the third,
the day his successor is due.
He’ll tie up all the loose ends
and hand over the codes
the accounts
his notes.
He’ll do everything right –
till the end –

just like anyone leaving his job.
He’ll be as good as a robot
and maybe Moscow will think
he’s an ordinary agent
and defection
is part of his job.

The Petrov Poems: Booze (Lesley Lebkowicz)

He buys the lovely stuff duty-free
as a diplomat. The spirits are sealed

in their bottles like genies in jars.
Bialoguski helps load up the car

and they’re away. The slosh and gurgle
inside the boxes tempts

Volodya: he liberates one
to drink as they drive round the pubs

where they offer bargains in booze.
The money makes firm wads

in their wallets. Volodya stows some near
his breast where its touch might be

a girl’s mouth. (Back in Canberra Dusya
will handle the Embassy’s books –

the Ambassador never need know).
Capitalism’s so easy.