Thursday, November 26, 2009

Dear Diary 27/11/09

To my ten wonderful disciples, I thought it time to re-engage you, to instil this blog with some vigour again. This I will do by disembarking entirely from my current splurge of gratuitous images, which I painstakingly downloaded through the days and nights located in the fusty darkness of my mi-goreng palace. My producer and I have parted (thank god!), and all I can say is that it has given me a new lease of life. I feel something terrific is on the horizon, if not closer. There are times when it bobs in front of me, like some family of ducks going on an outing, only to discover all too late that it is duck season and the future is both too clear and too hideous to continue, and the reality of the marksman, writhing, dithyrambic in the onset of angina in a solemn huddle of reeds, his dun eyes ranging once, now twice between the cruel sky and the now tolerably inviting darkness of the barrel not intended for that purpose (or was it?), is as lost on the retreating ducks as a scrambling finger on an inverted trigger. Aghhh! The agony, the thrill of it! Yes, I feel I am close. I can feel it! Watch this space friends, I am going outside.

Six Degrees


Friday, November 6, 2009

Just change references to Melbourne and you're there: Saturday!!!


How funny you are today New York
like Ginger Rogers in
and St. Bridget’s steeple leaning a little to the left

here I have just jumped out of a bed full of V-days
(I got tired of D-days) and blue you there still
accepts me foolish and free
all I want is a room up there
and you in it
and even the traffic halt so thick is a way
for people to rub up against each other
and when their surgical appliances lock
they stay together
for the rest of the day (what a day)
I go by to check a slide and I say
that painting’s not so blue

where’s Lana Turner
she’s out eating
and Garbo’s backstage at the Met
everyone’s taking their coat off
so they can show a rib-cage to the rib-watchers
and the park’s full of dancers with their tights and shoes
in little bags
who are often mistaken for worker-outers at the West Side Y
why not
the Pittsburgh Pirates shout because they won
and in a sense we’re all winning
we’re alive

the apartment was vacated by a gay couple
who moved to the country for fun
they moved a day too soon
even the stabbings are helping the population explosion
though in the wrong country
and all those liars have left the UN
the Seagram Building’s no longer rivalled in interest
not that we need liquor (we just like it)

and the little box is out on the sidewalk
next to the delicatessen
so the old man can sit on it and drink beer
and get knocked off it by his wife later in the day
while the sun is still shining

oh god it’s wonderful
to get out of bed
and drink too much coffee
and smoke too many cigarettes
and love you so much

Sunday, November 1, 2009