-VOLUME X  -  BOOK II

A Dappled Mirror: What is the Quality of Quality Given that All Value is Simulated?

51.     A 'Psychiatric' Hospital with a Licence in Poetic Fiction:
A Third Set of Variations on an Unstated Theme

1.	Like the powdered face of some grand aunt
the perfume of gardenias greets you at the gate...

Quality is in the air, discussed in committees,
quantified, statistically measured,
and, equally overseen...

Once more a row of pot plants on the veranda,
looking a little bit depressed, feeble and frayed,
fearing an eventual discharge out the back 
along with the laundry and the rubbish...

However, one plant on the balcony edge 
will survive a little longer, 
lingering on into the Summer,
after the Autumn rains... imitating cactus…

But, like the powdered face of some grand old aunt
the perfume of the gardenias will still greet you at the gate....

2.     Today graffiti is in code,
for the cognoscenti who should know better...

On the outside of the hospital walls, 
around the back, where the rubbish is put out,
are strange scrawls, riddles in the form of runes,
that can be read only by other spray-can painters...

Inside nursing and medical staff fill out forms,
everything said is inscribed in detailed verse
on the sides of pages in a handwritten text 
so hard to have to read in this time of computers...

Today graffiti is in code,
for the cognoscenti who should know better....

3.	 It's all quite clean 
but don't look at the worn out carpet...

Its all quite clean
but don't look at the fingerprinted walls...

Its all quite clean
but don't look at the rain damaged roof;
leaves in the gutters
cause the rooms to flood
only when it rains very heavily...

I pity the poor cleaners 
who have to work
after it rains...

...and whose job it is 
not to attend to those leaves..!?

4.	  Incense to a capitalist god...

Incensed the frozen patients 
now smoke outside in the cage
in the doorway of the wind tunnel 
at the base of the stairs...

In sense, with neither rhyme nor reason,
how silly can you get, 
when the appearance
of political correctness on paper
is allowed to triumph 
over the reality of the situation...

In cents to a capitalist god ;
such smoke, in the long term, 
is such good business -
patients, and staff, before too long
merely shunted to another ward...!

5.	Bang... bang... bang..!

An observant heart specialist 
noted to a colleague,
during a consultation with a patient 
in need of a new heart valve,
"the doors in this ward 
don't seem to work very well
just like those in the recovery ward
opposite our theatre..."

Bang... bang... bang...!

6.	Wally the ward rat,
cocky the cockroach
playing a deadly game 
with the pest extermination man...
 
...and the newspapers 
if they ever got to hear about it.
Oh well, one more hospital 
with this same type of problem...

And what is new,
every house is visited in time
by such unwanted guests...

Long enough to give them a name 
and meet their descendants..?

And here a poem written to their memory,
no longer scaring good folk in the dark;
now merely leaving a virtual trail 
across this hand written page,
left on this cluttered desk,
like an echo answering itself,
remembered running like a flash of lightening,
literally, across this scribbled space -- -- -- -- --

7.	Sign here and there, 
countersign here and there,
remember to register that you have signed,
and here just initial this spot,
signaling that you have passed this way,
and there, make sure this is done in duplicate,
and when asked that this is done in triplicate,
sign the sheet that says you  have understood,
God forbid, the latest policy,
don't forget to properly insert that carbon sheet
when you order, and print clearly your name 
after your signature; everywhere a signature,
day after day until that day you finally resign;
by then a practice perfected….

8.	When walking upon the medical landscape
remember there is a left hand and a right hand,
an unofficial path and an official path
because a pile of policies
in concrete hands
causes more trouble
than a thicket of sticks
pointing, poking, pelting each other,
no time to be too logical,
every hour you must swallow 
a new batch of contradictions,
at least six before breakfast,
in the midst of such potential paralysis,
deconstruction is like a fission bomb,
total distraction causing more confusion 
than a thermonuclear fusion device downtown,
so there's a need for 
the art of interpretation,
the science of hermeneutics,
no, just being sensible,
covering your tracks,
removing your rubbish
and remembering to leave the gates
as you find them....

9.	Hurray, hurray, the king is dead, 
long live the king..!

Hurray, hurray, the queen is dead, 
long live the queen..!

And who said that monarchy is dead 
when in this aristocracy monarchs proliferate
on every branch of this imperial tree
as souls forever singing psalms of praise
to a higher god...

Who lives at the bottom of this sparkling edifice -
the poor, humble patient henceforth to be known 
as "the client," also known,
and you must be joking, as "the consumer..?"

Perhaps the patients need an honours list -
that final gong - discharge to the real world out there,
in essence, not that much different..!

Long live their majesties, 
each and every one of us
who lauds it over others...!

10.    The ward is locked on paper,
but the wild cats here merely confuse the door,
it thinks someone is coming in,
and so they can flee at a moment's notice,
leaving behind them a paper trail
just as tangible and as long
as a dismembered tiger's tale....

11.	Foment a rebellion,
ferment for the next revolution,
for some clients are revolting..!

On a floor of biffers and boxers,
stabbers and manipulators
one old lady with a stroke
strides the corridors
with her feeble stick…

"Can I complain," she said,
"should I complain," she said…

"Yes, make an official complaint…"

"Would it mean more medication,
or less..?" and I said,
"its all quite secret…"

"Will it do anything 
to change this situation…"

"Probably not, but it will
make you feel better…"

two weeks later finding 
relief at last in the deathly quiet
of a nursing home…

12.    'To be pc' is not correct, 
'to appear to be pc' is the right answer,
but don't give this reply
for you then make a frightful mistake,
and miss the point of the exercise,
which is without doubt,
not to upset the more politically incorrect...!

13.	Plastic flowers in a plastic jug don't wilt, 
in time only fade; alas, in the verdant courtyard 
those on chlorprom can go beetroot red 
and in the cold those on melleril can go quite blue, 
and those on respiridone getting up at dawn 
can go as pale as a waning moon, 
while those eating last week's soup went ever so green,
but, what brings cheer to some cheeks is freedom to leave 
and for others a chance to stay a few more weeks
until the breath of spring at least animates this winter scene
with a few more fine flowers out on display
found 'on special' from the beaming florist with his van, 
'picked up on the street' just round the corner,
all advertised as "freshly 'arrived' today"
and no doubt 'lasting' just as long…!

52.	Dance dinosaur, dance…

In cyberspace they can now make fossils come to life,
a museum now no longer a place for dry, dusty bones
in cases on display…

In the record industry dead musicians meet at last that life eternal,
and fantastic actors and fantasy models beyond rebirth,
beyond reproach, bypassing an acting agent, and their fees…

One day you might even meet me, God forbid,
a struggling philosopher-poet, no longer shy, and eloquent,
and over a cup of real tea enter an existential encounter…

Dance dinosaur, dance…
			…although let me say
you'll find m’ original flesh more interesting….

53.	I heard the druggy say "this week I'm in rehab,"
obviously still speaking the same language with his friends,
what linguistic hope has he of making a real shift 
in the fashion of his thought…

				…and I suppose that was his needle
found discarded on the street sometime last week, if only
the construction of our desires could be so easily given away….

Fatal attractions are a dime a dozen, heavens above, find another one,
get trendy man, let society sell you something different every day
and that way get even, become the complete capitalist,
addicted only to addiction…?

54.	How do you get noticed in this big town...?
How do you get noticed in this big town...?

Don't kill someone
a dozen in America would wipe you 
off the face of the 'local' rag, 
and don't advertise yourself
by being a bit strange, 
that is the par for the course 'round here, 
jaded appetites are well beyond entrees, 
more in need of a focal explosion
just be yourself, something new and genuine..!

Buy an iced treat in Winter,
wear a fur coat in Summer,
loose your hair in Autumn,
stay depressed in Spring,
and they will definitely 
think you are in season
and you'll never be noticed 'round here,
this town is too big for the slightly queer..!

Get yourself seen by being small town,
down market, drop the name Dubbo,
or Wollongong, or New Ziland,
and kindred souls will clap and cheer
a fellow exhibitionist…

That's how you get noticed in this big town…
That's how you get noticed in this big town..!

Otherwise become 
a Christopher Skase or a Bond
and spend someone else's money
and leave before lawyers 
and prisons finally catch y'…

Then no longer able 
to savour tea at Double Bay
or a coffee in the Strand,
be heard attending the Opera,
seen making a splash upon the sand,
find your photo in the "Weekly" -
watching cricket with the pm
somewhere in the main stand…

This is how you get yourself noticed in this big town…
This is how you get yourself noticed in this big town..!

A tip for success – truly enjoy yourself,
humour your wit, cheer your company,
find ecstasy in small things,
in the details of life, 
but in chosen privacy between friends
lest you be besieged by losers;
true city slickers like you… and me…!

55.	From sty to style…
let the piggies run free…

In the blink of time 
the curtain rises on
the evolution of man…
the revolution of woman…
then an involvement, 
a turning around
of the relationship, a dance;
self-authored and read…

On this material stage
its all a metaphor,
a rhetorical gesture, 
a set up, a thin veneer
overlaying nothing…
the abyss..! –
less than an atom thick,
alone to be lived within,
encompassing everything
and everyone… throughout
this round of time…

Now puffed up on hind legs
we still squawk and shriek,
seek meaning in the mud,
play games, seek significance
with our snout everywhere else,
outside that Abyss...!

From sty to style…
let all the piggies run free…

56.	I saw a haiku
sitting still like a fat frog,
then, splash, it was gone….

57.	Is religion
insight… incense...?

Incite a shift in thought,
in being, in the thinking of being
being thought
in a community 
with others..?

Feel incensed 
when not able 
to make this shift,
cross this cognitive rift
whether named
“sin” or “ignorance…”

Or is it just 
a metaphorical plate
for the collection of money,
a business marketing prophets..?

…with a vision of the future
beyond dollars and sense..!?

58.	These latest poetic droppings 
are so fresh, so green,
I haven’t had a chance
to recite then,
let alone to re-sight them…

Now with these scribbled thoughts
confronting me I realize
in a moment of insight
they are best re-sited 
somewhere else…

…in this paper bin -
full of crumpled images
successfully thrown,
a pile of useless rubbish
left behind, discarded moments
waiting to be recycled,
digested by a world
forever on fire,
forging new chapters
on the very edge of 
the same old book,
a feather-like tome,
vast in volume 
without covers,
without a title,
without an author, 
like lifeless laundry
waiting to be washed,
neither committed
to the august concerns
of some committee
nor the shortsighted 
leaking pen of some critic
bleeding scorn;
thank goodness…!

59.	Taking tea – re-vision one…

A studded leather armchair,
a good book,
a silver tray beside one,
on it a waxy orchid
in a crystal vase,
matching cup 
and saucer and plate,
its mate in the cabinet,
each hand-painted
with tea-drinking scenes
in warm baroque colours
in panels of blue and white
all edged with guilt
from having purchased
such an extravagance…

Ah, but would one 
be truly happy...?

Taking tea – re-vision two…

A long wooden table
with simple benches
down either side of it,
for the last two workmen
left behind over the weekend,
longtime mates
doing overtime together,
an old metal teapot,
two mugs not chipped
but showing their age,
and no desire to hurry
having just finished 
most of their work,
discussing the latest 
football game overheard
on the small transistor radio
sitting beside them…

Ah, but would these two guys
be truly happy..?

Taking tea – re-vision three…

Not too late at night
after an exciting movie
with a group of friends
who, through skilful commentary,
can throw some light
on that faded screen,
give it some depth,
augmented with the clink
of cups contacting
on white saucers
like moon pods
landing and taking off,
all of us involved 
in the lunacy 
of a conversation
that dares to compare
one star with another…

Ah, but would they
be truly happy..?

Taking tea – re-vision four…

In bed with the beloved
who has brought in 
a lacquered tray
elegantly laid out
with breakfast
all surveyed by 
one red, red rose
with the suggestion 
of a winking bud
about to open up
and greet the beaming sun,
just freshly arisen,
with leisure time on our hands,
we inhale the aroma 
of buttered croissants
still warm from the oven
and sitting back 
against the pillow
slowly sip the gentle, 
jet-black, full-bodied, 
Kenyan brew
capped with its thin,
tanned, creamy foam…
		…opps…!

60.	New world revenge upon the old:
the noisy stench of tobacco addicted smokers
with that hacking ‘morning’ cough,
and patches of the pox upon the lip,
a sign of an even greater sin,
the feeling that one is being seen,
inside and out, as naked as 
a squashed tomato upon the street…

Old world revenge upon the new:
heavier and heavier  textbooks 
without oral commentaries,
and night-time television screens
that define the course of one’s life,
dictate a passive response,
give back to us our sex-lives
like two sacks of potatoes on a couch….

61.	The setting sun of the mind
stretches out across the unwritten page,
fading out in time but reflected,
by proxy, in the memories of the moon;
a black mirror shining, whispering
with the voices of the phantom soul
talking individually to each one of us
still enough to hear its inspiration …

The perfect poem was flooding,
floating on the turbulence of thought,
in the semi-somnambulance of sleep,
in sonorous reverie words reverberated
each in its own, appropriate place…

Alas, there was no pen and paper to hand
nor did I wish to disturb the unraveling
of this canvas singing to me this song
stamped with my name line by line…

But by the time I had a shower
the imprinted words of this text
had all but washed away,
and by the close of day 
was hard pressed to remember 
what meaning this intoned paean
was meant to have for me…

‘Do not yearn to love again
nor regret what was missed
for in persistence our friendship witnessed 
that we did love, did love thee well,
there, where we forever embrace..!’

…a trace still traces out
a light-filled shadow
that ripples outwards by day,
rippling backwards by night,
washing over itself,
tumbling in the death-defying ecstasy 
of one beating heart….

62.	Huff, puff… huff, puff…

The old man
had to stay seated
in his car, when he arrived
home, with the door open,
in order to enjoy his smoke, 
one of the few pleasures
now left to him….

So this is, I hear you say,
“another anti-smoking poem…”

“Buy one hundred poems
and get ten anti-smoking ones
for free, and that’s not all, 
wait, there’s more…”

No, no, it was just an observation:
the old guy’s wife 
wouldn’t let him inside,
wouldn’t let him practise 
that horrid habit 
inside the house,
and I think he rather cherished
those few moments 
of calm and freedom 
before he had to hear spelt out
what few options 
he now had left to him….

Since when is a simple observation
the recipe for the proscription
of one’s behaviour.?!

…and you must ignore 
that last sentence
if you agree with it..!

What ‘is’ ought to be 
and what ‘ought to be’ just is,
for in deeper thought 
the twain have already met..!

Puffing deeply upon his cigarette
he found a few moments of peace
and tranquility and while he mused
he noted with a great sadness
that it was an even greater pleasure
when one was able to share it with someone,
just like those noble Indians
encircled in an ancient powwow
before all the nonsense
of the modern age 
would descend upon them,
when all their tribal ambitions,
their destiny, seemed 
to stretch out before them,
before all this would collapse,
blow up in their face
just like… a puff of smoke..!

Huff, puff… huff… puff….

63.	  The rain is dancing till it drops,
partying in the thunder clouds,
an orgasmic disco, flashy lights,
a speaker system with a bass
that rumbles the ground…

Beneath, the Friday workers rush
on home, as yet only the sweat
hits the ground, a feeble splash,
faces all awash, and all the fun
has yet to begin in tinsel town….

64.	Fags, fags,
bloody fags everywhere, 
macho in your face ones,
delicate, daft, deft ones,
lonely ones hanging out car windows,
secretive, guilty, nervous ones,
everywhere fags..!

Butts, butts,
bloody buts everywhere,
fat ones, slim ones, 
thick as brick ones,
twisted ones,
ones besmeared with lipstick,
everywhere butts..!

…what did y’ think I meant
y ‘dim witted,
sad cigarette
junkie puffer,
put your fancy butt
somewhere else,
preferably in that bin
with the lid left on…?

65.	They chopped that tree down,
they chopped that tree down…

…and in its place they finally put
a large pot with the same type of plant…

…just how perverse can y’ get…!

66.	Been hearing things lately,
well y’ don’t really stand a chance,
how could y’ thoughts intrude
what with the beeping of y’ watch
and everyone else’s, they silenced 
the churches and what have y’ got instead-
mad mobiles answering each other,
beepers taking off along with cars
being broken into one more time
by harassed citizens who have to sleep in shifts,
insistent sirens only beaten by planes…

…o give me, give me please the sounds 
of the Mountains, the calls of currawongs
and the laughter of kookaburras,
and the barking of dogs
across the valley… from the next suburb…!

67.	Ev’ry human face is pitted and flawed,
scoured by history and soured by industry,
a bloated, blotchy peach ne’er ‘er repaired,
how could one in meeting fall deep in love
with some unknown person when the wrapping
looks as if the package might fall apart,
swiftly present us with the passing wreck 
as grave as a ruined face cut in stone..?

Ah, but love lets us see what is hidden
lets us discover what’s not forbidden,
gifts to us new eyes to see inward here
how secret passion re-paints in sweet tones
songs that sing our praise lest should silent time
quick smart undress vanity’s fine veneer….

68.	Ash City:-
ashen faces greet the dawn,
sweepers of the street without brooms,
mechanical jaws taking bins of rubbish
in their stride, quietly echoing
the dumpster thumping an empty
‘half-ton’ tank back upon 
the thudded pavement…

On waking and waiting before
the porcelain shrine
a moment after blowing my nose
on a convenient tissue to hand
re-use it to wipe clean
the sooty-dust of the night
fallen upon the window ledge…

Each day the dry, potted plants
beneath the eaves of the laundry roof
get a quick squirt of water
from the mini-watering can,
and then it is the turn of the goldfish
to be showered by starry pellets
to be scattered upon the shiny black veneer
of the translucent pond
like a cosmic array of universes
whose surface tension inflates
a galactic foam of clusters
desperately clinging together,
trying to become part of something bigger;
before being swallowed…

The path one more time is swept
of leaves from the neighbours’ trees
 now made our own…

…and then the primeval sounds 
of building construction on viagra
signals the change of hour…

The road diggers add to the dust too
puffing cigarettes stained by oil-smeared fingers,
their bodies starting to look like rocks
worn away through overuse,
bashed about too often,
though still mouthing a half-grin,
flashes of light in blinking eyes
smarting with a rust blown up,
rouging their pale, tanned cheeks
from this micro-desert awash
with silt as fine as talc…

A living city in motion
making poetry through repetition
like a transit station
celebrating the passage
of a passing to and fro…

Everywhere in this holy town 
of feminine charm and retouched artifice
sticks of incense lit to an unknown god 
have fumes that waft upon the street, that linger
and accumulate in one acrid taste.
Imagine the clamour if this smoke
came in a variety of flavours:-
here a minted apple,
there a cinnamon roll,
somewhere a touch of strawberry
with a hint of dark chocolate
as black as a coalman’s shovel…

Even the lungs of the sky are a muted grey, 
one hundred shades now melded into one,
best to take tea soon on the balcony
watching those thieves patrol this terraced street,
one rogue down each side,
working as a pair, not letting on.
Before sitting quietly down dust the stools
with a chammy rag still able to steal
a cleaner canvas seat…

At sunset at last a flash of colour,
a ruddy ruby red, fireworks
sparkling upon the horizon,
one more bush-fire, 
if that could be seen 
in a space free from buildings 
forever mushrooming up in between.
Tonight everyone seems to be smoking 
a now popular brand of menthol…

Buses starting to look like
old steam trains, thank goodness
the pavement is painted black
and polished and cleaned
like a mystic mirror in the rain
foretelling a doubling
of an ambling populace…

Ah, Ash City:-
ashen faces greet the fallout,
take a delight in the muted pastels
of the heated night. 
Under the blinking neon light
about to nod off
walking keepers of the street
retrace their steps
weaving dreams 
upon a loom of desire
cashed out like a factory clock,
you can almost hear the siren, 
“time gentlemen, time….”

69.	The lonely old man fed the pigeons
remembering his childhood, 
remembering his own children 
now flown away….

70.	Ev’ry modern house
or  apartment these days 
should have a dyeing room;
it’s such a messy business
and most of my more trendy friends
change their style of hair
at least once a month…

Defying the spectre of death 
is such hard work
in this floating world 
of fickle fashion….

(Destined, as we are,
for obsolescence….)

71.	I entered the station of the Cross,
“as above - so below” I thought,
the underground platform mirrored,
more or less, the day-lit world outside:
the posing and the imposing,
the improvising and the stuck in a rut
all took their places apparently waiting…

Like ants living in a gigantic organ pipe
soon to be flushed out
the speeding train struck 
a low, thudding note
taking a quick gulp of air
more felt than heard,
pulling into the quay
with a long, lingering roar…

Lost souls become re-animated,
seeking an entrance, an escape
back to the confines 
of their shoebox flats, their mansions,
their workstations, back streets;
familiar surroundings 
that in time define us….

“Always the same, never different,”
a theme in variation
like drops of rain
in a shower of sunlight,
mirroring each other,
all fated to crash,
bash the pavement,
splash upon the land,
disappear down the mouth
of some gaping chasm,
resurface in some river 
or sewer…

From a new train
a flood of people 
re-stock this narrow strip,
dispersing just as quick
up the rattling escalators,
leaving behind
a few dishevelled leftovers
and the hollow sounds
of a rumbling stomach 
as if just emptied….

72.	The garbage collectors
tomorrow will take delight 
in this ton of refuse, 
the once prized pickings of a flat 
now gone postmodern-minimalist.
Invisible neighbours now re-appear
from far and wide 
to re-claim in passing
these now re-cherished chattels,
with a superficial civility
a succession of a thousand hands
and legs scamper off 
with ten thousand bits and pieces,
or so it seems, 
these serious collectors
of knick knacks,
tricks and treasures
for a few moments
going down market
in order then to rise upward
those few notches more
until such a time
as they too can disperse
their collected history of habits
by design… 
by accident…
by theft… 
or, by default….

73.	The major parties
had happy beaming posters
of their candidates
posted on every lamp-post…

But the sitting member,
an outspoken independent,
had her photos in peoples’
windows… and won….

74.   …encountering the other,
just encountering the other..?

 A drop or two turned to a trickle,
then a pouring, onward rushing
stream of water, a vertical river, 
just in time seeking shelter 
in a very stylish bus stand.
In one corner enhoused 
was the resident tramp;
an upright, turtle of a person 
with an ample supply of coats for insulation 
and a half-ripped  plastic bag on his head.
You could see he was a man 
for his beard tumbled forth 
likes the roots of a white onion,
as if by mistake growing upside down….

…sitting still the world went rushing past,
just sitting still the world went rushing past…

I said “hello” to this speechless gnome
philosophically dressed to appear stoical.
Surrounding him were 
all his worldly possessions 
in a myriad of shopping bags, 
one of which, in a brand new condition, 
bore the name ‘David Jones.’
Had he been there lately, 
I thought to myself, 
had he dared enter where 
‘the doors are opened unto you’ 
and was he pleasantly greeted; 
no doubt first having
planted all his shopping 
under the agapanthas 
and azaleas in Hyde Park..?

…knowing appearances are deceptive,
well knowing appearances are deceptive…

Real money is always the same,
talks the same language,
demands rarely challenged
when met in commercial kind.
Remembered having stood 
in the same previous bus stand
on this bench-seat to escape the rain
and in this new one was forced 
once more to do the same.
Who says there is progress, evolution...?

…finding the world never changes,
again finding the world never changes…

Who knows, this man 
could be worth a million,
did society embrace him
even if he had nothing,
I wondered, watching the rain
in the gutter disappearing 
through the grill..?

…falling between the cracks,
still falling between the cracks…

Almost as quickly 
it started to stop raining.
“You can go now,” barked 
the rotund sculpture in the corner,
catching me quite by surprise,
“this is not y’ home,
and y’ not catching a bus,
so you can piss off now…”
No longer welcome I took his advice
and left him to his thoughts
mentally thanking him
for helping me to write this poem.
What would you have done:
thanked him for his hospitality, 
told him it was time for him to move on, 
heaved a choice palette of invective 
metaphorically over him, or worse, 
or simply walked away like me..?

…being a silent friend,
just being a silent friend…?

75.	  Write about what you know,
write poetry about what you know!

But you discover through poetry 
what you didn’t know!

Through the looseness of a logic unstrapped
a body of ideas and images begins to glow, 
naked, alluring, shaped to beckon, 
setting out to seduce, thrill, instill
a wonder, all anew, transform this world
oft treated as if banal…

I try to write of an urban landscape
but this strange countryside of my re-birth
overwrites, overwhelms my silent pen with songs 
which, when (can be) sung, seem so lyrical…

76.	At last this city seems to be growing old,
with comfortable seats beneath each hill,
half-way, and on the top as well!

And joy o’ joy without the excuse 
of a space for advertising,
not a name in sight, a blessing…

Although do not try to sleep
sideways  upon them, alas,
designed merely for simple sitting…!

Unless very thin and can wriggle 
beneath two outstretched pins
posing purely as armrests…

Please, with such gentrification,
no platforms here 
for indecorous behaviour…

courting couples in this suburb
would be a thing ever so…
quaintly pre-postmodern….

77.	I am an eternal optimist
like someone trying 
to dry washing in the mist, 
you know the sun is out there somewhere..?

78.	Who said “the world is a stage..?”

In public it seems as if
everyone is walking the boards;
only, some have remembered their lines
while others have forgotten them….

79.	A brilliant Summer:
white shirt and shorts, a pale face,
swirling Mountain mist….

80.	My old friend it seems 
you are still with us…

I spoke to you only last week
while waiting for the ferry,
when it was pouring with rain,
was going to see you at Sharon’s party…

But, alas, you are now dead…

Your boyfriend rang me yesterday
to tell me…

Could almost hear him sobbing.
He could have fooled some.
Could just hear that stiff upper lip,
an echoing of a heart drained 
of all but love,
a human puppet 
just doing his duty…

Most likely a simple funeral, 
hopefully a not so simple wake…

Have been asked to say a few words
no doubt between drops of tears
more eloquent…

Rang the next day to find out
the final time of your departure
to be greeted on the telephone
by his well-known voice 
on the answering machine…

My old friend it seems 
you are still with us….

81.	  More urban(e) haikus.
Paper flow’rs from countryside
disguised like town-folk.

On the balconies 
yuppies sipped champagne watching
poor thieves walk the streets.

The Financial Times
was left on a park bench, has
the market fallen?

Hopefully won’t be 
attacked by swarms of haikus…
Left my pen at home.

On the train between 
cities I wish parents would 
teach their kids to talk.

Old Classics still teach
new Prime Minister should 
kowtow to the throne.

Say one thing and do 
something else is today’s norm… 
THIS DOOR SHOULD STAY SHUT….

Caught on video…
man monitoring  tvs
was found fast asleep.

A giant fireplace:
pub’s open doorway glowed red
and smelt of stale smoke.

The old drunken tramp 
wished the New Year’s revellers 
would just go on home.

The way of the Dow
teaches us not to walk with
sacrificial sheep….

Or/

The Dow teaches us 
we should become goats and not 
sacrificial sheep.

Very little room
has the all too human zoo 
left for animals.

The pussy cat smiled 
and purred all through New year’s Eve 
until the fireworks.

Confetti sprinkled 
on the streets, discarded like 
yesterday’s heroes.

Those Y2K bugs 
were the same as last year’s ones.
Damn those mosquitoes!

After the party 
all the cockroaches and mice 
then came out to play.

Patient city had 
an irregular heartbeat.
Bloody dance music!

Watered the garden
in the hope that it might rain,
dampen those spirits.

All those erratic
mosquitoes look drunk tonight,
drinking until dawn.

In corp’rate boardrooms
brokers sipped bubbly before 
leaving by the lift….

All souls have broken 
The Law – just one vast prison,
cameras watching….

The broker cannot 
be seen wearing last month’s tie – 
what would people think?

Same virtual bread and 
circuses – endless repeats 
on television!

O, well, a New Year –
but the same sun came up when
I went off to work….

(And three more haikus overlooked for inclusion in this set)

Packaging tells us
that old-style farmers still till 
their pocket-sized farms….

Once ‘fresh’ and ‘last weeks;’
yoghurt now comes in thousands
of flavours – real choice..!

Tv ads proclaim
with one voice “we live in the 
workers’ paradise…!”

82.	The homeless man in the doorway
mumbled his obsessive prayers,
dictated to him by the Holy Spirit,
living the life of a dishevelled Christ:

“I am living in this doorway
because the world has sinned,
O God, expiate through me
the sins of this world 
that I may go free, 
live my life like an ordinary man…”

Reflecting my concern
I caught his eye and his thoughts:
trapped in this ritual compulsion 
in his heart of hearts he did not believe
and for this sin had to purify
his being like a holy hermit
set loose upon this urban desert…

Don’t mock me… 
you cannot mock me 
for there is no distance between us, 
we all have our faith,
rules to help make sense 
of a senseless world,
a vision that keeps us sane,
instructions that ‘order’ us
to be ‘a part’ in this 
fragmented cosmos, 
signs that help us 
to find our feet 
in some narrative 
of a ‘flawed’ universe….

Walking past I smiled, 
thinking others, not understanding,
would still say to themselves -
“there but for the grace of God
go I…!”

83.	  In a park we happened upon 
a choice bottle of unopened wine,
overlooked, left behind 
by its previous owner…

…and in my imagination had this vision…

…an old alcoholic was going to celebrate 
his fifty-fifth birthday but had forgotten
to buy the appropriate bottle opener
and not wishing to smash the bottle,
in front of the other drinkers in this park,
was going to take it home to his doorway
in the alleyway ‘round the corner
before he would partake his evening meal.
But, falling asleep, when he awoke
quite forgot his pre-dinner drink
in rushing off to the nearby mission…

…and so the bottle was left standing 
face down upon the grass
by itself along with an old, plastic, 
transparent stem-cup on its side
and last week’s newspaper…

…without friends to celebrate 
in the empty darkness 
of this public place….

84.	…I have come to the West
from the East
and now return there
in a poetic speech
filled with sparse sentences,
finding less is more…

See myself taking 
a Middle Path between
this interpretation
and that opposed
to every other…

I delight in seeing fruit
in leaves changing colour
and birds ripe in plumage
as peaches high up 
on the branches…

Then at sunset am surprised
to hear the tree singing –
such a feast…
and out of season too..!

Alas, alas, just like me….

85.	Black, black the storm that freezes
the soul upon shores of ice,
leaves hope stranded on the tide
tightly strung, soon to snap, yet…

‘Downward looking Narcissus,
in despair clutching 
at non-existent straws,
was seen drinking 
his vodka on the rocks,
watching his reflection 
watching him
disappearing
vintage drop
by vintage drop,
seemingly oblivious 
to all the others
enjoying themselves 
in this night club,
not aware he was 
being watched…
watched over…’

Pan, the dark barman, 
seemed friendly enough,
is he fussing over me, I thought?
He’s looking a little bit sad too,
not my sort though,
much prefer that blond angel
sitting by himself on that stool 
on the other end of the bar
scribbling on a note pad,
from time to time,
what seems to be a letter.
But he has his eye on my barman,
always whispering to him,
chatting him up,
and this dispenser of relief
seems to want to talk to me.
Must love and lust
always be seen
to travel in triangles
that circle the other way,
each the opposite to the other..?
having just tasted his own love 
painfully rejected…

The barman comes this way again
and this time says,
“would you like a good, strong
black coffee on the house…
or a cappuccino..?”

Does he mean ‘this place’ or ‘his’..?

“It’s nearly dawn, 
and my sad friend over there 
tells me he would like 
to sober up with you,
been asking me all night
to chat you up… for him…
on his behalf…”

Ah, a messenger from the gods…
or maybe another devil in disguise
to torture my hopeless soul…

“We are closing soon, 
I was meeting
my partner for breakfast,
perhaps all four of us
could have croissants
on the waterfront..?”

From his pocket he took
a sheet of folded paper
and carefully opened it
upon the bench
and reading it out aloud, said…

Without rhythm, without rhyme
find a champagne sea swimming
in eyes that desire to bathe 
us with their beautiful voice, 
flood us with celestial charm,
a crystalline heart on fire, 
welcoming the dew-fresh dawn
as if ‘morning’ would ne’er end…

…all said seriously
with the quiver 
of a nervous wink
instantly undone 
with a helpless,
infectious cackle…

A poet, and mixed metaphors,
I thought to myself,
well, no triangle here,
the subversive inklings
of a foursome breaking bread..?

“Hi,” my name’s Icarus,
saw you drinking vodka
and wondered 
if you would like to sober up,
have a coffee with me, 
with us, my friend here…

Hey, just whose poem is this,
I thought to myself,
I was only drinking lemonade,
I’m a cheap drunk, 
please don’t mistake 
this reality for an illusion..?

“Sure, I would like that very much…”
and musing heard my mind say,
I am either drowning or burning up, 
it would be nice this time 
to do both at the same time…

And Narcissus looked 
into the eyes of Icarus
and divined that he too 
needed to walk a middle path…

…and Pan with a gentle, 
knowing laugh said
“ah, here meet my friend – Apollo;
approaching with a serious frown...”

…and we all went down to the beach 
to drown each other’s sorrow….

Shared sadness distills mis’ry
in’ sweet drops of ecstasy…!

86.	The ‘recently arrived’ in Australia
may laugh at the indigenous people and say:
just nomads, still nomads…

But I look around me and have the last laugh…

Look, look at all these ‘invaders’ who carry 
their fire-sticks in their pockets 
or more sophisticated forms of fire-retrieval
and in public, like clockwork, can be seen 
fucking themselves and everyone else
with upraised fingers in the form of a ‘V’,
victory over death, merely postponed,
sucking cancerettes with a desperation
born from an infirmity of the thinking mind,
and there you see them wandering around
dreaming back over a time once pure 
and innocent still starring back at them….

87.   The cold, pale window tonight
overlooks the valley enshrouded in mist,
long metaphorical tears slip down the pane.
Seated at my desk in front of my slow heater 
I am reading history, nothing changes it seems…

Why do we waste our time with tyrants, 
war criminals, petty thieves that fill our courts?
These folk are so ordinary, almost banal.
Better to emulate those heroes remembered 
undermining such common foe...

Trying to keep warm, a black cockatoo nestles
in  the dripping pine tree above the roof 
munching cones, passing occasional comment
on the night life struggling to survive below….

88.	A few falling snowflakes, Winter’s first,
 look like white gold fish when they dance 
over the pond, its surface icy bright in the dawn,
a dappled mirror between this world and that
starting to crack, break, and slip apart…

Beautiful are those moments when 
the inner and outer dissolve in sheer ecstasy
to merely reflect the reflection of things…

…a dappled mirror between this world and that
starting to crack, break, and slip apart…

Sight flying gold fish burnished in amber sunlight
now swimming in the morning breeze, spiraling down,
alighting upon a self-lit surface created by the mind…

…to merely reflect a simulation of the divine….

89.	How I long to be embraced by another soul
transparent, open, honest, soft and tender to the touch
as if god himself were this god incarnate…

Instead perceive shoppers chasing apparent specials,
displays in windows that seem to speak to them,
all purchases wrapped in bags of plastic…

Here a sore footed woman finds enjoyment on a seat,
there a pensioner hasn’t worked out what to buy for tea,
nearby a student has flowers already held as if to give… to me..?

What is this simple soul thinking, I muse?
Obviously lost in thought, composing a poem,
fishing for divine lines in a human sea…

All awash in emotion people pass as if on parade,
actors and spectators on the same stage…!

90.	The seasons circle 
like vultures espying prey
hidden in the rain 
that washes all things away…

On the peak of our youth
running waters mingled and merged
then went their more separate ways…

Down different valleys,
sometimes moving closer together,
sometimes passing further away…

Then on to the plain in our old age
branches of these rivers re-met
on the slow edge of time,
melding together, overlapping, kissing…

…before meeting that inevitable sea…

There embraced for all eternity…!

91.	On the bus two gay guys were arguing,
other folk in louder conversation,
a melodious medley of  mobiles
punctuating this chaotic assembly.
Dull undertones of rustling newspapers
tincture this cacophony with a dash
of white noise highlighted with the sharp crunch 
of packaged chips flavoured with vinegar…

Through the fogged up window tried to escape,
trade in city life for a rural landscape
seen squatting in pots on a balcony;
exhausted by blasts of passing traffic –
a stillness of mind remained arrested,
without composure could see no poetry…?

92.	‘We are moving up in the world’,
must be the thoughts of those guys celebrating 
as I espy their packed-out house-warming,
the crowd entertained with the latest 
techno trifles and a huge outdoor-indoor barbecue
parked out on a sixth floor balcony, 
the deluxe model guaranteed for a well-used
lifetime of at least twenty-five years…

As I pass below the smell of burnt sausages
wafts past in abundance, thick black smoke
signals this late Sunday sacrifice 
and no doubt on this hot afternoon the folk inside 
will feel lined up like the same upon the grill:
such is the stuff that dreams are made of….

93.	Only ‘seeing’ is seen,
never that lurking substance
thought sighted;
nor that shirking subject
found delighted
in erotic dreams,
embraced and asleep
all at the same time…

The world is as virtual 
as a computer screen,
with images 
that mesmerize 
the unblinking mind
merely content
with icons, glyphs,
shimmering ciphers
just as nebulous
as ghosts coming over
from that so called 
‘other side’…

But don’t look for it
any other way,
the quality of virtue
is as actual 
as a shadow
seen reflected 
in the bright eye 
of a burning tiger
about to eat 
his weakly prey…

Even atoms are fictions,
paraded characters
in a play
that pop in and go
without an introduction,
too discreet to be discrete,
evasive will-o-wisps,
visions bubbling up
from below a place
called ‘nowhere’,
sights seeing each other,
sometimes passing through
in the ecstasy of being seen
being seen passing through,
dreams of love
embraced in dreams of love
like huge galactic mirrors 
out admiring
each other’s admiration…

All thoughts made as real
as the footprints
of a white feather 
found fallen… 
blown across
virgin snow
freshly delivered 
on a tropical beach
in the glow 
of a full moon
on heat,
seeing double,
thought drowning
in the circular lagoon
of a coral reef….

But have no fear,
everything is then 
as substantial 
as iridescent bubbles 
bumping into each other
with a splash
felt on the excited cheek
of their creator…!

Only ‘seeing’ is seen,
never that lurking substance
thought sighted;
nor that shirking subject
found delighted
in erotic dreams
where everything is cast
on the same footing,
like feathers 
found colliding…
soft as snow…
ah…!

94.	Hey, hey, I’m lookin for flashes of gold,
soft, sweet pulses of light not too hot, not too cold,
worked for, refined, not just taken, moments
that enlighten my dull mind, give it meaning
wherein within none can be found….

Songs that jump out at you and sing
“I’m glad to be alive…”

How profound this comfort of strangeness,
blessings of meaning and meaningfulness
enwrapped in layers of language:
letters in words, words in letters
delivered by hand, never read,
forever sealed, intimated only 
in the sending…

Like kisses on paper, if only we could meet the person
who intended such a connection when they scratched
them out upon the forehead of this page…

But, then, sent away, dismissed, 
for we may never meet again;
only the promise of a promise,
as whispers dissolved upon a desert wind…

O how we long to feel at home in a world
that has no rock upon which to build -
when seized by such terror let it wash over you,
drown in that delight that surpasses speech…

Find no pointed arrows to pass through you, 
speed you to a land between such peaks, 
on windswept plateaus ride rough shod, 
over-ride the valleys as if a flying chariot 
of ten thousand horses, one team, in touch 
with a land of dust that shuts the mouth, 
screaming pleasure though clenched teeth…

On the map ‘X’ marks the spot 
where treasured chests of jewels will find you, 
one by one, have you buried 
in dazzling gems that make no sense;
that leave us interred in this lunatic asylum
only when we try to comprehend its inner essence…

And hear, don’t search for meaning, 
none shall be found, such a task 
is madness, pure madness, unsound…

All value is won in the winning, being chosen,
as if without effort, intentionally unintended,
give up and from behind be taken,
turn around and find nothing but emptiness,
already pregnant, already born…

“Find divine shadows traced out in fine relief,
a pair of dice seen in a perfumed garden,
a low-key country, a rural landscape,
‘wish you were here’ postcards de-signed in dream,
metal images that sought to be beheld
and holy icons scented delightfully,
a rose like a lotus, painted ‘pon a breeze,
with incense seek a value self-delivered.
Entranced entered a sacred exit to see,
re-emerging, the same vision, the same world,
now address the deities, only with clothes 
could they be barely imagined as naked;
contorted with surfaces of gilt, tarnished,
by deft hands loudly re-fashioned… altered…”

Hey, hey, I’m lookin for flashes of gold,
soft, sweet pulses of light not too hot, not too cold,
worked for, refined, not just taken, moments
that enlighten our dull minds, give them meaning
wherein outside none can be found….

As if kissed by a divine hand
find myself written upon like a blank sheet –
silently embraced by meaning itself
in a land where the bells of bliss can not be tolled….

95.	Upon a nighttime pavement,
fallen from skeletal trees, 
a cold spectrum 
of scattered jewels
lie dying like tiny stars
on the inky black edge 
of the lonely cosmos,
fading away one by one, 
space twinkling in between
with tears of rain,
falling with a splash
like promiscuous metaphors
from a leaky pen,
meaning nothing more, 
nothing less, scratching out
the exquisite sadness
of pain and distress, 
delight and pleasure
all mixed in as one,
symbolic of the winter
yet to come, in part
already here, to be endured,
a depressed memory
almost buried 
in this dismal poem….

96a.   The textual boundaries of my life 
have been defined in poems;
like high brick walls
around some ugly sanatorium…

O reader, help me to escape,
I implore you, uncover
this bed of sheets, 
release this book-bound soul..!

…with new pastures to ride upon,
fields filled with resilient flowers
no more confined to paper…

Shared memories re-sighted as fresh
as a breeze listening to the leaves
of an enchanted peach tree…!

96b.   The textual boundaries of my life 
have been re-defined in poems;
as high, windowless, brick walls built
around some ugly sanatorium…

O reader, please, I implore you,
unlock, release this book-bound soul,
help me to uncover, escape
from this pale bed of printed sheets..!

…with new pastures to ride upon,
frosty fields with resilient flowers
no more confined to mere paper…

…shared memories seen re-sighted 
like a breeze heard listening to leaves
re-enchanting an old peach tree…!

96c.   The textual boundaries of my hapless life 
have been defined and described in poems;
as high, windowless, brick walls thickly built
around some ugly, run-down sanatorium…

O reader, I implore you, please unlock, 
release this bent, dishevelled book-bound soul,
help me to uncover, make an escape,
leave behind this pale bed of printed sheets..!

…with new pastures freely ridden upon,
frosty fields filled with resilient flowers
no more confined in time to mere paper…

…shared memories re-met, re-sighted anew
like a soft breeze heard listening to the leaves
enchanting an old peach tree’s silent view…

97.	 Where unseen tears come from is a mystery,
but their well should not be allowed to dry,
be desiccated, cracked like desert mud 
in the harsh light of some unfeeling sun
wrapped in cold blankets of dull indifference…

So I marched to the beat of a different drum
and bridged a gulf hitherto crossed only 
in a few glib words of thin commitment…

With self-contentment know you see my stand,
you saw me shiver in the winter dawn,
keep a silent counsel, learn to smile, walk out
with others in the same hopeful direction…

Who may y’ be that wishes to judge me?
None but those big, wet eyes beaming proudly…!

98.	Dancing in y’ dreams babe,
still dancing in y’ dreams…

Asleep against the shut doors of a disco, 
in a row on a freezing Sunday morning,
a small selection of real party goers
 in trendy gear with the flesh 
of tattooed arms and chest exposed…

Dancing in y’ dreams babe,
still dancing in y’ dreams…

99.	(Dining al fresco has its moments)

Dog sniffed his ‘entrée’…

The shocked waiter was pouring 
a fine Chardonnay….

100.	Will I be remembered
beside my virtual grave
with some paper flowers;
gaudy ones, vivid ones,
painted with feeling 
in unfading colours..?

Please do not waste y’ money
buying dying blossoms 
with real, falling petals
but just send out a bunch or two
into the ether of virtual space;
a bouquet where letters are enveloped
in some imaginative words
wrapped up in a few lines
all tied loosely together
with a card for this old poet 
who will be going there too, 
anon, before too long,
in a puff of smoke…

Remember me when sitting
beside my virtual grave
as just a simple gardener,
that good-hearted bloke
who spent some time 
tending the soil,
weeding and watering,
who ploughed a small patch 
upon this painful planet
embraced by many worlds 
of culture and experience,
waiting for the unexpected to grow
amid the manure… and the compost …

Just a simple soul, a simple soul,
a mere gardener who cultivated
with just enough wit to know
that the written composition is
none other than a de-composition
of some other wit that flowered 
and in seeding seeded a memory, 
a trace, that best blooms again
through someone else’s 
metaphorical pen…

Till then he doth lie between 
these furrows of scratched out words
a simple soul called “Noël,”
in an unremarkable grave,
in an invisible space
on the edges of the busy internet,
now relishing the role
of a literary slave 
bound by sense not quite his own…

…answering wayward e-mails,
having fun giving them hell,
sending them back, eventually,
to their original owners
with the message
“address now unknown,
please re-define this U.R.L….”