-:*:-

VOLUME VIII - BOOK IV

A SERIES OF POETIC SEQUENCES ON MY ADOPTED TOWN OF SYDNEY

N.K.TOINTON

1994

 -:*:-

This Book Is Dedicated To:

Hany,
Patrick,
David,
Paul,
David,
Bill and Ann,
James,
Susan
and 
Tony.

Index

i	Introduction

1	1.  There is no need to find housing for the poor.
2	2.  The Cross is one place where religion can be found.
2	3.  Centennial Park.
4	4.  Between canyons of glitz - downtown Sydney.
5	5.  Oxford Street - early Saturday morning.
5	6.  Lets do the galleries.
6	7.  Have a harbour cruise.
7	8.  The cranes have come and gone.
7	9.  Would you like to go for a coffee?
8	10. Those poor Japanese.
8	11. In a dream I see Sydney.
10	12. Living in the suburbs.
11	13. How to take a long needed break from the big city.
11	14. Let opportunity knock on your door.
12	15. Quite by chance last week walked past the old flat.
15	16. Are all appearances only skin deep.
	    i.	Prologue.
	    ii.	Go home you monstrous drag queen.
	    iii.	Why don't you go and watch?
	    iv.	I'm a solo parent.
	    v.	Are you going to the Mardi Gras?
	    vi.	This is ABC Television.
	    vii.	I know why you go to see the Mardi Gras.
	    viii.	We have brought the kiddies.
	    ix.	I'm a street Kid.
	    x.	Each year we watch it.
	    xi.	The Mardi Gras is not politically correct.
	    xii.	Epilogue.
19	17. The artful craft of busking.
19	18. One more invitation to another party.
20	19. From behind the looking glass.
	    i.	Prologue.
	    ii.	Hercules.
	    iii.	Europa.
	    iv.	Icarus.
	    v.	Hermaphroditus.
	    vi.	Mars.
	    vii.	Narcissus.
	    viii. Thetis.
	    ix.	A nymph.
	    x.	Hermes.
	    xi.	Gannymeade.
	    xii.	Epilogue.
26	20. Hyde Park is a miniature Central Park.
27	21. Down and out in Matthew Talbot.
28	22. Every Chinese garden was built to be lived in.
28	23. No, I haven't taken tea with Lady Fairfax.
29	24. Home is where the heart is.

Introduction

	In a previous book in this volume (Book III) I discussed in its introductory preface the meta-textual nature of titles. These twenty four poems have no formal title other than that which was just given in the Index, this distinction being no more than merely a quotation from the first few lines of the poem concerned. But the first few lines of the poem serve a similar purpose - to introduce the poem. In this vocation, this desire to establish and perform its apparently intended work, equally a desire to both address us and be addressed by us in turn, this introduction presented at the beginning of the poem, in our reading of it, allows us to enter into its psychic presence and determine correctly, to some degree, the nature of its literary location in the psychic hierarchy of the life-world. Moreover, this act of the reading of a text, if that text is adequately constructed and our reading of it is appropriately performed, is also to a certain degree a procedure that is effectively self-correcting in nature. Without its contextualization, whether correctly or incorrectly located, that text cannot be appreciated in any other form other than as a 'text' and then, only as 'a text that currently cannot be read'.
	In the first poem the first three lines would need to be called upon in order to manufacture an adequate title. In a similar fashion the second poem would need the quotation of the first two lines while the third need only note the first two words. Other poems might need only the mention of a name. E.g., in the series of vignettes in poem number 19, the central poems could be titled merely by the expression of a name , e.g., Hercules, Europa, Narcissus, etc. Then again the whole poem by virtue of the simultaneous presence of a parallel meta-text could equally claim that the entire poem from the meta-textual point of view entitles itself from that point of view. Of course it is not very practical to quote an entire poem when all that need be entailed is the utterance of a short title in some form or other, whether that title be merely a quotation from its first few lines, the naming of obvious thematic material or some other device that both locates and informs the reader about the contents of that which they are about to read. Of course, the use of a title that is more in the nature of a catalogue index merely gives us some information about that cataloguing system rather than the contents of that poem.	
	As previously discussed in Book III the title of a poem being `about' that poem must also mis-lead, give us a mis-reading of that same poem, but, as I also added in our appreciation of the nature of this mis-reading we also have the ability to rectify that mis-reading and therein re-center our ongoing interpretation of that text. In essence, the title, in its own distinctive manner, is also deceptive, has the power to deceive by virtue of its meta-textual nature being `about' that text and not just being `of' that text per se. Of course the entire text must also be simultaneously meta-textual and textual in its intentional construction and we must also claim, to be consistent, that the very text itself is equally ambivalent and deceptive. Again, an understanding of the manner in a which a text presents itself both textually and meta-textually, and the nature of this difference in texture, allows the reader to rectify their reading of that text given that the text is adequately formed and can be adequately approached by that reader. E.g., poem number 22. the title supplied from its first two lines is that "every Chinese garden was built to be lived in" is the very nature of my complaint because this `Chinese Garden' built in Darling harbour is one Chinese garden that is not lived in! And this theme is what drives the formation of that poem. The title in this regard is quite obviously deceptive. Understanding in what way the title is indeed deceptive allows us to then `read' that poem.
	In the second half of this introduction I would like to defend the roles of prose, poetry and the grey territory between these two realms that reproduces the form and complexion of the so called prose-poem. A wonderfully written and constructed novel is without a doubt poetic in its use of language. But prose is never mistaken as a form of poetry. In a similar fashion a short, metrical, rhyming segment of text is never mistaken as a piece of prose. Both regions are textually quite distinctive but it is my belief that on the intersection of these two realms of textuality there is indeed a place for the prose-poem. Like all genre, whether relatively pure or hybrid, a text can succeed or fail within the ambit and nature of such region. To my mind a prose-poem must partake equally from poetry and prose and produce and reproduce a distinctive, integrated blend from these two regions. In our critical active or passive appreciation of this intersecting region we need to know the essential nature of the poetical because the essential nature of prose is virtually a watered down version of that region recognised as poetic. Although the poetical nature of a piece of prose `is watered down,' is metaphorically `thinner,' this does not imply that that type of text is aesthetically diminished in status, in either form or content. Put the other way round we might say that a poem is merely a condensed piece of prose plus or minus various formal considerations like rhythm, rhyme, etc. With a firm conviction we might say that these peripheral features meta-textually alert us to the expectation of a poem, and as to what genre it might belong to, but that there is no necessity for a poem to formally possess such features. A translation of a poem, as poetically translated and re-constructed from one language to another, can be done poetically yet that translation need not adopt the same formal characteristics of the original poem. E.g., the translation of a Chinese poem of the very formal shih variety using the same formal characteristics of that genre is an impossibility in the English language. To begin with the English language just does not have a system of tones, certainly not along the lines of that possessed in the time of the T'ang e.g., which must present to a certain lesser degree a problem even for those who speak modern Chinese (Mandarin). 
	What a poem must possess is an adequate degree of aesthetic compression. An adequate prose translation of a good poem, in order to capture the subtlety of most of its apparent nuances, would greatly exceed the length of that original poem. It would most likely not be able to capture considerable key sections of that poem in prose by virtue of the dialectical complexity and compression of its poetically expressed emotions, images and ideas. Indeed, it is in the expression of complex feelings, images and ideas that a poem is most at home! The manner in which these facets of the human psyche are mirrored, successfully expressed and adequately married with the implied nature of its adopted genre that allows us to determine intuitively the overall aesthetic merit of that poem. Aesthetic merit is not a measure of its accessibility! Rather it is an intuitive evaluation of the successfulness of its provocative structures and functions, i.e., the degree to which provocative dissonance is adequately resolved in the unfolding of that text. This provocation, and its embedded  potential for self-resolution, discharging itself aesthetically when this process of resolution is adequately performed by the writer of that text and is adequately re-performed by the reader of that same text. In this there can be no room for the purely evocative reading of a text although, paradoxically, the reader must initially fall back on letting that text evoke for them memories that resonate with the apparent contents of that text. If a poem is talking about a sunset the reader must have also have partaken in this experience of having seen a sunset. Now, to put it quite simply, provocative material is essentially introduced into the text through a mixture of metaphor and rhetoric both formally and content-wise. Moreover, a well grounded aesthetically 'valued' text must involve the entire psychological hierarchy of the individual in their overall sense of personhood, i.e., address directly or indirectly those levels of feelings, perceptual phenomena, conceptual processes and judgmental matters of taste or value. The accessibility of a poem being indirectly dependent upon the ability of its author to set the reader up along provocatively directed relatively distinctive pathways of interpretation, and, directly through the proximity the dominant literary nature of that text has to our psychological realm of feelings, a regional orientation that also includes and encompasses the experienced presence of processes of a varied-repetition in rhythm and/or rhyme, etc. Let it not be forgotten that the roots of poetry lie in song and that the distinctly 'poetical' is not much more than the suppression of a song if it has not already re-clothed itself in the formal expression of such music. But just as today music is no longer just the singing of songs so too is there a place for the poem more prose-oriented in its formal, or rather, relatively informal expression. In this light a poem that is conceptually or value orientated, more interested in matters of a rhetorical nature than of a metaphorical complexion,  will be by its very nature less accessible both individually for the individual and collectively for society in general. And that must be the price paid by someone who wishes to operate in that type of territory. Of course I am not suggesting that all my prose-poems are of an equally high standard. E.g., poem number 16 has a number of sections that are effectively pieces of descriptive prose. On the other hand poem number 18 might be seen as a piece of satirical prose but because of the number of provocative points in that text is rather high, relatively more dense, that text is therefore relatively more poetic in its intentions. Therefore, in our interpretation and aesthetic appreciation of these prose-poems we must pay attention to these points of provocation whether formal or material in their apparent aspiration and seemingly intended terms of resolution. The determination of apparent intentionality being assisted through the repetition of similar resolutional responses to similar provocative structural-processes. E.g., in the Epilogue of poem number 16 the repetition of a series of metaphors on a theme of clothing means that by the time we reach the expression `material universe' we have at least two ways of interpreting that expression.
	The extent that the prose translation of a text greatly exceeds the length of that text to that extent we might say it is relatively more poetic in its apparent aspirations. An evaluation of the successful resolution and integration of those points of provocation determining the relative aesthetic merit of that text, i.e., allows us to determine how poetical that poetic text is in accordance with our appreciation of its apparent poetry. This implicit excess of text beyond its explicit entextualization demanding the need, on the part of both the author and the reader, for the adequate exercise of the imagination wherein this surplus can be invoked or, rather, provoked. A text that spells out exactly what you get ceasing to that degree to be a literary text, a text that possesses a literary nature and value. Hence a poem or a piece of prose must never merely describe a certain state of affairs. A literal, mono-dimensional text can never be a piece of literature, possess literary qualities, however well written such a text is in itself and how well it functions in its appropriate social context.
	Lastly, in order to conclude, I would like to note the following points. As indicated in this title to this book these poems are a series of sequences, a series of impressions, ideas, images, etc., hence the use of the triple dots. Essentially, an open set of impressions bound within the artificial confines of a poetic-frame. Other themes that have concerned me in this book being the nature of the home (and homelessness), being at-home-in-the-world, etc; the metaphorical relationship between art and food; the nature of the relationship between quality and quantity, style and substance, etc; and, the nature of the relationship between denotation and connotation, between aural meanings and written meanings, between metaphorical and literal uses of the same expressions,  etc,. (and hence my occasional use of italics).
	Hopefully, these insignificant texts will not be too harshly judged and that the reader will find some small degree of pleasure within them. Therefore, in this hope I discharge these series of impression of my new home of Sydney into the care of my reader in the hope that they will receive them in the spirit intended, and, that they be not too offended by my use of poetic license, or my apparent lack in the use of the same.

						Noël Tointon, Sydney, 6.12.94.

A Series Of Poetic Sequences On My Adopted Town Of Sydney

1. ...There is no need 
to find housing 
for the poor...
...from the city
to Paddington 
there is a resident
in each bus-shelter...
...I cross the road 
to re-catch the bus...
...Seated shivering 
in the corner
sits a thin, frail
elderly lady...
...Does she own this spot,
I think to myself..?
...I say, "hello,"
and when she answers 
I noticed clutched 
in her hands
her red, one dollar
daily pensioners' pass...

2. ...The Cross is one place
where religion can be found...
...but I wonder if refined opium
is the new religion of the masses..?
...Converts conversing in a lingo
that mirrors the psycho babble
reflected upon in those time wasted
counselling sessions... preaching
to the already converted..?

...Words are but vain constructions 
built upon the sonorous texts
of resonant passages echoing 
through the air...
...The name `Kings Cross' 
marks an epicentre 
in the Australian psyche...
...a metaphorical spot...
...a mental landscape...
...a state of mind undergoing
a self-induced convulsion...
... a discontinuity in communication 
promoted through the legal constraint
of social fictions and fractures...
...these added divisions multiplied
and left unresolved...

...The hard working members
of this quasi-religious order 
selling you certain wares... 
...tacit promises in verbal requests...
...seductive reversals in value...
...repetitive performances in ecstasy...
...the diluted injection
of recycled, resold properties 
manipulated to prop up a habit 
in a multi-national paper trail 
to launder money...

...A row of poor, worn out denimed souls 
in dark sunglasses speaking
to a row of sombre suited gentlemen
in various shades of grey-blue 
sporting the same face-furniture... 
...waiting with the warm welcome
of empty suitcases...

...There in the six o'clock shadows 
of some narrow, muted lane...
...its throat obstructed 
with tomorrow's rubbish...
...the hopeful sign of 
discarded needles... 
...the odd corpse... or drunk 
still out `sunning themselves'...

...There on silent street corners...
...in deserted backyards
near a water-tap...
...a small number of calculating figures
measure out unknown quantities...
...under the pale light
of an unblinking white-faced moon
the colour of cold, icy snow...
...a frozen formation tinged 
with a few drops of blood 
from the flashing orange glare
of an unsleeping neon skyline...

3. Centennial park...alas... 
is one vast arena for 
the clockwise circulation of cars...
...exactly imitated by the pulsed streams
of professional part-time cyclists...
...half reflected in the to and fro
of installed sedentary horses
learning to pace out the dusty confines 
of their allocated circuit...

...subtract this wildlife 
and you are left with a sea of grass 
peppered with pines and eucalypts 
floating in a drained marshy hollow 
replaced by artificial lakes 
with obligatory islands visited 
by birds flying somewhere else...

...and I forgot to mention that
there are a few beds of flowers 
and an assortment of buildings
that interrupt this wonderful essay 
in natural variety...

...O for the day when families
could get properly lost in this 
recipe for a wilderness...
...given maps and a few trails
and told to watch out for snakes
and charging kangaroos 
and the odd irate wombat
irritated by those passing 
humans told not to feed
the inhabitants of this 
now living zoo...

...but we cage the people instead
when we control the landscape
and force them into sterile moulds...
...better to let chaos rule the roost
and fashion a wild beauty outside
the cannons of textbook sanity
shot through and riddled 
with the clinical savagery 
of a too intellectual 
unreasonableness...

...imagine a forest in the center
of a truly great city...
...an abode with a numinous core...
...a spatial (w)hole breathing 
in and out in harmony 
with the tidal flow
of this enriched vista...
...whose history is now 
re-enfolded in upon itself...
...creating a future
within a future...
...with a solid foundation
upon the simulation of a past 
for once not allowed 
to pass away...

...but I am told this park
comes to life in the dead of night...
...contests between tramps 
over which over hanging ledge
or cave they must take repossession of
in case that night is spent 
sleeping in the rain...
...not that it rains too often...
...re-blessed sacred sites 
that come alive with the dance 
of souls finding death 
re-enacted once more...
...scary visions that leave 
this place more secure 
in the Gothic imaginations 
of good city folk
than any rusty metal fence
erected to keep out 
the invitation of such permitted
unauthorized entry...

4. ...Between canyons of glitz...
...downtown Sydney...
...boutiques and department stores
insulated from the traffic
for those with that urge 
to pass themselves off as well off...

...By taxi those rich matrons
come to browse between 
one name and another...
...looking much the same...
...labels and prices excepted...

...By parked car in the parking station
come those financial yuppies
buying one more fashionable tie 
to later give to the poor
via St.Vincent de Paul...

...The not so affluent recycling their
designer shopping bags...
...you can see the difference
displayed for all to see
in their packaged wrinkles...

...All these demanding consumers
unwitting servants 
patronizing this very successful,
mobile advertising campaign...
...en masse a population of signs
so subliminally subversive...

...More effective than 
any haughty window display
with those high camp models...
...despite that sense of style...
...and all those fields of flowers 
trucked in to soften
the reality of this
overgrown world of 
the looking glass 
set in concrete...

5. ...Oxford Street...
...early Saturday morning...
...just after day break
the street cleaners come to sweep
in a sea of discarded bits and pieces...
...A picked over smorgasbord 
of fish and chip wrappings,
cardboard and plastic containers...
...vomit on the steps
of the corner restaurant...
...unused condoms in the gutters
outside the sex shops...
...A tide of human figures 
have now left for warmer regions 
leaving behind these leftover people...
...From the closing dance-halls 
they enter the world of morning light
blinking a little... staring...
...now starting to look a little tired...
...Which way to go...up or down...
...some breakfast perhaps...
...a strong morning coffee
to get them on their way home..?
...Meeting face to face
the existential toughness
of such collective decisions...
...Looking out of place in their
minimal gear... as if they had
been dancing and sweating
on some sexy beach...
...far away...for some time now...
...long ago...

6. ...Lets do the galleries...
after lunch... after hot croissants 
and some good Italian coffee...
...for dessert there's nothing like 
a good dose of art...
...and its all on display for free...
...if you cannot be tempted to taste...

...And what is on the menu today...
...some crumbs from Miro...
...some leftover snacks from Picasso...
...some doodled confections by Degas...
...but to begin with let us admire
this Hockney and this suspicious print
by that sly old fox Salvador Dali...

...Come instead and admire 
this ancient Greek vase...
...no fake copies here...
...certified by the dealer...
...who knows it has just been dug up...
...from Sicily, he said...
..comes with a money back guarantee...
...and a contract...

...Or perhaps something more modern
like this Victorian plate, cup and saucer
from a grand dinner set 
just recently carved up...

...But you cannot beat 
a good old Aussie painting 
to lift your appetite... 
...something in your price range... 
...whether done in dots 
in an aboriginal playfulness...
...or the humour of some avant garde
experimentalist working out the angst 
of their soul splashing red paint 
on and off the canvass
with a very sharp palette knife...
...a dog's breakfast you might say...
...or a meal to savour 
for the rest of one's life 
if not bought for that 
quick takeaway investment...

7. ...Its a nice summer's day...
...during the working week...
...take a harbour cruise...
...pack one bottle of champagne
or some chilled orange juice...
...some freshly filled focaccia...
...take the trip to Balmain 
or Parramatta...
...and when the crowd has disembarked
sample your picnic lunch in style...
...with a good friend... 
...of either sex...
...all to be had 
for a wonderful price...
...such economy in
this simple fare...

8. ...since I have arrived
I see on the city skyline
the cranes have come and gone...
...and have come and gone 
again... once more...

...no more tall buildings going up...
...alas... only thirty-floor 
blocks of flats called `apartments'...

...still the city has 
a number of empty holes
waiting to be filled...
...vacant lots teeming 
with aquatic bird life...
...but the seasonal wildlife
have come and gone...
...and have come and gone 
again... once more...

9. ...Would you like to go for a coffee..?
...With a hundred and one coffee shops
to see from every corner in every hot suburb
how do we choose one that fits the bill..?
...Is there an art in this form of quest...
...some simple tips to guide one 
through this exchange between liquids and cash... 
...those incomprehensible and incommensurable 
worlds of quality and quantity..?
...My first suggestion would be 
`to go to heaven' and there meet 
the ideal form of that which you wish to seek...
...However, without that insight a trip to Italy... 
...or at least France... would more than 
adequately suffice... or failing even that 
then take a friend who from such adventure 
can ensure that you meet with some initial guidance 
in learning to discern that discriminating experience...
...When armed with such expertise you must
then learn to trust your nose and not
the style of the decor... savour the richness
of the aroma... that is if there is one...
...if there is none then move onto the next...
...Then if your nose be tempted ask yourself 
is there an Italian behind the counter 
or someone else with that savoir faire... 
...or do you see `Italians' sampling here... 
...in large numbers... and do the cliental 
seem to be seriously engaged...at least 
the customers must look interesting..?
...A last hint is to inspect the food
and ask yourself is there some variety here...
...but don't wish for too much lest 
some of these displayed morsels are overlooked
and left to outlive their shelf-life... 
...and again use your other senses in imagination...
...not everything is what it seems..?
...But to conclude what is the best test in value
can be none other than that desire to return again...
...and in the expression of this wish word of mouth 
can be a good guide in this slick, post-modernist world 
of changing premises...

...And I know one place that can make a fine cuppa...
...Do you like it black and steaming hot... 
...or white with lots of cream, brown sugar and spices... 
...do you like it straight or sweet... 
...maybe something short or Greek, or Turkish...
...don't wish to offend... maybe lashed with 
a wee dram of whisky... or would you like it 
chilled and served with a hint of wild mint... 
...or with a dash of hot cognac... 
...all presented with a melted chocolate mud cake...
...some simple snacks... a side salad... a warm dish...
...Alas, you will find no cappuccino... only a passing 
imitation in milk upon the stove...
...So with that one fault in mind remember 
to come and have that special coffee at Chez Moi... 
...There the conversation is fine and stimulating...
...and the wine too if you remember to bring it... 
...and the bill is not too excessive or expensive... 
...why, we even through the coffee in for free too...
...At Chez Moi we look forward to seeing you
in the flesh... more intimate than the telephone...
...so drop us a line and let us circle you in 
on the calendar in the kitchen beside the fridge...
...and therein once more share this simple thirst...
...if you remember to return the compliment
and invite us back first..!

10. ...Those poor Japanese...
...who miss seeing Centerpoint
in the morning mist...

11. ...In a dream I see Sydney...
...On a wall I read an advertisement
for some festival for the year 2020... 		(Twenty twenty)
...it feels as if this year 
has already arrived...
...A friend of mine is having a party
in a restaurant called 
`Three Thousand And One'...
...This person has selected certain 
courses... specialities of the house...
...The first course is `designer soup'...
...you choose what flavour you want
and this machine perfectly re-creates it...
...For an entree `dancing frogs legs
and swimming snails in formation'
in a superbly spiced sauce 
all electronically heated and controlled
by the pre-programmed platter...
...Next, for the main course
simulated meat in the form
of `self-cooking steaks' prepared 
as you wait on your plate 
in front of you in a manner in keeping 
with your own uttered request
complete with sizzling sound effects...
...accompanied with a garnish 
of `laser sculptured vegetables'
from a gelatinous alginate substrate
again in a manner in keeping 
with your own uttered request...
...For the dessert artificially
`fruit-flavoured, holographic jelly'...
...so one can be entertained as you sit
by the very latest on the spot 
news events in full 3-D
at the same time as you partake
down to the very last quivering morsel...
...Then for la pièce de résistance - 
`techno-treats' with an incredibly
imitated coffee from that latest
coffee maker - Model One Nine Eight Four.
...Poly-fluorescent `techno-treats' -
computerized cookies comprehensively
instructed in its crystalline chip construction
with full speech recognition capabilities 
along with full speech and taste synthesizers...
...a number crunching cake packed 
with many megabytes of random access...
...Confections instructed 
to spontaneously create poetry
in sympathy with the background 
poetry generators which this week
have replaced the otherwise ubiquitous muzak...
...Tonight we have the continual 
creation of blank verse with a random, 
minimal rhyming scheme with themes
on non-controversial, topical subjects
carefully chosen by the host...
...Stop..! Stop..! Stop..!
...How do you get out of this nightmare..?
...Is there no such thing
as real food any longer..?
...Is there no such thing
as real poetry any longer..?
...Can there be real style 
without substance...
...real substance without style..?
...No longer will I slavishly imitate
the latest dictates of fashion..!
...Let Melbourne regain this
hollow, empty crown of thorns...
...or perhaps Brisbane...
or further north... even Perth..!
...Let Sydney find its own voice...
...let its citizens find their own tongue...
...let Sydney fish in other waters...
...become a star in its own right...
...criticize this failure 
to recreate its own medium... a media
animated with real flesh and blood...
...with a real stomach to inwardly digest
the depths of such profound matter..!
...Along with the good taste to reject 
the mere semblance of sense..!
...Along with the good sense to reject 
the mere semblance of taste..!

12. ...Living in the suburbs...
...children walking their dog...
...old ladies still talking to the cat...
...salvation comes from that sinful city
late at night...
...Just a pastoral village
domiciled in a paddock...
...without a name as yet...
...fenced off from the next...
...all the rest equally begun
as a variety of unvaried variations
on monotonous, monothematic themes...
...A transposed, transparent world on show
hidden behind curtains...
...an infinite replication
of parallel cultures domesticated...
...now watching each other more closely
through the television set...
...Mortgaged dreams of heaven
floating on rising interest rates...
...a psychic hell frozen in limbo...
...not without some hope...
...Slowly warming up...
...melting around the edges...
...changing colour...
...becoming more `international' in style
as migrant families struggle to redefine
their vision of the house...
...their sense of home...
...in the once deserted, desert terrain
of the Australian landscape...

13. ...How to take a long needed break
from the big city without leaving it..?

...Ride the bus to the beach at Bondi...
...or drive the car around Centennial Park...
...walk the board-walks through the mangroves
and escape the grass in Bicentennial Park...
...go bush in some reserve... or unreserved
and native on the civilized sands of Lady Jane...
...take a tour through the Art Gallery and see 
the same scenic scene done twenty different ways...
...or go overseas by ferry to the seaside at Manly...

...Walking along the Corso... admiring the cakes
in the patisseries... evaluating customers
in the trendy gift-shops already half wrapped up
after their visit to the beach... catching 
snatches of free music from the local pubs...
...passing time watching bodies on the sand
all brightly fashioned in different shapes and sizes...

...But as I recollect nothing beats my taking
a short cut once through one local cemetery...
...when the day was just about to finally die... 
...and I could not quite remember which fork on 
an old leafy path took me through those vague shadows 
to that well known, but forgotten, hole in the wall...
...where some teenager thugs in a stolen car 
had found a quick way in and a place to stay...
...and another bunch of twisted humanity
were now with black paint baptising headstones 
with those crooked crosses... and I had to wait
crouched... lest as a witness... I too be crossed 
by these poor witted, dimly sighted savages...

14. ...Let opportunity knock on your door...
...visit the local opportunity shop...
...it makes no difference whether 
you are rich or poor... you never know
what bargains... what needed extras... 
...are waiting there for you to just pass on by...

...And how to present yourself for such a visit..?
...There's no need to worry... dressing down
might only save you 50 cents... or at most 
on a large purchase... a few dollars...
...so for a cheap fashion fix bring some money...
...why, some will even accept your bankcard..!

...These fabulous boutiques range from 
the small pokey shop to massive stores 
the size of a city block... with an intercom 
announcing the latest red hot specials...
...or today’s white ticket half-price give-aways...
"...dresses for one dollar... ties only ten cents..."

...A row of shirts... often all the same price...
...from rags to riches you might say... polyester 
giving way to nylon, cotton and even silk...
...as Yves St.Laurent rubs shoulders with Target... (Targée)
...as Christian Dior has to mix with those chemises
made exclusively for those who like to shop at Woolworths...

...An army of trousers on parade... usually 
colour coordinated... or arranged by size...
...tightly squeezed together... the best names 
mixing with the nameless... some hot, sporting numbers
with original price tags still on display... inevitably
slipping from their hanger as you reach for them...

...All the dresses like a colourful masked ball...
...without heads, hands and feet... 
...moving a little in the breeze as real ladies 
push on past these plentiful wall flowers...
...then these tight rows of racks give way to 
a band of pots and pans... and assorted china...

...Need some furniture... just a matching suite
or a few chairs... an old piano... a new radio...
...some ornaments... some pictures for the wall... 
...that unnoticed masterpiece... a crystal vase 
for five dollars or one in glass for seven..?
...Shop, shop, shop in this version of heaven..!

...And although I preach the virtues of this paradise
I would prefer you to shop somewhere else...
...don't want you to find a brand new pair 
of leather shoes for five bucks when my last ones 
cost six... but then don't be too proud... most of your friends drop on in if they would only admit to it..!

...So it makes no difference whether you are rich 
or poor... you may never ever know that morning
what eager bargain hunting friends have beaten you 
to the latest specials now proudly out on show...
...unless you catch them in that very act on the floor
trying out the merchandise in your local store...

15. ...Quite by chance
last week walked past 
the old flat in Stanmore...
...in hindsight a lonely spot
in the apparent semblance
of my quiet, discrete, point-less life
in this busy city...
...my first home in Sydney...
...after a week at the Cross...
...found the first day 
I arrived from New Zealand...
...with blisters on my feet...

...Still find the stained glass
quite attractive... noted the same crack
in one of the larger panes...
...remembered the day I was burgled...
...stealing the stereo and one blanket...
...via that broken bathroom window...
...not fixed till I finally threatened 
the real estate agency with 
the non-payment of my rent...

...As a `poor' migrant settled down
with an untouched, 
diminished bank account
and a few shares in B.H.P...
...from the first wages 
bought a queen-sized bed...
...from the second a brand new table 
and three matching chairs...
...and a month later three more
and a simple couch for casting
a few friends in this 
now faded movie of my life 
reduced to fragmentary images 
in this selective score...
...continuing prescriptions
in this repeated script...
...no more than mere 
re-interpretations re-tasted, 
chewed over, swallowed 
and, hopefully, digested...

...Discovered the need 
in Australia for
perfect kitchen hygiene...
...armies of ants would clean
the crumbs from the bread knife
within minutes of being left 
on that stained, stainless steel bench...
...putting the cockroaches
outside the door one by one
couldn't compete with their
breeding schedules...
...nesting behind the pictures...
...in the cracks in the walls...
...rats chasing the cats 
outside the backdoor...

...My first tv here 
`came from above' - 
the old lady upstairs gave me 
her small black and white set
when she inherited 
a coloured one from her sister...
...would rather spend my `holidays'...
buying a few wonderful works of art...
...or a few more centimetres of
second-hand classical records...
...next door a halfway house 
for screaming neighbours
`talking' to their voices...
...like the competing discos 
both inside and outside 
this block of flats...
...no pets allowed
so hid their dishes
during those rental inspections...
...when the flat was sold
to one more distant, unconcerned, 
uncaring landlord for investment...

...As I told you quite by chance
last week walked past 
that old flat in Stanmore...
...my first home in Sydney...
...no nostalgia was felt...
...it looked like any other flat
in this street... in this suburb...
...perhaps that is why
I don't feel the need
to place a photo of it in my album
even though I lived there
for those first three, long years...
...for what still seems 
such a short time ago...
...now rarely thought about...
...in remembrance a period in time
effectively forgotten...
...like a full-stop
in the middle of a paragraph...
...a change in direction...
...a pregnant pause...
...before moving on...

16. ...Are all appearances only skin deep...
...superficial... without some psychic substance...
...are we trapped in a world of reflections...
...mere images in an unseen mirror...
...a world on fire without an inner depth..?

	-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

...Go home you monstrous drag queen..!
...posturing in your lipstick and high heels...
...flouting your candy-floss, blond, bombshell hair
in that vulgar dress fit for a circus fair..!
...You have no right to be on this planet...
...you're nothing but a tragic travesty
on the good name of all true womanhood... its people 
like you that give our Mardi Gras a bad press..!

...Listen, honey, why don't you go and watch 
for a change... better still why not join in
you closet poofter with a poodle... don't knock
what you don't know... have some fun...
...forget yourself... let your hair down 
and go with the flow... being human 
is not all packaging and plumbing you know..!
...Why I'm sheer entertainment... a walking stage...
...theatre in the flesh... in the round so to speak... 
...and those one day-a-year-fairies are nothing 
when they stand beside this full-time professional...

...I'm a solo parent with seven kids...
...their second father did a bunk last year...
...and I think this Mardi Gras thing is bit 
too over rated... and they have the nerve 
to think they are family... certainly not my family...
...why, my oldest son Jed has gone off with his friend Ted 
to their local pub...now where are those 
two evening dresses I had dry-cleaned last week..?

	...O, Charles, are you going to the Mardi Gras tonight..? I'm just back from overseas and thought I would 
give you a ring in the hope that you would be there..?
	...Well, I er, you see, I'm a bit worried 
that I might be seen...
	...You not wearing a frock are you..?
	...Goodness gracious no..!
	...Thank goodness for that... Charles, I don't think 
two blokes as ordinary as us are going to stand out 
in a crowd of half a million... you realize that is 
one seventh of Sydney is going to be there...
...they can't all be gay...
	...Well, er... I would like to go and see it...
	...Great then... meet you on the steps outside 
the Town Hall... I will be wearing a bright pink suit, 
a shiny silver top-hat, a scarlet cape and cane...
...Only joking... usual blue jeans and skivvy...
	...You don't think it will rain..?
	...I think Fred Nile's prayer committee
will be out numbered on that one... and the farmers too...
	...Let's hope it pours tomorrow instead... 
	...Those streets will certainly need a good clean afterwards...

	...This is ABC Television 
and I would like to compliment you
on that stunning outfit you are wearing...
	...Thank you...
	...Did you make it yourself..?
	...Yes, it took about two months 
to put it all together... with some help...
	...Can I ask you how long you have been 
`out' in the gay community..?
	...I'm not mate..!
	...Er..?
	...I'm straight... my two mates here
talked me into it... and I'm having a ball...
...shhh... even going to the dance afterwards...

	...I know why you, Jenny, go to see the Mardi Gras...
...you just love to see them marching boys go past..!
	...I know why you, Penny, go to see the Mardi Gras...
...you just love to see them marching boys go past too..!
	...Right..!
	...Wave after wave of the cutest things you'll ever see... what a waste...
	...Not for them blokes... lucky fellas... 
	...Gee... are they fit... 
	...They must work out every day...
	...They certainly know how to dance..!
	...They must end up doing it for hours and hours...
	...And for miles and miles... I mean kilometres...
	...And I sure love that same bizarre contrast 
they have each year in their choice of leading mascot... 
...conducting these `boys' up front in her cheeky, chic, over the top outfits... 	
	...A mismatched contest between style and substance...
...all substance and style versus wonderful substance without style..!
	...Boy O boy... man O man... that makes me one heck of a pure materialist..!
	...Right..!

...This is the second year 
we have brought the kiddies 
to watch the Mardi Gras... 
...they just love it... look... 
...they are having a wonderful time...
...Its such a grand spectacle...
...so many people out enjoying themselves...
...not a hint of violence...
...much better than watching the television...
...The simulated sex is a bit risqué...
...but the kids don't understand it
and if they did its better
that they know about these things...
...We'll teach our kids that sex
should be fun and loving...
...and safe as well...
...that message is very important...
...those people living with aids...
...and in those wheelchairs... is very sad...
...but its important that they be seen...
...The children laughed when
spiderman... or batman... or what ever...
...fell from his web after sniffing amyl...
...he looked a right idiot...
...In this day and age its better
that kids know about all these things 
and properly learn to locate them wisely
in their own moral universe...  
...There's such diversity in the gay world...
...dykes on bikes... religious groups -
with their naughty slogans and spoofs 
on its institutionalization...
...certainly putting fun back into religion...
...gay parents... gay sports-persons...
...gay academics... gay politicians...
...and those brave politicians that support 
gays and lesbians... even saw one
of my neighbours and didn't even know
she was gay... we'll have a joke with her
tomorrow about it... we'll ask her
if she saw the Mardi Gras last night...
...and where she watched it from...
...Sydney should have this sort of thing
more often... so much fun... a whole city
out watching itself... out celebrating...
...I tell you, though, some of the people 
in the crowd are much more bizarre... 
...more of a sight than those characters 
on those floats... and some of those floats
are truly works of art... the effort 
and thought they must put into them...
...and I think chaos should rule more often...
...much healthier than having 
that same nine to five attitude 
all the time... day in... day out...
...We should all be gay at least one day a year...
...er... or at least happy...
...We all need to send ourselves up properly
at least that one day a year..!

...Mardi Gras... just love it...
...I'm a street kid and 
I make plenty of dough that night...
...Grab a couple of eskies 
and sell beer all during the parade
for five dollars a can...
...then collect them aluminium cans 
all night... ... get more spending money 
that day than I earn on the pension 
for three whole months...
... That Mardi Gras... just love it..!

...Each year we watch it...
...we're getting on now...
...we're both nearly eighty...
...wouldn't miss it for the world...
...our son is in it...
...so we get here nice and early...
...put up our deck chairs...
...enjoy a cold salad and 
nice, long, cold glass of champagne...
...we get the best view in the world...
...better than all those rows of people
standing on them stacked up milk-crates...
...wonderful entertainment...
...hopefully next year we'll be here again...
...don't want to watch it on the telly...
...its not the same as being here....

...On paper the Mardi Gras 
is not politically correct... 
...and religiously too... 
...its at the wrong time of the year... 
...Never mind some how it works...
...seeing all those gay stereotypes 
taken so irreverently... collectively...
lets them all deconstruct...
... no gay person can be all of them... 
...but then if they fall 
into some of those categories 
we should accept them as they are...
...Can you imagine a tall, 
muscle bound lad 
in a nun's habit...
...with a beard... on roller-skates...
...handing out condoms...
...is completely and utterly serious..?
...If you can then you must have a problem..!
...But... then... all humour to some degree
does have a point to it..!

	-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

...We cannot be trapped on the surface 
	of a sea of appearances...
...we have the power to stand back 
	and be wrapped in reflection...
...each interpretation appropriated 
	and clothed in re-interpretation...
...things between things... layer upon layer... 
	...worlds within worlds...
...no inner realm versus an outer realm...
	...no One versus the Other...
...through the simulation of the simulation
	thence the reality of the semblance...
...all dressed up differences transcended through love
	in the detailed fabric of a world-of-life...
...the power of love... that love of power...
	...that love of love for Love itself...
...rippling through the universe...
	...forever revealing that richness of value...
...inherently fabricated from the numinous edge 
	of that sheer abyss..!

17. ...The artful craft of busking
finds many exponents in this city of Sydney...
...There's strategically placed string quartets
in a sea of solo guitarists - duelling cowboys
equally spaced at sixty paces...
...a few, joyful, gifted operatic singers
versus many sad voices singing the blues...
...mainly modern... sometimes classical...
...while others waste their talents performing 
though the noise of those generous streams 
of deafened rush hour shoppers... many wearing 
walkmans... none on hold... all on automatic... 
not stopping until they find themselves transported..!

...But my prize goes to one audacious soul
inhabiting the fringes of Town Hall Square
seated on the rim of his seat bent over
an electric guitar with two broken strings...
...red paint flaking from its unplugged in frame...
...but for all that this sedate, desperate,
elderly gentleman in dingy, unwashed attire
still expertly managed to resurrect
a barely audible tune... with a good beat...
...in perfect pitch... with a clean, crisp edge...
...with only the hint of an immanent vibrato...

18. ...One more invitation to another party...
...Correction... "The Party"..! 
...One more pretentious exercise 
in the gracious conversion of capital 
into status with style... 
...in flatus with a smile...
...where the most important guest will be -
Brett Whitely... only present in the flesh
of this wonderfully worked canvass...
...the visible excuse for this get-together
of these miscellaneous tarts and farts 
carefully chosen and mis-labelled  
knowledgeable and appreciative cognoscenti...
...A 56,000 dollar steal recently stolen...
...legally... from the hands of one more dealer
who no doubt on this transaction earned more
than what most artists get when they `donate'
their latest artistic works to this... alas... 
...puffed up, self-important world of art... 
...Hopefully... with that amount of money paid...
...this framed picture will be well looked after...
...fussed over... showered with a greater degree
of attention than that given to this 
parallel row of invited guests fed 
with orange juice or white wine and an ample 
assortment of some quite attractive savouries...
...now entirely rapt in the dance 
of circular conversations centered on themes
of a more trivial, mundane nature..?!

19. ...From behind the looking glass
...a parallel world of semi-citizenry...
...visibly diminished reflections
of an imitated, half-mocking demimonde... 
...a domain locked in despair...
...the mentally ill inhabiting 
some vague place out there
in between the shadows of reality 
and the reality of a realm of shadows...
...A dispossessed class of people 
left behind merely to look...
...to watch and stare at another world 
out enjoying itself...
...relaxing in restaurants...
...catered for in coffee shops
laden with unobtainable cakes...
...relationships brokered in bars...
...broken relationships mended in 
the windows of expensive department stores...
...Unsung heroes and heroines
subjected to a fate more tragic...
...for the cultures of the West...
than that attendant upon those
ancient gods from the past...
...that seeping, divine, underground 
wellspring that still issues forth 
from barely defined, forgotten depths 
of the naked psyche... uncovered and 
permeated... through and through...
...with thinly veiled linguistic rituals 
and rites of a proud, pagan pageantry...

...On the streets walk many a strange,
frightened, frightening figure
that could be titled `Hercules'...
...enduring many feats of hardship...
...contests of strength and hostility...
...and that evokes for me my memories
of the meeting of one such recent hero
who could wrestle six coppers simultaneously
and still find some spare change...
...eternally pursued relentlessly 
by the ever-recurrent fear 
that his medication was meant to kill him...
...both metaphorically and mythologically... 
...removing him from the possibility 
of his completing his intended mission 
on this vast stage of the world...
...as yet one more task still unknown...
...not yet clearly dictated and defined
in the babble of his incessant voices... 
...A gentle, tormented man labouring 
under this psychotic handicap... transmuted
into those equally murderous tendencies...
...terrorizing Japanese tourists at traffic lights...
...mesmerizing pregnant mothers with babies 
in perambulators... all apparent members 
of this sinister plot to rewire his brain 
and robotically computerize him..!

...Europa flaunted herself before the bull...
...our amply fleshed lady taunted all the lads
on the first floor of the local psychiatric center...
...Armed only with an old metal bucket from 
the carelessly not locked up cleaning cupboard... 
...and completely possessed by the spirit of the Lord... 
...she baptized all and sundry... indiscriminately...
...while they slept soundly through 
the long darkness of the frozen, winter night...
...An agile, elderly, shimmering figure... 
...a white faced ghost liberally dispensing 
her premature, promiscuous ablutions...
...completely naked from top to toe...
...loudly singing out in a rapid falsetto, 
"...in the name of Lord Jesus..."
...repeated above each dripping bed
as she sacrificed the sleep of her flock...
...soon enraging a congregating herd
of pyjamed torsos..!

...Icarus flew towards the sun
but this complex, composite character
had a different vision of the heavens...
...A pensioner whose bills 
all seemed to come that same week...
...the power bill that day 
being the last straw...
...the final event that made him snap...
...sink into the agitated depths 
of his depression before
these winds of adversity...
...By bus took himself towards The Heads
and from the breeze swept edge 
threw himself over The Gap
into the churning depths below...
...On the way down he saw one
opened mouthed fishing fisherman
who quite disbelieved the nature 
of his catch as a wave came in
and lifted our aerial friend upwards...
...returning him back towards the shore...
...An elderly, well educated man who 
for all his deadly serious efforts
merely swapped a strong dose of the flu
for his brand new, recently fitted dentures...

...Hermaphroditus was almost a woman...
...nick-named Miss Twiggy...
...who used her social security
in New Zealand to visit Australia
and her sickness benefits here
to be flown back home...
...suiciding on the doorsteps 
of her favourite psychiatric hospitals...
...She could also indulge 
in a touch of highway robbery
in broad daylight by merely 
"holding hands with a customer"...
...that 's all she did she would say
with a nervous twitter 
and a sideways glance...
...Forever happy to embarrass 
her many `friends'...
...an occupational hazard...
..."Do you remember me?" ...
...she would shout in a husky voice
with a vigorous wave from 
the other side of the street
whenever you went downtown 
in the presence of amazed,
unsuspecting company...

...Mars thought he was a commando
in the Australian Army - Rambo Two...
...In his second hand military uniform
looked quite a sight and certainly
created quite a scare on the local golf course
when he bailed up the startled players
with his plastic machine gun 
in an unfolding drama under the sun... 
...taking a more menacing twist 
when he was stalked in turn
by the police and snapping tracker dogs...
...but his glinting medals gave him away...
...pinned on loosely with a large safety pin...
...and everyone realized that it was 
only Mars again on the run 
having trouble determining what was reality 
and what was only fun...

...And who was once a pretty boy..?
...And who was a naughty boy too..?
...None other than this weather beaten Narcissus
with two mirrors... one in each hand...
...in case `they' creep up behind him...
...Last week it was ladies with red hand bags...
...next week it might be ladies in fur coats..
...like a perpetually wound up policeman
with a limp walking on his eternal beat 
forever escaping from this feminine threat...
...Perhaps the regional weather forecasts
could include this extra piece of information...
"...and for inner Metropolitan Sydney 
we have today a particular storm warning 
for women handling red accessories..."
...or in whatsoever manner his current 
`fixed' delusions took him...
...to be determined through 
an interview at least once a week...
...In this dance with light he could be seen
in a strange semaphore before the gods
who in a moment of oversight
must have miscast this divine creature
into a corpse steeped in guilt
that can be seen glinting during the day 
out under an unjudging sun
from many, many miles away...

...Thetis in her madness looked like a man...
...a savage, feral, underfed cannibal 
of a person who lived under a bridge 
in Woolloomooloo recycling the fermented, rejected 
leftover scraps from nearby rubbish bins...
...unwashed and hairy... looking scary...
...she found herself one day trapped
by a posse of police and psychs 
determined to do by her a good turn
by placing her in the local bin...
...For the first week she was left alone
then pounced upon and injected...
...the third week offered the choice of syrup
being followed by shiny sea-green tablets
to be all rounded off with second weekly 
oiled based depots placed intramuscularly 
deep under the skin...
...She responded quite quickly becoming plump
and pleasant and so very feminine
wearing perfume and painting her face...
...Found a job serving in a shop
to be replaced by a stint as a secretary
in the surgery of a busy G.P...
...But a year later saw her walking 
the streets again looking masculine
and suspicious... for sadly... alas...
...her medication had failed her 
and she relapsed for the worst...
...and as a troll lost control
of her life in the complete freedom 
of ceasing to be... for her fall 
was too far and too fast... 
...like a comet self-deconstructing...
...before the breaking, unseen lights 
of an oncoming car...
...one cold, wet, winter's night...

...This Nymph in her mania
ran a brothel for free...
...and the authorities 
had to quickly intervene...
...for her busy street 
had become quite congested 
with long queues 
of doubly parked cars...
...that soon found 
themselves slapped 
with considerable fines
making their night on the town
not quite the bargain 
it first seemed...

...In a plastic hat
Hermes wandered the streets
collecting pet rocks
and a few flowers 
along the way...
...looking like that 
signpost of Mercury 
outside those florist shops...
...always in need 
of a good downpour...
...to give him at least 
the makings of a good wash...
and a generous helping 
of nutritious manna...
...for no soul can go far 
on just one bottle of coke 
even if advertised
that way each day...

...Gannymeade was kicked out 
of home and went 
to the wall to be picked up 
by older men...
...but was picked off instead
by that dreaded disease...
...just after falling in love
with one school teacher...
...could see himself
in the mirror each day
wasting away... fading
like a reflection
in a dream... 
...dying propped up
in his sleep...
...while the tears 
of his grief stricken lover
in downward falling
washed the eyelids
of his favourite pupil...
...now released from 
the lessons of this world...
...this vale of grief...
...whose ultimate purpose
is to leave us interred...
...the naked grounds 
of this misty site
veiled behind
the due-tipped 
blossoming of
ten thousand tares...

...And here ends this insignificant 
selection of accounts of these souls
in this parallel world
from behind the looking glass...
...a dispossessed class 
of people left behind 
merely to look...
...to watch and stare 
at another seen, unseeing world 
happily on its way...
...hypnotically avoiding these 
unsung heroes and heroines
hardly noticed passing by...
...in their passing on 
rarely noticed until 
that fateful day they too... 
...likewise so inconveniently...
...cease to `move on' and die...
...Then, we find ourselves buried
side by side... or our ashes
plied in layers one upon another
on a stage whose last repeated act
was that non-action of death...
...like so many lines drawn
on a simple map they must all cross 
and unite if those margins
were set without that final limit...
...when discrimination itself
discerns the indiscriminate...

24. ...Home is where the heart is...
...or so I am told...
...although in reality it is often
a few miles further along the track...
...in the next suburb...
...in a circular progress of status...
...Kings Cross, Bondi Junction, 
Newtown, Vauclause, lower North Shore,
middle North Shore, upper North Shore...
...Personally, I am outside 
that type of rat race...
...Instead, have opted for another
in the Blue Mountains
where I can literally
look down on all of that...
...which is a worry
for my heart is still in Sydney...
...For some - a psychic state of being...
...for others - a virtual prison...
...for me - a place that merits 
more than just a passing visit...

A Brief Commentary Inserted Into a Letter

Dear Bill,
	     Thanks for your kind comments on my `poetry.'
	I have annotated these poems with the following comments. Originally I pencilled these points in but as my writing is usually unreadable I decided instead to type them up separately. I can be cryptic at times. You are most welcome to ignore these comments, especially whenever you find the apparent meaningfulness of my texts is self-evident.

				 Wishing you all the best, Noël, 8.1.95.

A Short Commentary On Vol VIII - Bk IV.

	No text can be transparent or for that matter completely opaque. The very choice in language adopted and adapted by the author is an indication of authorial intentions, those processes being highlighted through the repetition of similar processes in textual resolution. A good haiku, by virtue of its terseness, should be a good exemplar of this repetition in resolutional processes. Recently I wrote the following verse:

		Summer company.
		Sipping green tea by the pond
		with some mosquitoes.

	We might take a guess that the water of the pond is green. The poet takes tea, the mosquitoes sip the pond. Not much company in that except for the fact that the mosquitoes are probably drinking the sweat and blood of the poet instead. Some company! Indeed, in this poem the poet is, correctly, without company as it would be normally defined. In this light the first line is being provocative and out to create an initially deliberate misreading of its own text which is properly read the moment this misreading is realized to be a misreading.
	The repetitive parallel between sipping tea/sipping the green pond is broken down in the implied inference that the mosquitoes are drinking the sweat and blood of the poet instead! That this relaxed practice of taking tea is probably not that relaxed in this situation given such company.
	
	Now, in accordance with my latest thinking, a poetic text is generated from the resolution of rhetorical provocation and/or metaphorical tensions. Most of my poems in this book are more inclined to use the former, or at least begin with a provocative exercise in rhetoric. The extent that the first few lines of a poem misread the resolutional direction of a poem is to that extent that a poem is generated in a rhetorical frame or climate. 
	The fact that metaphor suggests something is like something else and therefore not exactly that analogued, to that extent metaphorical images contribute to a tension in the imagery used in a poem. Moreover, this overall tension can be seen as a product of the metaphorical and rhetorical devices adopted and adapted, and, the degree to which we mix and inter-mix such features in that text. However, this insight into textual formation must not concentrate on these distinctions too much as all metaphorical imagery is introduced in a rhetorical setting or background, and vice versa, i.e., all rhetorical processes must also involve the juxtaposition of metaphorically introduced patterns of imagery in some form or other. But, forgive me for thinking through the latest ideas I have on this subject. Let me now offer some comments on these poems.

Poem 1: The fist three lines are rhetorically provocative and through a process of resolution drive this small poem forward. 
	Not every elderly person in a bus-shelter necessarily lives there.

Poem 2: Again, the first two lines are deliberately provocative. The repeated theme of conversation in the first verse is taken up further in the second verse. By the end of this poem `conversation' is minimalized - illustrating this discontinuity in communication. Notice the echoes set up between vain constructions, sonorous texts, resonant passages. 
	The words spot and mental landscape are in italics. I use italics for five reasons:
	i.	Foreign words.
	ii.	Multiple meanings.
	iii	Differences between literal and aural meanings.
	iv.	Reasons of emphasis.
	v.	A direct quotation.
	In this poem italics implicate the use of parallel meanings, intentionally intended ambiguity.
	The end of the second verse uses mathematical functions a sub-theme taken up in the last verse where we have the repetition of such functions once more, namely, small, number, calculating, figures, measure out, unknown quantities. We also have the strange expression of `figures that themselves are calculating.' A strangeness that can be resolved on the level of the connotation of these terms, i.e., through an invocation of the emotive background of such expressions. By implication such figures are sociopathic in complexion. Note also that the raison d'être behind this type of enterprise is a greed for money in those that promote this type of business.
	The end of this poem, in contrast to its introduction, is centered in a provocative mixture of metaphor.

Poem 3: Questions why `parks' are just flat fields of grass without any form of natural wildlife? 
	In verse 6 `moulds' correctly cannot be sterile unless of the repetitive kind.
	In verse 7 we have an allusion to the concept of (re-) invagination where a `text' is folded over onto itself with an increase in value each time this type of procedure is enacted. For example a golf-links could also be constructed to serve as a park for people and wildlife (say koalas). That same piece of land now functions in three different modes rather than merely as golf-links. Farms could also be treated in the same vein, hence, e.g., the philosophy of 
.
	The end of the poem has a dialectical construction/de-construction on the theme of permission/non-permission.

Poem 4: I often go into the city but rarely into the downtown boutique quarter all connected with underground tunnels, bridges. I buy all my clothes at St. Vincent de Paul, etc.
	Verse 1: Glitz anticipates the final two lines of poem.
	Verse 2: A non flattering comparison set up between matrons and brand names.
	Verse 4: Wrinkles has a double meaning.

Poem 5: In this poem I use a marine metaphor in the background. Often, after night-shift at around 7.30 in the morning, I am waiting to catch the bus home and the incongruity between this type of scene and other folk just starting the morning I always follow with some fascination.
	A picked over smorgasbord - picked over twice by the initial eater and the poor, homeless, old alcoholics, etc.

Poem 6: This poem is on the double theme of food and art.
	Lets `do' the galleries  meaning `just visit' and `visit with the wish to purchase.' I usually do the latter.
	Contract implying a Mafia connection. Return the vase and you might indirectly have someone dealt with by the same (inference supplied by one indiscreet dealer).
	My apparently cynical views of the overall art-world taken up again in poem no. 18.

Poem 7: A short poem with rather `simple fare.' The final line integrating the economies to be obtained by following its advice, given to me a number of years ago by an unemployed couple.

Poem 8: Another short poem - ambiguous about what cranes are involved. Note that these empty holes are filled, etc.

Poem 9: A two verse poem (or two poems). The first verse is on the denotation of the first line while the second verse is on the conventional connotation of this expression.
	Verse 1: Armed literally with this friend who knows.
	Shifting premises - is my having a go at the philosophical position of relativism that seems to characterize much of post-modernism.
	Verse 2: Is this place Chez Moi the home of the poet, or, a prostitution parlour, a brothel. I am being rather naughty here and this `suggestion' is only countered in the final two lines.

Poem 10: A haiku in keeping with the topic - poor Japanese; which is obviously quite provocative. Why are they `poor?'
	From where I work I can see downtown Sydney and around sunrise there are often some quite spectacular mists at certain times of the year.

Poem 11: A dream sequence, in a science fictional mode.
	2020 = perfect vision. That this vision is prophetically clear-sighted.
	The way they distort, edit the news it truly is on the spot.
	The coffee maker is model 1984.
	Note the double theme of food and art once more.
	Also an interest in the problematic nature of the relationship between style and substance. It is my position that good style is substance, substantive, and vice versa.
	There is joke here in the sense that I don't follow fashion except through the op-shops.
	Crown of thorns is both a Christian allusion and the introduction of a metaphor based on the crown of thorns starfish. This animal is ruining the coral reefs, and eats with its stomach outside its mouth. Note, I oscillate between the singular and plural in tongue/voice, medium/media.

Poem 12: This text is quite dense. The first line is quite rhetorically provocative in the context of this poem. Who is living in the suburbs? we should ask and we find the next few lines answers that implicit question. Very few people indeed.
	In the country homes are often named.
	The use of repetition from variety, etc., makes its point in a rather heavy hand. In this musical metaphor transposed also implies that the concept of the suburbs comes from overseas, echoed in the last line. 
	Television is a real worry. Its not so much that individual programmes are problematic, only the quantity of such self-serving imagery, as found in advertisements, e.g., is undermining the ethos of our culture, what it means to be cultured/civilized, etc.
	But there is some hope!
	I cannot stand the international style in architecture as practiced, e.g., in the universities of Australia and New Zealand. Here it is given a nice twist although certain distinctive styles of Australian building do more often than not get ruined in this form of foreign transformation. I have know of beautiful backyard gardens being concreted over, e.g.
	The last two lines are again quite provocative rhetorically and metaphorically. We are talking about the Sydney cityscape. The suburbs were once both deserted and a stylistic desert. Moreover, the Australian desert was never deserted! Only in that time frame before the arrival of the aborigines.

Poem 13: A criticism that this poem is really two, or more, means in my opinion that the reader needs to more carefully read it.  In this light we should note that the first two lines set the rhetorical force of this poem.
	Note various forms of repetition in the second verse.
	The last verse answers the first verse in the form of a parable. It leave this city without leaving it means that our experiences need to be more intense, entertained in the intense richness of an existential attitude to life (and death), etc.
	We have in the last verse the contrasting intensity of the non-existential and the more insightful intensity of the existential. The former has only a limited audience. Whereas the latter has a potentially wider scope. The poet can see these thugs but they cannot see this person, the recounter of this tale.
	There is also a joke here in the last verse: the author who is a non-Christian, say Pagan, is almost about to be baptized by those who are non-Christian and pagan. 
	The moral of this anecdote is that you don't have to leave the city to break free of its confines, at least existentially. See this point to this poem and you see one poem and not two, or three!
	The death of the day as symbolic of the death of the everyday, the ordinary, the merely repetitive or the repetitious. Whereas that repetition had in the intensity of the moment is existentially transforming, enfreeing.

Poem 14: This poem is an humorous account of the phenomenon of opportunity shops.
	The first verse has a vague New Testament allusion to `knocking on the door' and `the rich and the poor.'
	Note bargains are defined as needed extras which more than likely you will just pass on by.
	Woolworths needs to be disconnected slightly from the line and said in a hushed, aristocratic voice.
	Verse four uses a military metaphor; slipping = fainting whilst on duty.
	Verse five uses a rather macabre dance hall metaphor.
	The final couplet has a vague sexual connotation?

Poem 15: A poem about my first home in Sydney. 
	A period can be seen as that which occupies space/time and that which doesn't occupy space/time. Note a paragraph is a change in direction but such is not usually conducted inside the same.

Poem 16: A polemical tract directed to some of my gay friends who, as a matter of misguided principle, don't go to see the Mardi Gras. 
	The first verse is a philosophical prologue on the theme that if appearances is all we have how do we determine that which has depth, a greater degree of reality, self-validity, truth, etc. There is a Platonic/Buddhist flavour to this piece of blank verse.
	Note, most of the voices in this piece are not gay or necessarily gay.
	Point in verse 11 has the sense of `some relatively important idea' and `the sharpness of the same.'
	The last verse is a philosophical epilogue that answers the prologue. A clothing metaphor is used throughout. The existential fact is stated that we can determine depth, or value, etc. Hence a new way of seeing the material universe, the concept of creation, etc. Note internal/eternal garment means internal/external worlds. No division here in the one world of life - a concept articulated by the transcendental phenomenologist Edmund Husserl.

Poem 17: A short two verse poem on a musical theme, the theme of busking.
	Transported is a joke of sorts. They don't stop until transported when by rights they are still moving. Unless they are musically transported and stop, or have stopped, to listen.
	Vibrato = alcoholic DT's.
	On the fringe (of society)/on the rim (as on the edge of one's nerves).

Poem 18: Recently saw a Brett Whiteley sell in a gallery for $56,000. It was quite wonderful and that painting, by this relatively recently dead artist, sparked off this bitchy poem. The joke is though that when I add to my art collection I too often have a party, more as an excuse than a pure showing/showing off of an artwork.
	In flatus - this motif used three times.
	Cognoscenti means knowledgeable hence mislabelled in the double sense of either being redundantly repetitive or not knowledgeable.
	A painting being `showered' is more than a bit uncaring. Framed - being given an art market pricing.
	Savouries also meaning attractive people.
	Note the transformation of a parallel row of paintings/guests converting into circular formations of guests not interested in the painting(s).

Poem 19: This is the longest poem in this book and mirrors poem 16 in structure.
	Looking glass has a certain resonance with Alice through the Looking Glass.
	At the end of the philosophic prologue there is a repetition of underground/seeping imagery. Also, I am being quite naughty with the language in invoking barely, nakedness of the psyche, then, that being uncovered, and then left in a state of being thinly veiled. It can be all resolved, again, on the level of the connotational.
	Verse 4: Obviously Icarus has a different vision of the heavens in more than one way (in four or more ways actually).
	Snap... winds of adversity give us a pre-echo of what is about to happen.
	`Churning depths' is used in both a denotational and an emotional connotational sense.
	Verse 7: This person is a friend of a friend of mine who has known him from the time of his `breakdown' and who I have nursed from time to time. Very mad and sometimes quite dangerous. He is also gay. Steeped in quilt is actually a quotation from one of my European travel poems (gilded organs in a Spanish mosque cum cathedral). This intentional ambiguity helps to integrate this poem rather than subject it to multiple separate readings..
	Verse 8 has a vague limerick quality to it.
	A deconstructive reading is set up between the literal and the aural in verse 11. There are at least three equally valid meanings behind the segment of site/sight - tares/tears - burial site as locus, corpse and mourner/s as loci.
	We might like to equate Love in poem 16 with the intended sense of the indiscriminate as found here in verse 12.

Poem 20: A philosophical commentary on Hyde Park.
	Relief has a double meaning.
	Self-weakness might be interpreted as i). that desire to start/ to go to war, ii). an inability to adequately defend oneself in a war started by someone else.
	Fine = upright denotationally and connotationally.
	Individual-public can be resolved in a connotational frame of reference.
	Who has their heated bronze skin naked and dripping?
	Sacrifice is an exercise in self-deconstruction.
Repetition in the last verse is set up to annoy one of my poetic friends (hopefully done with some artfulness).

Poem 21: A hostel for the homeless. I had hoped in this poem to get across something of what it is like to be homeless and living in a hostel.
	Borne through hardship not `born.' Aurally the second meaning is also intended.
	This semblance of a sense of community is illustrated by Jason, Justin, etc.

Poem 22: But a traditional Chinese garden was `built' to be lived in. Hence the provocative rhetorical force of this poem. 
	Note by sipping a pre-echo of the bought tea is anticipated.
	Note emptiness is busy and uninhabited.

Poem 23: A humorous poem.
	Locked up - a theme repeated in the next poem.
	There is a difficult to define, underlying sense of racism in Australia hinted at in this text.

Poem 24: An ironic poem - my adopted home is Sydney but my house is in the Blue Mountains.
	Its implied that Sydney is like a prison that one wants to be locked up in.