a little rest

its really strong
yes i want it to be
she adjusted the needles and i my nerves twitch
is it settling?
i guess
she covers my back with towels - once she left me in the cold, exposed, and i was traumatised when she returned, now she never forgets the towels.
are you warm enough?
yes, but would you mind turning the music off?
okay, dave, now you have a little rest
it annoys me when she says that - perhaps one day i'll say, sandra, can you not say that? and she might say, say what dave? the thing about having a little rest, it kinda scares me. well what would you rather i say? perhaps don't say anything, just leave, i would prefer that.
but it doesn't seem like enough of a thing to make an issue about.

i settle into my little rest. sandra once said its a good idea to meditate on the needles. for a while i focus on the needles in my back, shoulder and arm. they form little contours of pain, some extend into the surrounding tissue, merging with my own zones of pain. they become numb, except for the needle in my back - it feels like a probe extending deep into my chest. i feel pinned, vulnerable. i hear sandra laughing with a patient nearby. i listen to the fan.

i day dream. i am standing just behind an indian girl, she is having a red sari fitted; standing on a little podium thing as someone attends to the front of her dress. applying pins? i am just behind her head - only a few centremetres so i cant see what's going on. then i merge with her head. she is anxious, she - we are going to get married. an arranged marriage? time passes. then i see my own face, i am my age but already i am getting older, no younger: i am getting older and younger at the same time. my face is getting smaller, more wizened and scrunched up. i am dead. again.

i hear sandra coming down the hall. she opens the door. dave? she extracts the needles. lowers the table. i swing my feet to the ground. unsteady.
you seem much brighter, she says, i was worried about you last week
yes, its been a tough few weeks, but things are opening again.

(no subject)

i looked again, but did not see the dark moon. perhaps a cloud was to blame, or the city lights too bright, but mostly i lacked the inclination to stay out in the cold night. i wanted to be lucky.

i have never seen it but i miss it; the moon as it, without the atomic bleaching of the sun.

last year i saw the moon eclipsed by the earth, it was serene. red and blue. but those were the colours of the earths aura; a beautiful proxy, a projection.

soon i will be there, floating heavy on the granite massive. and there she will be! illuminated by a trillion vanished stars.

urban sorcery

unusually kookaburras have been composing in the belvedere vacinity, cackling in the night, dawn and dusk. they are ahead of the game. last night some of Jessie's mates, Quandamooka crew, gathered around the Belevdere fire, their Island laughter ringing into the night and the soul of our little 'hood. this morning, before dawn, the largest mob of urban kookaburra's gathered, continued the laughter for their Island tribe; pure savage joy with no target - radiated into the neighbourhood, creating an energetic low around which new forces are circling.

peanutology 1


Preconditions for the emergence of the peanut people
Illusion fails
fixed to Wheel of Chance
is pierced by blind archer’s arrow
I sit amidst
the aghast
that inhales words
no orders given
action flounders
only the silent song of blue-bird remains

In all crunchiness
come the peanut people
center stage
In comic unison
their goofy aerobics resumes

doot dodoot do do dodoot
dodoot dodoot do do dodoot
dodoot dodoot do do do doot

my core meticulously masticated to Crunch
I align spasmodically
with leguminous geometry

doot dodoot do do dodoot
dodoot dodoot do do do doot

Dreams another the anarchic uniform:
tiny interlocked teashirts
sprouting amidst the etheric ocean of his soul
Yet another feels this pixilated peanut skin is no Second Life
but the beigeprint upon which fleshy forms coagulate

dodoot dodoot do do do


but behold
clusters of the crowd stir as the distant siren intensifies:
yeah, society is a smoothing machine
a screaming resonation of razor blades
pulpifying rogue angles
installing quadrangles
there will be no molecular regime of mangle

there will be
a smattering of crunch to flatter the smooth
a princess replacement programme
and outbreaks of peanut put down to

doot dodo


  • Current Music
    BACH/Reger - Duo Speidel & Trenkner - Orchestral Suite No3 Bwv1068 (1.FM - Otto's Baroque Musick)

on waking

my flat is not well suited for sleeping in.

for starters it faces north-east and is getting the dawn light at 5.30. if the dawn doesn't wake me little turk's diurnal clock will, sometimes she doesn't even make a sound and i wake up with her staring at me, or just kinda meditating near my head. otherwise she will make the slightest grunt as if she doesn;t wan't to startle me. she likes to have a hit of kangaroo flesh before her morning antics which often involves a little stalking until the sun is strong enough for dozing. i don't know how she stays so calm with all that red meat.

if little turk don't wake me, the indian woman in the pink sari and white trainers might. she has chosen the pavement across the road from my window to do her morning pranayama - which involves various halation snorts and rigorous hand clapping. the first time i was woken with this noise about a month ago i was totally perplexed at its origin. now, sometimes, i don't even notice. but its like she's calling me to some kind of attention. on relfection she turned up about when i started reading Paramahansa Yogananda's 'Autobiography of a Yogi' - if you've read this book you'll appreciate that its highly likely she's the embodiment of a saint and we need to have some kind of exchange. i half expect her not to turn up when i finish the book so i ought to make some kind of advance but she seems very shy - leaving just after sunrise. you can't be too pushy with saints - or their embodiments.

once i am awake i hear the birds. paddy's pair of budgees going psycho next door, chattering maniacly with their retarded repoirtoir. the crows of course don't waste breath on such chatter, they are out and about on their dawn missions. i can't imagine a crow in a cage, it's like they'd just implode or dissapear into dark matter.

as i lay in bed listening to the chattering of the budgees and caws of crows i remembered a dream. two beautiful blue birds came in the window with some urgency, they were looking for a cage! i was compelled to help them and was confronted by three cages. the first cage already had Paddy's pair of mangy budgees. the second looked good; bigger with considerable height. it took me a while to figure out the catch, when i finally opened the door i noticed that it was occupied by a big white bird. strange how i didn't notice it before. it filled most of the cage with its head near the top bars, it just sat there, in some kind of dormancy. i close the little door (which seems kinda ridiculous given the size of the bird). we (me and the blue birds) turn to the the third cage, it is smaller and flatter with less head room but the blue birds are keen as mustard, hopping in as soon as i open the door. mmm

(no subject)

you said something about not getting attached to the aesthetics of your pain.
i think you said it was a cop-out.
there's real work to be done.