in cultivation

tightly wound in a masquerade
coersion is an ethical principle
the equations bounce back
from inadequate math
& irreducible sums
the biosphere is full of effluent
in the rearview mirror you can see asthetics
chic creatures drying ink
only the beautiful rust
canines retrieve messages
machine girls run numbers
in a world of burnt orange
scars bleed into defamity
clocks get rewound
a pimp vomits gibberish
an old man buys gasoline
to fuel the final attack on apathy
the corporation stands resolute
by articles of association
designed to tie the new to the old
at the wall of sound
the truth is played in high def
to one lone vagabond.

MUCUS

I live in the best of times, times of cheap imitation,
deafening consternation, dogmatic pleurisy, sensory masturbation,
Hear words in the mouths of heretics & conjurers
Immediate satisfaction guaranteed - decibels of disclaimers & apologies
The blind lead the seeing-eye dogs into the garden of adultery
Jugglers slip through taffeta eyes of masquerade
I relive my pasts with tequila; see my futures in absinthe blackening
Dissolve my detachment from maternal piety
A mere illusionary tale, twisted like bad acid candy
My own analogy, allergy, allegory, atrophy
Vitriolic bonemeal, panel-beating aspirations back into shape
A sleek white worm in the cortex of co-dependency
A lingering gut ache, a fallacy, an effigy, anti-frizzed
micro-waved, counter-clock wound,
Atypical, amoral, abrupt, aborted,
Bestial, celestial, corporeal real estate,
Contaminated inventory, preternatural howl
The mucus on the blood-stained fingers
Of Lot’s goddamned motherfucking nameless
gutless wife – guilty of everything, indicted, flayed, displayed.

superfuck constellation

tho im not everything you think
but am more than you imagine
an entire constellation burning
with blue moons & pink suns
& little green androgynous clones
doused in chatreuse
watching meteors collide
pinball wizards
& metronomes
swinging both ways
to the last waltz
before implosion
whispering beautiful thoughts
to wayward daughters
of the apocalypse
now & then as the bastard son sets
i consider annihilation
of all those principles
the moral majority fuck
as i do the mathematics of belief
on a wet bartop
watching another fading star
dying right before my shaded eyes
at the penultimate open mic
tell me something technical
tell me something physical
tell me something beneficial
just before you become
exactly what you should be
in the anomalistic year of paucity
preceding the shifting of natures balance
toward anorexia nervosa

excremental influenza

it just keeps on rolling down the brick-lined fallopian tubes
bubonic smiles on wasted faces at bus stops
umbrellas covering a multitude of sin from satellite spores
the whole there & back routines of the desperate
those seeking atonement & absolution from canonised cripples
walls smeared with shit/rooms like prisons
death via the matador's lance in a dimly lit arena
peers of peers getting peered at by silk robed lawmakers
media whores milking media darlings by gaslight
trees laughing at their own genocide under an aztec son
artists languishing in the waiting rooms of imbeciles
bombs whistling to earth like giant fortune cookies
good news messages being delivered by the metric ton
scriptwriters watching midday movies for ideas
another microphone another sermon another death

SYMPHONY FOR THE DESECRATED

Dawn is the oligarch of all she surveys
Dusk the portal to excess
Reversed exposure to unnatural
Elements solder vanity
The sun pisses radiation therapy
Arteries throb in sync
Hypocrisy rides shotgun on an empty carriage to chastity
Eyes that never blink
Witness hollow vestibules
The priest slides from grace
To a gutter of diabolic duty
The whore meets the undertaker on equal terms
In the abyss of sin absolution beckons beguilingly
Light warps translucent succulents
Sodden with moonlight & divine temptations
Resistance fades as temperature cools
One night in licentious biting fades into myth.

CHILDREN OF THE BLACK WOODS PTS I & II

I.
creatures of the swamp roll up roll up roll up
see Johnny Depp & the trolls
featuring special disappearances by Anatomy Girl, Red Rocket & the divine Miz Stripe
viewed thru the retina’s diaphanous milieu
watch them dance on the dead creek bridge
at Twilight’s amorphous carnivale
hear the dog’s serenade n the vamps shriek eulogies
of adequacy
as the pornographer counts down the clicks in heartbeats
till normality assumes manual control
from introspection
. . . outside the hallowed hall at 2 am.

II.
on a frigid telescopic night
in the black black woods
three witches dance round a Pirate’s of the Caribbean
happy meal under the guard’s stoic glare
in vials, veils & towering inferno heels
Johnny’s in his 7th heaven
coz the mad-hatted trans-Anatomy girl
swallowed all the red-sinned jelly babies hole
they’re peering thru cognac eyes & flames
drivin’ the white line insane
lookin’ for Bedouins as acid burns its way
thru buckled nerves of steel
see the queen belch putrid green bubbles
to a symphony of distortion
in the psychedelic theatre of twisted dreams.

The Fall of The Paper Tigers

As a writer you sometimes labour under the misapprehension that booksellers exist to sell literature. Everything you've read about “great writers” invariably contains support not merely from editors and publishers, but from those at the pointy end of the slush pile known as the book industry. And yet you fail to grasp that “back then”, booksellers supported and promoted “writers”. All of that changed however sometime in the mid nineteen eighties when retail bookselling caught the money bug. And why shouldn't they have? After all, if franchising, streamlining and mainlining could work for everything from fried chicken to coffee, why not with books too? Book stores have rent and employees to pay just like any other business, only, in that brave new world of retail literature, someone overlooked the fact that maybe people wanted to read “books”, or maybe they didn't? Because within in a decade you could travel anywhere in the world of English language, walk into a high street bookstore and find pretty much the same books everywhere give or take. What happened to new writing, where did it go?
Essentially, new writing sought shelter in independent bookstores (on a cap in hand basis), the big boys being focused (or so it appeared) on books that “sold”. And they obviously knew what sold because chain bookstores were suddenly full of celebrity memoirs, how-to manuals penned by gurus that could change one's life in myriad ways, and cookbooks, cookbooks, cookbooks galore. Up until the late nineteen nineties the bookselling mafia's cunning innovation worked – it must have, because they expanded – swallowing up other smaller brands until they ruled the literary world. And once they ruled they could do what they'd always envisaged doing – telling publishers what books to publish. Literature had had its britches yanked down and had been spanked soundly as punishment for its years of believing writing was an art rather than a commodity.

So the Cyclopic beast of bookselling carried on its merry way, opening up yet more stores and those stores started pushing plush toys and stationary and embraced coffee cup franchising too, until finally – they no longer resembled bookstores. Things went from bad to worse when containers of remaindered books began to be shipped to whatever arm of the retail book octopus could take them – and Australia seemed to take a hell of a lot. Welcome to reading cheap American rubbish even Americans didn't want to read while drinking American (Christian) coffee. Out on the streets however (as opposed to in the malls), a few good people were beginning to undercut the tigers, not with discounts – but with real 'books”. The independents were back in the main game thanks to customer service and the promotion of writers rather than ghost writers and washed-up footballers with rehabilation bills to pay.
Despite changing their name and consolidating, the big boys simply couldn't hold on to the edge. Two decades of bad buying strategies, bullying and monopolysing came to an inglorious end with a declaration of bankruptcy. With that free fall came a collective sigh of relief from writers who had been all but shunned from their own (major) retail markets for years – along with concerns as to just who would fill that void and how? Not all of the branches of that dinsosaur will follow their leaders into oblivion – for many fought against the multinational interest from within, and these, along with the new breed of independent bookseller may yet create a new retail marketplace – one which hopefully, will promote writers. The E-beast looms large however, it is a many headed-dragon of technological change and any bookseller, let alone writer, would be a fool to ignore it. The big bad orange and black wolf of retail bookselling is dead. It fell on its own sword with the type of cowardice it had demonstrated for years while it all but ruined literature in pursuit of fool's gold. What the book industry has now is the opportunity to regroup, the opportunity to re-structure publishing lists to ensure that writers survive and literature (not typing disguised as writing) doesn't become extinct. Those who battled the giant have survived to fight another day and that day is now. If they decide to merely step into the breech carrying the same product under their arms, not only will literature die, but bookselling as we know it will go too. There is a new monster out there Mr Publisher and Mr Bookseller, and it intends to kill you. Wise up. You have a second chance.