Living In Obi City

 Living In Obi City

She was not born this unattractive,

nobody is, since personal beauty

exists as a quixotic and charismatic

statement, embracing a journey

of the mind in a private, yet public,

exposition of the totality of a series

of complex individual traits, not just

the measured proportions bare

of playboy flesh and bone,

exhibited with abandon,

TV accredited silken locks

or expensive catwalk couture.

Yet it seems she has tried her best

(or should that be her worst?) to minimise

any naturally conferred attributes

a seemingly sad, lost personality

trapped in a droopy double chin

extreme folds of flabby flesh testing

the tensile strength of Chinese polyester,

an unkempt, straggling mane

an unshielded, yawning chasm

this scowling mouth and stubby digits

struggling to text a breath of life

into her cellular support system.

And there’s the axiomatic rub,

for whilst I recognise the simplistic

flaws of appraisal by appearance,

yet I sit as judge, jury and even

now as her public executioner

I have already implicitly, inhumanly

sentenced her to the populist scrap heap,

despise her visual pollution

question her personal integrity

her ability to exist in a society

idolising its beautiful people;

so hard for her to be obese and me to be PC.

 

Eight Fifteen

 

Eight Fifteen

Its epicentre at two hundred metres above target Hiroshima’s

T shaped river bridge obliterates buildings in temperatures more

than sun hot, vaporises unsuspecting human fodder before they even hear

an explosion, creates cyclonic winds of mass destruction, crystallises

roof tiles and remnant brick, warps and distorts

massive iron bank shutters

paints perfect people shadows

on city centre flagstones

scorches garden earth

propels screeching

atomic glass shard

missiles

ripping flesh

from the lucky ones

almost out

of harm’s way

inescapable heat

blistering

bloating

bodies

invisible radiation

mutating

minds

of generations

future bred

unavoidable

museum memories

trapped

in a pocket watch

stopped

at eight fifteen

 

 

.

Bella Vista Sunset

 Bella Vista Sunset

Progressively fading fingers, once bright orange,

now subtle shades of grey dusk light,

gently fondle the low lying, nimbus rain clouds

final floating remnants of an earlier storm,

still lazily dispersing in an autumn auburn setting sun

that slowly slips in surrender across the narrow crack

twixt the cloud base and those mountains hazy blue.

These sky born tints mimic the ever rising shadows,

whose sterile shards of silent darkness

steadily swarm from a cooling earth,

to scale thick trunks and embrace tightly

and totally the tall stand of Sydney Blue Gum,

ah yes, eucalyptus saligna,

nature’s own indigenous serene statues,

proudly profiling the ridge on the near horizon

against that ephemeral ginger backcloth,

sentinels guarding the suburban tranquillity

of this historic Bella Vista Farm.

 

 

The Story In Their Eyes

 The Story in Their Eyes

Eyes narrowing, narrating the evidence

Eyes eloquent in judicial assessment

Eyes, momentarily closing, judging the truth

Eyes, openly evil, laughing at tormented victims, their

Eyes lowered tearfully in distress

Eyes blue and eyes brown

Eyes that do not see beyond cleric closed boundaries

Eyes electronic that tell the whole world

Eyes replete with hate that meet

Eyes terrorised that seek revenge

Eyes translating what language cannot convey

Sadness and tragedy seen through the eyes of others.

 

 

The Chalice

 

The Chalice

Tonight the white waters will wash silently upon the sand in Galway Bay.

Tonight the ghouls, ghosts and goblins will rise as wispy mist above the peat.

Tonight the mysteries of Celtic lore shall echo throughout these ancient hills.

Tonight the standing stones of Carnach will rearrange their timeless pattern.

Tonight the extinct wild wolves will howl in the crystal forest of Tyrone.

Tonight the hooded Druid's words of priestly wisdom shall be heard by all.

Tonight the ears of cats and dogs will prick at soundless motion in the fields.

Tonight the wailing winds of Keltia will brush through your raven locks.

Tonight the spells of primitive dreams will unfold before your eyes.

Tonight the shadowy Eirenic moon will be your guiding light.

Tonight the constraints of time will be unshackled.

Tonight the measures of distance will dissolve.

Tonight the endless cup of love will overflow.

Tonight the covert icons of desire will show.

Tonight the written word will ignite.

Tonight the copious chalice

of creativity in

your mind

will charm,

challenge,

inspire and

foment your delivery.

Tonight you will distil the essence of reason.

Tonight you will drain this potent potion from its bounteous cup.

 

The Emerald Runestone Of Truth

 The Emerald Rune Stone of Truth

 

So gently close your eyes my sweet,

relax and quietly seek solemn solace

in the irradiant green message stone

of your own mind's eye.

From the depths of your mystical memory,

guarding the gates of subconscious,

this arcane emerald rune stone triggers

your inmost repressed desires.

  

You alone can now decode our destination,

so seek intrepid new private passions,

unveil your self secret dream spirits,

reach into the candid cone of truth.

This ancient and esoteric crystal power pack

pulses potently its long dormant message

as we touch, intimately,

for the very first time,

Now if this deed is right for you,

this green stone light glows brighter,

throbs and impregnates your chaste senses

with its wise and latent warmth.

 

And you must trust its teachings, my sweet,

for instinctive wills well deep, with emotions

aeons old, charming, compelling,

yearning, craving, erupting.

The emerald rune stone of truth, now dominant,

burns your brain with its dazzling beam,

violates your virgin body,

saturates your soul's sanity.

And so, as plural blends to single,

two bodies forge together, weld as one;

two mortal minds meld, take off,

soar high on the wings of the bird of love.

The emerald rune stone of truth, soon passive,

has unleashed your innate sensuality, my sweet,

dark menace or personal pleasure dome,

like Pandora's box, your choice.

 

Port Arthur

This is an old poem written after visiting the colonial penal settlement of Port Arthur in Tasmania. Not only was it the centre of convict punishment and associated atrocities, but in 1996 a local lad with an automatic weapon massacred some 36 people with many others wounded. The incident brought about much stricter gun control  in Australia.

Port Arthur

I stood high on your cold, crumbling sandstone battlements

looked down on your blood stained, wooden whipping post

listened quietly to the cat cracking,

callously cutting what little flesh there was

from the wayward young waif's guiltless

ruby rib cage, and I asked the question why

but I did not feel your pain.

I read the element eroded epitaphs on your Isle Of The Dead,

both monument and mausoleum in a picturesque bay,

your lush bush growth born of decay

symbolic fallen headstones recounting

dour struggles for life or even death, if that’s

the lesser evil, and I asked the question why

but I did not feel your pain.

I sat on the smooth stone floor of your solitary confinement cell

slammed shut the solid cedar door, no solace, no shafts of light,

sensed the rabid madness still entrapped

inside this small, dank, airless tomb,

the torture of total silence echoing through this

perverse asylum, and I asked the question why

but I did not feel your pain.

I stalked your hillside roads by night on a shadowy torchlight tour,

sensed your ghostly presence crunching on the gravel track behind,

shivered at your rugged colonial history

its engrossing tales both tall and true

of those who once did and perhaps even now

still do roam here, and I asked the question why

but I did not feel your pain.

I knelt in your roofless church, heavenly refuge but hell on earth,

watched shackled inmates cough their bronchial death throes

heard redcoat rifle butts thudding

brutally against masked, miscreant jaws

whispering heresy at the pulpit preacher

saving their lost souls, and I asked the question why

but I did not feel your pain.

I cowed at the body waste disposal chute in your sordid clinic

repelled the convict's abject screams at blunt saw amputation,

grinding gangrenous bones without

real anaesthetic, just a tot of Gordon's gin,

sniffed the fizzing, pungent smoke from sealing

tar on burning flesh, and I asked the question why

but I did not feel your pain.

I rested in your Broad Arrow Cafe, resplendent in new season decor,

respite for milling mothers, their carefree kids seeking souvenirs;

with mannequins in coarse woollen uniforms and guns

to parade your living story in sight and sound

supposedly to shock, but they just mock

this new generation and I asked the question why

but I did not feel your pain.

I absorbed your angel face and blonde hair into my empty heart,

and in some form of personal atonement for your barbaric deed

pried open your psychotic mind

smelt the cankered curse of retribution,

felt the depraved bullets of hate brush past

my tearful cheeks, and I asked the question why

but I did not feel your pain.