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the Drun Kaiwoz

Hearing, in the flat, bicycles fired
at the house, the same like the way the boys
and I used to, pushing off the peddles,
full of prank and sass, the voice of the
leader, puberty beginning to lift the
first skin of childhood, like a cicada—
clear like the clapping of waterfalls,
wet force of being Life, in the first torrent
of spring, in the desert, from a
hundred and forty miles away, or the
dry thunder of magazines dropping their
shells, the hot spent cartridge scent.
I haven’t had to count up missing hours,
or form, for years, or locate the source
of an unknown scent and I look around my
rented space, no bottles, or wine-stains,
no broken glass, no ashtrays on the floor, or
mattress airing– drying, no shat smell, lingering
fingers, above the keyboard, steady; sober
over anything found like money on the lawn
in the morning, dewy, decimal after the shindigs,
piss-ups, sessions, the lost nights given squelch,
coin-cold sober over anything; fame, wealth, love;
consistent, resilient, spontaneous, ordinary.
I’ve over-used the snake analogy, but how
uncomfortable, to see men and women carry
about the stuck skins of childhood, not completely
out, hanging off them like polyps, like undischarged sleeping bags.




Two More Poems About My Self

1. Dreso.

I was eager, proud, and resolute
and I had yet to recognise
only very little
of my Will
inhaled talking, filled
the breath
with words exhaled

like moths
or wasps or worse
the ear made
the dirty feet of flies.

I did a lot I guess
I thought it play
resolutely eager
on subjects made of aether

and behaved, like oneness
was undoing his zipper
behind your back.
You can remember

standing on a stool
while you changed
a light, bulb
in your mouth
standing on a chair
on a couch
to reach the fitting?

Such thoughts were I
found nudging on
their unstable platforms
thoughts which made you
grimace, I simply
did not realise
this branch of mankind bandaged
held together by an anguish
of monopolised protections
and the unsaid relied on by Denial

to condition, shape, craft,
mind superluminal
conditions I said mind-control
to low flying estimates
of Ambition great and detrimental.



2. Al-Fur Altitudes.

Small furies, nothing major,
in a way Society was a method
to achieve an altitude
in which the ‘I’ of all participants
could let in understanding of itself
relative the ‘yourself’ in others.

and, as the eye measures height
relative to the ground, and males
take their bearings on horizons
of ‘women’ relative experience,
in this instance, on the occasion
of the poem, and only for the transverse
way a Poem lays across the page
relative the actual occurrence, the ‘feminine’
here is represented…or hairless,
as the memory takes it, in Males, bodiborn,
dancerlean, altered forms of men
in divisive, sad mathematics,
that, if used to your advantage,
you will better comprehend
the femiNine, the oddness of it
has the mystery of a number
which returns an individual to itself:
I was the one less hurt, a type
of zero multiplied by nought,
so I gave them rounded Hermes
health, so I thought,…well, stamina, at least,
taking her into these hands
to do the math, to smooth the mended fur of foxes
who had fought amongst each other
for the Cock. I filled their pantries,
picked their locks, I trimmed their tails—
it will mean more than it should
once it is written out, and dismantled,
wholly many crimes full of strut,
but I didn’t give a toss, or else
I was a mutt, arriving unannounced,
in me gel, blotto, ditto stolen flowers,
who sniffs you through your pants,
leaving that distracting imposition
of impression in your field
of thought, they were Taxis at a Club
where androgyny was the norm.,
all stiffs, and butts, the dotted eyes
and cuts, and nothing was recorded,
and with all kinds reported, on the side,
saddle, ride the males, cried coming
to the femi-nine, a schemer, things…
to know ya baby, born to sooth this wound
of gender, it will leave a lot unsolved,
a lot of extra pudding, padding pushing in your crotch,
leaving raised the one I had to carry;
the single bone…gawd, cd u imagine
if they married? other strays pawed away as well
at what you had us bury in your backyard, you widget,
you MeaTapp, you weigh us palm to palm; you run
engraved forearms between the buttocks,
crevice to the novice, I’d entice you visit
me, to slip you one alone, and, in a way, Society,
to slip you one as well, I’d say I showed you all
my scars; one to one, I had my wavelength—
who doesn’t, I ran things, at least I thought myself
the boss of smallness hurt, you could loan
me to your friends, I knew just when to leave,
shame would take years to recognise, now
it’s only there as something happened, a
curio-college to my insight
development; I came right, eventually,
over-ratio to begin with, so I circled
like the hound of thirty three
lines ago, unsure of where the trail led,
poet/looter, after pure emotion,
hungry for your feelings, the ones
distort our thinking,
like cluster galaxies bending
with their gravity combined the light
of other stars, the awesome natural self
emoting, but in groups, and the interfering
intellect messing up the transcript
like massive aggregates of institutional
conditioning, entrainment, keeping us
all a-taxi-ing, refuelling on their runways,
changing your mind without you, and that
was where the stool-kicking happened—
which is not to imply, not to admit I knew,
and took a pick and mallet to the cornerstones
of light cemented usable as ‘true’
thoughts, composite usually, alloy
-dented foundations Balance depends on—
but so many, so often, everywhere, resulting
in my solitude at parties
celebrating that very ratio
of expectation and reward, for now
sniffing around the room alone, a small radio
will do, tuned to the furry edges
on a spice rack playing obscure quartets.
And as one Age kneels down, dying
—& forget the little plane a moment,
and forget the shemen, the femi-nines, it is you,
in your own time, making touch
at the feral point of being yourself,
alloys of bone and photon, I can see this
Society as she had seen it, & I wish it more
than a common taking, a thing
to want to live up to, but I’m cool
with it now, today, and tomorrow.

Hello Friend


Playing my old guitar ,
Old days like dead stars, falling apart
Memories hold me back, they’re trying to Steal my dreams away
I’ve never seen such a lonely heart, making my six string Rot and stale.

A broken guitar
Broken from inside and outside
I can hear the screams of pain that has stayed Of late.

Hello Friend,

you’re back again asking me what I have to say
Well Can you hear my six strings fade away
There was a time, it had a name, now it’s just broken it’s not the same.

Please don’t forget our time she said,
the time when we played and laughed away
the time when you kissed my soul, my name
for all to see who loved us just the same.

A broken guitar
Broken from inside and outside
I can hear the screams of pain that has stayed Of late.

Hello Friend,

you’re back again asking me what I have to say
Well Can you hear my six strings fade away,
There was a time, it had a name, now it’s just broken it’s not the same.

Oh I see,
you played with me played with my name
My soul feels tired, it wants to rest now
my heart is broken it needs to be fixed now
Just go away get the fuck away,
The time has come for you to go home now.
Just leave me in pain, let me be how I know I need to
I cannot be broken I am not my old six string.
Though I’ve lost my name, but soon I’ll find it.

A broken guitar
Broken from inside and outside
I can hear the screams of pain that has stayed Of late.

Hello Friend,

you’re back again asking me what I have to say
Well Can you hear my six strings fade away
There was a time, it had a name, now it’s just broken, has lost its name

Tight Lull Pleasure In The Pride

the nights are cooling off
and little in my heart has changed, that
swing latch
box with sticking hook, the

on the lid to lift a shot
glass, and draw the heat
into the rolled tobacco leaf
order extra p…

nah, bra, bro-ken-deal
I get in my unpissed bed
this is how I roll now, this is why I feel
the same good in the morning
as when the day is coming to an end,
off more years than on —how it goes,
what is lost and never known
sober, I don’t care to know,
nothin’ walkin’ those opposed again,
always something wrong, a type
of fresh anxiety, behaviour
or neglected invitation, totally
untrustable, the poet and his alcohol.

the clean, the dry and stainless
bedding, the courtesy of calmness
as the fish are in the ocean, sit below
the poster of them waiting for yr burger
the floating calm too of birds, or man
facing his death alone, secret smile
on her face, hunted all day, the gear
improving, this sideways walk, this wide
continuously stable happy mind

if mind is what it is
we’re projected from, say ‘into’
and the ‘not said’ is more truthful

there is anarchy shaping but like a light
that can’t stay on, the fitting tampered
with I don’t know anything, said

I hear things, and repeat them
without knowing if it’s true, this tamper;

intro Autumn coffee, awesome cake,
and wandering the park, a notebook
filling up, the art galleries, home
before it is dark, the van temporarily
away the days off the extra blanket
isn’t needed it joins the pillows up
against the glass window of the rear door.




from A Pilgrimage Of Snails


Small odours hold in the walnut-
panelled Glory Box, in special coffins
for the life remembered, lined
with pale silk; there, that’s your face,
bent around the convex plane
of the unused silver spoon
commemorating royalty,

succession, continuity;
that’s your name,
on the ticket stubs and programmes;
a poster with your fame,
almost overgrown
by the main event,
which was always you,
stopping to roll the rich grass,

an inch greener near the river,
as you lay there, beside the opaque
cooling flow, thinking
deep and slow.


That’s you, needs a polish,
the infinite complexity
of patterns, the massed
and wriggling trillions

upon trillions of intelligent
yegling squiggles Particle
Colliders accelerate for:
the Moment— is pattern

and you are followed
for programmes of Prediction,
and all which seeks to manage
and control the chaos,

as it domineers
in its return, always
to disable the despotic
software systems

of genomic mimicry.


Id, I.D., Rfid, IRD: can anyone
this known truely be unique?
happiest the moment, is it Movement?

E.motion, as you ripple or splash,
and dependant on your entry in the barroom,
your presence, in the mirror, in her mind,

to admire, to align, the stroke,
along your top lip, to show you ride
that wave, a joke; you’ve a memory, or is it:

a Manufactured Presence?


The Ages, as today, as days before;
yes, you are, all day, and all night.
In sleep, and not at fault, and no remorse,
because there is no blame, and no,
no you’re not, as you went, bearing
your heart upon the granite columns

and stub-crushed alters of the pavement.
Saw in each the same
hard mad trouble we ride
ahead of ourselves, in designer

A thing worried on is a miracle forfeited.
At this place, of Now, day or night,
in such a way, as you are able— grab
the wild situation, until each moment
clears itself. That’s it, happy are we truest
in the courage of no future care
to where we end, exactly where we are—
a pressing in the light from underneath.




Poetry I’d Handled Till It Softened

& Would Not Stand On Its Own

That’s me, at the Mirror of Remembrance,
I’m wearing a snakeskin cap, I think
it is real, it says leather on the label,
it states, in tart magenta-pink
embroidery: ‘Skin’. Not sure what it is
alluding to, but as I revisit old poems
short of being finished it won’t feature again,
it was simply a starting point, I want to blend
these reasonably accurate reflections
into one account, and see if you can spot
the join marks, like the transvestite prostitutes
you could hire to study the phenomena,
see where it is that a woman’s breastful
body becomes a dude again. One evening
a tall brown sheman came out of the
doorway shadows from the top-middle
of William St., into Darlinghurst, came out
from the group of fee-males and crouched
in front of me, stoping me, and grabbed my balls
and cock in both hands. All I’d done
was smile, and nod as I walked downhill
toward them, nothing acknowledged in that.
This criminal offence, if I’d complained
of the gentle but secure clasp in her long look,
could put her in lock-up, it qualified him
for a beating were it some one less
my tangent nature. They were forbidden
solicitation, apparently they could be there,
available, for the science of the joining of two things.
His hands, her, she completely held my genitals
a squatting six feet of maori athletic
in a tight fitting dress, cigarette in her lips,
the smoke lit orange and grey and red,
while inconceivable consciousness, like vapours
from a water heated, mingled or pickled
or looked for the notes reincarnated
Awareness sends organised systems
into a human knowing of car horns
sirens braking and acceleration,
the Consciousness, or better, Recognition,
worse for wear, my dehydrated mind
perceiving rounds without a world, growing firm
in her hankering, my hands tangy
with the smoked joint, just starting on the
first cigarette, I wasn’t going to pay her
for anything, but she knew that feeling
me firming looking into my reddened
socket’s dopy grin, nothing said, gives it
one last shake and says a noise not unfriendly
and not unlike a hiss. Story it is,
happened it did, gone, those times, I’m glad.



90% Privacy

testes climb and descend the
as the penis waivers
between flaccid and
the 7 PM summer
is high and white and
I am sitting on
an indoor
moved outside,
a black singlet
over my face, sponging
heat, browned by all this
summer in the hot light,
I am heat-saturated
into the place of beyond
heavier bones and blood.
so in this Am, so localised
in tight strong animal
in the 90% privacy
of a male
in his single backyard,
a vaginal smell
from my phallus
when the foreskin
rolls over the gland
and the sunlight
bits gently the nipples.
expanded to full
capacity, outside
actual greatness,
toe to crown, my
muscular, diminishing
hair-suit form
and anchor point in time
charged, with living
sperm, swimmers,
stretching in their goggles.
waiting the starter’s pistol.
the cat has caught
a bird, I do not
think it is personal,
there’s been a
and as much as the driver is
not the vehicle, it is
something we use for a while,
through an agreed upon form of mind
control, being thinking of
being ,and the event. I
understand the pause and the
as he holds it and releases
it and catches
it until the
bird is exhausted and
too terrified to do anything
other than shiver
as if Max the cat is marinating
the Sparrow’s flesh.
this could be something we have
paid for, a material
sensation field for Capacity
to feel other than Itself, a release
from the permanent Calm, or
it is how movies depict the
requirements of an artificially
cognitively willed Consciousness
to experience the chemical, thus
frequencies—of Physical Harm,
Love, and Illogical Worship.
the bird has gone behind the
of indoor furniture moved
as I reorganise my living
completed canvases have been
over together in the chase
of one being for another. the
bird has taken
refuge in a small gap among the
collapsed pile
of paintings and primed surfaces,
and Max the Tabby, unable to reach
the bird, blocks the exit.
this intense feeling of
made now here available
by the bird, would be listed
on the reincarnating
catalogue of bodily sensations:
knowing of a relentless
hunt and capture, that
at the
beautiful pitiful death
of your small capacitor,
your roving wet-circuit
all done in a small forgetting
not that small
in the fill of the feeling… For
the high of the freedom
in release, the tremulous,
giantific remembering!

Mothership & Country

I have been counting time in flags
flapped ragged at the Daycare

at the rate of two or three a year.
The country disappears; then it’s mother ship;

a provincial union franchise. You can drive by
and see them waving, the toddlers, banging

on the cut square perspex in the corrugated fence
below the poles. The mountains showing Stillness

that it doesn’t have to try.
Like the poem, it is not about decay

or representation, and personality,
although it grows out of us, is not final.

Or at all accurate; the diverse reaction
of babies among children exposed,

or experiencing the same, is personality?
Or character?  Or chemical lack due

the absence of breast milk
or, more controversial, the proximity

of your bedroom to a cell mast.
Much of us expires in practice, what the flags

flap away awhile in wears all of us down,
on the poles unimagined escapable as we fight

in our roles, at work, with the wife, a man unmade
as a husband as he ages. A societal freeness

in gender arrangements, and I see
no change in the rate of the fray.

So the flags flap away, and the children.
And I continue annoying myself

with hard hours of pleasure in the ruts,
the small milk of conditions I have accepted

to further Comfort—predictable pole tied
wrestles, with no real wish to be blown up

tangled in the brambles among the Pines
grown angled up the hill behind the Centre.

What a flap I’ve put into myself, a symbol
on the non-being pillar— one must

be so the other…Is needs the
Isn’t or is neither.






When I moved in to the large, narrow terrace
house, a flatmate was midway through the East
Sydney College Acting course, and, as a musician,
he said, in the pale yellow walls of the red-floor
kitchen, ‘the people are better in theatre’.
I auditioned successfully at the next intake;
and with a poem like this, based on the memory,
propelled on the need to revisit the time, the literary
expectation is that the poet will have filtered
out his nostalgia,for the quanta of mead,
through early drafts, finding the piece its heart,
the quicksilver fluids of reflection, emotion
without the embarrassment of display,
the unselfconscious shinny feeling waves
thespians parade to validate their cause,
but I haven’t got time for that, there are paintings,
and payed work, and a boy approaching puberty,
who comes over and shares my apple.
mead is made of honey, and in these words
is the pollen for you to make your own fermented drink,
and unless you’re in the ‘network’ no munny comes of poetry,
so no one pays attention: but I’m glad I didn’t fail
in Success, not having any actual time where I succeeded.
Drama started up though, shadows of the spotlight
which could have come, I brushed shoulders
with the known, featured briefly, on a list of maybe so,
yet I walked away unknown, but I understood
the Craft, saw, like those four and half years deckhand
on a commercial fishing boat ‘got’ what it takes a man
to work the sea. I filmed well, was pretty young, bi,
and large enough on stage in various roles,
and if you put the world’s perversions on a dartboard,
and sent the dart in unaimed looping arch, there’d
be something you could compromise me with,
by which I’ve now implied in Fame I could be owned,
plenty of mead popped pollen in my taste buds,
bent towards expulsion from the norms, luciferic
by the moors presumed conventional, but I wasn’t
into that sort of thing, circles intersected, as they will,
everywhere, being more of a philosophy
than a religion, a theosophical consideration
for how things actually happen to move
from the Will to the event manifest: the
greatest show on Earth
is what you will do
next, when your eyes have
stepped on and
then off this last

from Rehab Walkabout

‘it’s the terror of knowing what this world is about.’

                                                               Queen, with David Bowie.


Watching, the body feels human, but the mind
won’t take a man’s world seriously
as Sunrise, brightly, from the summer
left over in the leaves, Autumn
has the bristle broom
sweeping Summer’s soft touch
through the chopped arch windows
where originally the pews
of the churcHab dining room sat.
This is of the hardest part to take
apart and spread out on the table
to marvel, and then to reassemble:
the sermon, and the sunlight,
the leaves, so promisingly lemon
green when I arrived, collecting browny
in the cat bowl in the door corner
of the Smokers’ patio, where some insist
a hedgehog is feed; none of these without me
have a meaning—Aning…that’s nothing, not even
Again. I’m up each dark beginning, before the withered serfs
have slept off the morass helium
of their medications: bristled and soft, they seem sunk
down with the burden of the sun upon their back,
I am lifted every dawn, and it’s only here
I brag about this—the sun, shining harder, better
colour than the power-save bulbs, these
slow starting, dubious twisty heavier,
more expensive, cold & difficult to dispose—
as the man behind these words, I reveal
a paranormal suspicious disposition,
justa regular serf; that’s all— of us, here
put Rehab, in a spinning come to rest
within this shed, this glory-box for the dead
god with the best funding men Fiat about in.
I don’t want to build a boat, or a Business,
sink a million into I.T. futures, or use The Secret
for the wealth. I’d like pure water on tap
in every house: Man’s world!, seriously,
it’s an anxious animal, you never know when
it will turn if you are not performing the basics
well enough. Through the bold silicon of this
new watchful dawn, under pressure hum the Queen
and Bowie song. Understanding has a long trellis
table, one for 13, or twenty odd converted
islander to fix their lifted floors, but our numbers
have diminished, we are failing in the courts,
we are groping gangbangers, loners, whore-boys,
glorious in sunshine, glamour-sack of star light,
is her body, in my person, I would kiss her in the shower,
with the water running over our two skins,
joined at the Addict till the water starts cooling.
Bodies: the watering Mirror’s faucet.




from: The Alcohalted Bobble-headed 20’s

did a big pooh in the morning,
firm, bit dry, needed a push,
but long & clean, not much
aftercare, and I hoped it wasn’
the highlight of my day. I had
a job interview, I was going
to miss the appointment, I had
to get off the bus half way
because I only had enough
for one section, it was in the news—
Inspectors were on the Routes
making Drivers accountable,
they came on in twos, checking
tickets, before the rfid,
when we used cassette tape
and discman, phones without memory,
internet still with the military,
anyway I got there, was hired,
by the office relocation company.
I explained my lateness, he sniffs
the air, I’m guessing, and smelt the
whole story and why a well mannered
white man in his early twenties would
be this poor in the middle of the week.
they employed a handful of nationals
to run the teams, and filled the trucks
with traveller. we’d arrive at the depot,
get into the moving trucks, in the rear,
Animammals International: A.I., in the dark—
and drive in darkness all the way back
to where most of us had left the city from,
getting out at the foot of a building casting
shadows for hundreds of metres, move
everything out, desks, monitors, coffee cups,
water coolers, boxes of personal items,
down the lifts, into the truck, up into
another skyscraper, or a smaller building
for shrinking, or perfected business. as a reading
male I was often on the unpack side, the
placement team, referring to a floor map,
colour coded down to where the bobble heads
went on what side of the Dell.




There is a pandering,
a love to lose yourself;
a meandering in wistfulness and dream;
a waiting, a weight, like thinking
of the moon, in its perfect place.

La Luna scale gradient
exactly sized to fit between the sun.
There are connections to be made,
and things too small to know,
and beings that are too big to be seen.

There is this guy, from your position
in the local galaxy, there’s division
in the prophets, over mind as generated
by a brutal field Electric, binary
replicated in the way Compewta saves.

Or it’s something far more modern
then the modem to its slave
the shadow on the cotton
is the Sun’s work: yes or no?



Knowing when you’re thinking
is different from a thought:
the stillness is vibration:
the Off in part is On.

Tubes of heated sand,
polished two-way lenses,
a showing eyes planets
in the systems—

the Earth is as a grain of rice
beside a tennis ball
around the size of sunfish
compared to submarines

We are knowers, who do nothing,
have shrunken to the pin point
viewing water floating man
-kind a mammoth mannequin.

Saluting, like a clansman,
two fingers aristocracy,
like believers of the book
who utilise Scripture

to prove their picture
is correctness as it forms
never really noticing
in the feeling in the room

of a harmonised group
they’re in a closed loop
of self validation

& we’re seen to fumble on
like a disjointed dream.



Sheer perfect of the heart,
mad variety of spider,
doesn’t prove yr god
yet no blind disorder.

What is breathing water,
bodies reading sound,
the sightless and the Braille,
the deaf and their hands.

The Earth is as an island
as Fiji is to Earth.
The Ocean as to Fencing
as scrambled oxygen.

The atmosphere above us
isolated are
like a vivid Mirage
on the floating polyscopes

shaved glass polished, and a listening
gaze at other visage
we commit to never reaching.




Yes No