[ Amongst The 2010s ]
Some would say he's rediscovered his whatsit. His mojo. Scratches together his little bit of accumulated wisdom and lets go of The Dream and weighs up what's left. Abandons his pissy little principles and goes techno. Tells himself he's winning. Winning something new. (Is there no limit to the self-inflicted bullshit some people can shovel?). But he still does a lot of scabbing. Because. Because he’s a natural born scabber. Besides, there's all these words, laying about, waiting and homeless. It'd be a crying shame not to do something with them.
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THE
ACCIDENTAL BONSAI
the
Friday after Ash Wednesday
it
rained
rained
rained rained
totally
pissed it down
two
days too late
roads
awash
gutters
streaming ash-water
as
black as the devastated scrub
our
downhill driveway took a hit
sluiced
in bits of stuff
including
an acorn
that
finished up amongst the gravel bed
and
set about becoming Quercus Robur
as
big as its everywhere parents
or
so it thought
a
week or two later
I
found it there, a leaf on a twig
tugging
at my botanic heartstrings
so
- like a fool – I adopted it
right
into its own pot
so
I could watch it grow and prosper
and
– like a fool – I thought it was “mine”
so
I took it with us when we scarpered
down
to the bushfireless beach
it
grew bigger, into a bigger pot
and
bigger bigger, and yet bigger pots
ten
years, fifteen years, seasons coming going
watched
on dawn rounds for its new leaves
robust
leaves, coloured leaves, falling leaves
twenty
years a-growing, as best it could
an
immaculate oversized bonsai
that
should’ve been an exquisite oak tree
young
and full of promise and rising sap
but
one you could never set free
in
your suburban back yard
I
thought about sneaking it over to the park
yep,
heaps of times, honest
dead
of night, shovel, sack truck
good
intentions and mighty muscles (weighed a ton!)
thought
about it right to the last in fact
one
of those grand gesture things
in
the real world we never do
it
was twenty-six years old when we left
left
for an even smaller back yard
abandoned
my accidental bonsai-ed oak tree
like
some feckless lover with no further use
for
my beautiful creation (you bastard!)
told
myself my tree would be better off
with
the new owners
who
probably just see it as one more pot plant
so,
what’s the moral?
keep
your nose out of nature’s business old son
but
but but ... it would’ve died
I
saved it, gave it a life, of sorts
so
I tell myself
every
time I think of it
like
now
T.R.E.
(2012)
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GIRL
UP A TREE
not
all people do them
cemeteries
that is
but
picking through headstones
well,
it’s our thing
mostly
a well-spent walk, and quiet
speculating
on those libraries of past lives
speaking
from the other side
some
cemeteries are warm and rustic
some
are too-clipped parks
some
are full of sculptured grace
and a goodly touch of gentility
some
are simply old and old
waiting for their judgement
in neat rows
all watching the same way
and
some are none of these things
it
was a dour day on the High Weald
skies
grey as winter shadows
in
one of those lost and loveless graveyards
simply
waiting to become Kent real estate
and
now only used as a cut-through
between
stacks of welfare brickwork
it
was overhung with massive trees
oak
and beech and alder
and
ancient devil-defying yews
but
the stones were all whichway
awry,
half-down, sad
splotched
with lichen, crawling with ivy
pentangle
graffiti-ed and 666-ed
like
the yews had lost their mystical clout
and
lucifer was lurking
in
the distance we saw a girl
scraggy,
lank hair, carrying a bag
a
sort of twitchy kid, adrift
neither
coming nor going
then
she was simply – thin air
we
couldn’t leave it alone
and
just – walk away – never knowing
so,
pick off stones, casually (as you do)
in
that general direction
and
under a huge old oak, eye caught, look up
and
there’s the girl’s bag
wedged
in a fork and handle hanging
look
at it from several angles, then
yep,
has to be a drug drop
and
any second now six bikies will arrive
and
do us serious mischief
and
with us not knowing how the National Health works
then
deeper
deeper
higher
higher higher
into
the darkest heart of the tree
there’s
the girl
a
big-eyed statue
looking
down at us
looking
up at her
nothing
in Lonely Planet about this one, so
I’m
cool
I
nod and say
gu’day...
like
a damn fool
a
surreal silence hangs, waiting
while
images of drug-crazed tattoos
with bike chains attached
slip
in sideways
and
we’re outa there
and
leave the girl and the ghosts and the grey old day
to
get on with their gradual and artful dying
T.R.E.
(2014)
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MUSIC
THEORY
there
is a remembered SMELL in music theory
in
the LEARNING of music-speak
it
consists of a seepy wafty sheepy sort of smell
and
a little ancient dust
made
from the wrappings of a mummy
some
pencil sharpenings, possibly
wrapping
paper too, like loose grocery parcels
it’s
in the arcane symbols
on
those sheets with the lines on them
that
wait while the backwards and forwards thing
goes
zac zac zac
waits
for the right staffy sign to occur
waits
for you to remember the front squiggly seahorse
and
the curl from the lowest register
THAT
sort of a smell
not
to be confused with the actual eventual sounds of it
T.R.E.
(2015)
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THE
DAY THEY SET THE STONE
(the day I wrote Mum’s eulogy)
crane,
straps, a bevy of men,
a
massive block of dark marble,
anzac
day waiting in the wings
we
stood around, all iphones and curiosity,
watching
specialists do their stuff,
tensions
in the air
the
stone became bigger and heavier
and
the rigger straps more puny
hanging
there, swaying just a touch
great
gooey gobs of black gunk
scribbled
quickly over the waiting base
what?
– glueing this thing down!
a
smidgeon to go, slats wriggled out
one
last tape measure flipping flapping
uh
oh – the straps won’t come out
walk
up the jetty while they reconsider
watch
Fred skim by, watch tourists iphone home
an
old fella catching a tiddler
below,
a blind man, barefooted, pants rolled
white-sticking
along the shallows
seeing
with his toes
nubiles
volleyballing, ploughing sand
testosterone,
applause, rampant youth
more
iphones picca picca picca
and
still the straps are stuck
suffering
from millimetres and tonnage
but
now the crowbar is out
but,
can’t wait for predictable outcomes
need
quiet places to be
and I know what the stone says -
and I know what the stone says -
died
young, died far away,
lest
we forget
T.R.E.
(2015)
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THE
NUMBER
I
woke in the night
And
that old voice told me
My
days are numbered
But
then, they always have been
It’s
just that I’m not permitted to know
What
that number is
T.R.E.
(2017)
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