[Idiot]
the
useful idiot
of
the global village
pushes
people’s buttons
the
life of the party
wants
to clear the room
of
anyone but his
the
prince of lies
doesn’t
read books
as
a rule
the
artist of the deal
takes
all the money
and
runs
the
moving target
is
no. 1 with a bullet
but
runs out of time
the
feet of clay
feels
poorly
and
well drops dead
many
are the dead
who
leave unread
his
gaslight biography
[Traffic]
“february
traffic haiku “
numerous
examples of
motorcar
queue
enormously at peak
mini
glances from windows then
minibus
school
kids return to scrolling
light
angular insectoid
bicycles
swarm
and split fly out of sight
useless
extras bedeck brute
utilities
aerials
bullbars pipeflaps
life
offers visions like an
ambulance
ferrying
forth against death
do
not cut in front of a
three-piece
tram
hundred
rhinos are not wrong
mobile
heartbeat at the lights
crossover
disco
on wheels squeals and goes
mountainous
turns corners the
tourist
bus
leaving
vistas in its wake
armed
with map locations the
campervan
knows
there is no place like home
burning
through midday extremes
fire
truck
lights
up the street its alarm
three-sixty-degree
access
e-scooters
park
across well-trod footpaths
blinkering
gasolineing
limousines
careering
desiring
modest
undemonstrative
couriers
send
the message emails can’t
shaggy
the secret life of
panel
vans
behind
smooth exteriors
driving
home the full import
vehicles
sporting
their exotic names
wheels
within wheels fast forward
police
car
time
catching up with the crime
lawless
clueless lightless a
pizza-bike
runs
the red with late orders
Infinity Dots (1953) Yayloi Kusama
[Dotless]
“kusama
englyn penfyr”
we
cannot see cannot guess deep darkness
blackness
offers no suggest
more
dark we mark, never less
should
a dot the eyes enter through doubtless
dauntless
as though the centre,
dotless
no more, frequenter
with
eyes to see, say why and spy, day walk
cakewalk
where there’s only eye
and
no full stop only i
imagining
being initialling
initiating
seeing
joyful
creating freeing
ink
stained galaxies innate progressive
impressively
scintillate
infinitely
impregnate
[Child]
“kusama
englyn penfyr”
war
is over her atoms all dotted
besotted
as she is some
over
every single item
six-sided
rooms of mirror are this child’s
exiled
universe of wonder
and
small margin of terror
her
infinity ladders disappear
reappear
taking matters
in
hand now clustered shattered
endless
paintbox timeless splotch of her brush
is
the crush she has with touch
whether
masterpiece or botch
millions
of red flowers glow glossy
bossy
as she is powered
by
their delicate hours
'Pumpkin' (1981) by Yayoi Kusama
[Pumpkin]
what
do we see in the pumpkin
there
amidst morning tendrils
that
wasn’t there yesterday
skin
hard in the round light
where
it rests on the ground found
amidst
sounds of grass, wind and leaf
cut
open the pumpkin to find
more
sun firm fibre condensed
and
seed chambers in numbers
admittedly
often happily
there’s
nothing to say
just
us and the pumpkin out in the open
where
mood improves
in
the presence of this little planet
hard
outside not that hard inside
but
what does she see in the pumpkin
holding
it tight like a child
lonely
in the clinic and out
all
you need is love
and
the creation and the pumpkin
the
ultimate anti-depressant
what
in wartime she knew
was
main sustenance, aid to
all
thought that will get her through
the
pumpkin’s humanness
tenderness
humourousness
unpretentiousness
buried
in clumps of compost
pumpkinseeds
return
curved in great green clouds
only
then what do you see in
the
pumpkin that would be something
really
would be something
a
simple question simply answered
not
simply a suggestion but
an
appealing manifestation
plain
as day warts and all
big
as they come all sizes
protuberant
or else squat
or
just pumpkin pumpkin
pumpkin
pumpkin pumpkin
cut
from its cord for the kitchen table
soup
prolifically squashed
roast
pronouncedly sweet
pie
productively sliced
[Online]
do
you ever feel spoken to
by
online does online ever
reach
you where you’re at
is
online your main learning tool
what’s
the first think you think
when
you see the word online
do
you wake or sleep online
does
online enhance your sleep
or
keep you awake all night
this
survey takes only a minute
does
online lift your spirit offer
all
the spirituality you need
do
you use the wasted time app
to
measure how much online
could
be spent on something else
when
the scroll fights
when
the troll bites
when
you’re feeling sad
do
you simply remember
your
favourites online and
everything
feels alright
sorry
actually this survey
takes
several hours
but
you can pause at any time
would
you describe your current
online
presence as vacant
glancing
nonchalant pedestrian
academic
insomniac
omnivorous
omniscient
psychopathic
trumpian
all
of the above
if
online fell over today
never
to recover would you
go
in search of another spirituality
sort
it out over a cup of tea
or
2, 3, 4, 5 cups please specify
return
to writing letters by hand
go
to the kusama show
for
the afternoon spit the dummy
what
will online do in retirement
take
up shuttlecock ring triple-0
retell
its carer old clickbait stories?
Sunrise in Melbourne, 6.15 am. New York, 2.15 pm.
[America]
america
why talk to you
you
have all my data
what
more is there to say
america
you populate my screen
your
gossip is a convulsion
your
news a million reactions
america
the enemy is within
the
enemy is without
the
enemy’s all in your head
america
your lies are legion
you
suffer from president slump
and
wildfire denial
america
the beat goes on
each
year is warmer than the last
summer’s
here and the time is right
america
it’s them bad russians
them
russians and them chinamen
before
I switch you off
america
how long have you got
I
mute your endless movie stream
I
go somewhere not america
the
live conversation is sane here
sleep
is good and jazz cool
the
past speaks with now
a
beautiful book expresses
my
soul here and unexpected
words
make ginsberg-like poetry
here
familiar voices comfort
being
human is personal
time
takes time to observe
when
I want I text friends
or
drop them a whimsical selfie
sent from my iphone
‘saviour of the world’
has it come to this
owned by an arabian
prince?
woodworm screwed your base
paint disfigured your face
you hardly hold together,
just
sight unseen for centuries
hid in castle keeps, job
lots
freeports who may gaze on
you
the object of money
veneration
the highest bidders
selling their souls for
your tax break
your maker believed
painters
were grandsons unto God
recreating nature by hand
now restorers wish to save
you
as though you are more
glorious
than all the lilies of the
field
oligarchs are on the phone
raising million above
million savings
something nice for their
old age
it has come to this, you
‘saviour of the world’
draw the crowds with your
maker’s name
even if evening no one can
say
if it be he or another or
others,
leaving you, only your
half smile
your resolute gesture of
blessing
for eyes to read as they
can
at the end of a desert
gallery space
and an orb of the world
fragile as starry glass
held in the palm
an arabian prince could
drop
and eyes of penetration
and mystery riding time
and the general melee of
existence
In recent weeks I have been reading the Notebooks of Leonardo da Vinci. This prompted me to watch the documentary ‘The Lost Leonardo’ on Netflix (recommended), in turn inspiring the poem about ‘Salvator Mundi’. The poem exhibits the behaviour of poets who go up to a painting and start talking to it in the second person singular. Pictured is one of the central figures in the story, Dianne Modestini, at work in New York circa 2006 restoring the object in question.
[Clothes]
slipping
into them
drawing
their cords and belts
the
business with buttons
standing
up in them
caress
lasting hours
stresses
tuck and trim vim
stepping
out in them
hues
unforgettable forgotten
the
body in question beneath
stopping
to check them
the
sag that should be straight
the
drab that should be gay
forgetting
about them
any
uniform in a storm
fashion
is a fig-leaf
paying
for more of them
shopping
therapy spare-pairing
or
bare necessity
judging
by appearances
that
alarming tee-shirt
that
oh-so overgrown overcoat
attending
to mishaps
the
fleck of ketchup
rain-soaked
to the bone
change
as good as a holiday
this
goes with that
a
statement sewn with questions
or
then haven’t a thing to wear
brain
like a loose thread
all
out of sorts with clothes
they
stop and stare
take
wear and tear
threadbare
then oh not there
they
ghost real selves
motion
pictures of
the
living breathing being
they
attract message bluff blend
anonymity
in label and design
they
warm and warn
clothes
they are a vain excuse
learnt
behaviour
they
cool and school
slipping
them off
statements
and questions left
in
a heap crumpled suggestions
dropping
them in the wash
there’s
one in every crowd
a
holy shroud
sleeping
surrounded by them
dreams
where they cannot hide
and
lovers cast them aside
