Tuesday, November 30, 2010

Thursday, November 18, 2010

Thursday, November 4, 2010

some of us are building houses
places where we say we live
cut the joke in half and then
i'll buy myself a little prison

i will not crash
i'll buy a plot and be buried on my back

i am a potential earner
swimming in potential sea
every day i drive my car
across the city
across the street

i will not crash
i'll buy a plot and be buried on my back
i'll make a vow and tire but never take it back
i'll work a job and wake up when the sky is black

i'll buy a plot and be buried on my back

separate the gold from silver
hang it on the christmas tree
let us saturate the future
here's to our dreams and our degrees

Sunday, October 17, 2010

Monday, October 4, 2010





























this should read Laneway 2010
- "Clarie". "I just like good music"

Thursday, September 16, 2010

Monday, August 23, 2010

Tuesday, August 17, 2010

Thursday, August 12, 2010

Saturday, July 17, 2010

Saturday, June 26, 2010

Thursday, June 17, 2010

A Poemz by Matthew Crawley

A carnival of loopy hounds,
the dreamers who stuck to their bubble guns

A strange paradise, this part time anarchy
down by the riverside (with little sunken boats)

A red-mist history built the kitchen table,
and philosophers who sit here are drunken and will never remember your name
(but you are always welcome)

*

A carnival of loopy hounds,
emptied halls, saved by mad philanthropy,
to be filled by g-g-ghost echoes until summer hits

A strange paradise, these batty streets,
coarse closed windows (we are not open on Wednesdays or Saturdays sir!)
when all you wanted was a delicious little feast

A red-mist history swims around in here,
dried up conk-a-rete basin a-full of words like "DROP" and "AROMA!"
(and but and you don't quite feel welcome hmmm)

*

A carnival of loopy hounds,
limping and sniff-snouting, for old times sake
Hound! You stink! You reek!
and the dreamers stick to their bubble gum

A strange paradise, in the silly night
pacing about the labyrinth (we're new here, just looking thank you)
Ahoy! You on the river! Take this! And this!
and for the rest of the night a little feast and some fire

A remissed history and some piraticals built this castle
scattered amongst are courthouses and cubicles
(like a tornado that gifts gifts in-stead was about)
and we are always welcome, they said
and we are always welcome.

Tuesday, June 8, 2010

i love telling about the form of things, now people are running, it's impossible not to feel the rain even if you were blind but in a town you have to assume the whole burden of all the close people, are you scared yet, instead of practically owning the trees and squirrels that light up your room like private property if we were in the woods together.

Friday, June 4, 2010

2:27
2:50




.. .... ..
.. .... ..
When a woman has her back turned, you don't know whether she's smiling or scowling.
'I don't know if you're a detective or a pervert.'.. .... ..
Private thought is shielded by the clatter of bells, as a wash of light disguises a familiar face. It is the ghost on a throne, and the woman next door; the touch of cold skin and the illusion of the stage.
.. .... ..
background music provides a wall of sound which obliterates the presence of everyone, including oneself.
this anonymous privacy renders the moral qualities of the artist irrelevant; she may be a liar and a cheat, a murderer, a sneak and a thief.
-Lyn Hejinian, A thought is the Bride of what thinking

Wednesday, May 26, 2010

don't pretend you're not filthy

Tuesday, May 18, 2010

Thursday, May 13, 2010

Thursday, April 15, 2010

Sunday, April 11, 2010

thisis
an extension of my last;

breathing doesnt stop until when?
the moment between inhale & exhale
what happens then?>

Wednesday, March 31, 2010

Tuesday, February 23, 2010

grey face
leukemia green
your eyes, bagged in such a saggy dream





crouch and look
up like
you used to do

Friday, January 29, 2010

But now in this room, which I enter without knocking, things are said as if they had been written. I go to the bookcase. If I choose, I read half a page of anything. I need not speak. But I listen. I am marvellously on the alert. Certainly, one cannot read this poem without effort. The page is often corrupt and mud-stained, and torn and stuck together with faded leaves, with scraps of verbena or geranium. To read this poem one must have myriad eyes, like one of those lamps that turn on slabs of racing water at midnight in the Atlantic, when perhaps only a spray of seaweed pricks the surface, or suddenly the waves gape and up shoulders a monster. One must put aside antipathies and jealousies and not interrupt. One must have patience and infinite care and let the light sound, whether of spiders' delicate feet on a leaf or the chuckle of water in some irrelevant drain-pipe, unfold too. Nothing is to be rejected in fear or horror. The poet who has written this page (what I read with people talking) has withdrawn. There are no commas or semi-colons. The lines do not run in convenient lengths. Much is sheer nonsense. One must be sceptical, but throw caution to the winds and when the door opens accept absolutely. Also sometimes weep; also cut away ruthlessly with a slice of the blade soot, bark, hard accretions of all sorts. And so (while they talk) let down one's net deeper and deeper and gently draw in and bring to the surface what he said and she said and make poetry.

Thursday, January 28, 2010

Saturday, January 9, 2010