Dec 29 2014

Defragmented Memory

Published by under Poetry

  1. Obsolesence.
  2. The future.
  3. Explosions underwater.
  4. The law of root mean squared.
  5. The number means nothing now.
  6. Live and direct on Network 23.
  7. I don’t buy them these days, I have nothing to play them on.
  8. The smell of burning plastic.
  9. Her room lit by the red LEDs of the AV system.
  10. The television, a window on the winter sky.
  11. So much of him replaced, he’s not certain who he is any more.
  12. It happened so fast, journalists in hotel rooms watched it unfold on Twitter.
  13. Unable to maintain efficiency, the machine was replaced by a human.
  14. The nanomachine consumes itself at the end of its process.
  15. Designed in New York, made in Beijing, worn in Paris, burned in effigy.
  16. Never buying version x.0.
  17. The definition of necessity broadens and births another invention.
  18. Mankind was not built to survive at such speeds.
  19. It turns out that the jetpack is no longer necessary.
  20. Don’t worry, the car knows where you’re going.
  21. Cat videos of the late 20th century.
  22. Regardless of how it looks, remember that there’s no there there.
  23. The earthquake passes beneath the building, rumbling like an underground train.
  24. 5,000 years of someone inventing new questions for old answers.
  25. We have attempted intercourse with everything we have invented.
  26. Can you believe we used to die from that?
  27. Can you believe we killed animals if that happened?
  28. Can you believe we let that go to waste?
  29. The walls don’t have ears but when it rains, they breathe.
  30. Red soil between her toes, she looks up and sees the earth eclipse the sun.
  31. If we could rebuild him, why haven’t we rebuilt ourselves?.
  32. In every city, the concierge addressed him by his birthname.
  33. They knew him by the teethmarks he’d left in an apple they found near the spent shells.
  34. Electrolytic converter was little more than water and salt.
  35. The journals are full of papers saying you shouldn’t be able to do this.
  36. Bounced off a satellite, retweeted, shared, liked and reposted before the answer was known.
  37. Honeycomb structures 4 angstroms wide.
  38. It took four days to reach the the tribe. The first child he saw was wearing a Chelsea shirt.
  39. So small that the eye cannot see it.
  40. The house says “Hello, Dave”. His name is Tom but he likes retro sci-fi.
  41. It took so long to execute his will that he was declared dead three years after his body stopped.
  42. 640K RAM should be enough for an off-the-cuff comment.
  43. The new machine is capable of growing what it needs in situ.
  44. 569 people have read this question and 412 believe this is the correct answer.
  45. We still can’t quite explain how it works and yet we still don’t fall.
  46. Nothing is lost, merely archived.
  47. Like a dead pixel in the sky, the drone focusses its lenses and awaits orders.

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Dec 29 2014


Published by under Poetry

“You can’t write poems about trees
when the woods are full of policemen.”
– Bertoldt Brecht.

You can feel their presence, even now.
They lean over us, inspecting, silent
asking questions but answering none.
Some loiter in the distance, indifferent
to their impact on you. They expect to
be ignored, so pretend they aren’t here.
Some exude the authority of age and a
lack of concern for your opinion.
When you leave, the clear daylight and
open space will make you exposed, anxious.
Lone stands can comfort, or warn.
Though you have left the forest
you can feel their presence, even now.

Just a rough draft for now.

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Dec 13 2013

Published by under Poetry

A record of me reading Skyborn, which is about the silver DC-9 that flies around my house.

More to come!

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Nov 25 2013

Eulogy For The Heart

Published by under Poetry

This is a new poem I read for the first time at my recent feature at La Mama Poetica.

The fifth poem (though not necessarily part 5) of my Eulogies for Dead Technology series.

The plan was simple. Give a spark of life by
an electric muscle twitch. To the body
and from the body, a fistful of blood for
so long as the rhythm can be kept.
Sometimes the beat does not go on and we
try to replicate what is broken. Yet while
we imagine this simple device to be made
of gold or glass or stone;
While we wear them on our sleeves and steal
others, we make new ones from plastic and
titanium and place them like a cuckoo’s egg
in the nest of our ribcage.
Sometimes it’s only the egg that breaks, and
this strange heart is accepted into
the fold but too often, it is treated like
an uninvited guest.
The new beat is one that
the body can’t dance to,
it longs for the simple plan
that failed and was abandoned.

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Apr 11 2011


Published by under Poetry

Hello once again. The writing is actually going better right now than it was same time last year. Work is flat out and things are afoot personally that keep me busy (the joy of wearing more than one hat).

I’ve found a collection of poetic prompts that I’m slowly working my way through, in the absence of original ideas, I’m into week 2 at the moment (writing when time allows doesn’t allow me to write one poem a day). But my usual annual challenger of getting out 12 poems a year looks like it will be knocked over rather soon. Anyhow, this was from Day 4 of the prompts. Write a ‘containment’ poem. I started with being in a bookstore and went from there.

Here is the place I lost myself
and the reference section
that atlased me back home
Here is the poetry section with
its small and empty shelf telling me
the books aren’t going to write themselves.
Here is the where I fell to pieces
and the architecture guide
that blueprinted me again
Here is the sci-fi shelves who say
this is the future if you please
If not, who are you to the future anyway?
Here are the books written about music
and all the songs about writing.

Reading:The Michael Palin Diaries: The Python Years
Listening:Ramona Was A Waitress” – Paul Dempsey

2 responses so far

Apr 19 2010

Clearly my wife needs to travel more…

Published by under Location,News

Because I'm always so well prepared, I bought a pen and notebook at the airport newsagent

New mini-moleskine notebook

…or I need to spend more time waiting for her to arrive from her travels. On Sunday Nicole, my wife, returned from Sydney after visiting the Sydney Vintage Fair. Being the nervous sort, I usually turn up to collect her from the airport far earlier than is necessary, preferring to be too early than too late.

In this instance, I was two and a half hours too early which then became three when her flight was delayed.

It’s National Poetry Month in the US and Robert Brewer has been attempting a Poem-A-Day challenge, publishing the results on his blog, Poetic Asides. Taking a look at the prompts he’s been posting, and armed with a large amount of time to kill, an internet accessible phone and a notebook, I had a shot at writing some poetry while I waited.

Total poems written to date in 2010: 2.
Total poems written in two hours:

I can’t vouch for their quality. Yet. It’s five rough drafts, but I don’t recall ever being quite so productive in such a small amount of time. I’ll be posting them as they get a suitable amount of polish to them.

Reading:Infinite City” – Alex Skovron
Ramona Was A Waitress” – Paul Dempsey

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Dec 09 2008

Thirteen Hours Into Summer

Published by under Poetry,Topic

Went to Passionate Tongues last night and had a marvellous old time catching up with people and enjoying the work of the features Ian McBryde and Amelia Walker. The open stage was also a good opportunity to hear the work of poets I know from around the scene, but had yet to hear properly. Ben “I.Q.” Saunders and Jo Mundy spring to mind here.

This was written last week and is currently in the mid-polish state.

Thirteen Hours Into Summer
Melbourne. We are
thirteen hours into summer
and I have not seen the sun.
Have you lost it? Did you look?
The clouds rolling overhead are
too busy, too majestic to help find
what you are looking for.
Did you ask them? Did they respond?
We are running out of time.
We have only ninety days, eleven hours
but you seem unconcerned.
Aren’t you worried? Do you care?
Unemployed shadows are
jammed into cracks and corners.
Wait nervously for their cue
how long their wait? when can they breathe out?
Put your name on the sun, Melbourne,
when you find it. This time put it down
in the first place you would look,
not the last.

Reading:Penguin Modern Poets 17: Gascoyne, Graham, Raine
Listening:Don’t Send Me Onions” – Miles Hunt

4 responses so far

Nov 12 2008

That’s Chiroptera To You Mr. Lawrence.

Published by under Poetry,Topic

So, here’s my response to D. H. Lawrence’s Bat.
Continue Reading »

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Nov 10 2008

Bats, by D. H. Lawrence

Published by under Poetry,Topic

I was recently on holiday in Katoomba where I found an anthology of poems called “The Poet’s Voice”. Printed in the 30s and edited by John Garrett and W. H. Auden, it contained, amongst others, the following poem by D. H. Lawrence.

While I rather liked the poem, especially the description of bats as “Swallows with spools of dark thread”, I felt I couldn’t let the opportunity pass to speak up in defence of an animal that I’m rather fond of, having become accustomed to their presence in the parks around Melbourne.

So, here is D. H. Lawrence’s poem, which will be followed in short order by my response.

At evening, sitting on this terrace,
When the sun from the west, beyond Pisa, beyond the mountains of Carrara
Departs, and the world is taken by surprise …
When the tired flower of Florence is in gloom beneath the glowing
Brown hills surrounding …
When under the arches of the Ponte Vecchio
A green light enters against stream, flush from the west,
Against the current of obscure Arno …
Look up, and you see things flying
Between the day and the night;
Swallows with spools of dark thread sewing the shadows together.
A circle swoop, and a quick parabola under the bridge arches
Where light pushes through;
A sudden turning upon itself of a thing in the air.
A dip to the water.
And you think:
“The swallows are flying so late!”
Dark air-life looping
Yet missing the pure loop …
A twitch, a twitter, an elastic shudder in flight
And serrated wings against the sky,
Like a glove, a black glove thrown up at the light,
And falling back.
Never swallows!
The swallows are gone.
At a wavering instant the swallows gave way to bats
By the Ponte Vecchio …
Changing guard.
Bats, and an uneasy creeping in one’s scalp
As the bats swoop overhead!
Flying madly.
Black piper on an infinitesimal pipe.
Little lumps that fly in air and have voices indefinite, wildly vindictive;
Wings like bits of umbrella.
Creatures that hang themselves up like an old rag, to sleep;
And disgustingly upside down.
Hanging upside down like rows of disgusting old rags
And grinning in their sleep.
Not for me!

Reading:Cultural Amnesia” – Clive James
Listening:Ocean Of You” – The Blackeyed Susans

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Aug 14 2008

Candy Stripes @ The Candy Bar

Published by under Event,Gig,Location

Tim Hamilton reading at Candy Stripes

Tim Hamilton reading at Candy Stripes

Well, I had an excellent evening being part of a great performance at the Candy Bar on last Thursday night. Anthony O’Sullivan (of Spinning Room fame) was an excellent host as per usual, presiding over an enthusiastic turnout.

I was grateful to find that I was opening as it meant I would be less stressed and could enjoy the show in its entirety. This was handy as, apart from Josephine, I had seen little to no of my co-stars previously, knowing them only by reputation, and was able to enjoy their work with fresh ears.

The set list for me was: If Poetry, Mokita, Ballard Days, Eulogy for the Cassette, Eulogy for the Polaroid, Tomorrow’s Ghosts, Concerto in B-Flat for Piano and Phlegm and I finished with XXI – The World

If the night made anything clear to me, it was that I really need to learn how to perform without my notes! Apart from seeing some marvellous performances being done by people who were free of having to look at paper every couple of seconds, it felt a lot better being able to concentrate purely on what I was saying without having to read at the same time.

Photos of the night were taken by Michael Reynolds, who has kindly shared them to the world on this link.

Overload this year produced something of a record for me. Five gigs in one week I think is something of a record in the decade-and-a-bit that I’ve been attending and reading in open stage gigs. By the time Sunday’s closing event rolled around, I was too tired to attend. Hats off the Overload organising committee for bringing in festival number seven!

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