Wounds of Beauty

I made love to a woman last week
she's been here since the beginning of time,

looking in your eyes I felt so weak
helpless to do justice in rhyme.

Through your openness of heart
and gentle strength of spirit

I knew we couldn't be apart
nor our love ever be illicit.

I saw the butterfly in your eyes
wings afire in Autumn light,

mountains bled on frivolous ferns
as we laughed into the night.

So let's follow dreams up garden paths
along tracks littered with traps,

Wisdom and love are are your epitaph,
compassion and truth our priceless map.

So fly high bright bird and
seek the heavens splendid,

In life and love you do affirm
through beauty wounds are mended.

(c) 1991, 2013 (for Whitefeather)

Black Beach

Walking on that black beach

sand sifts through my toes,

a gull shrieks,

clouds lick your sky,

waves darkly lap

against her lips,

washing worlds.

Christine

Do you remember her as
an artist blazing fire?
hands freeing visions,
sometimes twisted,
often grotesque,
always hard and soft and true;
blue-eyed beauty
soft lips full.

So you're now in that junkyard of memories
where post-modernists deconstruct dreams
and whispers leak like Autumn leaves,
fluttering away as words fail
dancing across your field of hearts,
eyes laughing glittering,
agony and tears.

Do you see rear-vision landscapes zoom
while time works her weary spell?
and suddenly plunge,
nearly drowned,
beached,
gasping for breath,
then
a musical chuckle and
misty dreams,
your barren night
lit by sparkling wit,
eyes bright and warm,
blond hair flowing...
but as a single tear can kill
a million germs
no flood can cure your death.

I was twenty-one,
innocent and shy,
you nineteen but far more worldly wise;
we talked at a party about masks,
people and disguises,
reality and meaning,
we clicked,
liked each other,
found an affinity,
but there was more,
always more,
and I was too naive to know.

At your door I said goodnight
but you paused,
lit by the hallway light,
glowing, bright, beautiful,
as I turned to go you asked
"do you want to come in?"
time freezes at these moments -
shyness always trembles before beauty,
it's a curse, but
you held out your hand and I took it,
next morning waking to a dream.

If only life was fixed in formaldehyde,
not flashes flicking through a rear view mirror,
laughing and dancing down the middle of
deserted Chapel street at 3 AM,
a restaurant in Lygon Street with your friends...
It puzzled me at the time why your friends and
workmates were all beautiful women,
the catering business appeared staffed with
voluptuous models,
how the conversation confused me,
me with my bookish introversion and
oh so serious philosophies;
but the flower seller appeared and I
bought you a red rose,
and suddenly all chatter ceased,
your voice broke as you said
"nobody has ever done that for me",
then inserting the rose in your hair you
placed your hand on my leg.

Another rear vision flash,
a sixties-themed party,
me dressed in my biker gear with a
homemade badge proclaiming
'Hell's Angel c. 1966',
you dressed as a hippy chick riding
pillion on the Suzuki GS 400.
I was puzzled to be the only man at
the party,
and again why all your friends and
catering colleagues were so abnormally beautiful;
you said you had to leave on business for a while,
that the girls would look after me,
and so I danced with mini skirted women

some of whom wanted to play more
intimately with your
boyfriend...

When you reappeared and rescued me it seemed
you could barely contain the amusement,
but innocence as appeal has an expiry date.

Reminiscence once bitter now blurred by decades,
recriminations and angry letters,
coldness,
how I cried when you retrieved the painting
you'd given me,
'Psychological Realism' you called the style,
a woman facing away from the viewer,
her hand on a man's shoulder,
his face twisted and grotesque with anguish.

Year passed and friendship revived,
you married with two kids,
me married with two cats,
but not even your family or close friends
knew how your means were met.

He shot her you the kitchen one November
in front of the kids
then went to the pub.
The defence screamed "Provocation",
you were leaving him and taking the kids,
"Prostitute!" they screamed,
and he got three years for manslaughter.

So killers laugh while lovers cry,
while canvases are blank and
songs unwritten,
some say time heals hurt
but that's a lie,
part of me also died.

(c) 2013

Christine (part 2)

I was twenty-one,
innocent and shy,
we talked at a party about masks,
people and disguises,
reality and meaning,
we clicked,
liked each other,
found an affinity,
but there was more,
always more,
and I was too naive to know.

At your door I said goodnight
but you paused,
lit by the hallway light,
glowing, bright, beautiful,
as I turned to go you asked
"do you want to come in?"
time freezes at these moments -
shyness always trembles before beauty,
it's a curse, but
you held out your hand and I took it,
next morning waking to a dream.

Christine (part 1)

Do you remember her as
an artist blazing fire?
hands freeing visions,
sometimes twisted,
often grotesque,
always hard and soft and true;
blue-eyed beauty
soft lips full.

So she's now in that junkyard of memories
where post-modernists deconstruct dreams
and whispers leak like Autumn leaves,
fluttering away as words fail
dancing across your field of hearts,
eyes laughing glittering,
agony and tears.

Did you see rear-vision landscapes zoom
while time works her weary spell?
and you plunge,
nearly drowned,
beached,
gasping for breath,
then
a musical chuckle and
misty dreams,
your barren night
lit by sparkling wit,
eyes bright and warm,
blond hair flowing...
but as a single tear can kill
a million germs
no flood can cure your death.

Tough Luck

Just another cabbie night,
customers faceless and
prospects not bright,
I curse my luck at
being interred in a metal coffin
within a shadow world.

I'm hailed outside a King St. nightclub
pissed and loud,
staggeringly drunk,
expensive clothes dishevelled
he says “Take me to St. Kilda"
and lights a smoke,
“Fitzroy St”.
I flip the meter and screech a u turn,
glance at him in the mirror,
he says “I want to drink and never stop!"
I say nothing
just gun the cab,
silently curse the city,
the road,
nightclubs,
drunks,
and myself for the tough luck
the night has dealt me.

He says “You must think I'm a real arsehole"
"I'm not, you know",
he coughs and sobs,
I worry he might spew,
then gathering his wits says
“on Monday my car was stolen,
on Tuesday, my wife left me,
on Wednesday, my mother died,
on Thursday I lost my job.
Tonight I'm getting pissed senseless!"
I pull up outside the
Prince of Wales Hotel,
he tosses me some money,
includes a tip,
then staggers off into that
cruel streetlight night.

I gun the cab and cut like a shark
through the lights and despair of St. Kilda,
a hooker cruising for my next job.

The Solipsist

The solipsist meanders along
drizzly streets
absorbed in the clear cut stars
piercing his personal sky.

The solipsist watches clouds
performing pirouettes across the moon
feeling the pressure of
his crystal dark.

The solipsist knows a cathedral
of bleakness as joyous insight
worlds within his velvet case
a song without melody.

The solipsist finds meaning
in a wisp of mist
then wanders through his
forgotten streets.

Alone.

Piranesi's Tower

The lamp hangs from a curling wrought
iron pole at the end of a mossy pier,
its flames cast no light on black ripples below.

A drawbridge baptises fleeting shadows,
shepherding masonry through
cobblestoned courtyards dripping disquiet.

Silence hangs a heavy quilt,
disturbed only by mouthess moans of bound
figures faintly visible in cold sulphurous light.

 Massive doorknobs protrude from bestial heads.
Deep in a shadowy background stone
staircases twist away in inconceivable directions.

An arch linking fluted columns frames dark figures
dimly seen leaning across a balustrade;
they appear to be waiting for something…

Emptiness erupts from the prison vaults,
in the mausoleum mirrors reflect disease,
the architect is a vacant chamber of pale regret.

Naked and bound to crumbling pylons,
lost in grim recesses of arches, doors and memory
he fades into architectural depths.

A chill mist slithers across flagstone,
shadows linger under a vast gateway but
finding no egress, forever faceless turn away.

(c) Tony foley 2010 (revised 2013)

Raindrops in a bucket

Autumn.
Change winds blow
where they will,
fragmentary thoughts
are wisps,
clouds on the horizon
glowering.

Raindrops in a bucket
through a leaky roof,
counterpoint
staccato
mellifluous
drip drop drip drop
damp thoughts and
mossy tendrils
wet.

Bubbles In the River

When I saw the bubbles rising
from the river
I thought "what the hell",
although not in those words.

Then the slick suited men told
me everything was fine,
everything was cool,
my farm wasn't gunna die,
no way.

So they dug their wells
and laid their pipes,
took the rights we had
and laughed to the bank,
we're their people, right?

Now I'm livin' in town on the dole,
but I'm not a bludger,
I want to work but there's nothin'
I can do...

The Frackers have taken my world
and now I know what it's like
to be nobody and nothing
in this slick world of suits,
and it hurts me to the core,
split like a gas seam,
bursting,
but my land is poisoned 
and I'm alone.

The Boy

The boy doesn't remember his mother
not like you remember yours
he sees fuzzy images
faint like 19th century photographs
blurred around the edges.

He remembers red hair and cigarettes
lipstick and makeup
sharp cheekbones and
wide clever eyes
he knew she was smart.

The boy recalls playing in mud
and a mongrel dog named Easter
a new housing estate with
timber skeletons to play with,
an orchard with a tractor which
came to life and rumbled towards him.

The boy remembers the day everything changed
walking with his father
along a new street to a different house,
but then he turned four and
couldn't remember his mother.

The Necklace

Inspiration is not worth the perspiration
of justification denied red-headed lovers
licking wax,
turned into candlesticks flickered flame flashing.

She had flowing dark hair tied back with a red ribbon
luck was her fancy
but he was not home when she was found,
laughing,
her tears a necklace glistening.

He stared with red-ribboned eyes
vacant inside
touched a tear drop and moistened his lips,
then kissed her eyelids as the night closed.

11:30 PM

To the dreaming grave
if sleep permits that velvet oblivion
where light becomes mist
and my wine-soaked lips
kiss your eyelids.

The Gentleman

She felt safe with her friends
they were university people
educated
they performed in plays together
how could anything go wrong?

But the psychopath had ideas,
what pleasure to be had from torture,
oh, nothing serious,
nothing which would leave scars.

Let's blindfold her
let's bind her
let's threaten her,
touch her,
pinch her,
slap her,
play the psychological games in which he was so skilled,
make her feel like she will die painfully,
for hours, hours...

Of course nobody said anything,
fine upstanding members of
the upper middle class,
there were careers at stake
and who would believe *her*?

So nothing happened
it vanished in a police report
conveniently lost.
But we know,
we know,
and you know now.

Saints

Is sin wrapped in marshmallow
blessed by a cardinal
light sockets plugged with dead bulbs
smoke and whispers
Anubis with robes
but less direct,
coy with guilt.

Gray Cloud

So maybe I'm a gray cloud in a humid sky,
my sweat is real like fool's gold in a fountain,
bob for it and rise with
water dribbling from your beard,
wipe away sorrow as if it's rainbow drops,
glistening with insight gleaned
from supermarket gossip,
pure shock jock clean.

Is that lettuce fresh?
If I knew I'd tell you,
not flinch from your query
like some outcast casually
asked the time of day,
so why do you ask?

The sun is relentless in
pursuing your eyes,
you can shade them but never hide,
perhaps you find the light disturbing?
like revealing your nakedness to the street
and wildly laughing,
beauty perhaps,
but more twisted limbs and feckless abandon;
good for some.

So I list to starboard taking on tears,
a gray cloud in humid sky.

Sadness of Light

In the sadness of light
we return to what we lost,
go back to that which deserted us,
hide our eyes from sunsets across
a thousand lands
only to see doors without keys,
closets without secrets.

We lash out at ephemera
that phantom at the centre of being,
but our laughter is a dry chuckle in a
sterile void
while words hang in the air,
there is no-one left to impress
no-one left to sigh,
dreams fall like dust
and we are gone forever,
only the mist remains.

(c) 2007 Tony Foley

Bookshelf in Collingwood

With Willard and his bowling trophies
I took a journey to the East,
where at the place of dead roads
I found a child of all nations.


In the autumn of the patriarch
I saw iron in the soul,
and through windows of the mind
mourned the victims of Yalta.


I awoke in the morning of the magicians
as a golden ass sailed the glass canoe,
on the road spoke Zarathustra
of magic and mystery in Tibet.


Through hunger I studied the power elite
seeking the mythical future,
used the electric cool-aid acid test
to open the doors of perception.


Red star over China lights up the Inner Chapters
beyond the turning point,
with the getting of wisdom
the affluent society's thrown into the inferno.


Through philosophical investigations
and critique of pure reason,
Demian and the glass bead game
introduced a man for all seasons

(c) 1992 Tony Foley

The Man From Ferntree Gully

(apologies to A.B. 'Banjo' Paterson)

There was horror in the restaurant
when the booking passed around,
for the man from Ferntree Gully
was coming down to town.
From concierge to waiter
from chef to kitchen hand,
despair and consternation for
without exaggeration he weighed 500 pounds.

As he eased his heaving bulk
into a puny creaking chair,
the chef tore up his diploma,
a waiter whispered a prayer,
the owner collapsed into a coma,
well heeled patrons sat and stared,
for the rumble of his stomach
could be heard down Lygon street,
he was starvin' for the nose bag,
hungry as a mare on heat.

He said "I like my steak charcoal black
with lots of spud for filler,
so send me in a slab of beer
and fire up your griller."
They served him this,
they served him that,
waiters staggered under the load,
but the man from Ferntree gully
just chomped 'n chewed 'n swallowed.

The finale came suddenly like
an intestinal flash flood,
one foundation shaking fart and
he sat contentedly chewing his cud.
A shell-shocked waiter presented the bill,
a figure just short of the natonal debt,
but the man from Ferntree Gully said
"hang on mate, I haven't had dessert yet."

Silent Spring

In the silent spring after the storm
no birds can sing, no clouds can form,
water is acrid and bitter to taste
farms are barren 'n forests laid waste.

In dying cities where hungry dogs howl
along car strewn streets feral children prowl,
seas suffocate under algal bloom
desert winds whistle a tune of doom.

My skin is blistered red
and family all walking dead,
in that silent spring after the storm.

(After Rachel Carson)

(c) 2010 Tony Foley

Piranesi's Tower

Piranesi’s tower bleeds on cobwebs of pain,
baptising shadows who walk alone.

Rusted doorknobs protrude from bestial heads
stuck fast to ancient wooden doors.
Deep in a shadowy background stone
staircases twist away in inconceivable directions.

Righteous demagogues demand payment in blood,
a contract with no terms
drafted by masters of misery,
those lords of despair
who dance with plague.

The lamp hangs from a curling wrought iron pole
at the end of a mossy pier,
gas flames casts no light on black ripples below,
something lurks in the dark.

The tower shrieks as nightmares shepherd fear
through graveyards dripping infant’s tears,
swords bonding slavery with
chains of branded flesh.

A stone arch links two fluted columns
framing dark figures between,
on the balconies others are dimly
seen leaning across balustrades.
They appear to be waiting for something…

Cyclones from asthmatic lungs slam the gates,
pestilence wins,
vultures grin,
tainted seas curse forsaken centuries,
war tramples a plucked rose while
weeds choke the virgin's throat.

Gargoyles glare across a plaza from their
perches far above,
silence hangs like a dark velvet quilt
disturbed only by
bound figures faintly
lit by cold sulfurous light.

Famine erupts from the tower's cellar,
in the mausoleum mirrors reflect disease.
Aphrodite vomits as satyrs laugh,
then drunken gods cavort on stage,
pinning butterflies to the heads of cut-throat money
lender usurers of love.

Naked and bound to crumbling pylons,
lost in grim recesses of arches and doorways,
heads down we fade into labyrinthine,
trudging, architectural depths.
A chill mist slithers across flagstone,
shadows linger under a vast gateway,
but finding no egress,
forever faceless,
turn away.

(c) Tony foley 2010

Ruthless rhyme

You gotta be aggressive boy
the old man said with a grin,
you've gotta be a bastard
it's the only way you'll win.

You gotta believe you're right boy
even when yer full of shit,
ya gotta talk fast boy
'n learn how to use your fists.

You gotta be arrogant boy
let 'em know you're the best,
don't let honesty bother you
remember conscience is a pest.

You gotta be a killer boy
don't ever get sucked in,
so I murdered that old man
and stuffed his body in a bin.

Lunge 21 Final thoughts

Where to begin? Initially I thought the program was a simple run-through of web technologies. Blogs, Podcasts, RSS feeds, and social networking with which I was already very familiar, and I was also aware of 'wikis' through Wikipedia. I found Delicious useful, and still use it, and have become enamoured with my Google account once I discovered the breadth it offered. The surprise for me was "Pipes" and "mashups" which I found useful and will continue to explore. I think pipes delivering snippets of content could well be incorporated into the library homepage. Wikis and podcasts are already being used, but I'm not sure how effective they are.

Much of my thought relates to how far one wishes to become involved with the online world of the web. Social networking can begin to absorb one's time to an unacceptable degree, and if one also pursues sites such as Diggit and 43 then the material world begins to fade into the background.

How can the library select and use the available technologies? Are YouTube videos are a good way of disseminating information, or does it simply encourage aimless browsing and a loss of focus on core principles?

As with any new technology there are both prizes and pitfalls. I suspect that the best technologies will find their way into everyday use through force of numbers using them. This has already happened with social networking, and will ultimately influence how organisations such as the library adopt web technology.

Lunge 20 - Web 3 ?

I remember reading about a pioneer of hypertext who in the early 1960s, years before Tim Berners-Lee, created an intricate system of hypertextual links which he hoped would allow the creation of a network which could ultimately encompass all human knowledge. The necessary computing power was not then available. His name escapes me, but I think a quick google search might bring it up, in which case I will be very much performing a web 3 act. Ted Nelson. He called his system 'Xanadu'. He was also the author of a book "Computer lib" which advocated people understand and learn about computing as it was becoming a powerful force for change in the world.

In a way Nelson was an early exponent of the "Semantic web", well before the web existed. He argued for a tapestry of interconnected knowledge which would empower the average person by allowing access to information previously held by the technical 'priesthood', the engineers and computer systems administrators who controlled the mainframe computers of his time.

It has been noted that the development of everyday computing and the web has far exceeded the wildest speculation of visionaries such as Nelson. Reaching deep into the home, workplace and school, the web has become integral to the life experience of a significant portion of the world's population. For some it has, worryingly, become a substitute for real world experience - those addicted to "Second Life" for example, or even the surfers in constant communication with friends they may never meet in the flesh.

Lunge 19 Listing to starboard, sah!

I created an account in 43 Things and established a 'Goal'. There were 12 other people with the same goal, terribly ambitious of them. Still need to complete the homework...

The salaciousness of lists! I wasn't very interested in 43 Things, although I'm sure it is wonderful for travelers, however my heart skipped a beat when I saw "List after List". I used to love books of lists, and used to pore over lists of the tallest mountains and largest lakes, biggest cities and smallest seas. Unfortunately this site reminds me more of "Who" magazine. Although the list of Madonna's amourous conquests appealed to my voyeuristic instincts, the site itself was, for me, ultimately unsatisfying.

Added a goal at 43 places and created a link to it in the blog under 'Links'.

Lunge 18 Chatting the day away

I must admit I've always been wary of internet chat applications. I found early IRC to be irrelevent to my needs, and several years ago had some problems with AIM, it was difficult to remove from my system and at the time posed significant security problems. I've turned off the chat facility in Facebook as I find being available at any time for casual chat quite intimidating. Irrational perhaps, but drawing a line in the adoption of new communication technology gives me a sense of control. Riding the wave rather than being swamped.

I installed the Google Talk gadget on my Google homepage, which is not terrible threatening as I have to invite people to chat, and I'm somewhat disinclined to do so :-)

I think that the enhancement of talk and video to Gmail might prove to be a real killer application, but not for me...

Lunge 17 - Professional networking groups

Found this quite interesting. As with many new online toys I had to start my own group. So far I'm the only member, but I guess I can live with that :-)

See 'Links' for URL. Contributions more than welcome - less work for me!

Lunge 16 Playing the Pipes

Started playing with some of the online image editors. I've already used one with Facebook to manipulate some images, can't remember the name of the app, and like the look of picnik. Will explore more thoroughly when time permits. Checked out Yahoo Pipes and found it interesting. Ran one random pipe:

http://pipes.yahoo.com/premasagar/socialnetwork

and added the 'Gadget' to the blog.

Can see how this might become addictive! Not sure about the content on this pipe though...

Lunge 15 - The wonderful world of images

I've done quite a bit of this in the past, so it is not really new. I have a Picassa account with my google account, but tend to keep online images in Facebook. For purposes of this exercise I have uploaded two images to picassa from my blog.

From I didn't really say that, did I?

From I didn't really say that, did I?

Lunge 14

The points I've considered whilst completing the lunges roughly fall into 3 categories. First, why are they organised the way they are. For example, social networking is possibly the first area people are exploring these days, but it is quite some way into the program. Youtube, flickr and Picassa also are too far into the program.

Completed the survey and contributed some further thoughts about the program. Surprised myself by noting Mashups was the area I was least familiar with.

More on mashups

Tried looking at Google Mashup editor but it is currently restricted to beta testers, which is a bit of a shame as it looks interesting. Skimmed the article "Mashups: The new breed of Web app" and find myself regretting I've let my reading on the latest web technologies slip. I'm still stuck at an earlier stage of web page creation, circa 1996/97 where javascript and animated gifs were still a big deal. But then I remember creating web pages in text editors pre XHMTL and CSS. The integration of different sources into web pages is an exciting development for knowledge industries.

Bibliographic Tools Presentation

Lunge 13 Maps and Mashups

Didn't have time to thoroughly explore this area, but i think I've managed to embed a map of my home suburb here:

View Larger Map

Lunge 12 - Buzz on Buzzle

Buzzle reminds me of an old style news magazine, sort of like the late "Bulletin" or "Time". However given the vast amount of information and stories within the site, categories ranging from 'Animals & Pets' to 'Travel & Tourism', it is more encyclopaedic in its scope. How authoritative it might be is debatable, as is the case with many web-based resources. One good aspect is the speed of loading, and the absence of intrusive advertisements.

Lunge 11 - Youtube video

This is a cute little video I discovered some time back - a version of Xavier Rudd's "Let me be".

More on Technorati

Checking my blog on Technorati I found it only brought up my entries from July. None of the October entries appeared. Does it work perhaps as a worm, trawling the blogsphere and not returning to my little corner of the universe?

Lunge 10 -Technorati

Claimed my blog on Technorati. Hope not too many people come and laugh at me :-)

http://www.technorati.com/

Tried to play with it a little bit, but the technorati technical monster bit me.

Went back and checked, and was still logged in. Looks interesting. I've noticed in Blogger that it can be difficult to find certain blogs I know exist, so this will proved useful.

Lunge 9 revisited

Started using del.icio.us some months back, but had a problem with my firefox browser update and the del.icio.us plugin. We can't install the plugin at work, so it is of little use here, and without the bookmark/tagging plugin it is fairly awkward to use.

See url:
http://delicious.com/poetfoley

Nevertheless I added my work bookmarks and then proceeded to edit them. The process is pretty cumbersome due to the large number of old bookmarks. I can understand the use of a site such as this for people who use mobile computing, and frequent internet cafes, for travelers etc.

Lunge 7 revisited

Read the "Multitasking generation" (see url)
http://www.time.com/time/magazine/article/0,9171,1174696,00.html

The analogy drawn with earlier generations who couldn't live without the latest technological gadget, e.g. cd players is valid, and the picture drawn through the anthropological study of a number of US families over 4 years is vivid in the depiction of contemporary teenage behaviour. The fears of earlier era (e.g Plato worrying about books destroying oral tradition) is briefly examined, as are the concerns of neurolscientists who consider the increasing tendency of youngsters to slice their experiences into ever smaller technological pieces, multitasking, could result in less capacity for deeper, considered intellectual experiences.

Picassa & YouTube

As a lover of images great and small I'm surprised I hadn't checked out Picassa until recently. I've uploaded albums to sites such as facebook, but never indulged myself with a site dedicated to the image in all its glory. Uploaded one image from my blog just for the heck of it, but haven't really played with the site. I don't have a spare month or two. Similar to my experience with YouTube. I checked out videos of Xavier Rudd and found several h ours had disappeared.

Stumbleupon

Checked out an unusual site which brings up random websites according to your pre-specified interests. Stumbleupon. Just the thing to waste countless hours pursuing curiousities and chimerae...

Google and yet more google...

Uploaded a powerpoint presentation to Google documents, and actually presented it from the web. It was a bit of a buzz considering the same presentation could involve people not physically present - as one participant described it, a bit like a teleconference with slides. Initially I thought I might have some size limitations given the presentation had 26 slides, but the file ended up only 1.2 mbytes in size, well within the 10 mbyte limit.

Not really using google reader - I've found no great use for it as I tend to go directly to any sites in which i'm interested.

Diggit and Facebook integration

Just signed up for diggit, but had some problems when trying to 'dig' some stories. Looks interesting if one considers popularity to be a criterion for newsworthiness. There is, as one would expect, a predisposition toward 'geek' stories. Fine by me; geekiness is next to, well, nerdiness, so I feel right at home...

Played around with integrating my blog, google reader, and del.icio.us bookmarks with Facebook. At this rate FB will turn out to be the millennial e-communications hub, with everything else orbitting around it.

Link to article

Forgot to include a link for the AFR article "The D Generation"

Lunge 7 - The D generation

Digital natives. What a wonderful term! In Beverley Head's article in The Australian Financial Review she cites a number of different people dealing with the extremely computer savvy, highly networked generation born since the internet exploded in size, complexity and reach. Tailoring library services to 18 - 20 year olds is only one problem discussed, and how to harness their unique skills and outlook in the workforce is examined in some depth. There is also a timely reminder that not all young people are computer literate.

21 lunges continued...

Finally returned to work after a long illness and several bouts of surgery. What was initially a personal blog has turned into a professional one, but the beauty of blogging is that one can delete entries when no longer required.

Having played with all the various delights on the 21 lunges up to number 6 - Social Networking, I thought it would be a good time to look at a few of the earlier lunges.

Podcasts are all well and good, but in a time-poor world who can listen to everything of interest? The intriguing aspect for me with podcasts is which player pops up - Quicktime or Windows Media Player. At home it tends to be Media Player as I've standardised with this on my PC.

RSS feeds are familiar from home use, however I set up Google Reader at work and added Yasmin Dineen's blog, and an ABC and The Age news feed. There are too few hours in the day to pursue all the possibilities, and life exists beyond the keyboard.

A useful item is http://del.icio.us for online bookmarks. Unfortunately because of the restrictions on installing software on our work PCs this can't be fully utilised, however it is a powerful bookmarking tool with features I've only begun to explore. The Facebook integration is interesting, and provides a glimpse of future online communication and information sharing.

Which leads me to Social Networking. Ah Facebook! Is it the end of civilisation as we know it, or the greatest development in communications technology in human history? Probably the answer lies in between. About 3 years ago I decided to check out MySpace, but found it to be of little interest to me. In 2007 I thought I'd have a look at Facebook and found something completely different. The ability to form interest groups and update activities is FB's great advantage as a communication tool. The news feed allows one to keep up to date with various activities, and the instant messaging of The Wall is a quick and simple alternative to email. Just don't become addicted to the time-wasting pursuits, silly quizzes, and Scrabulous and you'll be fine! Well, maybe Scrabulous, as long as you let me win! I created a group for Document Services which now has the huge total of 4 members (thanks guys, you know who you are).

I've kept the MySpace account as the blog is superior to Facebook's offerings, but I've not bothered to make "Friends" and have only responded to a couple of "friend" requests. The contrast with FB is striking, as a great number of people I know from the Melbourne (and international) poetry world are active users. Younger poets and musicians in particular use it matter-of-factly for routine socialising.

A type of offshoot of Facebook is Twitter, which develops and expands on FB's Status Updates. Ideal for the Generation Y racing around town being very social. I started an account, but find I have no need for it.

Still struggling to find a good wiki site for creating a DS wiki. I've found the creation of pages cumbersome, and a 'regular' website in most cases a better option. Nevertheless, the collaborative aspect of wiki makes the pursuit worthwhile and I'll persist.

To be continued...

Work related blogging - Again!

Well, here we go with the wonderful world of Wiki. Started this with the Library 21 lunges wiki, hopefully as a presentation relating to bibliographic tools used in Document Services. I'm trying to transfer a powerpoint presentation I've done into the wiki. Powerpoint is easily the most tedious way to present a talk the universe of Microsoft has ever thrown up, and the dot point method has been shown to be extremely ineffective in conveying information. I have until the end of june to complete the presentation, so what is in the wiki is only the first hesistant step...
http://21lunges.pbwiki.com/Bibliographic+Tools+Demonstration

More work related blogging...

Well, I've done podcasts and RSS feeds, twiddled with Twitter and got a wiki going through the Lunges wiki. Now it's off into uncharted territory...

Chelsea Sunset

Lunges

We all lunge here
we all parry there
these lunges follow us everywhere
is it a course?
or is it play?
these damned elusive web 2 ways.

P.S. Apologies to the Scarlett Pimpernell.
P.P.S. This is strictly work related and has no relevence whatsoever to anything every posted on this blog or ever thought of in my most fevered nightmares of poetry.
P.P.P.S. Hello! to my work colleagues playing with their 'lunges'

Timor Wayang

(After Rendra)

Dalatar, Dalatar, whose strings do you pull?
Dalatar, Dalatar, whose lands do you steal?
Dalatar, Dalatar, whose shadows do you cast?
Dalatar, Dalatar, whose face is behind your mask?

The old man sways with the train
barrelling through the South Australian night,
I can't sit for long" he says,
“an old war wound, shot down over Timor in 1942."

He tells me his story as the night lights flick on,
taking me back to a Japanese zero attacking
from the sun,
guns chattering, his bomber hit,
crashing into the jungle,
fire, explosions, crawling from the wreckage,
fire, pain, blood, agony,
blackness.

A young boy stands over him,
pours water between his parched lips.
The boy speaks in faltering English,
says he will get help.

Blackness.

Voices, voices speaking a language he doesn't understand
occasionally an English word,
he hears "Australian".
looks around,
the crashed bomber is still burning in the distance,
the boy is nearby talking with several men,
hears "Japanese" and "Australian"
but doesn't understand the context.
The men look worried,
hurriedly they build a stretcher out of vines and leaves.
The boy smiles and says, "we take you to Aussies, they fix."

Dalatar, Dalatar, whose plays do you perform?
Dalatar, Dalatar, whose children do you kill?
Dalatar, Dalatar, whose wars do you fight?
Dalatar, Dalatar, is might always right?

They carry him through the jungle moving silently and swift.
The boy says his name is Xanana,
that he is the only one in the village who speaks English,
that he is nine years old,
that Australians are friends,
that the Japanese army is near,
that they are taking him to some Australian commandos,
that he is going to be alright,
“we look after you”.

They stop for a rest,
one of the men changes his bandages,
he is given water and fruit,
the jungle is alive with birds and insects,
the stars are bright.
They continue into the mountains
along nearly invisible tracks
then stop beneath a rocky outcrop.

Xanana disappears into the night then returns with
a tall figure dressed in combat fatigues.
“Sergeant Murphy" he says, offering a hand,
“we'll get you out of here, mate."
The soldiers carry him to a cove where an Australian ship is moored.
Young Xanana smiles and wishes him well.

The ship sails immediately for enemy patrols are near.

He is hospitalised in Darwin for several months,
the war for him is over.

A few days before he is to be discharged a commando from Timor
is admitted to his ward.
He is anxious for news of his friends.
Yes, says the soldier, he knows Murphy,
but of Xanana he is reluctant to speak.

The Japanese discovered the villagers had been helping Australians.
Xanana had been shot,
his body thrown into a mass grave,
his village destroyed.

The Overlander rumbles through the early morning,
the other passengers are all listening intently,
I hear sobs, a hard fisted miner passes me a stubby.

The old man stands swaying in the dim light.
I think of friends dying,
of honour and obligation,
of the strong devouring the weak,
of courage and loyalty.
I feel Xanana’s ghost sitting next to me,
and feel guilty,
think of all that was done,
and all that should have been done.

Dalatar, Dalatar, whose trust have you broken?
Dalatar, Dalatar, whose wealth have you stolen?
Dalatar, Dalatar, whose lives have you martyred?
Dalatar, Dalatar, is your face my own?

Free love

At first it seemed every day was my lover,
every morning a new seduction,
nights filled with satin arms and
sleek velvet legs,
curtains billowing with
a breeze soft and hung with fragrance.

A world filled with breasts
soft like peaches,
every size,
every shape,
for the dimensions of love knew
no bounds.

But names of phantom lovers are soon forgotten
and faces recede into the mist,
not even photographs record the passing of
another love,
another laugh,
voices faint and hollow,
thin like a golden thread leading no-where,
where emptiness grows like cancer,
another ideal perverted,
twisted like a termite infested trunk,
transmuted into an ephemeral thrill
of cheap sex,
the barren landscape
which love forgot.

Bright pleasure

An innocent mind recalls
bright pleasure,
like a child exploring forgotten boxes of
bric-a-brac
in a dusty garden shed
on a steel-grey
wintry day.

Buying a book

Buying a book is an act of beauty,
it makes your spirit soar,
the touch of another’s mind
is like feeling the beat of
another’s heart.

Westword Mother's Day Gig

On May 13th (Mother's Day) I'll be performing at "Westword" at Dancing Dog Cafe in Albert St Footscray, along with music and poetry by Whitefeather Light. Should be interesting as I've never read with backing before - so I guess we'll have to do a few rehearsals. The session is from 5 - 7 PM with an open section. Great old building with wonderful acoustics and a friendly clientelle.

Hall of Mirrors

My ego hangs in a hall of mirrors
sometimes expanded
an overblown portrait
a blossoming obscenity
falling, shifting
becoming an occasional anorexic
a pathetic skeleton fading to a winter twig.

Little changes through summer persistence
light reflects from burnished surfaces
from every angle a different perspective
effervescent with possibility but words are
slow to rise...

A thousand selves are startled by the
crash of broken glass
is it the mirror or the reflection?
champagne flutes filled with ground glass
I sweep shards into a corner
lick blood from a toe
listen to the drumbeat of a distant fancy
as if hearing the revolution in Spring was lost
the dams burst and the land drowned in mirrored
fragments...

How long will this trial continue,
is the torment interminable?
how can redemption be true when the day is
confused with the pigment of expectation?
the cavalcade of illusion
a shadow pretending stability not truly felt
holds out a hand,
grasps a coil of mist
then departs as if normal
the kind of happening expected in today’s Australia
inflicted with glaucoma of spirit.

Dare to curse through the crack of a whip
while below the street pulses with its game
but the next move is mine as
I take lightly the mantle and throw it gently
into the air
nothing but the north wind and burning sun can
sweep the world
lick sand from my face
tongue in cheek rattling shackles until my
jaw aches
throbbing tooth chipped away by
sculptors to reveal a raw nerve
pulsating to the rhythm of the pause between breaths
speaking softly in a tongue not mine
another voice whispering
"this is the summer of your life" as
the sunflower opens its face to the sky
my face wrenched from the mirror to see
reflected a visage of corrugated iron
a veteran of disdain somewhere far from mercy
parted from innocence
compressed into a coiled spring
mouth agape
impatient to explode.

Perfume of Love

If there was a perfume of love it would be jasmine,
branches of delicate snowflake flowers,
wafting fragrance more haunting than pheremones;
but if bottled,
withers and dies like plucked petals,
becomes a skeleton of love,
a leer fit for a disco.

And if there was a vision of love
it would be sunset on the beach,
holding hands in a timeless moment,
as the world waits breathless for the stars
to arrive,
but if ignored fades
like an ancient painting exposed to air,
colours dying and faces dropping
until only a hint of beauty survives.

And if there was music of love
it would be your laughter,
ringing through parks and ruffling leaves,
the culmination of every symphony,
melting my heart,
for of course
music can never die.

The Sadness of Light

In the sadness of light
we return to what we lost,
go back to that which deserted us,
hide our eyes from sunsets across
a thousand lands,
only to see doors without keys,
closets without secrets.

We lash out at ephemera,
that phantom at the centre of being,
but our laughter is a dry chuckle in a sterile void
while words hang in the air,
for there is no-one left to impress,
no-one left to sigh,
our dreams fall like dust
and we are gone forever,
only the mist remains

The Imperial Pilgrimage of Yuan Shi Kai

If you stare long enough at another's face
it shifts,
changes,
flows like melting wax,
becomes another face,
another person,
you feel an itch at the base of your skull,
there is something wrong.

You are not yourself!

You feel inconstant desire,
a tidal surge ruled by the moon
like your face is ruled by eyes,
eyes gazing across a plaza littered with bleeding statues
see completion in rubble,
totality in entropy.

Can you ever understand another's emotions?
ever know the deepest content of another's thought?
You grasp at symbols as a drunkard grasps the bottle,
hunt for archetypes in bewildering fecundity
under the canopy of world jungle.

You awake as Yuan Shi Kai on a cherry blossom morning,
but the Imperial pilgrimage has ended
and you will never occupy the Dragon Throne,
you are the skeleton of a warlord,
with vacant eye sockets which never see the lotus;
an insect skimming across a stagnant pond,
separated by surface tension from the muddy depths,
above divided from below,
the face in the mirror is not yours.

You pluck pieces from a mosaic created by unknown hands,
your fingers bleed,
cut by splinters of worthless glass,
a window closed to that distant world,
once so near,
now lost to your mind,
you are not me,
I am not myself,
not yet,
not in this fragment of feeling.

Perhaps you are Akhenaton replying to the mayor of Byblos,
Eternity waits for you to die the true death,
misunderstood,
forgotten even by the pale rays of dawn.
But no!
you are not Akhenaton,
he has long become one with the dust of millenia,
you are not Akhenaton.
You are not yourself!

The vine hangs heavy with sorrow,
your instinct is to hack and slash,
money is your machete,
your structure is a complex problem in organic chemistry,
your creed an open-cut mine,
a containment pond overflowing with the last flood of misery,
your tears are sulphuric acid,
your saliva strontium 90,
your heart is public property,
there is leprosy in your soul.

Your life is a flowchart with branches always leading to the negative,
avenues of negatives lined with crucified dreams,
the no, no, no, of yourself,
endless denial of yourself,
infinite reflection of infinite regress,
bottomless pit of Being.

Is it ignorance or complicity which attracts punishment?
If despair has many faces can innocence sleep in peace?
You, me, and a song on the breeze,
a name called from dreams,
is this a foretaste of pain or the lick of astringent pleasure?

If the promise of the future is a poisoned apple,
can you identify with a grape?

You must stay in a difficult equilibrium,
buoyed by the minor victory of life
and the absence of personal death,
then slink back to that unearned solitude,
relieved of responsibility,
free to be nothing but the scent of a rose,
the hum of a bee.

You are the winds of change,
the mind of God,
a journey without purpose,
the destination without substance.

If you stare long enough at another's face
it shifts,
changes,
flows like melting wax,
becomes another face,
another person.

You are not yourself!

(c) Tony Foley 2006

Raw Lungs

...to the tune of the theme from “Raw Hide”

Smokin’ smokin’ smokin’,
keep those lips a tokin’
even though yer chokin’
Raw Lungs

Stuff wowser disapproval
you know yer in big trouble
dyin’ a little more each time

Yeah

Light ‘em up butt ‘em out
Light ‘em up butt ‘em out
Light ‘em up butt ‘em out
Raw Lungs

If’n you get cancer
you know they got no answer
yer smokin’ that poison all the time

Yeah

Light ‘em up butt ‘em out
Light ‘em up butt ‘em out
Light ‘em up butt ‘em out
Raw Lungs

‘Cos heart disease’ll get yer
if emphysema will let yer
light up a fag just one more time

Yeah

Light ‘em up butt ‘em out
Light ‘em up butt ‘em out
Light ‘em up butt ‘em out
Raw Lungs

Despite all the warnin’
yer coughin’ up each mornin’
blood from yer shrivelled lungs inside

Yeah

Light ‘em up butt ‘em out
Light ‘em up butt ‘em out
Light ‘em up butt ‘em out
Raw Lungs

Stuff wowser disapproval
you know yer in big trouble
dyin’... a ... little ... more ... each ... time

RAW LUNGS!

From The Bottom Of An Empty Pot

You won't find God Almighty in the
bottom of an empty pot,
God is too classy for beer.

God dines in fashionable restaurants
and orders escargot for entrée,
God's Grange Hermitage must breathe
for exactly one hour,
and the atmosphere must be
Latin ambient,
non-smoking of course.

God wears a well-cut Italian suit and issues
orders to archangels over his mobile phone.

God's organiser is crammed with
important information,
such as the exact time and date
of the last judgement,
the location of innumerable fallen sparrows,
the price of ox-bladders on the
Chicago futures market,
and the name of the winner of the
fourth race at Flemington next Saturday.

God had one son at Scotch College
who used to be head prefect
before he discovered Nirvana and hash,
bloody no-hoper now wears black
and lives in a Fitzroy slum,
Oh well, says God,
I send these things to try myself!

God lives in a double-storey mock
Georgian home in Brighton.

His partner, Goddess,
works out three times a week
at the Pilates centre in Church St,
wears silk leotards and Italian stilettos which
somehow never get caught in tram tracks
or storm-water grates.

At night, before putting the mahabindu to rest,
they discuss exhibitions and ballet,
listen to Bach and Handel on the stereo,
watch the Home Show for tips on
doing up the holiday house at Portsea,
then retire to the softest bed in the universe
where they make perfect, tireless, tantric love.

God is superbly endowed and Goddess enjoys
infinite orgasms.

Cocteau

Jean Cocteau,
your life was a canvass,
a tapestry of hanging threads,
a poem whose spirit infected
the blood of poets,
an artist of mirrors
wandering the outer wastes of hell,
sifting through urban debris in
pursuit of modern myth.

Cocteau, were you Cegeste?
Or Cagliostro?

In your surreal villa
conjuring a testament,
a celluloid limbo
where Orpheus wept,
then became Jean Cocteau.

Political Stakes

They’re off in the political stakes, a race run over three years.

Howard’s Ego takes the early lead, but Costello’s Ambition has fallen back and it looks like he’s no longer in the race. Coming up fast on the outside is Global Warming, with Iraq War running wildly across the track and troubling the leaders.

Oh! A sensation! Bribery and Corruption has charged through the field and caught Iraq War, they’re running neck and neck followed by Concentration Camps, with Human Rights and Social Justice sadly well back in the field.

Oh no! Democracy is down, Rule of Law has fallen, Oh the horror! Beazley’s Hope has been put down right there on the track, Backbench Revolt is gaining ground while Religious Right is running a strong race on the inside.

Coming round the hard right bend and Howard’s Ego is challenged for the lead by Clever Kevin and Workers’ Rights, with The Mad Monk nowhere to be seen.

Into the straight and Education has gone, Environment is stuffed, Manufacturing has collapsed, and Foreign Debt is running wild…

but don’t worry punters, there’s a new race coming later this year.

Napoleon's Hat

The emperor sits upon his rearing horse
the stage is draped with blood red curtains
his face is wooden
a puppet's face
his horse a statue
a theatrical prop
lacking even the grotesquerie of Guernica
lifeless as a ten franc piece.

This world is closed to us
a scene from high theatre
frozen, stylised movement
action without consequence
passionless
remote as a suburban street.

Napoleon's hat drifts above the scene
removed from the stage
a discarded relic
for he is just another lonesome cowboy
and his blood is cold,
cold as greasepaint when the curtain falls
the lights die
and the performance is over.

Little Things

I notice things
little things
insignificant and irrelevent
a wisp of mist
a mote of dust
your wry smile
a white mare and brown stallion
standing side by side
heads lovingly nuzzling.

The little things
of no cosmic importance
no earth shaking worth
when perception is unclouded
self-absorption held at bay
a woman's knees
a grey factory door ajar
an old man's wrinkled neck
the dimple in a child's cheek.

I always notice you
camped in my heart
stoking my fires
then think…

perhaps some things are not
so little after all.

Man of good fortune

Couldn't do better
couldn't do worse
turned his brother into a
pig's ear purse,
ran down the street
climbed a tree
made a mint out of selling debris,
cure all
free fall
come in spinner,
turned his head and
was done like a dinner,
lock the door
lay down the cards
picked his nose with a
cuban cigar,
just can't hack it
just can't win
put out the cat in a
garbage bin,
didn't see the shark
only saw the fin
locked up his mother and
lived in sin,
hailed a taxi
climbed in a hearse
lived his life with a prayer
and a curse,
finally,
thankfully,
the dice rolled his way,
met the woman of his dreams
on this lucky day.

The Major's wife

Once she must have throbbed
the widow over the road,
imprisoned behind tall fence isolation
she shuffles to her gate,
looks across at me
sitting on my porch,
captures me like a mouse in a snake's frozen stare,
disapproving of the way the world turns,
disliking autumn’s falling leaves.

But I can’t avoid careless thoughts
speculating on the wild years of her youth,
readying herself for the major's military probe,
occupying a holding position,
parrying his forward thrust
then exploding in blazing shards.

Did she look at him through sultry eyes
daring him into a flanking manoeuvre?
Did she yearn to be swept into his arms,
fearing the war which brought them together
could gratuitously rip them apart forever?

I see her swirl through the dance floor minefield,
listen to Vera Lyne and the Andrews Sisters
spin her through a dark-edged romantic cloud,
watch her sit intimately,
devotedly,
fondling a long-stemmed wine glass meaningfully,
waiting for his shell to burst.

Now she scowls at me from her front gate,
turning her back on young lovers walking hand in hand
down her lonely, bitter-sweet street.

Lost faces

What ever happened to those faces?
the faces of old friends
who drift through memory,
gently probing
stirring names as modern times rush
along the road to Damascus,
escorted by tanks and
grim-faced infantry.

A hippopotamus ejaculates for
the zoologist's syringe,
but another species just became extinct,
did you hear it's cry?
there will be no tombstone,
just a mouldy monograph in
some forgotten archive;
Do you long for the womb
when life was so much simpler?

Where is Peter the paranoid poet?
does he ever step across
his threshold,
the outside world is ugly
far better to be distant in
foetal position head space
Beirut safely on TV
smoke from a joint gently curling,
Velvet Underground on the stereo.

Lost faces of legendary days
a canticle to innocence,
melody an advertising jingle,
while the thousand-eyed beast watches sitcoms,
mapping the human genome,
all the better to twist you with
hyperthalmic reaction
blunted cortex
moral disorder.

Forget lost faces and
watch the particle accelerator
tick tock tick tock the nuclear clock
as a madman screams,
it's not real, it's not true!
just the seven o’clock Baghdad
market-place news
Himalayas of hate.

Glenn became a PE teacher
Theo a smack freak
some are dead
some may as well be.

Does the smelting plant still spew acrid
black clouds across the schoolyard,
or is it closed like the school
as industry and hope die in Brunswick?
Does John still go to brothels?
will Anna ever find love?

I dress in black to lament the
death of past lives,
for the faces are lost,
and there will be no late night B grade re-runs
as another Cambodian steps on a mine.

Poetry Wars - The Open Section Strikes Back

The track beside the road leading to Mount Salvation
is festooned with wildflowers,
white, pink and purple,
they are invisible to the
Gods in their chariots.

In the Chapel at Mount Salvation
the Gods gathered to defend orthodoxy,
and to ensure the potency of their prayers.

An aura of authority hung over proceedings,
for the Gods were secure in their power and wisdom.

And lo! The Gods looked upon the lesser angels
and saw that the quality of their prayer inadequate,
they decreed that workshop was the mantra
which should be uttered,
for prayer came not from inner being
but from the training and patronage of the Gods.

The Gods were jealous of their power.
They saw that the great mass of angels
ignored their exquisitely crafted prayers,
that their prayers were considered irrelevent and boring,
that their hallowed words would be drowned
in a sea of unauthorised prayer,
and yea verily,
they may even be divorced from the life-giving manna
of the Australia Council Tree,
and with this the Gods were sorely troubled,
for how could they be divine
if all were divine?

So the Gods gathered their attributes,
raised their aspects,
and thundered from the heights of Salvation Mount;

"Whosoever challengeth the wisdom and infinitely greater
artistic merit of the Godss hall be cast
from the hallowed precincts of Penguin,
and languish forever in the purgatory of self-publishing."

And the lesser angels trembled before the wrath of the Gods
and paid homage to their might,
for they remembered the fate of the Circle Ratio Angel,
and the loss of the Great Earl Angel;
even the Southern Angel was silent,
she who had once defied the Gods,
for she had one day caught fire and now feared Divine retribution.

But from the congregation of lesser angels
some brave voices challenged the Gods.

Mark Poemwriter said,
"if it were not for the Open Section Heresy
I would not be here today to witness the glory of the Gods."

And the Feather Angel spoke,
"if it were not for the Open Section Heresy
multitudes of angels would never see heaven,
would never be introduced to the power and majesty of prayer."

And amongst the lesser angels there were murmurings of agreement,
for the pride of the Gods could be insufferable,
and some thought the prayers of the angels cast from heaven
greater than the prayer of those who stayed to sneer.

The abyss of insignificance began to appear preferable
to the hypocrisy of heaven,
a democracy of demons more attractive
than a tyranny of Gods.

Things began to go poorly for the Gods
until the balding, bespectacled,
Verse Vader God proclaimed;
"the construction of True Prayer is akin
to the training of a concert cellist,
involving a solid theoretical foundation and eons of practice."

And so the battle lines were drawn between
popular prayer and elite prayer,
for Verse Vader was claiming popular prayer
was not prayer at all.

But on earth mere mortals continued to
ignore the prayers of the Gods,
preferring the prayers of minstrels
who spoke directly to their hearts;
and from the heights of Mount Salvation,
in their arrogance and pride,
the Gods could not understand why.

Then infused with the spirit of the fallen angel
William McGonagall
a lesser angel prayed;

"Sometimes in a fit of fancy
I wonder what the immortal bard would think,
if through an act of necromancy
he enrolled at University.

Would he learn that poetry is a refined art,
fit only for intellectuals and scholars?
That the hoi polloi have no part,
and detract from aesthetic values?

Would he be puzzled by post-modern critique?
Would his lecturer be displeased?
And where would the world of literature be
if Shakespeare scored an "E"?

But the lesser angel prayed alone,
for the Gods had all gone home.

Mayakovsky's Niece

How the words rush like a delerious torrent
cutting with the icy crisp of a Moscow winter,
but it's Spring in Melbourne
and my head spins from
a fermented monologue,
demented lines of years gone
dredged from the Slavonic Review,
hurled to the end of the earth with
the cynical
caustic voice of an old man
with black cats.

I leap from the wheelchair and shout
"Stop!
You shake babies' rattles to entertain sages!
Why?
I'm old
a thousand years old
but I see that in you an anguished cry
has been crucified on a cross of laughter."

I stumble through post-revolutionary streets
cigarette hanging from my lips,
drunk on words
intoxicated with the times,
but no!
I am not Mayakovsky
just an actor in "A Tragedy"
for it is seventy years since the revolution
and though glasnost and perestroika are sweeping the streets
the Futurist vision still lives,
still screams,
still slaps public taste in the face.

In a satori
epitomising the nexus of life and art
an exhibition of Mayakovsky's posters has
come to the gallery,
we are premiering that night
so with the 'Women with Tears’
I hurry to St Kilda Road,
pursuing inspiration
hoping to look deeper into the heart of the poet.

I stare into the photo of a young
unbelievably intense man,
his eyes stares back
lips curled in a sardonic smile,
I swear his expression changed
just for an instant
but no,
it's still Melbourne in Spring,
I'm still in love
outside the traffic growls
flowers are in bloom.

I notice an elderly grey haired woman
sitting on a stool
sketching a poster,
intrigued we approach her
for Mayakovsky is obscure in Australia
and there are no others browsing the exhibition,
waving her hand she dismisses us,
absorbed in her work.

I'm surrounded by images of revolution
then look more deeply to see idealism perverted,
exhortations to improve public health
transformed into Stalinist diatribes
against wreckers,
against traitors,
graphic appeals to improve education
twisted into paranoid polemnics against capitalists and spies.

The old woman approaches us and apologises,
in fine English she explains
she is with the exhibition,
that she is a Russian poet and artist,
then to our surprise
that she is Mayakovsky's niece,
that she remembers him from her childhood,
an enormous bear of a man with
a huge booming voice,
how he used to sit her on his knee,
she remembers the sadness in his eyes.

The circle closes,
I tell her we are staging her uncle's play
and she is delighted,
she wishes us well and
we are blessed,
but I am haunted by the tragedy of Russia
echoing the tragedy of Mayakovsky,
feel the despair of the poet
hounded by the dark forces he hoped
revolution would dispel,
I see the poet crushed within his prophecy
but hear his words resounding through my mind;

"Don't let hate pierce your hearts!
For you, my children, the lesson is hard and relentless.
People, you are all bells on the dunce cap of God."

Vladimir Mayakovsky shot himself on April 14th, 1930.

The Funeral

We don't laugh at funerals
supposedly to show respect for the dead

Tears are acceptable
even from men,
but standing by the coffin,
remembering the body inside alive,
seeing through polished wooden panels
a shrunken, twisted, empty bag,
listening to the sepulchral organ,
the scent of flowers
that perfume of the dead,
feeling laughter bubbling within,
how do you feel?
what do you do?

Would my grandmother understand?
say "don't fret dear, it's better this way"
understanding the cosmic absurdity,
the misty unreality of standing
in an unfamiliar suit
waiting for the droning minister to finish.

Remember that interminable wait
as a life is reduced to platitudes?
other mourners appearing as caricatures,
then looking at the expression on your
brother's face -
how can convention be observed?
how can laughter be properly suppressed?

When you lift the coffin and carry it
in procession to the hearse
do you fear you may drop it?
that you will curl into a ball
laughing through tears as the corpse spills
on to the cold slate floor?
that people will faint and scream?
that perhaps you will spoil the funeral?

So you don't laugh
tears spilling from your eyes instead,
and as you stand outside the chapel
accepting the commiseration of friends

do you think laughter might have been
more meaningful than tears?

The Slave

The slave hammers the king with a knowing glance,
in the tower a child dreams of freedom.
The jester shuffles with impatience,
the feast is poisoned with despair.

The knife is rusty but effective,
it carves a slice from the queens heart,
the knave chuckles,
the bishop frowns,
the ostler dreams of a pure white mare.

The hag climbs a spiral staircase,
the wind hides in darkened hills,
servants clean an unused room,
candles flicker in a cobwebbed crypt,
the scholar shudders with a premonition of doom.

The king yawns,
the minstrel plays out of key,
mice scurry through rotted walls,
the moon casts a dismal light.

How the chuckle of a stream is lost
in the flicker of a dream,
for words are wraiths,
wisps which bind root to soil,
the past to now.

The slave is naked but for chains,
she remembers earlier, better days,
when butterflies rode on a free breeze,
and clouds belonged to all.

Gentle Fingers

In the touch of gentle fingers
I embrace soft wisps of cloud,

in the fragrance of a flower
cool scent of untouched moon,

in bird song outside window morning
a paradise of mystical past,

in the laughter of old friends
dancing leaves in the park,

in the glory of freshly blooming flowers
skipping ropes and slender pig-tails,

in satin arms of the sun
moist pinkness of probing tongue,

in the garden of earthly pleasure
we walk between the stars at night together,

then.....
in the pulchritude of your smile,

universe within universe
of unplumbed love.

Suburban Flower

Suburban flower,
I see in your yellow teardrop petals a
universe subtle as the glint in a magpies eye,
a flower symphony,
epitome of beauty with a
hint of mortality,
the final encore beneath a rising tide
of marching antennae astride
housing estates of the future,
razor wire and concrete walls,
the anomie of backyard bonhomie,
with courage lost among dead trees,
barbecue of dreams,
lifeless minds and TV screens.

I see nothing special in orderly rows,
brick by brick building a wall of solitude,
mortared with guilt,
watered with tears,
demolished forests replaced with fears,
left longing for destiny,
the mystery of inner light,
patching holes in happy memories,
singing to escape mundanity,
to no place special
where sirens crush life from the footpaths,
windows are sightless eyes in
the urban cemetary of gutters and
rusted tram-tracks.

Where it's always five to midnight in the cell where
my body hangs,
where each elegy is a suicide on the track,
where the street is drunk and each house an untapped keg,
where dreams are lost and nightmares found,
Somehow to awake and
gaze at a flower,
see a place far from here,
another world,
where reeds sway to a chorus of frogs,
birds sing to the healing rain,
far from power lines,
far from smog,
where a blizzard of petals obscures the street,
and a yellow flower stands alone.

I walk home from the station,
glance over my shoulder at a stranger following,
she smiles and hands me a flower.

Better get a day job...

When the doorbell rings
his impulse is to answer the bell,
Pavlovian really,
but when the kitchen table is covered
with aluminium foil, Chinese scales,
mix bowl, bong, and
three ounces of Lebanese hash,
a question hangs in the air,
customer or cop?

The hash has come from the largest bust
in Australian history,
the mid ‘80s,
a container discovered on the docks,
watched by the Drug Squad for weeks and
finally busted when no-one showed.

He'd seen the story on the TV news,
heard them claim the shipment had been burned,
images of a few keys going up in smoke,
hard talking detectives watching grimly,
what a waste!

Two days later his supplier calls,
yeah, well, um…
some had been destroyed for appearances
but most was now in circulation.

He assumed there were a number of upright,
clean cut law enforcers paying off the mortgage,
putting deposits down on new BMWs,
maybe even some of those hard talking
grim faced detectives.

His supplier just laughed and said he
don’t know the half of it.

Oh well,
none of his business,
he had his own small business,
better than driving a cab,
working in a factory,
or worse, the public service,
paying his way through uni,
providing a superior quality product
to a select clientele,cool people,
artistic, talented and mature,
20 bucks a gram,
100 a quarter,
(he’s not a profiteer)
bartering at the uni. market,
gram of hash for half a gram of speed or
a couple of trips,
all very warm and friendly,
feeling pretty cool,
staying permanently stoned.

His supplier is a doctor,
very well connected,
witty, discrete and urbane,
with an interesting range of distributors,
at his supplier’s legendary parties
he chats with lawyers and prostitutes,
accountants and bikers,
all of them dealing far more than himself,
he doesn’t know if there were any cops,
it seemed imprudent to ask.

The doorbell rings again,
he looks at his housemates,
they look at him,
they are very, very stoned.

The kitchen is to the rear of the house,
set well back down a long corridor,
the house is between a hamburger joint and
real estate agent in busy North Fitzroy,
when customers call it seems as if
they are going in for some late night greasies,
mohawks at the diner.

Most transactions are at night
so a customer at two o'clock in
the afternoon is unusual,
suspicious even,
particularly without a warning phone call.

He opens the door.

The biggest, ugliest, meanest looking cop he’s ever
seen is standing on the doorstep,
fingering his holstered gun,
he can tell the cop doesn’t like him.

He breathes hash fumes into the cops face,
his prospects don’t look bright,
"are you Seth?" the cop growls,
he stares at the gun,
his mind goes blank.

Seth?
Who the hell is Seth?

“No" he replies, oozing innocence,
praying to whatever universal forces protect
dope raddled druggies that his innate
acting ability will see him through.

“Does Seth live here?"
“no, officer, I've never heard of him"
“do you own this dump?"
"no sir, it's rented",
"who's your agent?" the cop asks suspiciously,
"the agent next door" he replies.

This cop really enjoys fingering his gun,
masturbation surrogate he supposes,
a cold, hard orgasm.
He’d never examined a gun at
such close quarters,
it’s very shiny,
it looks very potent,
and wonders what a bullet would feel
like as it entered his body,
then remembers the pain of a spent
.22 hitting him below the knee when
he was 12,
it hurt like hell.

The cop grumbles acknowledgment,
gives him one last supremely evil look,
then leaves.

He shuts the door,
returns to the kitchen,
takes several very potent pipes,
then laughs and laughs as the
night swirls around his head
and the stars dance above the
Fitzroy rooftops.

He thinks…
I really better get a day job.

Cambodian New Year

My Cambodian friend smiles
as I say
"arun sursda",
"good morning"
he laughs as
we talk.

I want to understand why
Cambodians created a monster:
should I enquire further?
can I name it?
to name is to master
so I’ve heard, so
I'll call it the Dark.

Not absence of light, the sun
behind a cloud, or the cool velvet of night,
the Dark is palpable, real and cruel.
It lurks, hides, creeps,
peers from corners,
scurries at the edge of vision,
a fleeting presence, a
demon of the mind.

Names of infamy,
a roll-call of beasts,
Hitler, Stalin, Pol Pot,
Manichaean pawns, perhaps,
playthings of a supremely malevolent being;
always there,
waiting,
across the divide,
spiderlike,
in the Dark.

My friend knows too well
that nightmares can kill,
a leaf in a storm he was
washed down a river of blood,
so many others were lost.

April 13th, Cambodian New Year,
the Springvale Town Hall is
packed with people.
A feast is about to begin.
The Cambodians I've met are friendly,
gentle and kind.
The monks eat first,
serene in saffron robes.
We wait, respecting the robes and
the covered men.
When the monks finish we rush
the food piled tables.
The meal is 'chnang', delicious,
the air aromatic,
the hall bursts with laughter, music, and
talk amid swirling colours;
it's not Year Zero in the
Springvale Town Hall,
but when I look into eyes,
past smiles,
I see pain.

The Dark created that pain.
The Dark proclaimed Year Zero.
In Germany the Dark threw babies into
cyanide gas chambers.
In Uganda the Dark places a gun into
a young boy's hand.
He must kill his family.
He must sever his father's penis
and place it in his murdered
mother's mouth.
The Dark armed The Lord's Resistance Army.
The Dark built Auschwitz.
It sat with Hitler, Hess and Haushoffer
in a Bavarian jail.
Stalin's daughter saw the Dark
pulling her father's strings.
The Dark was in Indonesia the other day,
and Iraq, Egypt, Australia and America.
It's with us now, waiting.
The Dark built a mountain of
skulls at Samarkand.
The Dark emptied Pnom Penh.

My friend laughs.
It's Cambodian New Year and
life is renewed.
I watch the precise, graceful movements
of the traditional dancers and
feel crude and clumsy in comparison.
My friend asks,
"Sok sabbaye tay?"
I reply,
"Sok sabbaye",
I'm O.K.
It's not Year Zero,
Springvale is not Pnom Penh.

My friend plays a video from Cambodia,
news from home.
A corpse is being prepared
-his uncle.
The Buddhist funeral rites require the
body to remain in the house,
packed in ice,
for a week.
There is much sorrow and tears,
but sorrow is of the Wheel and
part of life.
My friend is happy,
delightedly he points out
cherished relatives and friends,
people he never expected to see again.
Death is natural,
death is partner to life.

The Dark is not death.
The Dark kills, but not to live.
The Dark is with us again,
do you feel it?
It comes when named.

The Dark is strong
but not omnipotent.
It can be beaten,
forced to retreat.
I smile and
think of light,
laugh, and
remember love,
for love can illuminate the Dark.

Cambodian New Year,
the festivities end,
the sky is sprinkled with stars.
A new year begins,
a better year for some.
I say "or koun", thank you,
my friend smiles and says,
"kyon lea howie",
Goodbye.

(c) Tony Foley 1993, 2006

The poverty of Australian Labor politics

In Australia we supposedly have a two party political system, with a few minor parties hanging around the periphery such as Greens etc... Unfortunately over the past decade or so the two main parties, Liberal and Labor, have become increasingly indistinct in their policies and philosophical approach. This is largely the fault of the Australian Labor Party which has abandoned all pretense at being a party of Social Democratic reform and simply pursues power at any cost. The main opposition in Federal Parliament appears to be liberal minded Liberal Party MPs on the backbench, and the ALP can't seem to connect with the wider community. Even an 'own goal' by the Liberal government with their disastrous workplace 'reform' legislation is unlikely to lead to their defeat in the next Federal Election due in 2007. Prime Minister John Howard is congenitally dishonest, hence the ironic nickname 'Honest John', and is the greatest teflon coated leader in Australian history. Major scandals such as 'children overboard' , the Iraq War, and the AWB wheat fiasco, simply slide off him and his government.

The Labor opposition is to blame. Kim Beazley is the most incompetent opposition leader in Australian history. Please, please give us some decent leadership in the ALP, and not just another faceless machine man bowing down to the faction leaders. Mark Latham was crucified by the party, and was also his own worst enemy, but at least he had a shot. Who has the guts to challenge Howard next time? Big Kim will probably just roll over and let Little Johnny tickle his tummy like last time.
What about Julia Gillard? At least she has balls...

Somali Ali

A warm December evening
we sat and chewed the fat,
breeze rustling the peppercorn tree,
waiting for our cabs to come home.

There was Ogaden Mahomet and Somali Ali,
both refugees;
like me they drove a taxi,
nice blokes,
willing to please.

Ali had been a soldier in
the endless Somali civil war,
with scars on his face and hands,
eyes that said it all.

Mahomet said that I was the first Aussie he'd met
who knew anything about Ogaden.
Somali Ali was taciturn,
he had stories best left untold.

My car came in first,
driven by Pommy Peter,
a red-faced loud-mouthed git.

He strutted over,
introduced himself,
asked who my friends were,
I told him "Mahomet and Ali".

Peter thought this was a great joke,
he asked Ali his first name,
Ali said "Mohammed",
Peter cracked up.
Mohammed Ali!" he said
shadow boxing and laughing,
"you any good at fighting?"

Ali's muscles rippled,
his scars jumped from his skin,
he fixed the clown with eyes from hell
then said quietly,
"yes, I'm very good at fighting."

Peter turned pale,
fumbled an apology,
tripped away to safer places,
the empire in full retreat.

Ali, Mahomet, and I looked at each other,
shrugged,
then our laughter
danced on the breeze filling
the summer evening.

The Fool

-The Fool is numbered zero in most Tarot packs.
-The Fool agrees with Jung that the I Ching works, but doesn't understand why.
-The Fool grasps a doorhandle and thinks of Sartre.
-The Fool hears Billy Holiday sing, then listens to the Gods weep.
-The Fool cherishes Abhinavaguptas' dictum that God is 'unobjectified desire'.
-The Fool sees a flock of geese, then remembers the death of Sibelius.
-The Fool loves conspiracy theories.
-The Fool sees a light at the top of the hill, then watches for an on-coming truck.
-The Fool admires the cunning of Themistocles at Salamis.
-The Fool heard the Shiva Sutras were discovered carved into a Himalayan rock.
-The Fool thinks consciousness a function of an evolving universe.
-The Fool thinks criticism should be constructive, not gratuitous.
-The Fool detests hypocrisy.
-The Fool IS a hypocrite.
-The Fool partly agrees with Reich, sexual repression is a major cause of psycho-social ills.
-The Fool read Anna Karenina sitting by a desert lake, looked up and fell back 20 million years.
-The Fool thinks it better to be spontaneously generous than calculatedly kind.
-The Fool believes art is a message to other artists.
-The Fool does not think science equals truth.
-The Fool argues art is more significant than science.
-The Fool thinks that after Mandelbrot maths is fractaled in chaos.
-The Fool thinks being rational is different to being reasonable.
-The Fool thinks pedants are a pain in the arse.
-The Fool sees beauty, then knows love is more than a chemical reaction.
-The Fool agrees with Heraclitus, everything moves.
-The Fool thinks Vivaldis' concerto for guitar in D minor is astonishingly beautiful.
-The Fool occasionally suffers from compassion fatigue.
-The Fool believes Descartes was one of the hidden council of the Rosicrucians.
-The Fool climbed a Kabbalah tree.
-The Fool thinks humans are different to other animals.
-The Fool thinks other animals are human too.
-The Fool delights in paradox.
-The Fool appreciates Escher.
-The Fool wonders whether politicians are truly human.
-The Fool could rave on forever.
-The Fool knows nothing.
-The Fool is wrong!

(c) Tony Foley 1991, 2006
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