18 December 2014

In Any Cooee

The hoonies’ve been busy this week - they’ve 
renewed their burnout signatures freakishly at 
the same not-too-remote road junctions where 
traffic isn’t heavy, reasonably suggesting they 
are local teenagers whose tire-wear identities 
don’t seem to cause too much concern; that’s 
not alarming if we consider Glasshouse is the 
disparate rural locality we’re discerning here 

There’s enough wear-and-tear in dealing with 
off-the-road ideas proposed in this community 
so a few skiddies is neither here nor there - & 
given there’s no fatalities we’re aware of then 
it may be the only viable recreational outlet in 
any cooee they feel comfortable engaging in 

© 17 December 2014, I. D. Carswell

17 December 2014

More Vibrations

There is more to it isn’t there, the little errors 
were mere anomalies back when the picture 
spanned a whole of relativity - thus what has 
actually changed; we’re aware only of where 
we are and its physicality, perhaps, measure 
on measure it means there’s new presences 
to account for beyond the limits of the self in 
being singularly aware - or is there more me 

If it were truly thus then there’s more screws 
to undo than we’d ever allowed allusion to - 
don’t you see it explains why ‘we’ is still the 
same as I and ‘us’ the same as me, and yet 
nothing actually changed in that recognition 
except its vibrations became familiarity 

© 4 December 2014, I. D. Carswell

16 December 2014


We see idiosyncrasies are manifestly flammable - 
in two days cleansing fires wiped seemingly solid 
fortifications away, all wasted years now unmade 
into vague recollections, incongruity disappearing 
effortlessly, but you needed know what’s nub of it; 

the ashes blew you free of past where the events 
were indelibly sanctioned; there is now no legacy 
to taunt with presence, tho’ memory is in you and 
has a place, this pleasant vacancy extirpates the 
Sword of Damocles hanging; having had it over

your head no longer plays for a havoc’s unseen 
influence cloistered in the amphitheatre’s wings - 
an audience you had to have for credibility, yet it 
too is cleansed with the resurrected energies as 
rearranged elements of your unmade terrain; 

vacancy where items used to seem out of place 
doesn’t jar sense of what had been - but makes 
pleasant harmony of what will come; when you 
let the charm of seeing into possibilities less an 
artifice of presence - you’ll be there, assuredly 

© 30 November 2014, I. D. Carswell

15 December 2014


Reaction to the idea we’ll use our mobile phones 
to control TV suggests I’m not really ready yet; it 
feels more comfortable remote in hand, and that 
came out of a long frustration getting from those 
bad old manual days; hands acting independent 
of thought processes still phase me as I need to 
read instructions verbatim, so having my mobile 
replace TV remotes scares crap outta me - but  

I won’t pass on it just yet; I’ve tried it, n’ yeah it 
works okay - but differently, the learning curve 
suggesting new technology isn’t a breeze - but 
anything placing me in a dinosaur’s rest won’t 
be land decreed as a TV lounge - nor without 
TV remotes freely available at hand 

© 1 December 2014, I. D. Carswell

14 December 2014

Buckwheat Bonanza

The buckwheat pancakes were swathed in 
orange basil jelly - or was it lemon-thyme - 
hey, it doesn’t matter, they’re undisputedly 
up there with the best of Mama’s products 
of an age where we commonly ate exotica 
until some bloody sod invented vegemite - 
to say she went on strike wasn’t true - but 
after crunchy peanut butter it kinda was 

Yet today there’s rebirth of those practical 
jam-making & chutney-to-die-for skills, so 
I look forward to late spring’s cornucopias 
stored sensibly in recycled vegemite jars, 
served from the fridge on hot, fresh made 
buckwheat pancakes we mix ourselves 

© 26 November 2014, I. D. Carswell

13 December 2014

Canberra Cautions

Being right doesn’t mean the same as permission 
to strut and preen; any legitimacy to ponce like its 
an achievement’s an obscene caricature of a use-
by-date-expired and over-weight b&w movie star 

if you can savvy that difference, there’s a chance 
you’ll survive the next round of interrogation; now 
who is your favourite member of the Legislature - 
if Joe ‘Ogre’ Hockey, Christopher ‘Weasel’ Pyne 

or his eminence Tony ‘Bugger-lugs’ Abbott you’re 
probably okay to proceed with, & why we explain 
behaviour in elect company; if it’s Julie ‘Vacuous’ 
or Bronwyn ‘Umbrage’ Bishop - we’ll pass on it 

if it’s any of the other mob disgracing parliament - 
and that’s probably too refined a statement taken 
quite literally as the truth, we’ll pass again on the 
grounds there’s enough slapstick humour around 

so don’t sass us again with your finagled bent on 
trashy show-off stuff we don’t give a damn about 
anyway; you’re wrong as you used it to make us 
look like the idiots we are, & don’t forget it, okay 

© 27 November 2014, I. D. Carswell

11 December 2014

Participatory Geste

Wearing hearing aids these past 24 hours has been an 
extravagantly sensory inundation; and I’m not unaware
there are other sounds out there - tho’, maybe at times, 
am glad I don’t have to recognise and categorise them; 
unamplified they are easily blended in a mellowness of 
ambient, unspectacularly ordinary background noises; 
- it isn’t until an augmented air of bird chatter flings the 
towel irremediably into the ring - shattering such calm 

Then I have to attend to this reality; the raucous crow’s 
calls are truth as much as feeding lorikeets shrieking in 
deafening unison are facts of living near trees in flower, 
& I don’t need reminding some bird song isn’t melodic, 
or ear pleasing either, sounding so much like acrimony 
one learns to expect from our parliamentary clique 

But in the event there’s a sense of participatory geste 
that pays fuller feelings nearer the core of what one’s 
being is supposedly about; so comprenez, when you 
shut birds and the rest of it out you’re denying part of 
who you are; therefore I see hearing aids worn more 
regularly - and even without human company 

© 20 November 2014, I. D. Carswell

10 December 2014


Ya’ll playing like ship-heads he drawled 
frowning visibly when we immoderately 
sprawled giggling at his bon mot - what 
the ha’yell ya think I said he complains; 
we ain’t at sea far as I can tell, n’ I ain’t 
no sailor, but the dang game’s different 
t’ th’ way y’ gang spray shots around th’  
pin-ball like its glued to t’morrow 

We’d bought adrift of his surmise when 
laughter ceased, and though surprised 
explained with glee the lore ‘borrowed’ 
in playing a jack or kitty; oh hoo wee is 
his reply, so it ain’t ‘skittles’ a’tall then - 
so why not whack ‘em anyway… 

© 20 November 2014, I. D. Carswell

09 December 2014

Homily’s Precedent

When all else fails you can whinge about the 
weather they say - like it’s a copout or safety 
valve strategically placed where the inept or 
conversational tragics lurk, clumsily seeking 
an entrée; bit like a vegetarian at a pit roast, 
dubious I sense about the degree of sear, a 
mulish attempt inferencing which unseemly 
ambit will work best without being damned 

So what can we talk about and which topics 
are banned from this august group’s tenure 
on the present tense; where’s our host and 
his fork, or am I intruding indecorously onto 
space where only silently acquiescent male 
carnivores prevail by a homily’s precedent 

© 24 November 2014, I. D. Carswell 

08 December 2014

The Big Four

Hitting The Big Four on the 8th’s cause for a 
major celebration; yeah, I know Oliver Harry, 
mate, you’ve waited on this one with breath 
baited; those other birthday festivities along 
the way seeded the pitch with ‘unassailable’
lists you need ‘score’ if you are to be in that 
comparative draw for birthday accolades; a 
year doesn’t make it any easer, does it 

But don’t worry about it mate, take my word 
on it - they’ll roll around even if you’re not in 
a sweat from waiting - with indexed alacrity 
testing your patience; sure, The Big Four’s 
pretty special if you wanna be more than a 
baby, yet freed of an ‘aged’ accountability 
© 1 December 2014, I. D. Carswell

Grandson Oliver Harry Carswell cracks 
The Big Four today, 8th December. 

07 December 2014

Sunday Meandering

Sunday meandering; - I’ve moved away from the 
TV, too mind-numbing watching a progression of 
overnight ‘friendlies’ - especially where reflective 
breaks between each top level match is a safety 
valve that’s mandatory; there’s too much energy 
and emotion on display, playing for your nation’s 
credibility isn’t a throwaway event, regardless of 
whom you play against or for whatever trophy 

And I don’t need ‘rugby fantasies’ early morning 
to create exhaustion enough to cruel the best of 
this day of rest; so a break between each match 
suggests a relaxed, pedestrian pace enabling a 
better appreciation & that takes a bit of doing for 
me - this feast is a gourmand’s promised land 
© 23 November 2014, I. D. Carswell

For the record, games played 23 Nov 2014:

Brazil 6 Uruguay 25, Scotland 37 Tonga 12, Portugal 29 Namibia 20, 
Ireland 26 Australia 23, Romania 18 Canada 9, Wales 16 New Zealand 34, 

England 28 Samoa 9, France 13 Argentina 18, Italy 6 South Africa 22 

06 December 2014

Crow Calls

The crow calls began too early to be a normal 
event; they’re out to bug me you mutter, know 
I’m wearing hearing aids today, whomever let 
‘em into the secret is a treacherously damned 
excommunicant to be - so who’s the culprit of 
this heinous crime against passivity; but none 
stand proud or laugh derisively, except crows, 
whose sense of proportion is très deviant 

Alright, you bargain, I’ll let it be if you buggers 
caw from trees further away; swearing outside 
my windows is crude and indecent, especially 
when you’ve so little to say that isn’t abusive - 
or have I that wrong too and the problem’s an 
acute lack of a viable passerine vocabulary 

© 24 November 2014, I. D. Carswell

05 December 2014

Humour Me

The threat’s not physical then is it - unlike
like a fist in your face or the acrid scent of 
ruin grifted in galls of intense heat; so why 
pick on me, if fires burn they’re still far too 
distant to be authors of discontent. I know 
it is easier to say boo than unravel sets of 
long dead odds & ends, yet I am innocent
merely in the vicinity; this is me, not some 

Convenience used to flush away unease. 
So I’m not thumbing my nose in spite nor 
do I see you can view it thus - but thanks 
for explaining what’s bustled your dander, 
sadly to say tho' it adds zilch to the case 
claimed as being even-handedness 

There’s a precocious sense of amenity in 
obeisance to narrower reference points -  
to try to understand wider views does not 
imply you’re giving way nor is it a state of 
anarchy; your sovereignty stays intact as 
long as you do, which you do indeed 

But if you want loyalty, humour me … 

© 22 November 2014, I. D. Carswell

04 December 2014

Graceless Case

it is a graceless case of you stinking worse 
than an entire army's combined stench - in 
this case its the 14th century BC Egyptians 
who bogged in the Red Sea; Suez may not 
see it offensive these days since they’ve all 
learned the lesson, whereas you old friend, 
I guess, never paid a discretionary homage 
to it and continue to stink because you can 

so be it; I confess there will be an up-wind 
change due for you real soon - stay out of 
the study while I am writing, or risk a suite 
bemused in bewilderment of bathing dates 
fused inexorably to an enhanced sense of 
smell I face great difficulty containing

© 18 November 2014, I. D. Carswell

03 December 2014

It’s Not Cricket

So what happened to United Arab Emirates 
cricket fans - the Dubai International Cricket 
Stadium seats 25,000 but there’s a few less
seats occupied than that; if you’d easily fit all 
of Essendon’s certifiable supporters vacantly 
into space left, there’d still be a slew’s room 
for cricketing devotees to pay for a privilege 
to be seen in that magnificent stadium 

Come to think of it - maybe that’s where the 
next AFL Grand Final should be; imagine if 
we got Melbourne’s mob to travel to Dubai; 
UAE’d get an obviously needed education - 
and they’d become profound AFL fans, and 
we’d get to watch cricket at our ground 

© 18 November 2014, I. D. Carswell

02 December 2014

Mud Cake Dessert

We’re planning a birthday feast, nothing too 
glamorous, learned way back that any good 
idea gets th’ kudos - so it’s roast duck; what 
will be different’s simplicity - no cordon bleu 
chef’s rigmarole thingy for this quacker - it’ll 
be biffed in a hot oven, wee herb sprig in th’ 
guts, ‘n baked ’til golden brown, a few vegs 
roasted around its side will help to decorate 

Our real task’s a luscious salad’s appeal to 
eye and taste; while not an integral part of 
the major celebration it’ll take ingenuity, I’ll 
probably have to plagiarise; but it's as real 
a birthday-make as legendary poaching’s 
graced into a dessert-served mud cake 

Which will truly be the 'crowning' glory 

© 19 November 2014, I. D. Carswell

01 December 2014

East Of Reason

If achievements matter this was success - 
upon a torpid back of an engendered day; 
so huh, you’ll remark, where in a verity of 
Hell’s pay did you buy that epithet - was it 
Wikipedia Thesaurus’ ‘usage’ delusionally 
skewed to the east of reason or’s the heat 
gotten to you? Neither; my guess is at last 
I did something I actually set out to do 

Wasn’t much - but then achievement’s are 
bathed in victories sweat; so the mower is 
up and running, still got the steering glitch, 
something I can hardly fix, but adding it to 
the Karcher being cleaned of a mud-wasp 
infestation & again spraying sweetly, then

You’ll get a picture of vested perspiration 
paying a dividend, tho I won’t get to rest; 
the Ute glares balefully regarding a long 
overdue spray - that’ll have to be before 
the rugby if it’s to happen today, so we’ll 
test this blessing in the midday’s heat … 

© 15 November 2014, I. D. Carswell

30 November 2014

Chutney Express

Wasn’t entirely wasted, while a dearth of patience 
near scuttled our ship-fast progress we sailed in a 
blue assurance that we knew what we were doing 

The easy bit’s making the special chutney or jam; 
be assured, no ‘technical misfeasance’ there, yet, 
& said tongue in cheek, let’s await the applause 

You ever tried to print jam jar labels; you intend to 
do the right thing, clearly list the ingredients so all 
buyers know what’s in it and who to blame, but - 

Where the hell is a set of easily deciphered rules 
to create labels that actually fit your template; the 
irony is there’s no lack of suggestions available - 

Many more than any potential recipe differences
you’d arbitrate upon without qualm, and that’s an 
undeniable, non-technical jurisdictional capacity 

Where you are right without question, but a label 
is a one-sided piece of sticky tape whose reading 
area is unerasable as well as profoundly chaste 

So you print 40 test pages before you get to one 
that is almost there, & no joy of accomplishment 
lifts your spirits, you’re staring at bedlam’s bait  

All this for a jar of jam, it can hardly be worth the 
straights of angst you try to say - and press print 
with frozen breath, and - hollah, we live again! 

© 17 November 2014, I. D. Carswell

29 November 2014

Where Did It Go

To be a part of what’s going on you need 
to pawn your independence - not in worst 
and puppet sense where dupe describes 
who stands in which shadows and where 
least attention gathers; no, it is merely an 
affectation we overplayed, and there isn’t 
a chance in hell we’ve pawned a thing of 
value to a motley’s indifference anyway 

So we stand in line as dutiful citizens two 
by two and are harangued by the likes of 
harlequins in court jesters’ uniforms who 
portentously claim themselves being the 
resolution of our prayers; if you’d cared 
enough to pray - you’d’ve lost anyway

They have your sovereignty for pittance 
paid in platitudes as bare as baldness of 
an ego’s age; it is their dyed-in-the-wool 
arrogance, an innuendo of meaningless 
rhetoric which is, as they put it, ‘political 
speak beyond a pall of commonsense' 

So we’re all geese whose covenant flew 
loose and fancy-free out the window on 
back of an idea into an atmosphere of 
absolute incredulity; yet th’ beat goes 
on like its still here alive and breathing - 
so, who’s idea was it & where did it go 

© 18 November 2014, I. D. Carswell

28 November 2014

Jacaranda Dreams

If it wasn’t for the lilac hue I’d grovel deep in 
 shades of grey; jacaranda’s opulence bends 
every carpet fractal sense it lays, extending 
open welcoming a-purple blue, alluring eyes 
away from view-effaced mundanity of brown 
erasing green heat a-shimmer windlessly in 
torpid scenes a-sere - here an eye delights 
in passive introspect and gathers strength 

The greeting grand & feeling lasts all day, an 
eloquence of passion stored so perfectly - or 
am I merely pandering to ardency in colours 
true - revealing hidden tendencies with hues 
too subtly phrased to brush away as dreams 
it seems the trees are well aware I’m here 

© 21 November 2014, I. D. Carswell