No Lip Service To Originality

Graffito scrawled on whitewashed walls
lines this boulevard of discontinuity; ‘tho
most of the words are urban patios usage
pays no lip service to originality. These are

all the same you note – all misspelt pieces
repeated time and again. Painted in neat
colours with flair and feeling but you’d
expect them to use a dictionary. I disagree,

I think they’re signatures; I’d say tags of young
artistes embracing the mystique of writing
just their names. Perfection bagged in an
instant, complete recognition – universality.

So what’s the good of that you say, what’s in
a name if it’s not patent what they’re selling?
Oh, but it is I say, no less than those blatant
billboards cruelling the next street.
© 16 November 2007, I. D. Carswell

See With Structured Eyes

Little wonder then
that utter inanity begins
to make some sense;
while it is bizarre to me
it is avant-garde to you –
pushing against the boundaries.

I can see the fence
drawn round a milling
mass of humanity
whilst you countenance
them as being oppressed –
breaking free.

They are symbols
that we see with structured eyes –
yours revised by latest trends
whilst mine are
blinded by the
missing facts...
© 17 November 2007, I. D. Carswell

Shrink-Wrapped But Vagrantly Sad Ideas

Not worth the effort you’d think, a case of
malevolent delinquency cleverly disguised
as shrink-wrapped but vagrantly sad ideas.
Alienation in our personal spheres is rarely
news these days but someone’s view of it
which barely exceeds the most mundane

takes easy precedence. Circles of Extremes,
each feeding each – rogue reality shows in
breach of all-self-appointed but never policed
codes of decency; all preaching, unceasingly.
Amidst cacophony dissonance seems reason
with room to spare – though nobody listens.

The etiquette shared says shout louder longer
and make bigger waves. Somewhere out there
a producer has a show planned in your name.
An eerie consequence we need to live with is
5% believe it true, 20% wish it were so, 50%
don’t know and the rest don’t have an opinion.
© 17 November 2007, I. D. Carswell

The Late Great “What’s ‘Is Name”

God’s truth, I’ve never read such rubbish as
I read today. Spooning through a syrup in a
lover’s tryst of avidness – a bloated splurge
they left to say how much they prized your

pandect words. I tried to see you from their
point of view and failed. All I could find was
curds afloat in bile soup, an evil brew, green
with stewed invective foul - a mood as dour

as a black dog’s anarchy let loose. But that’s
all you; the one and same, the friend whose
eminence was self-acclaimed, the troubled
dilettante whose truth owned a lantern thus

to salute its own lymphatic shadow. Doesn’t
rest lightly in me yet, although I saw through
it. But for all of you who fell into the blighted
brightness of that feeble wit, arise I say, the

pseudo bard died an age ago, was borne away
on a rising tide and beached in far-off places.
All you see today are quirky three-line farragoes,
a few pseudonyms - traces of his alter ego...
© 19 November 2007, I. D. Carswell

Recurrent Themes (rev)

It is a vague, recurrent theme, 
may be an imperfectly recalled 
chorus from a song; few words 
remain - not enough to claim a
thesis of weight, yet it plays on
repetitively twixt engagements, 
returns again & again ere quiet 
invades. I see it as a salutary 

companion - compensating my 
uneven balance, competing for 
equal space without demands.
I explain it a benign mate who 
plays second-string to me with 
no complaints. 

But you're not with me, maybe 
bewildered & shaking the head 
unrequitedly. Why’s this? 

Well I don't want to rain on your 
parade but - it sounds more like 
a case of tinnitus...
© 27 October 2007, I. D. Carswell

Sensory Death’s Doorway

*
Too rational to not reach a conclusion
but in love with words just enough to
be touched by feeling – that’s the
dilemma. Life’s journey is a sensory
experience – some elements beyond
understanding, some beyond recall.
True physical facts ameliorate all
temporality – connections in time
and space, but words will still stay
absolute. Look, feel their meaning!

This claim may be another evolution
with weightless mass, precedence no-
longer revolutionary. There, atop the
admiration tree, an excuse for what
passes these days as modern poetry
hangs breathing life into naive and
formless words – all lacking guile but
being untouched by its raw emotions
is a sensory death’s doorway, defining
a sordid place challenging rationality.
© 5 November 2007, I. D. Carswell

* "Las Modelos"Acrylic on canvas140 x 109 cm, 1987 Angel Gómez

The Melbourne Cup

The race that stops the Nation takes
its pride of place south of the Border
on Tuesday, November 6, 2007; sure, 

stop we do, listen to a commentary if
near a radio, or duck inside at 3:20pm
to watch in on the box. It’s in the blood

y’ know, won five quid way back in ’57,
didn’t understand a bloody thing ‘bout
horses – but sweeps were the go when

a two bob stake was all one needed to
be in. My mind’s a vacant lot on tracks,
bloodlines and all that esoteric stuff the

once-a-year punters pontificate on ad
infinitum; I’d rather get my fun in a buck
sweep stake, trust in luck to draw a nag

of class – who gives a damn if it runs last.
Three and a bit minutes is all it takes –
and the World’s back to normal again...
© 1 November 2007, I. D. Carswell

.

This Year's Cup is Tuesday, November 5, 2013

Uninstall And Reinstall Solution, an

It is an eerie reality – thunder rumbles too
distant to define as threatening, radio borne
warnings – bad storm cells gathering in the
West, heading our way, local skies go grey,
dimly release rain in random drops – as yet
no wind to speak of.

We watch a cell trace from placid blue to red
on PC screen, won’t reach us I foresee – too
small to make the pace. An omen to temerity –
power fails – returns as I speak. No thunderclap
precedes – no lightening flash.
Too precipitate to even plan for.

In despair I see PC boot cycle stall, try to reset
anti-virus and spyware shields, fail, skip on,
something’s very wrong. Storm cell red indents
PC warnings, blinks out monocular message,
it should be green. How in Hell did that happen?
Coincidence?

Three hours down remedial track –an uninstall
and reinstall solution perhaps, on line help desk
no earthly use, patience worn thin. Nowhere can
I find a single precedence. Start remote PC scan
to clear phantom gremlins – slow, so goddamn
slooooooooooooooooooooooow I go to sleep.

Awake, system clamours to reboot – twelve
hours since crash; hey, system’s green again!
Eerie reality – thunder rumbles too distant to
define as threatening, radio borne warnings –
storm cells gathering out West, skies grey...;
Jesus, here we go again...!
© 30 October 2007, I. D. Carswell

Vanilla Flies

Tried to find a name for them beyond
the childish name my neighbour thought
appropriate. Vanilla flies he says, bastard
things that swarm late spring – saving grace
is they don’t bite. Wasn’t quite convinced
of that but held my tongue – they crawl like
mites upon your skin, have they a mind,
and I defy you comforted despite. Hey,
I say, I see that they’re attracted to the
light, had a swag a-crawl upon the PC
screen last night. Learned a lesson worth
a quid or two, don’t squash ‘em there, it
leaves a smear you can’t remove! My
neighbour shakes his silvered head as if to
say, my God how trite, displays disquiet
of any Bli Bli boy who likes a cooling swig,
doggedly replaces big drink coaster ATOP
his glass, turns to me, notes my glance; says
mate, the thing you gotta do round here
is keep them buggers out of ya beer...!
© 29 October 2007, I. D. Carswell

Veranda Tales, The Labrador

Gordo, Master Raconteur, called
by the Market stall this AM for a
yarn. Said his Labrador had weird
ideas on what being a dog means.

Amongst other things it knew its
beer he claims – it, the Lab’s long
dead (and not from what you’re
thinking), liked to drink a bit.

Back when we weren’t supplied
too easily with life’s necessities
a NSW brewery strike meant we
suffered an unseasonal dry.

The beer didn’t arrive, one had
to drink this puerile p.ss called
‘West End’ in place of KB. Only
slightly better than nothing.

No-one noticed but the Labrador
cottoned on this stuff was dodgy.
Later, when a few cartons of the
genuine showed, rationed like a

grandma’s smile & the lads get into
a tinny or two – dog arrives, bowl in
mouth, ready for a cleansing brew.
Bugger off, the lads say, when Gordo

goes to pour a drop, give ‘im a West
End, there’s still a few. They say the
look on the Lab’s face would’ve soured
cream. Gordo recalls that he (the dog)
never drank beer again...!
© 4 November 2007, I. D. Carswell

We Know How They Sting

Promised today I’d take a quieter
line – away from slanderous revues
of sewer-fed mainstream opinion, or
iconic tirades ablaze in egos bent on
pointless revenge – egos, I might add,
infected by a plethora of purulence.

Whatever aggravated and distanced
the raw fissures in them has nothing
to do with me I am sure and I proclaim
innocence. But I will be blamed none
the less because what I write says much
more than its single words equivolence.

Can you say you read a line where I
decried a poet alive by name? Not my
style – not the way I draw a bow; my
arrows are true to poetic form, mere
tokens of the missiles they sling, but
by Heavens – we know how they sting!
© 24 October 2007, I. D. Carswell

Where Bullshit Lies Thick

The gap is closing they claim with
a counterfeit theatrical flair then
smear its essence in a weaselling
elucidation that says – oh, maybe,
perhaps, gross margins of error
might imply no major change!

So just another Poll we think –
the daily panegyric for a weak
and mindless clientele whose
wits have failed. Do we need
to know with such authority
what is likely to succeed or fail?

Polls sell prophecy, like it or nay,
and fantasies symptomatic of the
ways we are governed. Thus public
belief begets policy begets politics
where bullshit lies thick – but no thicker
than pollster questionnaires.
© 6 November 2007, I. D. Carswell

Feet Shod In Concrete

I do regret the pettiness but must
redress an error fixed in minds seduced
by heresy undressed as politics.

Take you any vested scheme where
private interests align as vestments so
designed to succour needs.

Whose needs? Needs invoked to
grow economies; needs to keep
the status quo aglow –

not indeed your needs or mine.
To satisfy their greed for power
our governors lie from time to time.

Growth, they claim, remains the only
way to keep us in that happy state
we see as sacrosanct. We see? We’re

not even asked I do believe. The
power is gone from what we think
except for polls that stink – redolent

of fiscal grease. Our governors do
not care to share their power. The
aim of growth economies remains

extant, exploitation of resources
scarce, environmental apathy, careless
use and attitudes lead to abuse.

And sure as drought or famine kills
the growth of greed invades the still
naive constituency whose feet

are shod in concrete of their masters
retrogressive thinking. Even in a growth
economy we’re sinking, helplessly.
© 14 November 2007, I. D. Carswell

Pride Pays No Compound Dividends

Spent some agonised hours removing the
mud slung at me whilst I slept – hours that
should have been lent to welding changes.
That I am easily offended explains so much
cosmetic effort expended in cleaning; too
much in effect – pride pays no compound
dividends, not in any respect. I rationalise
and say there is a justification returning to
the way things were and thus concede the
point. Things have changed. Cleaning away
the mess merely obfuscates truth. The mud
slingers remain free in an evolving anarchy
I am powerless to impact – in every sense
I’m glad; it was bad enough attending their
game in the first bleary instance. Way back,
when time rang cheaply, I fought for those
harbinger freedoms they carelessly abuse –
in early life you see, I was a mud-slinger too.
© 13 November 2007, I. D. Carswell

In Atholl Time Stood Still

Impressed, why yes – to see what now is
commonplace – while we may be just steps
removed each from each yet still see gaps
in tapestry. When we strolled in Castle Blair,
listened to the ancient tales of earls, barons
and marquesses, traced the duke’s descent
from Mormaer of Picts, no-one could be less.

For sure, hereditary rank carries little weight
except mystique these days – while portraits
hung on castle walls acclaim a vastly different
path was walked, or ever thus restored by acts
of antique history or fate. And where we paid
to see this slice of History reviewed we truly
knew of currency quite wisely spent.

The present Duke commands one hundred
men, a private army man for man all proudly
tartan-dressed resplendent of the Murray Clan,
a once-a-year parade in ceded easy-duty days.
In Atholl thus it was back then – and ever will,
we glimpse intrigued that here was where they
justly claim that time stood still...
© 15 November 2007, I. D. Carswell

Silence Has An Evil Face

A flatulence of mind interpolates when
needless interruption adds but nothing
to a conversation – metal burp perhaps,
or worse, synaptic fart expressed in airy
words regressed to urges uncontained.

But silence has an evil face – the aching
wait from pregnant pause thru’ hesitate
adjudicates malignancy a speaker fears,
wrought in agony he’s failed a creature
need – attend, connect, communicate.

I watch your eyes to gain the secret in a
blind testimony of apathy; beseech that
yours meet mine just once at least before
the last echoes of words recede into an
unfathomable deep of parapsychology.

With great relief I see a miniscule twitch
in the dimmest-cornered reflection of a
curve of your lips; beguiling embroidery
is not lost to me – there is a surfeit of
comfort in knowing you have smiled...
© 9 November 2007, I. D. Carswell

You Ride A Tiger’s Hungry Eyes

In these early days before the sun has
risen high enough to light your nascent
life its crescent moon invites your every
mood; early days delighting rendezvous
in easy flights of modest turpitude.

You’re young; your beauty but a budding rose
whose bloom will pale the stars, and angels shall
exalt the way your smile enhanced their skies.
You’re young; you ride a tiger’s hungry eyes
in shards of brittle light, glitter with the

sights and sounds exciting through the warming
night – you’re young my spirit daughter born in
argent true, and sing we shall with praising
words these eulogies we’ve fondly learned for
you...
© 9 November 2007, I. D. Carswell

Bottom Of The Heap

Can’t climb all over myself to get to
that vantage point where I can see
more than the ol’ dumb-ass I’m sat
upon, conclude therefore he’s way

too inconsequential to benefit me,
weep copiously (in crocodile tears)
about life’s inequality and how I’ve
been dealt a bum hand. Hear voice

of The Man rumble out of vast and
empty spaces he habituates – Hey,
Dude! How come you KNOW ‘bout
that raw deal? ‘Cause if that be the

case you ‘ready had your ‘vantage.
Ol’ dumb-ass shakes his head, it’s
more than he can understand. The
people holding conversations in his

head say things with consequence
and meaning while he’s content with
where he’s at, bottom of the heap –
now how come he knows ‘bout that?
© 1 November 2007, I. D. Carswell

Soured The Wine

Having cast his pearls into a feeding bowl
the poet falls on torrid times, the whorls of
sonnets twirled in filigrees of fragrant sense
don’t make amends; these swine will eat the
the rotten ends before they know it’s heady
scent he thinks – before they even raise their
rheumy eyes – years for sure beyond a use-by
date essential to define a lack nourishment.
My friends he cries, my loving friends who need
a guide, I cannot succour you. I’ve tried, Lord
knows I tried. Something in you died – or never
grew; the babe in arms eschewed as father of
the man was left alone to wither on the vine –
and soured the wine.
© 2 November 2007, I. D. Carswell

Thief Of Innocence, the

How much does one need to be poisoned by
the weed? An essence blessed in its innocent
and antique sweetness but toxic nonetheless,
lethal in every fundament – its chemistry bent
by ancient deeds, fable and mystique, wound
into a tapestry of faux beliefs. This is the thief

of innocence. There is no sanctuary from taint,
the atmosphere bears foul traces of diseased
thoughts claimed as great revelation – truth is
an orphan and you’re born into slavery. Take
a dose of daily weed any way you feel a need;
read mythologies written onto parchments of
human skin rolled into joints to smoke with the

fumes of history, ingest chemicals designed to
correct synaptic imbalances, breathe the ozone
believing you will save the World, swim in manic
religion espousing death to unbelievers, blow
yourself to smithereens to gain relief. You did
not arrive in innocence, you are not to blame...
© 6 November 2007, I. D. Carswell

Rat Dropping Offertory

Rattus rattus has been free-
dropping again – ranging
tidbids of parlous candour as
offerings; axioms of ailing
health and doubtful sanity.

Claims a planned campaign
of harassment and slander,
sanctioned by shady cliques of
quasi-agencies is underway
against all rattus ethnicity.

Rat droppings inserted into
score boxes of offertory, a
protest methinks – gauges
the petty depths this rat sinks
in its deep depression.

One might yet see it quip on
alone – sans adulation, the
rat population deserted ship –
wiser by far in debate on this
lone rat’s untenable fate.
© 20 October 2007, I. D. Carswell

Less Penance As Relief

We go to Market on a Sunday, a ritual
endured with make-believe allusions
‘tho less penance as relief from griping
boredom – the sentence which assails
our working week. Our modest stall is
just a booth selling avocados, which we
grow, a sideshow amongst more exotic
wares. Our customers are more or less
the same as customers everywhere; a
river of humanity which ebbs and flows
in focussed mien, whose role we say is
to entertain – although we try to laugh
with as much as at them so they know
that we enjoy their company. Few see
it as affectedness or selfish disrespect,
laugh, relaxed by humour dispensed as
freely as the largess of sensibly priced
first-class avocados. They ask, so why
don’t we see these in a supermarket?
I don’t know, my best guess, perhaps,
is there the humour isn’t free...
© 4 November 2007, I. D. Carswell

Warm Comfort

We began this day ardently
aware – a wedding’s warm
comfort – a sharing of
sentiment; our hearts
joined like hands clasped
in love and
good fellowship.

She wears serenity
at ease with noblesse,
an angel’s divinity in
harmony dressed, bearing
a lexis that amity kissed,
dreamlike agendas,
togetherness.

He is fine steel
forged and annealed,
foursquare and given,
a heart’s hold that’s
soul’s comforts rare
– keel of their union.
We toast their joy.
© 22 October 2007, I. D. Carswell

Rare Beauty Enhanced

Rare beauty enhanced in a
counter-clockwise trance
induced by Summer heat,
the ceiling fan sweeps its
silky beat in synchronicity.

Rhythms subliminally deep
resound in soundless ears,
sleep is easy. Pure dreams
exude, images of chance
too real for truth pour into

an endless open firmament,
errant breeze exaggerates
the breath of trees where
winds are oddly quiet, stirs
the shades of candid sleep.

I sense the waves of sentiment
that radiate, feel contentment
sweep in joyous curves of placid
ease, perceive a splash of liquid
sweetness binds this peace.

I won’t awake for fear
of disenchantment...
© 1 November 2007, I. D. Carswell

Ponder In Deeper Retrospect, to

The moment came and went
without a fanfare, an event
we waited years to witness
with our eyes. Indeed a rare
complementarity for whom
we were – we’re spared no
sentiment; whether it was
ever meant to err surprise is
best left to those who come
next – to ponder in deeper
retrospect. We’re dead, our
hands tipped the balance, air
turned black with our ash in
shrouds we refused to wear.
© 2 November 2007, I. D. Carswell

2007 Election Meanderings...

Elect Me In Bennelong

I’m the man for your future; forget the fact
I’ll hand to Pete the baton, yeah that’s Peter
‘Big Ears’ Costello – Treasurer of all of those
foregone years, a bloke with wry sneer and
dry cough for personality. It’s time for me to
hang upside-down in a closet where I can
let my personality take command. Y’ see
I’m a fruit bat masquerading as a vampire,
no talent to show – but the masque tells you
that. What we need is stability, I’m your man
because I know when to tell the lies we have
to hear. So I’ll be riding in Pete’s ear, humming
the tune he’ll sing. Elect me in Bennelong,
Honest John, you need me back.
© 14 October 2007, I. D. Carswell

Who Indeed Needs Who?

Could you please explain
what it means when an
ageing Leader says, I’ll hand
the reigns to my Deputy –
but only AFTER the election...?

Is the Deputy a ham who
couldn’t win alone? I feel
quite sceptical guessing
a least abstruse reason
crucial to that admission.

Consider a Leader-elect so
lacking in demand he won’t
command fashionable appeal
enough to succeed to the
highest Office of the Land.

Put in proper place it means
the Deputy has no chance to
lead if his Party doesn’t win
again. So he needs his Leader
to succeed – and thus to reign.

The question then becomes
quite obvious – doesn’t it? A
lame duck Deputy; think of it,
outside of PM &Treasury – who
indeed needs who?
© 22 October 2007, I. D. Carswell

Eleven And A Half Years (of Lies)
Eleven and a half years he’s been the Man,
seems like only yesterday he ran second
in a flibber-lipped race to change his image;
he was the vision of tack and dowdiness
back then, but look at his Lordship today!

Just 68 years young and full of cunning, for a
while he was doing all the running needed to
keep the Government on rails – no mean feat
leading a bunch of gays you’d be hard pressed
to find a firm heartbeat among.

He’s called the election at last, waited until a
blast of full moon lunacy inspired him to wage
a six week campaign ending 24 November; the
pollsters say the gimp’s a canny imp – knows his
play with an ease of sleaze that bares the soul.

Promise #1 is tax cuts of $34b offered the first
day he is officially caretaker PM. Stranger than
fiction, he could have announced it any time
before Sunday as Government strategy – to give
hard-pressed, tax-burdened families a break.

That’s not the take for the Man – whose view
is, “you’ve never had it so good,” and, “you’ll
never be as well off under them as me”. So
he’s buying votes with a largesse which belies
the currency of eleven and a half years of lies.
© 16 October 2007, I. D. Carswell


His Subtlety Lost Me
So,
you don’t know
who you’re goanna*
vote for already;

you’ve five weeks left
of a trashy campaign to
decide to re-elect or reject
the Prophet of Doom

who claims a vote for the
other team is a joke in
bad taste and you’ll live
to regret it, mate...

A vote for him however,
(that’s PoD) is a vote
indubitably in good taste
and continued stability;

oh, and should he win he’ll
TRACK YOU DOWN IF YOU DIDN’T
and stick the needle in –
don’t YOU worry about that!

His ad campaign makes it
plain all ALP voters are
insane – people who
need institutionalising.

His subtlety lost me there,
seems I’m not stupid enough
to see the plain and the obvious –
but maybe I can;

if you’re goanna be convinced
by that sort of crap,
you sure don’t need
good government.
© 19 October 2007, I. D. Carswell

*Makes more sense than ‘gonna’



Please Tell Us If It Is Going To Rain
Cripes, me old mate Jeff Seeney MP put it
to rest, there’s no possibility says he of an
exception to awesome predictive powers
the Coalition commands. The far-seeing
MP answered a burning question: What can
Queensland farmers expect after the Federal
election? No change says he if John Howard
is returned – good-o, and with any real luck
our seasonal outlook will improve. On the
other hand if that other mob gets in – well
you’re in for a hard road my man, the things
that will happen are terrible and nothing can
deflect that. He then goes on to predict how
it would rip the heart out of the land. Jeff’s
an honest chap – misguided perhaps, maybe
a trifle naive, but when it comes to far-seeing
he wears his heart on his sleeve. No change
vs great change is predicted with an uncanny
eye to detail – a true visionary who sees into
a future of events following immutable paths
joined irrevocably to political history, whether
relevant or not. Fascinating stuff Jeff. All that
mumbo jumbo aside mate, can you get onto
something really useful please, like can you
tell us if it is going to rain?
© 25 October 2007, I. D. Carswell

Motherhood Embracing Ardent Grace

These early days are weighted thus
in heavy consequence; every sense
is on display, feelings disarrayed in
just and trying ways – in muddling
through with mundane things you
never dreamed. Swollen belly lead
the way to babe in arms; roles that
changed, a girlish poise effacing
grave estrangement, mother’s eyes
restore its charm. You’ve braved the
dislocation, see that Nature’s gift
demands a fee your daughter freely
pays in gilded smiles. You hold her in
your arms entrained, a History apace,
motherhood embracing ardent grace.
© 31 October 2007, I. D. Carswell

Post Poetic Psychiatric Amputees

This pettiness is symptomatic
of an affliction deeper than a
mere peccadillo – compulsive
behaviour fits the diagnosis all
too easy. He’s not, and never
will be, the only psychiatric
amputee on line disgracing
poetry; there’s you and me.
© 27 October 2007, I. D. Carswell

Other-Worldly Icons

There’s more to life than a
nice new mobile phone he
observed, no matter what
it features. You say in your
defence there is a World in
it – the one preferred to
ordinary reality. Sure, I agree –
seen fashionably, an essential
compendium of all the trendy
things needed for the life you
lead. The key is just how far to
bend actuality to fit your view
of it; but then, how do you shrink
other-worldly icons who’s sheer
bulk impedes utility?

Easily you say, just enough to fit
into a chic designer pocket...!
© 30 October 2007, I. D. Carswell