Moving

amazing how moving creates waves,
implacably discursive atmospheres
draining emotional energy; peace in
homilies won’t replace emptiness, no
apologies intercede, no respite until
last space cleared, walls scrubbed of
tenaciously resurgent years backed
up into a redundancy of waste bins

you are seeing all you ever were in
a latent glance of indigestion, seeing
a recycling hell worse than a journey
back to a future noted briefly once on
reverse of an inadequately addressed
envelope to a well known vagary –
© 21 February 2011, I. D. Carswell

Romance

not immune but bound
within a softened stance, intensely
enervating swoon-like trance
of lassitude too great to ease
or cast aside in reveries

this is romance expressed
so subtly – liquidness and
buoyancy, weightlessness
of gravity evading stamp
of time and place

play is graced by tempos
slowed with gentle touch, an
atmospheric pace in flux with
harmonies embracing those
recumbent senses rationally

a languid mood pervades
replacing actuality; she sighs
as if the way conspires
in breathlessness and
breathing cedes...
© 16 February 2011, I. D. Carswell

Parochialism Won

Queensland’s narrowness has this excess
risibly explaining its railway mess. To train
Newcastle-Sydney seems adventure grand,
three hours on rails, $2.50 return-fare for
an aged concession has me wondering at
such a paltry sum for scenic adventure.
Why is it so utterly, insuperably cheap?

In Qld the same journey doesn’t exist;
TransLink, Airtrain and Citytrain’s ideas
of value for money mean inflated prices
gaining quicker profits gladly. A similar
journey rates paying at least $25.00 –
and mate, that’s with aged concession,
but sadly, only going the one way.

Why did QR go wrong, what will be its
fate? Nothing much is the best guess –
a fait accompli in narrow-mindedness as
unalterably part of this ‘Free Enterprise’
State’s financial proclivity as belief the
rest of the Country’s in league making
Qldrs look a bucolic bunch of rednecks.
©14 February 2011, I. D. Carswell

Boy’s Night

Woke with a drier throat than composed
on going to bed, that amazing quality of
obligatory ‘prescribed’ Bombay Sapphire
lubrication, ostensibly yesterday’s first-aid
for a ‘boy’s night’ at home.

Only small amounts were imbibed in the
time honoured way, iced with tonic and
a twist of lime, Schweppes conversation
fizzed like a view of eternity ubiquitously
trapped in clear plastic.

Yet the throat played numb in an abject
morning of mourning giving rise to those
less than salutary reflections about why
one has to suffer – answer came logically
out of left field as a vague memory.

Yesterday is far more than a year past,
a wink pays homage to expectations of
invulnerability or shared dreams of glory,
and the way one wakes morning after
still tells only part of the story.
© 13 February 2011, I. D. Carswell

Bar And Merewether

No nouveau Novocastrian shipwrecked on
the beach explains away a penchant walk
between these bays’ derailing senses ease;
Bar and Merewether take from dawn ‘til
dusk at least a power of pounding feet, of
runners clad in Adidas or gaudy sneakers
chic and flush in glittered rush along a strand
of pulses set to max, faces fix’dly glazed.

Some are living slim in tanned physique and
dreams effete but most are rudely puffed of
ruddy countenance if thus allaying fears they
must enjoy a penanced overweight or seemly
life of mortgaged luxury beside the sea; in all
the years surveyed I’ve yet to see one such...
© 12 February 2011, I. D. Carswell

After A Rigorous Clean

Not giving way – hard as it is,
merely conceding conjugal
fluency remains in place,
structural roles that stay
like permanent furnishings
after a rigorous clean

But estranged involuntary
feelings without subtext or
explanations play in the
unconscious, autonomic
exhalations unpinned and
at ease with each other

Products of forty years
proto-intimacy re-enervated
in free debate, evanescent
but apace with scenes as
fresh as the first new
day’s visual memories

What has changed? There’s
no acrimony just strange
distancing, as if waiting for a
reply – if the question was
ever asked, though knowing
why doesn’t stand a chance
© 12 February 2011, I. D. Carswell

Making Travel

A journey without a train’s atmosphere
seems less a going – like being seated
at the stage of a populated theatre with
no clear destination and no-where to
take unhappy refuge or be safe from
imagined endings

Passengers aboard make give and take
eerily accessible, reading nuances in hand-
held gizmos played with dangerous dexterity
– bathed subtly in ear-plugged solitariness
smiling vaguely into void of implacable
railway carriage inter-communication

Maybe getting there explains – or maybe
it’s me who sees grandiose veneer; these
vacuous faces posturing in an ancient
passage of rites to suburban idols and the
dilettantes representing plastic nothings to
no-one in particular are easy reads

Minute scenes break play occasionally
create sanctuary – it was sunlight today
flickering on passengers, took my breath
away; no-one saved it for posterity – no-
one claimed the weighty insight it gave
entrained as such but left to me...
© 10 February 2011, I. D. Carswell

Live And Let Be

OK, ideas for change are great
‘though translating same into
practical effects takes more
than a notional leap of faith

Delays seem part of the scene;
dumb routines reflexively space
events – separating opposites
with introspective patience

We’re not talking days – years
maybe, sketched pensively into
eons of classical doubt-ridden
debate about what ‘should be’

Then the printer is moved by a
rush of vague adrenaline to the
left of an innocent PC since it
fits the current mood

Rests too candidly – an unedited
indictment, years of accumulated
dust exposed to eyes used only
to seeing the other side

So ‘change-for-the-better’ pays
in debit-worthy awareness, like
irony attached post hoc to an
already arraigned conscience

But wisdom claims propter hoc
the cause was a rash decision
when ‘live and let be’ meant
exactly the same anyway
© 5 Feb 2011, I. D. Carswell

Dishes Clean

You’ll claim you fixed it neat – sure
as ships in off-shore breeze sail
sweet you will profess to be the man
who solved that grand impasse

Leastways you’ll say you did although
there’s even doubt it was your hand –
it’s more a case of ignorance at ease
than any truly cogent plan

And yet you did the deed; evidence
appeals as swishing sounds arouse
replete within a dumb machine
that formerly was staunchly mute

Though you can never say you knew
what caused it so its righting came
in sequenced acts applied from a
brochure which Bosch prescribed

You must confess that their advice
had made no sense in any way but
lose – but then it ran and washed
and gurgled as it always used to do

And there it stands – dishes clean
and sanity returned by a machine
whose whims exceed a dolorous
dish maid's eccentricities
© 2 February 2011, I. D. Carswell

Standards

Saying you ‘almost made the grade’
goes only partway, it is like hinting
benign vagueness, or of taking no
credence how far or from where you
came; succeeding assumes such an
aura it belies who originally set the
bar so neatly and impossibly shy –
where failure was nearly assured

Truth is a stranger to what you say
self-deprecation’s a singular view with
no value in slaying dragon spawn; and
playing your own fool denies what we
need of your singularity – it was you
who set the grades to suborn!
© 29 January 2011, I. D. Carswell

PC Anarchy

Crikey, made a play at techno
crap and came away grinning,
well, enough of a win to have
problems at a stable state and
things OK – the laptop PCs talk
peer to peer, one can see two
printers, and supposedly LANs
& Internet aren’t closed space

It doesn’t mean they’ll stay that
way because it’s an incoherently
unstable condition – the more I
play the greater likelihood of a
relapse paving way to what I’m
really used to – PC anarchy!
© 27 January 2011, I. D. Carswell

Not Frustrated

‘Tiny’ frustrations consume so
little character-sapping energy
as to seem, ordinarily,
risk-free – not raising ripples,
but patterns in how those
things happen cry foul;
something’s going
on which isn’t normal

Normality appeals with an
honest face until held to scrutiny –
and then it’s too ordinary for
things to only happen that way;
excused, maybe, as the
best guess concludes
a distinct possibility we
really don’t want to know

Tho’ behaviour oddities
make life exciting don’t you think,
because we’re already ignoring
what is unrelentingly the
same old boring routine
and thus these claims that
prayers for spice to jazz
things up a bit means
we’re not frustrated...
© 14 January 2011, I. D. Carswell

Road Space

So I pass th’ cojone, he’s
open highway dawdling
waving huevón biker mates
by – Christ I say, who the
dolce vita are you?

No mean machines though
30 grand top of the line
expressions of affectation
quite well ridden tho’ in a
few cases – atrociously
 
No escaping a lawyer-like
in-line congregation of dude
restraint comprising, possibly,
stock-brokers, financial advisers,
merchant bankers running free

Give us a break, I complain
stuck in their midst – where’s
a real ‘Bandido’ with an utterly
eccentric, amoral penchant
to liven up proceedings

Wasn’t to be; they challenged
no-one in their visions of
discretionary self-importance
enjoyed their use of road
space good-naturedly
© 27 January 2011, I. D. Carswell

Gratitude

Y' wouldn't believe the angst -
something so simple it’s lost in
the grain – there's no cleverness
in curing an illness which
feigns pseudo-symptoms with
such an absurd credibility

Taken literally it is an indecent
innocence as wretched as the
delirium of ingrained ignorance
spread deliberately – and then
as misinformation; there's
some of it masquerading here 

Read the words written literally,
they're no cynical measure of
your gullibility, but a guide, don't
predispose what it reveals of you;
afterwards believe what you may 
but in the event be unconstrained

A smile compensates for deranged
hand-waves signalling misleading
intentions of where you'll think to turn;
tailgating makes an interesting
occupation but the way you pay in
grins communicates gratitude
©24 January 2011, I. D. Carswell

Succeeding

Like chasing your tail around a
circuit wound vaguely about an
axial approximation of spatiality

no-matter how quick the turn
there’s barely a glimpse of 
whatever is disappearing

you see halfway; that much
is clear – but as such halfway
progresses to nowhere

so you’re not going to get
there turning tighter circles
around an enigma quickly

knowing you’re chasing your
own tail doesn’t rationally explain
exactly why you’re a loser

but waiting motionless in line
for the next revolution probably
succeeds neatly
© 22 January 2011, I. D. Carswell

Dog Days

No thunder or lightning evident and
yet he alleges privilege, appeals to
a deep-rooted sense of fairness, an
unequivocal impartiality he swears
upon he claims, petite eyes shining,
reflecting ageless canine guile; ‘tho
not happening right now I can feel
it and it’s definitely on the way

Whoa we cry, back up a bit, sure it
is raining with distant rumblings far 
away, but it isn’t carte blanche OK 
for dogs being inside. He stays put, 
cautiously asks – can I peek at the 
radar or is that being a bit too rude? 
© 20 January 2011, I. D. Carswell

Clean Sweat

I suppose it doesn’t matter where
the money really goes – in a pure
notion of disposable income what
is a real concern? Whether spent
recklessly your money was earned
burning energy as a first principle
leastways legitimated one opines
if you paid sweated taxes on it

Be it a justifiable levy remains a
bone of contention – applied as a
rule in every case where money
changes hands assists expanding
coffers of administration, which in
turn, increases demand for more
 
So you’ve played pokies with insane
luck and won some cash, hit the pot
in a Casino’s blackjack benevolence
made profits trading bubbles on the
Stock Exchange – keep these things
under your hat; irony is it’s a safe bet
that the more you sweated earning it
the less of it you’re ever gonna get
© 19 January 2011, I. D. Carswell

TPI

If it’s an essence of Freedom’s expression
this genre wins praise with pimple heads
perched ludicrously atop of large frames
straddling huge road bikes, prototypically
Harley Davidson; the greying wind-flared
beard inscrutably marks belief and noisy
exhaust-note tone bleats out the emotive
epitome of an Elysian atmosphere

Those too-dark-to-see-out-of shades worn
easily hide a set of supposedly depraved
eyes sunken to great depths – it’s a test of
rationality gone awry, the game of the best
lurk ever invented, but who dares measure
infirmity in an ex-service veteran with TPI*
© 16 January 2011, I. D. Carswell

*‘Totally & Permanently Incapacitated’

The Raw Prawn

Doin’ things y’ own way’d be a bloody
waste, embracing differences y’ made
an effort which has won an accolade
or two but someone recognised that
you had talent and complained! Hey,
they say, don’t come the raw prawn!

Ok, as anyone who’s handled ‘em well
knows they’re slippery, wet and limp,
its analogous okay? There has t’ be
ingenuousness and wimpy feigning
innocence or naivety, i.e., like bein’
really dreadfully devious.
 
Well I’m bloody not! So it’s a sham?
What makes y’ think I’ve got a case
t’ answer for or give a curried damn
about your dodgy thoughts? I made
the play believin’ quite sincerely all
of youse, of course, weren’t dense.

If you’re anxious what I meant I can
explain it as a compliment, a play to 
set things right by doin’ ‘em your way.
I now recant I’ll be the man who made
the difference stand and gaily join the
gang in rawly peelin’ bloody prawns.
© 18 January 2011, I. D. Carswell

Prescience

can’t help feeling deceived, if it was
so predictable – why the dissonance?

why such angst at being, for once, correct; 
why is right thus wrong in affectation

dwelling in a past tense takes less in
tamed energy vaguely going nowhere

or pompous notions of permanence
shamefully displayed as chimaeras

one must plan redundancy, gazing at 
nomadic vacancies wastes strength

‘post-event as plain as the nose on
your face’ images remain tantalizing

‘tho clear neo-renaissance blooms
atavistically – vigour easily drained

in retrospect all those events you
knew you’d presciently foreseen
© 16 January 2011, I. D. Carswell

Stella

 
She
contains an essence
of the stars

and sun
and light
divines in judgment
of her smile

She is
the complement of
scent expressed
© 8 January 2011, I. D. Carswell
For granddaughter
Stella Ingrid Carswell

Not Alone

not falling on your feet exactly,
surviving, just, as if it’s something
mystical –

a bit like

copping plagues of ants in an
extreme excess of rain tuned
to Xmas - New Year recess,

or

seeing pictures of mad flooding
roadways in wmvs, although a
local live effect’s the same,

even wearing

a voluntary hair-trim leaving no
room for doubt, power blackouts
and internet transponder failures

and now

a noisy ‘rat’ making ‘home’
in the spare room – a wet
refugee bandicoot maybe;

but the inundated

homes nearby with neighbour’s
concerned offers of help genuinely
and freely made says

eloquently

we’re isolated in fact – no obvious
escaping that callous reality, but
we know we’re not alone...
© 13 January 2011, I. D. Carswell

This Wet

Was Sunday I believe this Wet began –
on a roll of damp intransigence, best
guess has seven weeks of rising creeks;
geeze, that’s 40 days & nights at least
it’s rained again!

It ain’t the rabid Wet which breaks my
timorous heart, god knows I’m used to
that, its poodle-faking upbeat crap one
must receive from faked fair-weather
sailors views which sap ones energy

Their safe urbane analogies in water-
violent treachery review an aching void,
they’re closet wankers too obsessed to
act with common sense or see there is
no way it’s safe to ride this bastard out

It’s raining Dudes, the Wet’s a drought
of anarchy; nothing’s safe but moves to
higher ground - before you cruise on rat
shit truth that’s drowned in rising
rectitude we’ve foundered on before 
© 11 January 2011, I. D. Carswell

Staff Volunteers

strange as it seems debating affectations won’t
engender change, all ways they appear truly
they are, seen gazing unfathomable distances
with dislocate eyes vacuously evading meeting
yours even vaguely

an empty stare, “Are you in there,” you want to
ask – but daren’t in case the occupant isn’t even
dimly human, and no signs to take seriously of
sentience evident, it’s easier saying – “Here, just
collect my $20 fee and leave me alone”

you’re freed an awkward judgemental conscience
and they go away requited, absolved, legitimated
such that locked market gates merely incarcerate
– who cares if rain persists, keeps customers away
and you from leaving early

you’re locked in for their self justification – or as long
as it takes for an uncommon gestation of common-
sense, even their dull-witted reticence aired brazenly
via a public loudspeaker system fails as a placatory
argument in self-defence
© 10 January 2011, I. D. Carswell

Paramour

now that anxiety’s too frail
to make a case, the time you
have caressed in play of
gentle thoughts designed
to sublimate desire – well,
patently it failed

sex appeal defends itself
expressed as rigors borne of ice
and steel – they’re real enough
to touch and taste, as feelings
dislocate from cause appeal
their sensuality

your play displaces inchoate ideas
and while you breathe in rapture
freed of angst this swelling sings
with energy not quite concealed
as innocence – you’d have to say
you knew the score

and yet there’s more – a rootless
hand’s arrest in flight defines a
set of rules one might appeal
if grounds were sure; but then
your victory smile reveals
a game of paramour
© 8 January 2011, I. D. Carswell

Tempos

So today’s tempo remains upbeat, an
effect of wakening blessed you’d say,
stolen moments at edge of sleep
before raw awareness pervades

Before unrestrained heat holds sway
in token wafts of glazed humidity
before credibility melts and runs away
seeking cool-breeze sanctuary

The panting dining room fan stirs only
shades of yesterday sadly – that kind
of day in making, feebly expressed in
asthmatic airlessness

Relief imagined in cool-change dreams
overcomes unbearable ennui, raises
the beat gladly, shares some release
to breathe in unrestrained space

And the scene reels and bleeds into
a framed mirage of sultriness – a
limp moment of tranquillity, magic
asylum of a midday sleep
© 3 January 2011, I. D. Carswell

Favours Granted

amazing things achieved on the last day
of the decade – amongst other things a
shirtless hillside pee wearing thongs and
blue skunk pyjama shorts watching kids
circuit riding 50cc mini-bikes at a New
Year’s eve celebration; it replays a laid-
back way I’ve ended the last ten years 

able to stand upright on a damp hillside
easily in sun we haven’t seen for nearly
four weeks, rejoicing in sheer novelty of
knowing at last there will be more of it
tomorrow, caring it is thus in the same
happy-go-lucky way we’ve enjoyed all
the happenings of the past six decades 

downhill through swampy places already
encountered on the way aware of stains
inevitably flicked from thongs, lax in not
caring a whit – greeting a complete blasé
unsuitability, revelling in it on this day of
favours granted and chances taken glad
in the receipt of which we’re not amiss
© 31 December 2010, I. D. Carswell

Green Onions

Times of less disparity, agreed –
but stress was not an atmosphere
and growing through the 60’s
blessed in raw simplicity the way
we saw our fateful truth

I heard again today one of those
songs we knew from radio or
played on vinyl back in ‘63;
the words remain attuned
as powerful memories

And yes, compared to modern
music mix the sounds are raw
but fresh to ears long starved
of rhythms urgent beat
across the 50 years

Green Onions played by Booker T
retains its soulful melody with no
regrets – 1 minute 32 of potent
fugue which asks ‘do you remember
how we used to dance?’

As teens who grew into maturity
obsessed with individuality we rest
assured we never really left the
stage – a purity of 60’s song
recalls it all so faithfully
© 1 January 2011, I. D. Carswell