Wednesday, October 10, 2012

Strain

Sometimes there's not enough of all too much
To keep your mind off your spiritual poverty.
It's a good look for me.
Keep an eye on your mental property.
You're not Mr Clean
You're not miserable.
Something heavy in your gut like Advil
Or an anvil
In your landfill.

It's not enough to proposition the universe
Or for you to get possessive
In the second person plural, literal
I'm just standing here
Seeing clear
Slap me if I get mystical.

You see humanity through a lens
It's your own faulty intent
Can't swim on land
Without getting the bends.

As long as I'm speaking in this person singular
You'll be drawing back now.
Keep talking all you like
I've got no space for all you.

Monday, October 8, 2012

Dubai International Airport

The first sign of being in a foreign airport is the helpful signage.
The blast of Western ads brands cares is solid, so solid it wears at the base.
It's all familiar, no alienation, how are you meant to feel at home?
No shopping centre or terminal back home gives you any help:
this is your manor, your patch, of course you know your way around.
A native will never get lost, so signage is not for the natives.
Nor for the lost.
If you are well lost no sign, not even lightning and fire, will help you.
Signage nullifies the possibility of getting lost and so, with no adventures
(mis or otherwise)
you never burrow into the landscape like a native.

This is all perfect for airports.

There is sure a limit to how much you can learn about a city from its airport
But, as the layovers hits that middle sweet spot not long enough to go
see something but just too long to be passed by several pots of tea
and conversation,
I shall similarly hit the sweet limit of my knowledge.

The staff all were in a hurry, the world about to fly apart if they
are not doing the best automaton impression they could be
No passengers hurry.
Some of them move like maniacs, sure
But that's just the downshift.
Stand on a travelator and walk off the end, feel the earth sap your momentum:
the downshift.
Going from screaming three hundred kays or more through the air –
sitting still –
to moving nowhere, fixed in transition, despite all the locomotion in the world.

I'm locomoting, putting each foot down with precision
As if the wrong distribution of weight may start a riot, make me the cautionary story.
Not tired but plenty wired, on lack of sleep and lack of coffee, which I self-denied to – note! get some sleep on the plane.
No one sleeps on a flying death tube, unless they are foolish or pilots or not me.
Wired, pock-eyed, pockmarked with pores and pimples stretched with hundreds of oil molecules cratering into my face, digging for whatever,
I roam the terminal like a caged tiger (if my moustache were more impressive)
See the people sprawled on chairs and floors, casualties of eighteen or sixteen hour flights from some place they didn't want to be to another place they didn't want to be
Trying to suck in the emotional oxygen to get through another flight, veterans now, one trip and they're veterans of this war on geography.
The defibs have signs saying they don't work, don't bother, do you want to wake up back in an airport?

Did catch some of Dubai during the descent.
Thirty-three Celcius at four o'dark! I'm convinced it's the streetlights.
An ocean of orange, careful to illumine all of the no cars.
Four a.m., okay, but Dubai – known for its hotels and everyone going to bed at nine with a glass of milk?
Pacing cross-legged sitting down, staring at a grey cityline in a grey morning.
Is Dubai even real? Are the houses you see from the flight path fictional, a city invented by rich bastards to golf or fuck or, unlikely, make love without marriage intruding?

Of course Dubai's real, of course it is. Dubai Dubai Dubai we've all been there man.
The ceiling is the same colour as a cloudy – or smoggy, I'm from Brisbane what do I know from smog – sky outside. In Dubai. 
I can't take it any more.
This terminal is making me free, master of my own destiny, I can't stand it.
I can see the fences and razor wire but I need them closer.
Need some boundaries to ricochet around to keep me moving.
I'm like a shark – only one piece of me worth selling.

Thank god for the bars along the terminal walls or we would never get out.

Monday, August 13, 2012

Democritus (?)


He would have loved to be remembered on canvas
maybe.
To stamp his imprint on a nation
we believe.
No one laughs like a philosopher.
Perversity is the root of humour
so they laugh and laugh
at death, taxes
inevitability
long words and short phrases
long socks and short skirts
long lives and short loves.

My standup routine goes:
Democritus walks into a bar
and the barman says )?(
and Democritus says
_ | _

Friday, August 10, 2012

Canon


A room full of saints, in the Spanish style,
Violent drama
From quiet to whisper loud.

They never meet your eyes.
Ashamed
Caught on canvas doing things.
Things they never did
All marked in heart's-blood
Sympathetic magic
From their heart to mine
A long line of carmine
Passing the eye, the mind, the word
Clawing at the under-soul
The heaving breathy bellows
With ten thousand flensing knives.

An image, a snapshot
In salvation history
Tarted up with royal Photoshop
Here a tear, there an attribute
Every artifact tilted
Every illumination falsified.

Ah, my love, let us be true to one another,
Said the forger to his brush.

Wednesday, August 8, 2012

To A Metre


Gallery-noise is a seasonal beast
Now sharp, now young; now soft-treading away.
Touching the eye with the touch of the fray
Gallery-love is immovable feast.
A certain mad haste is checked by the door
None becalmed, the still mind snared fast
Today's daily colours now torn from the mast
To heal, one lances the festering sore.

The orphaned eye, once fed, hungers for more,
Surfeit and surcease draw further apart,
The mind dwells, weaves spells, runs after fancy,
So go write upon the danger of art!

Monday, August 6, 2012

Portraiture


A man is playing Spanish guitar
In the lounge of the gallery.
An old man is sketching, with power,
With hands years younger
His eye dances back
From his object to image
He rubs his nose, irritated
That he is still made of flesh.

A couple: older, monkish
Watch the historical display scroll by
Curious
Recovering
From beauty.

Voices echo from the foyer
A flock of school children, leaving
Having passed through once
Pausing at each point
And leaving
Some corner of their eye
Trailing behind.

The guitarist pauses
Begins with a fresh guitar
Tuning
To make it new again.

On the floor above, the paintings hang.
One hundred melodies
From one instrument
Carved by one hundred songs.
On the floor above, the paintings wait
For a stray heart, a careless eye
Ready to be devoured
By the heart and eye
Of Spain.

///

Will be posting some poetry written while at the Prado exhibition currently at the Queensland Art Gallery.

Monday, June 4, 2012

Terrorism and Playing the Game

What is terrorism?

In the dictionary sense, perhaps "the use of violence and threats to intimidate and coerce, usually for political purposes." Another definition might be the use of violence to create an atmosphere of fear to further political goals. The argument over a precise definition continues. But in this post I don't want to talk about what kind of act can be labelled terrorism, but about what other labels can given to acts which have been labelled terrorism.

Please now imagine a historical act which you believe to be an act of terrorism.

What you saw in your mind was probably the consequences of terrorism, the scene after the act was complete, painted with emotional reactions as well as visual: pain, loss, anguish, fear, anger. Perhaps there was dust, or smoke, or fire, or only a human being now dead when previously they were alive. What is important is the emotional response.

It is quite possible you were imagining the September Eleven attacks upon the United States, which I will be using as my chief example. What I wish to argue from this example is that one of the main reasons why you find terrorism objectionable is not the death or destruction but the fact that the terrorist does not play by the rules. I mean by this the rules of safety: if you join the armed forces you may die in warfare, but ordinary citizens do not die in war. The fact that this has been true of only a handful of conflicts very recently in history in very specific circumstances does not diminish the fact that it is the rule in which people believe. And it is a very pleasant belief.

One reason for the strong emotional response which terrorists elicit is that they do not play by the rules. Acts of terrorism show that the accepted rules are not rules at all. They are temporary conventions which are sometimes accepted and sometimes rejected. Ordinary citizens often die in war. And what is more, they often die in wars which have not been declared by their own side, or even by the other side - there may not even be a readily identifiable 'other side' at all. The conflict which causes death may be entirely incomprehensible, even to a careful observer.

This is not because terrorists are playing a different game to armies. In fact, they are playing the same game. They are pursuing political goals through violence. What they are doing is examining the state of the game and doing what seems most effective to them. They simply reject the fleeting convention which you embrace. You are the scrub: the player - or component of a player - whose ability to play the game is limited before you ever consider what your opening move should be.

Terrorists, in other words, acknowledge no automatic or inherent restraints on what constitutes legitimate violence. Terrorism makes you tremble - in fear, anger, grief, confusion - because it reminds you that even the moral restraints which seem obvious and mandatory to you are in fact personal to you. The natural tendency of humanity is not towards good but towards evil. Nowhere is this more clearly shown to you than in the willingness of people - of brothers and sisters and parents and lovers and poets and students - to kill other people they have never met and cannot possibly hate in any individual or comprehensible sense. All of this in pursuit of an atmosphere of trauma and fear in order that certain political goals might, possibly, maybe, be furthered.

All this is not monstrous. It is as human as any act of love. And the reminder of this, the upsetting of the rules for not only warfare but your understanding of humanity, is what disquiets you so about terrorism.