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I won the Nimbin Poetry Cup!!
Over the Weekend of the fifth and sixth of August, Nimbin lays down it's green carpet for poets far and wide. After intensive heats and semi finals followed by more finals I won the shiny, shiny love cup.
I met some amazing people and I haven't laughed this much since I was in high school. Thanks Nimbin.
You roll....
Making sweet sweet love to Mike.
Sean M Whelan in Nimbin, giving pleasure to Pleasure Unit.
Nimbin sky walkers.
Public transports me...
The sky dancer at the car wash looks like Annie Lennox.
She waves like drunk tree.
One long tube with arms
filled with hot, hot air
flailing about, attracting customers.
Fluttering like there’s a multitude of angels, playing with her heart.
She bends back slowly in the limbo position
then with a burst of spine breeze
she snaps forward
rising up
like a celebrity ghost.
Her make up is hard and her hair is cropped
as it can only be if you're a tube.
Her arms dance, come to the carwash!
Then she droops forward,
like it’s the end of the 80’s all over again.
She stays there awhile, shimmying alone.
But then pulls up and reaches for her sweet, sweet dreams.
WET (moist page remix)
So many ways to be wet, the dangerous kind, the puddle kind, gumboot smiles and Tweety Bird umbrella memories wet, 1981 wet, being in the rain and your dad’s afro haircut getting all soggy and you see the shape of his head for the first time wet. Fun wet, 11 wet, dressed in a bikini for the first time, it’s all baggy where your breasts are supposed to be. You tie a garbage bag around your waist so you can pretend to be a mermaid, jumping off the bridge and yelling ‘Madonna!’ as you crash into the water.
Wet teenager, first kiss, someone else’s tongue in your mouth feels…wet. Palms clammy.
Wet pool, the thick skin of chlorine and protective bath towel to wrap you up in year 7, awkward wet. Female wet, not the first wet, the tease wet, the wet you don’t even understand yet wet.
The woman’s wet, the curdle scream yearn primeval wet. The wet that’s like a mini water balloon full of sardines. Sad wet, where you’re crying and only fountains understand, so you jump off trams like some kind of crazy messed up fountain addict. You see one and sit by it and look knowingly at the constant
downfall
of water suddenly understanding why there are so many fountains in the city.
Sea wet, beyond you wet, a salty big rough jerk wet that tastes like the other sort of wet, but has so many different rhythms and versions of blue. The hose on a hot day, so intensively cold it shocks you but feels so good to be wet wet.
Shower after a hangover, cleaning off the dregs of disposable conversation out of your hair wet out of your skin wet, because for that moment as the hot water is streaming down your back you are forgiven everything. That water is so soft and so kind. Not like a tidal wave that seems like terror wet, angry wet, flood wet, where there is just no way you could imagine being dry wet. Not like that wet.
The human body is 70% water, this wet knows you.
And this wet is the other 30% coming home.
A definite clue.
She acts all cartoon cowgirl
when he’s around.
He is the sweetest thing,
his smile like a cradle.
She flirts like a pornstar’s daughter
and tells him she only ever hangs out with boys.
He blushes nectarine and hands her a coffee.
She sits with her feet dangling off a high chair
he looks at her like he’s 10 and she’s a wizz fizz bomb.
She kicks and her pigtails swish around like dashboard Hawaiian dancers.
She tells him that she’s listening for clues out her window
on how to be a better person.
Last night she heard a man yell
‘Don’t ever go pole vaulting’
in a fake Indian accent.
She thinks it’s definitely a clue.
He tells her, when he was a sailor,
the soft breeze under water would carry
the most ancient of songs
able to heal the wounds of man.
When he spoke she would look at him,
circling his face
sliding down his water park nose
nestling in his ears
fluffing his bald head with her hair,
his gentle eyes always adoring.
Her lips
coloured pink
ajar like an attic door
he wonders what it would be like to explore.
Giggles leave her mouth like mini bunnies with eyelashes.
She spins red cardigan tease
and leaves.
He can feel her go,
like she has all the rainbows in the world rushing after her.
Empty with bliss, he sits.
Big Weird Head
He Said
I am going to have to break up with you
I feel we just aren’t connecting
I said
I was just about to break up with you
I can’t handle your BIG WEIRD HEAD
He said
it’s just that I feel we are holding each other back
I said
NO IT’S BECAUSE OF YOUR BIG WEIRD HEAD
He said that we are suffocating each other and he
needs some space to breathe
And I said
no it’s because of YOUR BIG WEIRD HEAD
it’s out of proportion to your body
He said I love you very much but I need to find myself right now
I said
great you can use YOUR BIG WEIRD HEAD
to think things through
He said he was sorry but it was never meant to be
I said
hey don’t forget this massive hat for YOUR BIG WEIRD HEAD
This here poem was winner of the people's choice award in the 2005 Perfect Diary Gosh darn people have got some good taste.
Tell your future using this handy cowboy wheel!,
At high noon, when a gunfighter's twitching hand hovers over his holstered six gun, as he faces his enemy across the empty, windswept street... it is in that everlasting moment that he sees into the future. The clock hand never strikes, the wind never stops, his hand never grabs the pistol.
He sees everything.
