"Jack-o-lantern At Midnight"

Alien, is this Jack-o-lantern; more like a shuttle, or a Venusian cave
Sizzling brighter then a cigarette, upon his every inhalation
Then darkening, quietly, with a flowing exhalation
He feels comforted and warmed by that familiar affirmation:
"My lame, cute inhabitants, you are stilled once again."

Well, I can only tremble before a scissor-snipped smile, and two
Poked out triangle eyes -
And sort of melt like candle wax, my heart playing hard to get
Even harder then the drums play, so softly and darkly on the inside.

I am only 16, but I can climb up high
Then squeeze my way through a corner of the left eye
Take my time on the short slide round, submerge in triumph
Get right on down
With Jack, the devil, and all the characters
Who make up his merry-red mind.

Yet this is no pumpkin, and it is well past midnight.
See the fire-flies, twisting and turning along this same enclosed
cul-de-sac?
You've noticed, no doubt, the way, they simply cannot move?
The needle got stuck in the groove.

Though they prance, dance, embrace in the dark
They share no outlandish history, no interminable camaraderie
I believe they do not know each other, any better then they know me -

Wearing balaclavas, toy glasses, fake moustaches
A sickly set of photo negatives; trapped, turned inside out
Banal shells of their sweet, lonely selves.

Jack has done this : wiring them all up like machines,
to the same station, the same channel
With his cut throat razor and his wicked whipper snapper!
(He lopped away at all the world, then buried it, like a dead brain)

And it is Jack who tells me a trip in time's the time to buy,
That NOW'S my hymen's time to die.
Though it is ultimately, I - swallowing it, washing it
Down with waters, septic as all hell
With the zeal of some lifeless old laugh track,

When it is these people I picture, personified, burned and blackened;
Dropping dead like poisoned flies
Time after time, despite strenuous tries

And with that in mind,
I join this moon~washed pantomime
Become one, with the triple-winged moth. That androgynous flapper
Emerged
Coughing and buzzing, from bruised~black oceans
Conceiving and spawning, its own magic potions
Which were all in themselves, created and contrived

Within the enclosed confines
Of Jack, the tricker, and his solitary, single-celled little mind

By Rosemary's Baby on Saturday, December 30, 2000 - 10:55 pm:

DARK JOURNEY

Through the gutter the sludge filtered back, and you slid down, away from it, wincing. It drained away, this drift of memory; bad stuff, crap, little things you could never erase, never throw away.
Getting there at last. Down the canal no one could ever move through. The picture no one alive had ever been able to pierce.

Crashing into landscape you saw that nothing was alien. A familiar landscape, oddly evocative symmetry. All over the place. Not a flash-back, or how you'd imagine one to be. No foggy lens or anything, port hole and past floating by in soft focus. This was far, far too warm, too bright. Too vibrant to be back, and it felt weirdly ephemeral...
( "I have a feeling we're not in Kansas any more...")

Still shaded by the old willows, all of it! Stoic trees, Lilac and Oak and Pine, and sprinklers still on too, like always in summer. That was so you had the option of running under and getting soaked like the cool lawns, so soft, not like the raw Buffalo at home. And the weird old rose bushes; they were over to the left, near the back verandah, where fruit drooped languid across the gazebo, the grapevine everyone objected to them being near.

There was something sphinx-like about those rose bushes. They were so old, and everyone said : "Don't go near those." This in itself was an enigma. And keep away from that grapevine! "Never eat a sour grape, else you'll get the stomache ache" - at which they giggled at the euphimism, get fingers sticky, pick out especially fat ones, though the child had always taken good care to avoid the grapes with split skin. (Occasional ant darting in and out : that was off-putting.) Even so, maybe it was merely the sense of the forbidden, attracting them to the sour, hard green ones. They made them shiver and squirm. Still, they always did it.
It was only a little spot upon the map of day, gone about in that repetitious cycle in which everything always had to be played out, like a film watched over and over 'til you knew all the lines, and they'd get upset and scream, cry or run away if any of it was once done a little differently.
You could see yourself now, or the shade of what you'd been. It sat under a sun, probably a July sun, beneath the cumquat tree behind the grape vine. It sat stoutly with a blue and white striped tin drum, apparently ignorant of the older shade and everything else. And she - you might as well call it she - looked sillier even, with the blonde hair hanging down to thin shoulders. Girl child of hippy parents; yellow and green towelling tee-shirt, fearful in its tastelessness, worn with dirty looking cords. Two tiny white feet stuck out, like little soft cushions. The cousin was there too. She had even longer blonde hair and blue eyes too, so people must have (let's face it, deep down) thought her so much cuter. And climbing one of the Lilacs the cousin was saying, "Oh come on! We've been playing shops all day!" and the thing you used to be dropped the drum and tottered over to the tree (the clock work mouse: face almost tumescent, so round and playful, somewhat more so then it turned out to be, when you stopped to think). Quite flushed with heat, she whined with no great subtlety, "I wish our Mum's would hurry up and take us to the pool."
"We're still having the dinner and now we're playing TARDIS," the cousin said bossily. "And let's say we're going back in time and then we stop grand-pa from dying. So - he won't smoke the cigarettes." A sticky white paw grasped out for the lowest branch, since even then she had been one not prone to taking risks. But that branch had not grown strong enough, so the child held back. Still, the branch was growing. Every where was growing.
"GIRLS!" came that voice from the house, so irrefutably plausible, so fondly reproachful! "You'd better come inside now, because we're having the dinner."
"Yeah, in a minute Grandmama," the cousin said.
"Now come down from that tree now, or one of you'll break your neck."
The voice sounded commanding, a little censorious and the witness to it all could hardly believe this was the real thing. It was almost more moving then anything else.

The two children were racing the garden path for the back door, the blue door, discarding the bucolic sanctity of the balmy yard as though it would always be here.
As though it would always be here!
"Come back," said the shade. The blue door was shutting now and you could remember. They would be sitting for the first course. Vegetable soup and maybe l'escargot, then fried chicken with baked potatoes, green beans and tomato savoury. Then ice cream with thick apple pie, the latter the only part of the meal the child had never been able to stand.
"Come back," the shade repeated.

The set began to dim. You could not tell at first if a cloud had settled across the dazzling sun. The sentience all about seemed to be retiring. A weary, weary fade out. As though all that colour, those green green lawns and red and white roses, the blue of the sky, were all transmuting into something else. (You had watched from afar, then gotten nearer and nearer and so near everything was just a daft dot on the TV screen.)
"Come back!"
Colours swung slowly, left to right, then right to left and back again, and it somehow reminded you of great waves.
Then, in an abrupt surge of fierce energy, everything began to spin and spin into an eclipsing circle, and the shade knew just what was being left behind. (A phantom of deathless reality.)
And back up through the moribund canal you go, back up! Again you are on the most unfamiliar of journeys, and everywhere is dark all over again.

By AnDyPaNdY on Sunday, December 31, 2000 - 12:46 am:

It`s A Lovely Day
It`s a lovely day,
I must say ,
That Today,
It`s a lovely day.
Thankyou

By stereopop on Sunday, December 31, 2000 - 12:55 am:

Thus I
Pass by
And die;

By chris on Tuesday, February 27, 2001 - 04:10 am:

you think you got me sorted
you think you got me pegged
but i don't have no problems
and i don't need your wooden leg
let's not talk again
let's not walk through flowers
there's a whole wide world out there
and you can't lock me in no towers!

By Friendly Neighbourhood Spiderman on Tuesday, February 27, 2001 - 10:09 am:

There once was a man from Nantucket
Who's d!ck was so long he could suck it
But when he tried for his ass
He fell in the grass
And knew that he just couldn't f#ck it!

By chris on Sunday, March 18, 2001 - 06:50 pm:

so, ok, i'm gonna have to ask pple what they thought of my poem.
comeon, i need feedback.
let me know what y'all though, k?

By stereopop on Sunday, March 18, 2001 - 09:40 pm:

That's beautiful. I started to cry.

By rob on Monday, March 19, 2001 - 08:18 am:

Something I've been trying to work out
Has just clicked inside my brain,
The reason why I talk to myself
The answer is "I'm insane!"
I don't know why it took so long
For it to get through,
Why can't I speak to others
Like I'm now speaking to you.
I've always asked me that question,
I've always asked myself why,
Yet like a piece of goz when you spit into the wind
The answer just hit me in the eye.

By rob on Monday, March 19, 2001 - 08:18 am:

Eye cot my shelf an spill checker
Two news on me Pea Sea,
An know wren never aye Czeck sum righting
Hit works rely well four me.

By rob on Monday, March 19, 2001 - 03:27 pm:

I don't sit down and write pointless songs
Like songs about the weather,
The meaningless of life or the softness of a feather.
Or songs about love and hate how you life was turned around
By the woman of your dreams and how she let you down.

The beauty of a city or the mist upon a lake,
Songs that are deep and meaningful somehow just seem fake.
With a song I don't prove God exists or anything like that,
When I sit down and write a song it's writen
About my neighbor's cat.

By Anonymous on Monday, March 19, 2001 - 03:37 pm:

Consider the plight of the Supermarket Negro.
There's never been a black character
representing a food product
that's been considered a role model by anyone.

There's no little girls saying,
"Mommy! I want to be like Mrs. Butterworth
when I grow up."

And would any 8 year old boy be caught with a poster
of Uncle Ben hanging in his bedroom?

In a vain attempt to make Aunt Jemima less "slave-like"
they got rid of her red bandana
and Gone With The Wind clothes
and made her a woman of The 90's
by giving her a perm,
so she could shuck waffles
with the class she deserves.

There is a double-standard to say the least.

Consider the white men and women in advertising:
the proud and strong Mr. Clean,
the stately and regal Captain Crunch,
the tough Brawny paper towel lumberjack,
and the beautiful lady on the Ivory Snow box.

With the exception of Orville Redenbacher,
there's nothing but pristine specimens to represent
Caucasian Americans in the grocery store.

There's a cartoon character hawking Cocoa Crispies
with a Caribbean accent, but he's a MONKEY!

For one fleeting moment, we had a Reggie Jackson candy bar,
but it went away, leaving us with that smilin' chef
from Cream of Wheat boxes, and Steve Urkel cereal instead.

Of course, blacks aren't alone in this.
Fill your brown paper bags with
Eskimo Pies, Big Red Chewing Tobacco, Cheese Nips, and
Crazy Horse Malt Liquor, while you're at it.

This is not acceptable!
Give Malcolm X his own brand of chewable vitamins!
James Brown condoms! Public Enemy chewing gum!
Even Frosted Farrakhan Flakes would be a start!

There's a cross burning in Aisle 12
between the mayonnaise and the marshmallow cream,
and it's time to put it out.

By Puppy Lover on Monday, March 19, 2001 - 04:16 pm:

THURSDAY AFTERNOON

Five-thirty pm
Curtains drawn
Clock radio flashes
Green on Her skin.
Kiss it.
Kiss her.
"My Sleeping Beauty"
Lay still for a while
Don't rush away
For once in your life
Don't hurry.
Say to me, "it can wait
I want to stay here with you"

(I wrote that down a full-length mirror with lipstick... I was just compelled to do it. When she woke she was a mixture of annoyed and charmed)

By The Crank on Monday, March 19, 2001 - 04:31 pm:

You could get a spot on Oprah with that, "Anonymous".
But who the hell was ever brought into the 90's by getting a PERM? That was what the 80s were about!

By stereopop on Monday, March 19, 2001 - 09:05 pm:

A perm to those of us with curly hair is a straightener to the rest of you.

By TobyZ on Monday, March 19, 2001 - 09:06 pm:

Cheese Nips!!! lol

Oh Anonymous. . .

By evil_eye on Tuesday, March 20, 2001 - 09:23 am:

how good it is to be
a fig in a tree
but to eat one upon a lake
is truely great

By jugs on Tuesday, March 20, 2001 - 11:58 am:

Oi! Rob! Them poems are the ones off my website!

By Anonymous on Tuesday, March 20, 2001 - 01:15 pm:

Guess you've been robbed. aha, oh I love me.

By Ken Doll on Saturday, April 28, 2001 - 09:45 am:

The mall is my catwalk, darlings.
Tossing manes, batting eyelids & swivelling hips : I don't mind if I do.
Today I met someone with the middle name of Shaven Coconut. I was immediately turned on & swept away.
"Did you change your name via deed poll?" I asked.
"No," she said. "My parents had a succession of fashionable drug habits in the Seventies."

Down to the rotunda to meet like-minded individs.
As usual the skaters were all high on mushrooms, passing out hits of LSD. Scouring the scene and not finding who we wanted, we simultaneously turned our backs and lifted our shirt-tails - we couldn't have anyone suffering an obscured view of our maginificent asses as we made our exit. "Come back!" shouted the skaters. "We've got speed too! Thirty-five dollars a point!"
We acquiesced.

Over a tossed salad for lunch, we whacked around the idea of erecting two kissing booths in the mall. Mine would say "Come Hither And Kiss My Puckered Lips" in big, bold, black writing. After a long deliberation she decided to call hers "Beestung Lips: Kisses Sweeter Than Wine."
Her perennial stalker, a boy sitting behind us wearing dark sunglasses and a fake moustache, butted into our conversation and suggested she use "Suck My Kiss!" instead.
We smiled politely, then left.

"He's quite handsome for a stalker," she said. "If he wasn't so into me, I'd probably fancy him."
"He could do with losing those courds," I said. "And that unfortunate haircut."
I spoke loudly enough so he could overhear from his position of ten paces behind us.
"I'm coming to the conclusion that I'm just unwilling to fuck anyone who would be willing to have me as a sexual partner," she said. "Call it standards, if you will."
"Ahh, the Groucho complex," I said. "Wise."

By Cindy Doll on Saturday, April 28, 2001 - 01:22 pm:

Touché

By ZACH+---------- on Saturday, April 28, 2001 - 07:08 pm:

I am a small Bee
People Don't Like me near them
I wouldnt sting them

A hiku(sp?) my ZACH+---------

By Micky {The Lad} on Sunday, April 29, 2001 - 10:14 am:

BOLLOX.

By The Lad {Micky} on Sunday, April 29, 2001 - 11:15 am:

Now THIS is how ya write a poem, you bollockers:
"Over On The South Side" - Micky Maybrick.

Brett and me were riding down the South Road
Main roads and back-streets
Yellow lights shining in with the ice wind every second
(And ya knew they was the same as the girls outside their local - omnipotent like electricity
Goin' down my spine
Wildly trying to nick at the inside of my white trainers
With yellow beer stain everywhere - damn them for that.)

Brett and me, best mates these 22 years
And counting.
Count down for glory in our Pete's old car tonight.
(Burn outs, try-outs, fist-outs, and we was only four cylinder then, d'you remember?
Remember that fishing trip in '98? You nicked my longest rod
And caught a blonde fish instead
but ya never hogged it, back that summer of '98.)

Fuzz pull us over. Pigs and one is a lady pig.
Red mouth openin' and shuttin' like a little snare
as she says:
"You need a panel-beating job on yer front, lads."
Brett IS a panel beater, little lady pig
And ya know this is what he wants to say
And ya know the little lady pig only wants us to stay
(She likes a rigged game - but my tongue is RAW for it.)
Lady, we're six cylinder, soon we'll be eight.
She wants to lift our bonnet
Bloke-pig gets us to stop it
He winks cuz he knows
We're soarin' away away from all this
Along the south-side tonight
For our Grand Final.

By Kenzie on Sunday, April 29, 2001 - 07:28 pm:

ummm...... right.

By ZACH+----------- on Sunday, April 29, 2001 - 07:34 pm:

Oh... Sorry i had it all wrong

By Micky {The Lad} on Monday, April 30, 2001 - 09:47 pm:

Dear birds,
I hope you liked my poem. I had to write that for my grade 12 English class yeah. Had to read it out loud too yeah. Fucking nervous I was, I'll tell you that much. Shaking in me boots haha. Anyroad I got another poem eh, and its fucking good too. I'd type it in now except I'm too tired after taking a long hot bath after training. Maybe if your lucky I'll belt it out later for yers all. Nice one.
Luv,
Micky

By Micky {The Lad} on Monday, April 30, 2001 - 10:47 pm:

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By alex on Tuesday, May 1, 2001 - 03:59 am:

Er..yeah.
Beyond that though, I'd like to point out that Zach spelled haiku right. *plaudits to you*

By ZACH+----------- on Tuesday, May 1, 2001 - 04:30 am:

Actual...I dident.

By alex on Wednesday, May 2, 2001 - 02:55 am:

Look at that you didn't.

Oh come on now, I mean really! You did'nt just put an 'e' in didn't.

By chris on Wednesday, July 4, 2001 - 10:26 am:

oh grrrr what twat did that? it nearly made my computer freeze over...sux.....

By Lucky on Wednesday, July 4, 2001 - 06:14 pm:

heehee you're new aren't you...

By chris on Thursday, July 5, 2001 - 07:57 am:

No I think that was the other Chris

By Chris on Friday, July 6, 2001 - 03:20 pm:

I've been posting here for a good while longer than you m'laddo. So stop using my name, it's getting incredibly irritating.

By Lucky lime, coke, and hot air on Friday, July 6, 2001 - 04:02 pm:

Aaaahhhhh Chris-overload!

If someone other than me took over the world, their name would probably be Chris.

By Butter~Mobile on Thursday, September 27, 2001 - 10:51 pm:

"You reckon you're into writing poetry ..."
I opined pretentiously: "Not exactly into it. Actually, I hate the act itself. I'm only into it when the result lives up to the inspiration, and that hardly ever happens."

Todd & I sat wedged together in a funky, red booth up the back of a Northbridge cafe. We'd left Red~Heads twenty minutes earlier.

It was getting on for four o'clock now, but it was still crowded. The post~night club crawlers swirled about like actors, chattering in cliques behind a kind of mise en scene of 'bohemian' maroon lighting. I didn't know them. Sometimes you'd recognise on if you were walking during daylight, and they'd look like crap, but they all seemed so radiant here. It cheered you up, sometimes.
Todd had drunk three beers, I was finishing one.

"You ever heard of Charles Bukowski?"
"Uh~huh," I sighed. So this was another one thinking it was some big, impressive credit. Drinking. The sad thing was just how much they all believed in it. Jim Morrison or Charlie Bukowski; depending on socioeconomics, they all had this dire idea they were the reincarnation of one or the other.
(But now I was being snobbish; I was being presumptuous & mean.)
"So, tell us about this Patrick dude. You say he dumped ya. What was 'is problem?"
"Patrick liked sports a lot. He didn't like for girls to talk much."
Todd smirked. The first and last time I'd ever see him smile. "You mean, when the footy's on?"
"Just in general."
"He couldn't have minded you talking. You seem pretty bright."
"Oh yeah, he liked it when I talked. I guess though because in his mind, and as he said, when I talked, I talked sense."
"Well, there you go..."
"No, it's not that! It had nothing to do with that!"
"Do with what?"
"All I talked about was how great he was. All that time, and like not one word out of my mouth unless it's a compliment or just 'Thank you'. And it still doesn't work. Todd, I'll tell you what Patrick is. He's shit personified. But the thing is, he thought I was a virgin. So I tell him, 'Well, I'll readily sacrifice all that for you'. He tells me that's just so sweet. Whilst I," I conluded jocularly, "Thought it was just so sweet that he could believe such tripe I went mad for him. I mean MAD mad!"
I was giggling. I had said too much.
Todd reached for my hand across the table. "God, I love the way you talk."
"At least you love something. None of these others do."
I gestured arrogantly at the swarms of boys and girls in the booths behind us.

I know I get to this stage when I drink where I'm aggravating to be around, but I met Todd's gaze and his eyes, pale blue~watery and blood shot, were not vexed, but the kindest I'd ever seen. I did have to give him that.
"You're so sweet and so beautiful. God, you're so beautiful! There's Valium's 'round my place." He threw this up like a trump card. Sad lad. "And Rohypnal. Tremazipam, what~ever you feel like. It's all there."
He looked mutely desperate for some kind of affirmation on my part, and I felt sorry for him. I had to admit, he appeared sincere.
"You look," he pronounced,"Like food to a starving man."
This said with absolutely no irony.
"You can do without this stress, uh, what'dja say your name was?"
"Sasha."
"Yeah, sorry, Sasha. There's Valium's round my place. Rohy's...Mazzi's..."
"You said that already," I snapped. Then, lowering my eyes, I amended, "Well, it's a very kind offer."

We strolled to a bleak corner, searched for a vacant cab. I stared into the cloudless sky. The moon was almost full; the heavens were truly seraphic tonight.
"Isn't the moon beautiful?" I commented. "It's round, like a hole to dive at."
Todd wrapped his arms about me, nose coyly rubbing against my forehead. "Almost," he said predictably, "As beautiful as you are."
I guess he couldn't help being a walking ball of corn. Patrick had always been so relentlessly corn~conscious, someone like this was a delightful change and I'm not up to typing any more.

By Btw on Thursday, September 27, 2001 - 11:43 pm:

This is about someone having a one night stand for the first time and not realizing that the love~rats of this world always say all that stuff about how 'beautiful' girls are when they're trying to get down their pants, that it wouldn't matter what the girl looked like so long as she had two arms, two legs and a vagina. So please, don't anyone get any funny ideas about me using prose in an 'autobiographical' way to tell boastful stories.
Love,
Ana