Friday, 31 October 2014

Halloween Poem: Annabel Lee BY EDGAR ALLAN POE

Annabel Lee

It was many and many a year ago,
   In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
   By the name of Annabel Lee;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
   Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,
   In this kingdom by the sea,
But we loved with a love that was more than love—
   I and my Annabel Lee—
With a love that the wing├Ęd seraphs of Heaven
   Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
   In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
   My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsmen came
   And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
   In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in Heaven,
   Went envying her and me—
Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know,
   In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
   Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
   Of those who were older than we—
   Of many far wiser than we—
And neither the angels in Heaven above
   Nor the demons down under the sea
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
   Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams
   Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes
   Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
   Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride,
   In her sepulchre there by the sea—

   In her tomb by the sounding sea.

Original image:
Anne Bachelier

Halloween Poems Speak Softly Lie Still

Speak softly
lie still.
James WF Roberts

Speak softly
lie still.
feel no harm
float over you
softly as the palms of night
hold you gentler than candlelight

close your eyes
rest the weary mind
and fall
fall away from conscious plight

Last night
as we lay silent
I felt that burning from your eyes
that question
that forever
keeps away the nectar of moon tide

Lost in the river of indecision
trapped in the consequences
of life
Do you now wonder?
do you now shiver?

At the very thought of us
lying here. Silent
forever. Forever

Speak softly
lie still.
feel no harm
float over you
softly as the palms of night
hold you gentler than candlelight

feel that touch of my kiss
desperately trying to re-ignite
our previous—wondrous
feeling of bliss.

Halloween Poems ECHO OF YOU

Halloween Poems

Not really a big of Halloween, basically because I am an Aussie and it's not really our thing, however much the American mono-culture is invading every facet of our lives, regardless here a couple of my pieces inspired by the master of the Gothic, the tragic, the lovelorn, the macabre and the desolate, Edgar Allen Poe. So here is one of poems, Highly Commended in fellowship of Australian Writers, John Shaw Nielson prize 2009/10 and published in the spirit of Poe anthology 2011. Performed by John McCullough and RMIT in 2010/11

James WF Roberts

i feel it again
your lingering scent
flooding thru the room

lips trembling at the thought
of that warmth that awoke
so much inside
 a cold shallow stone

on the pavement I see your shadow,
your reflection in every shop window
your face in every drink i have

your imprint on the bed
your body covered in red—
where have you gone?
i scream in the depths of  night
when I dream
when I came home late
no noise.
 no TV
 no freshly brewed coffee.

the house a mess—
worse than usual
just silence—
that  i  can never forget

 masked man
pointing at me
as he jumped out the window
your last gargling breath

 i held you in my shaking arms—
the knife on the bed. red
 red everywhere.
they never tell you about the red—the stains that just don’t leave.
the flashing lights
those stupid questions.
 repeated over again
those looks of suspicion
friends. families. strangers alike
never quite trusting; nor believing from then.

all this happens in this
dark and haunted room
as I close my eyes and smile now,
at the echo of you

Thursday, 30 October 2014

Schaden-freude James WF Roberts

James WF Roberts

We break each other down, to our DNA.
Our megabytes our data-codes;
Scrambled across the aether of conformity.

Nights of milk and honey,
Morning sin the tide of lazy beautiful.
Gazing at the world through eyes of a child,
Ye tfrom your truth, I can never hide.

Imprisoned by your smile,
Moon blushes over the open wounds of our past.
Broken bed bleeds so many secrets,
As shadows sprawl from under the door.

Why do you float like a feather,
in and out of my life, but never fully within my grasp…

Upon the mists of time the shore of reality,
meaninglessness loosing all its merits,
while our bodies are busy, keeping time.

Weeping clocks and spaced couch potato junkie-worlds
 lead us into the fray once again.

On the rack, I’m bound and gagged as you
Twist and turn the wheel over and over again.
I watch you burn my whole soul is weeping bloody tears of joy.
Passionless embraces after we fuck the essence out of life,
only makes us want for more.

The way your body moves it makes me cry.
G-d’s perfection in your breast.
Your nakedness is the truest from of glory….
Have my words touched your soul have
my rhymes touched your heart will
 I end up on the scrap heap once you’ve had your fill,
 Burn me, break me, leave me, tear me all apart…

Willyou be my bloodied valentine?
your torso decomposing on the altar of my inner—bitter sweet torment,
schaden-freude romance lingers on—bloodied roses we now lie,
as the sky dome reveals her lies, self-inflicted voodoo doll,
crucifying yourself, day and night.
I gorge myself in quest for the taste of flesh, the insatiable

 desire, we’re both burning from

Sunday, 19 October 2014

To breathe in, to breathe out James WF Roberts

To breathe in, to breathe out
James WF Roberts

“Yet each man kills the thing he loves
  By each let this be heard,
Some do it with a bitter look,
  Some with a flattering word,
The coward does it with a kiss,
  The brave man with a sword!

Some kill their love when they are young,
  And some when they are old;
Some strangle with the hands of Lust,
  Some with the hands of Gold:
The kindest use a knife, because
  The dead so soon grow cold.

Some love too little, some too long,
  Some sell, and others buy;
Some do the deed with many tears,
  And some without a sigh:
For each man kills the thing he loves,
  Yet each man does not die” Ballad of Reading Gaol—Oscar Wilde.

To breathe in, to breathe out;
to dream, to die, to be reborn.
She’s lit a cigarette, we’re naked on the bed,
I’m  horrified by the reflection in the on ceiling.
You can still smoke in brothels,
but they frown on me drowning
my soul in the half bottle of coke,
half Tennessee single in the pocket of my coat.
The shower takes up half the room.
 Bedroom no-one sleeps,
but the toilet’s down the hall.

An hour ago throwing down at Craps,
$500 up, $1200 down, how did I have either
of those  amounts.
This woman didn’t taste right.
She didn’t feel right.

No intensity in her eyes,
no loving in her smile,
doesn’t understand a word
I’m saying.  There’s conversation.

Well, there is to let the hour pass
more quickly. There’s no  sloppy, fumbling,
hungry kisses. No common ground.

Her mind is probably on how much
guys she’ll blow tonight,
how many will cry when they cum,
how many are straying from their wives;
how many, many are just so desperate
for human touch.

I wonder if she cares what
I’m saying, when she asks
me what’s wrong.
Trying to find salvation
in another warm body,
like I used to find in you.

But, now my words  and ink,
are becoming toxic.
and my heart’s become cruel.
every pleasure too fleeting
and everything tastes like salt.

And, our secrets
and our promises are
being scattered back and forth,
childish games and manipulations
abuses and addiction,
grandiose accusations,
hearts that love so generously,
the coldest arsenal we have.

Cowardly mind
cruel hearts
and an acid tongue,
obliterate anything we used to have,
never will again.
 To breathe in, to breathe out;
to dream, to die, to be reborn.

An ex-comes into my life again,
again, it’s someone’s else’s wife,
and I believe her stories,
and this big brown eyes
is she only after money,

when she tells me, I’m  her baby’s father,
I’ve seen the kid grow up, on facebook
and skype from time to time,
six long years and she tells me this now?
Then rejects me another younger model,
better phone, better life style,

more money and her latest craving,
more and more smoking rock,
when is it was just her and me,
and all our other lovers,

all she wanted, all she needed was cock.
And half the world seems to want to
ram it in and break it off. And the other
half simply are just too tired of it all
to give a fuck.  You’re banging on my door,
demanding  to prove I’ve got a woman there,
we’re not together so what do you care?
and she’s hiding under the bed,

thinking what has she got herself in for now,
who is this psycho bitch—and who’s the awkward
cowardly man.

To breathe in, to breathe out;
to dream, to die, to be reborn.

victims are attracted to abusers,
abusers are attracted to the victims,
addicts are attracted to the vulnerable
and the strong. And, I think everything’s
on the menu just for me.

And, I accept the challenge,
I cross the threshold I climb up
the tower and with a megaphone
I proclaim—all the things you’re scared
of coming out. And I announce it over and over
again, scared they won’t all hear me
from your constant salty rain.

And the battle lines a drawn
and there’s no going back now,
there’s no ground to give
or treaties to be sign.

barrage after barrage
tirade against tirade.
Me humiliating you publicly
just because you think I’m jealous…
I am a little, yes. But, my fangs have been blunted
and my lust for blood maintained—for too long now.
 Come on now
here it comes bring on the rage!
And there’ll be no silence from our guns
there’ll be no relief from all this pain…
You prank me pretend to be  my new girl,
but she’s long since walked away,
there’s no  limit to where my anger goes
You fuelling the fires of for your loyal companion
 to bombard me night and day,
all my friends are Switzerland and are peering over the cliffs,
how many times have I been shot today?

Have I sent you on the path for the one true and perfect hit?
And the ex’s brothers 
are all lining up to make me pay,
for sabotaging her new life, and letting everyone

think it was her cheating husband that was causing all the fuss.
Not my fault if they are stupid…
they call me every man’s name,
except my own, makes me think
 Jesus girl how many guys  have you boned?

And every room
I enter I keep looking for the cross beams
And every drink I have, doesn’t douse
or dull me. Can barely eat anymore
All I wanna do is pour.

To breathe in, to breathe out;
to dream, to die, to be reborn.
And, when all is said and done,
how will we ever look at each other
in the face again?

And, when all is said and done
how can any of us truly trust
or love again…

To breathe in, to breathe out;
to dream, to die, to be reborn.

Saturday, 18 October 2014

the virgin blend Mary Stone

the virgin blend
my hand cream
massage into body
take more than
one bottle

Mary Stone

Unicum-by-Chance or LOVE A LOSER'S ANNUAL By Hamish Danks Brown (with apologies to Georges Perec of OuLiPo 1936-1982)




(with apologies to Georges Perec of  OuLiPo 1936-1982)

 By Hamish Danks Brown

"Even if it rained women, all you will get to be with is an umbrella"*.
A place de la concordance where there was and is no accord
because we were always dancing different steps to different songs.
Her invitation to sit next to her at a school matinee session
of Shakespeare's 'Love's Labour's Lost'

at the
Old Theatre Royal in Sydney in April 1972
only to be seperated from her by a suspicious teacher
who relegated me to the back row where
I spent the whole play sighing in her direction
while getting my arm twisted behind my back
by the playground bullies who used to taunt me.

The power generator that failed and pushed us into a blackout
when I sat next to the very same her at a high school reunion
over twenty years later in a marquee full of over 500 people.
This was a very swift way of never getting to see her again,
since I soon afterwards lost my way in the darkness and
locked myself in the foyer of the school office
where the only public phone did not work,
while trying to call a taxi for us
to take us back to anywhere with lights.
I wonder how long she must have waited in vain.
Close dancing to a trad jazz band in Brisbane Jazz Club
before she got so drunk I had to carry her to the taxi,
and carry her to the bathroom, the her room,
and let her sleep it off, and the next day, she was still off.
An idle, wild idyll in Eidsvold that idled, sidelined and stalled,
mainly because we were talking and telling each-other goodbye,
while her boyfriend was sitting with her on the front porch,
and I was camping 500 kms away at Lake Wivenhoe.

That lifetime premiere of a teenage blind date
with a friend's school friend at a high school formal
where she was blind after two drinks
and so suddenly collapsed face first
into a bowl of soup while we sitting together.
At the same time a school friend happened

to be one of the waitresses there as it
was her uncle's function and reception venue
and she badgered me with inane questions
like 'what the hell are you doing her?'
for the remainder of the evening.
We managed to clean and sober my date up
and my parents collected us and drove her home
where she couldn't run out of the car fast enough.

The tall, lithe, arresting and charming belle in Belconnen
who I was introduced to during the first student gig
I ever organised while living on campus.
She came from the right up there side of the tracks,
i.e., she was the daughter of an entry in Who's Who Australia,
who was a senior scion of very conservative politics,
She, who I will not name even now, was
educated at prestigious private schools in Canberra and
she was also engaged to the son of a foreign diplomat
and thus observed all the laws of someone
to be so attracted to since they are so unavailable.
Thus we threw ourselves wide open to each-other
in the car park outside the venue
because we both knew that a door would
close on the connection we really did create.
Only later did it twig that we had both
been leaning and looping our limbs
across the bonnet of her vintage sedan
so did we scratch the duco while
we caught on and clung to each-other?

The young woman who got so enraged
at an innocuous comment made by a friend,
at her place after we had seen a band
at the gloriously grungy Sando in Newtown,
She started hurling all that she could reach
at high velocity in the direction of my face.

I can still hear the bottles smashing on
the other side of the door I slammed shut
behind me as I exited in haste and fear.

The much older woman
I hardly knew who honed in on me,
incoming like a heavily perfumed drone,
and who insisted very vocally that
I was lusting after her and
always had been and who ordered me
not to deny that I should be with her,
and who then told me that she had been

twice widowed and liked being turned on
by really rough-to-violent sex, just before
she passed out in the middle of my local.

The young French travel agent
from Strasbourg who was pleased
to be travelling across the Nullabor Plain
with some who could speak her language
until I made the comment that it was
not possible or practical to travel
right around Australia by coach
in only twenty-eight days because
Greyhound after Greyhound
would be all she saw of the country.
She moved across the aisle and sat down.
She did not reply to my 'au revoir'
when she disembarked at Kalgoorlie.

The woman who's mother and sister
beat her and threatened to kill her
rather than have her be with me.

I cancelled the flight to her homeland
and the family psychodrama
awaiting my arrival.
Later she wrote me a letter
blaming me for her whole ancestry.

The woman with whom I set up a home
who stayed with me all night on
our very first night under the same roof
and then invited her former boyfriend
over to stay with her the next night.

The Canadian woman who was studying
postgraduate materials conservation of art
I escorted to my shared student apartment
only to find my bedroom occupied by
a circle of male friends lounging all over
where she and I had intended to be,
avidly listening to my record collection.

The above episodes are but a typical fraction
of the far too long running no-show
that now threatens to outlast me.

The writer Georges Perec sometimes reflected on
his own self-thwarting "system of defence"
by which his lovelife was a series of fiascos
from when he was a teenager to when
he was middle aged, according to his biographer,

David Bellos, and when I read that passage,
I empathised immediately and compared
his situation to my own slap stick,
slip-but-no-tickle sequence
of unrequited assignations
that are beyond counting.
So I'm a unicum-by chance
who still subscribes loyally to
Love a Loser's Annual.
Anyway, we haven't got all night
to catalogue my personal catastrophes.
We haven't got all night.
It's easier as it's difficult to predict

what is not going to happen with you

How often I have heard that before.......

* - a most quotable comment made to me in a bar in Canberra one night, circa 1982,
by the man who ended up going either to his or her place with my date,
whatever her name was. Glenda? Gwen? Germaine?