Ian Glynn Perkins

AN IDIOT WHINED

for Dummy Til-buried.

"you're an idiot babe, it's a wonder that you still know how to breathe" – Robert Zimmerman Idiot Wind

Go on take your best shot.

Is that really all you've got?

Truth Is, and I kid you not,

Poetry remains, and you're forgot.

Also, I reject all your baseless

allegations of the faceless

greedy pigs whose art- and tasteless

dictates are your prison's bracelets.

If only you reasoned in rhyme!

But that takes skill - and something sublime.

Is your sole aspiring only to climb

deeper down the Cliffs of crime?

Now I've finished this neat bon mot,

Beware! Lest within your plot,

what you treasure turns to rot

and your brain's struck by your heart's blood-clot.

Bondage.

“weave the cloth with the threads drawn from your heart, even as if your beloved were to wear it” -Kahlil Gibran

One thread of all the web

Alone is all the weaving –

Only one ravels the net,

Hems it from fraying…

The clothe-crop of life and mind is a-sowing

In uncounted colour and twine, all entangled.

Spinning in space and time is coming and going

Like wrangling lovers, coarse and/or bespangled.

From each warp of the fabric depends the whole textile;

From each weft of the weave the whole web is suspended;

Within each line on the loom is the pattern in total,

Yet in the whole woven web is not a single strand ended.

Bond with your brothers, brother-

Sister, bind your sisters to yourself;

Sever the bloody bondage of mother

Disseminate father into commonwealth.

The cord of the womb is to bind the helpless;

It is cut from the genetrix that we also may twist

An inseparable chain out of the broken umbilicus,

Linking siblings of the world web in love, strength and bliss.

Side by side, cord by cord,

We weave together this chain;

Forever open, never broken,

Shameless, without blame.

Side by side, strand by strand, cord by cord,

Man by woman, aged by child, demon by lord,

The spider-goddess, which symbol means “universe and mind”,

Spins and weaves the spirit-silk into fleshy clothes of every kind.

The world spins as she spins, looming in darkness forever,

And each fibre is sewn with its own star on the curtain:

The one place in time and space that its being there knits together;

Each sole string is the whole thing, all of nothing, uncertain…

The cosmic spider simply spins a single spell ever continuous

And her solitary silk spans the abysmal nowhere to the endless;

And that one long loop of space-time is the lifeline of all of us:

We are snarls in the staple, of which we weave new flesh.

Timeless. voidness. then, the goddess. Spinning.

And her web glistens with dew dropped from the penis of Shiva;

And where time and light is, is no web, for it has no beginning,

For when the web is done and the web is one, then is only the weaver.

JUDGEMENT DAY'S GRIM PROSECUTOR OPENS

(a more worser rhyme)

"where they sit in the shadow of their thought in their time of waiting"

I am the curser

who follows the hearse.

My admonitions are terse,

the charges much worser.

The guilts have been nursed,

the prosecution rehearsed,

the jury's well versed

with Lady Justice athirst

for that which thou durst

as dark desire's pale pursar,

who hast loyalty reversed,

and exileth the reimburser:

dead bouquets of evil fleurs

bought by love's bastard's bursar

deck naked memory's universe

where thou shalt wandereth vice versa.

Perfect Truth Dream

(to the tune of “My Island Home” by Warumpi Band)

60 000 years on this Earth! we always lived by this Stream,

long before restless fellas started wandering

from Simple Truth in this Perfect Dream.

This land is the home of the Serpent:

we always live in Her strands and weaves

She is Rain, the River Wet and the channel,

and spins and tunnels ever to the seas

And we are Third Age navigators:

we have our eyes in all worlds' trees;

and our net and our sails are knit together

from branch to breath and limbs to leaves;

and our rocket is our roots in this Earth -

come stand under our canopies !

as we orbit the Moon's understory

or soar as far and high as we can please.

Our Mothers' Land!

Our Mother is land (country!)

Our Mother this Land:

Aborigine.

The Nu legend of the Kookaburra,

from the Malanjali Coolwell, 2003

"17hundred & 88 was the year we remember so well:

put my father's spear in the Migalu's heart & snuck my Women away..."

(Poor Red Sun, Indig. Aust. trad.)

Long time ago when we was still Dreaming and them first Migalufellas first come here to this country here, their way, one time, in that puckin big sail ship there what they went in in them days,

that time was the one time when them whitepella first come backta Stray Leah long, long time ago after we first sent fellas out from RainSnake's Land on the Long Walkabout to learn why women dance with the Moon and to see what's spinning round at the other end of the Sky.

Well that was that Kaptin Kooka fella

that one they usta say back when We was in school there who what discovered a-Straya!;

he was comin in the heads in the aftanoon that day what when he sailed inta Botany Bay there,

and the Sun was in his eyes,

and all the Blakfellas we was not hidin but in the shade,

in the shadows under the trees above the beach.

Anyway he gets his ah spyglass watchamacallit telescope and looks,

and the Sun was in his eyes, right, and he looks and he says;

"I can’t see any fullas here, man, I think in the Name of the English King I'm gunna "burra" this land."

And then the Kookaburras starting laughin right there then, ‘n' the kookaburras've bin laughing at them white cunts every summer arvo eva since, my jarjums.

And that's why when you get to know them white fellas a bit they always all wanna know what's their clan, their totem animal, and that's why we tell em:

why youse, yousa Kookaburra Klan a course! All megalosers are Kookaburras cuznuse only eva burra-ed this cunt tree here of ours, one time.

[- G.L.C.]

Skald number 4: no limit

Come crowd round Currawong's chillun

and of Hellena half, harken to Snake:

school's for sardines, in your skull's the source,

and your heart, of all heaven & human history!

The bloated bairns of bribing busyness men

live less, love loss, lack light, lie against liberty.

Hoarding hands inherit hatred, dishonesty, theft;

And the whole soul is hardened, and heads hollowed out.

But your yummy youth yields useful yoga!

Explore Inside: It Is Infinite!

petty prizes and pretty princelings pale before priceless peace

and the bliss of being is neither bargained nor bought.

Unlike the Ugly Ones, unwashed in Her amniosis,

your wisdom will still wander when your earth-wight withers:

cancer can't kill the christ-child-wonder at one with you,

and your karma cleanses the coming race.

VOTIVE for a brand new Sheila 2013

Priceless bonny Shade,

magickal maiden made in the shade:

this little pinky started breathing

27 maydaze sometimes a-mid evening,

in the decadent century's last mad decade,

as London partied and world politics decayed.

but baby's now an a Strayan voter:

rollin' Kyokel, or rockin' th' Tweed boat there.

but babe, Fight Club Straya's "first rule" story is:

votin' here is compulse-sorry.

wise welcome, witch woman, to here, your cunt-tree.

& oh my Goddess, your beauty is blinding me!

bipedalism

long ages of distant life end in the eternal cosmic bombardment.

After earthquakes, floods and fires subside,

radiant dust settles out across land and sea.

the survivors, taking a first inevitable step into this timeless waking moment,

stand up, struggling to straighten serpentine spines,

reaching with grasping hands toward the fruit

hanging overhead in the branches of the Moon.

the tallest male reaches the most fruit,

and, in the fire-lit clearing at the forest’s retreating edge,

he chews upon the roasted meat of his vanquished rival’s progeny,

brandishing his club.

everyone else cowers before him.

upturned eyes glinting in flame-lit expectation,

hoping to share in the holy feast,

and calling out his name.

quadrupedalism

The serpent goes about on his belly

beneath the untouched, unseen knowledge berry.

So too the spines of animals on course

In phase and parallel absorbing geo-radiant force.

And nothing is hidden in this company before mind,

For the centre of being is between before and behind.

BILLEN HAIKU

Ask-cheque, You-give, I-omittee (Bullyin’ Cleaves). “a chronically corrupt corporate clique”

I.C.U.s, Dis-Guised:

the frogs desiring royalty.

God sent “nur fur Deutsche”.

Notes on the text.

Lines 0: Billen, Githabal, flat- or parrot-head. The title is a pun on Executive Committee. Bullying Cleaves, obviously a pun on “Billen Cliffs”, means literally, hierarchy divides. The epigraph is from a shareholder’s statement to the Lismore Magistrates Court, 2012.

Line 1: the acronym contains numerous intentional puns, including but not limited to youse, the Australian (English), second person plural pronoun. Dis is the proper name for the God of the Roman Underworld, popularly known as Pluto, as it would of course be seriously hazardous for a Roman pleb to use Pluto’s actual name, even in temple or at festivals. This title of Dis’ comes from his dominion over precious stones and metals, hidden and buried treasures, and great undisclosed wealth generally, and hence English plutocracy, which precise oligarchical variant is both subject and theme of the epigram. Dis-Guised means, then, in the Guise of Dis, i.e. in the costume or appearance of the Roman “Devil”, but intentionally includes various other English puns as well, so the whole image should be read at least as: (the e.g. ”icy units”) blasphemously disguised as Gods (of money and the Dead), and wearing the uniform of the malefic gossip-monger, from the verb to dis, Ebonic (English), speak ill of. The immense productivity of I.C.U.s for puns and acronymic expansions magnifies the image further.

Line 2: refers simultaneously to both Aesop’s fable and the well known fairy-tale involving the kissing princess, suggesting this creature’s apparent noble guise disguises that she herself actually is merely just another frog that went a-courtin’.

Line 3: the German is quoted verbatim from signs on trolley cars in Warsaw during the occupation of the Third Reich, and translates: only for Germans. I have deliberately chosen the “purest” form of classical poem of the Third Reich’s principal ally in those most famous twelve years of the Twentieth century-long armed state-capitalist conflict for global domination between competing geopolitical enterprises, that their principal military opponents in and victors of the “Total War” phase of, call “the Great Patriotic War of the Soviet Union”.

THE FROGS DESIRING A KING, by Aesop (as translated in The Classic Library).

“The Frogs were living as happy as could be in a marshy swamp that just suited them; they went splashing about caring for nobody and nobody troubling with them. But some of them thought that this was not right, that they should have a king and a proper constitution, so they determined to send up a petition to Jove to give them what they wanted. "Mighty Jove," they cried, "send unto us a king that will rule over us and keep us in order." Jove laughed at their croaking, and threw down into the swamp a huge Log, which came down splashing into the swamp. The Frogs were frightened out of their lives by the commotion made in their midst, and all rushed to the bank to look at the horrible monster; but after a time, seeing that it did not move, one or two of the boldest of them ventured out towards the Log, and even dared to touch it; still it did not move. Then the greatest hero of the Frogs jumped upon the Log and commenced dancing up and down upon it, thereupon all the Frogs came and did the same; and for some time the Frogs went about their business every day without taking the slightest notice of their new King Log lying in their midst. But this did not suit them, so they sent another petition to Jove, and said to him, "We want a real king; one that will really rule over us." Now this made Jove angry, so he sent among them a big Stork that soon set to work gobbling them all up. Then the Frogs repented when too late. Better no rule than cruel rule.”

But see also Robert Graves’ beautiful poem,

Return of the Goddess at: http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/browse/71/1#!/20590241

in memory of whose immortal genius this meagre offering is made in ephemeral homage. And especially dedicated to the fund memory of The Bullying Communityist Party and its Ventral Ommittee Pureshitburo: without YOUSE, this poem would never have been conceived.

Ian Glynn Perkins

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