Afterwards.

Because funerals are terrible.


Bury me in my back garden,
Bum up or bum down, I don't care.
Don't fret for my soul,
Simply dig me a hole,
Roughly one-and-a-half metres square.

Bury me in my back garden,
No casket, no coffin, no frills.
For next to no cost
I will slowly compost
Circumventing funereal bills.

Bury me in my back garden,
As if I was one of your pets.
I take up more room
Than a terrier's tomb
But I'll save you a trip to the vet's.

Bury me in my back garden,
no need for a vicar or priest.
Just make sure I'm dead,
Chuck some dirt on my head,
And then drink to the newly deceased.

On the care and comfort of exotic pets

Just because.

Please don’t keep your axolotl in an empty shampoo bottle
When a proper coffee pot’ll do the trick.

Don’t feed raisins or sultanas to exsanguinous iguanas;
Offer only ripe bananas when they’re sick.

If you must adopt a locust, it’s important you stay focused -
Your indifference might provoke a stream of swears.

Water isn’t good for spiders, they prefer a range of ciders
Served with tiny pulled-pork sliders, cut in squares.

If you take a young impala to a symphony or gala,
Be advised: the sound of Mahler makes them squeal.

If you haven’t any pillow for your banded armadillo,
Then a head-sized sheet of filo is ideal.

If you can’t stop your cicada stealing biscuits from your larder,
Try to make its access harder with a maze.

Never give your tuatara make-up, shoes or a tiara,

You’ll be cleaning up mascara smears for days. 

Old Wives' Tales

Because scaring the bejesus out of children can be fun.

Jonathon got a strabismus for Christmas;

He pulled a face once and the wind changed its tack.

Eleanor’s Mum’s out of action, in traction

Since Eleanor carelessly stepped on a crack.

Beelzebub’s stolen the soul of young Olaf

‘Cause nobody blessed him right after a sneeze.

Stephanie went out exploring, ignoring

The cold, and returned with a deadly disease.

Libby has square shapes for eyes; no surprise though –

She spent half her days watching kids’ TV shows.

Tom’s nostrils aren’t where he kept ‘em; his septum

Caved in when he wouldn’t stop picking his nose.

Tales such as these may seem flimsy, pure whimsy,

But what if they’re true? Should you just pass them by?

Writing them off as mere fancy is chancy,

So do what you’re told, or you’ll probably die.

Note: I must credit The Digital Cuttlefish once again for this verse form. It's almost impossible to steal something from a cuttlefish. 

Vessel.

Because the good stuff is inside.

This birth-beaten body is mine.

These walk-weary bones and these stockingbag stones.

This inching, unflinching decline.

These blear-bordered eyes and this puckered disguise.

This creaking contortion of dust.

These pin-pestered nerves and these destitute curves.

This spot-stippled, care-furrowed crust.

These grease-battered clots and these gristle-bound knots.

This birth-beaten body is mine.

This animate archive is me.

Each pain-peppered leaf and each entry of grief,

Each morsel of mental debris,

Each flame-frosted cake and each paper-plate wake,

Each fizzing ignition of bliss,

Each love-lousy ode and each moral bestowed,

Each gamble, each gut punch, each kiss,

Each appetite stirred and each page-guzzled word,

This animate archive is me.

For Jack

Because good blokes don't live forever.

He made time for you, Jack did. 

As if he had buckets of the stuff,

Balanced on his handlebars.

Such a small thing, really.

A wave, a nod, a wink.

It didn't have to be done. 

That fire, that warmth. 

You can't ration that.

But breath is different.

Jack was a bloke at my gym. That in itself is unremarkable. But everyone knew Jack. You'd know he was there,by his bicycle parked just outside the door. You'd hear his name bursting like popcorn from around the room. "Hello, Jack!" "G'day Jack!" You had to shout a bit. 

I only knew Jack for about five years - a long time after he played first-grade Rugby League, after he had a family and retired. He was about 88 when he first introduced himself with that tidy smile. I'd see him once or twice a week, just getting on with things. I don't remember ever hearing him complain.

Jack would always, always say hello, but never goodbye. It was always "good onya". 

He died last week. 

Good onya, Jack. You set the bar for human decency a bit high, mate

Vale Jack Woods

Prayer

Because it never hurts to ask.

Dear universe, excite me
with the secrets that you hold.

Dear humankind, invite me,
as I am, into your fold.

Dear planet Earth, outlive me;
feed the ones I leave behind.

Dear progeny, forgive me
for a future undermined.

Dear ancestors, instruct me;
let my errors be forestalled.

Dear history, induct me;
let my triumphs be recalled.

Dear circumstance, select me
for the fortune you dispense.

Dear fortitude, protect me;
persevere in my defence.

Dear prejudice, unbind me;
let my view be unobscured.

Dear privilege, remind me
of the comfort I’ve secured.

Dear intellect, escort me;
stay forever by my side.

Dear skin and bones, support me
‘til I take my final stride.

Secrets

Because everyone has one.

You can’t tell by looking.

She makes lustrous forests from stones and wire.

He teaches French horn in the afternoons.

She draws cartoons.

He’s raising his daughter’s kids.

She cooks for her neighbour.

He slept in a shed last night.

She hasn’t used today, but she might.

A battery maintains his heart.

It’s months since she enjoyed a meal.

His knees aren’t real.

She lost her baby.

He lost his wife.

Her tattoo hides the tale of a knife.

You can’t tell by looking.

Zorin.

Because 1985.

This morning, my sister Jo was having trouble with an earworm, and she was nice enough to share her troubles with me:

"I have the
My Name Is Zoran
song stuck in my head."

I think we need some back story here.

The year was 1985. We'd gone with a bunch of giggling Duran-Duran-fangirl companions to see A View to a Kill, featuring a peroxide-blonde Christopher Walken as Max Zorin, corporate super-villain. We decided he was fabulous (Not Nick Rhodes fabulous, but still top shelf).

So we all got together and wrote a tribute song, to the tune of a long-forgotten bank advertising jingle. Because that's what 14-year-old girls do.

Here it is, pulled from the far back part of my brain (as you can see, I've maintained the same standard of lyrical wizardry for the last 30 years):

My name is Zorin

And I'm a psycho

I like blowing up people in their face.

It's so funny but

'Cause I'm so mental

I was given steroids when I was three.

Have a great Friday. 

Done.

Because I have nothing to say.

So.

This big, bad thing happened. 

It was big, but it will get smaller.

It was bad, and it will always be bad. 

And people are saying "What do you think?" and "How do you feel?" and "What happens next?"

But I don't want to tell you because I don't know. 

Not in words, anyway.

It is done. 

Blockage.

Because I seem to have broken my poeming engine.

I wrote two lines and there they sit,

Considered, cast and burnished.

Though weeks have passed since they was writ,

They are, as yet, unfurnished.

Undead

Because he probably should have left a note.

"I'm sorry, Mr Miller, but there's nothing I can do;
The computer says you're not allowed to drive."
"What's the matter? Was my application not quite up to scratch?"
"No. It's you. You're not... sufficiently... alive."

I have been almost indescribably busy with work and other non-bloggy things. But this was simply too delicious not to put here:

Living Ohio man Donald Miller ruled 'legally dead'.

Thanks for the link, Patrick Stokes. 

Sorry. Work.

Because pomes don't buy as much food as other things do.

Sorry.

Work.

Lots of work.

Really great work for a top-notch client.

Designing e-learning modules from scratch

Might not be your thing

But it is mine.

And my oldest client

(The confidential one)

Sends me lots of copywriting to do.

I can’t tell you what it is, 

But it helps a lot at trivia nights.

Like the one a couple of months ago –

The hospital fundraiser.

I was on the ambo team.

We totally smashed it.

We beat the nurses, the doctors,

The admin staff – everyone.

We won chocolate and hats.

I’m also writing a weekly thing

About hot dead people.

It was my editor’s idea

But between you and me

I think she picked the right person to write it.

And I’ve only missed one

When my otherwise reliable heart

Went a bit funny in the muscly part

Of the left ventricle.

It hurt.

But having a paramedic for a partner -

Despite the night-shifts

And difficult-to-iron uniforms - 

Is pretty fantastic when your heart hurts.

Hospital was strange.

Stressful and frightening in some ways,

Relaxing and friendly in others.

It provided me with the opportunity

To remind the Emergency Department staff

How much they suck at trivia.

I’ll get better slowly.

In time to talk pomes

At a bunch of skeptics.

Lots of pomes, only half-hatched yet.

So there have been pomes

But not here.

Sorry.

The ideology of kittens.

Because carnivores are actually a thing.

A quick rhyme today, based on this story about some well-meaning but idiotically over-zealous pet-owners who tried to raise a kitten on a vegan diet, with predictable results. Or as I like to call it: Cats go "purrrrr", humans go "hurrrrr durrrrr". 

I mean, it's all well and good to go with the 'Meat is Murder' thing, but in case you haven't noticed, dear misguided kitten-lovers, cats love murdering things. 

You can’t make your kitten a vegan,

She’ll end up nearly dead at the vet’s.

And if meat’s off your plate

‘Cause it’s cruelty you hate,

Why the hell are you starving your pets?

On what to wear in court

Because not even your best Sunday thongs will do.

"Your Honour", said the man, "Will you forgive my fashion sin?
I know I'm wearing tracky dacks, but hey - my shirt's tucked in!
I haven't got the kind of pants with buttons and a zip;
And I plain forgot a belt when I was packing for this trip.
I must say, I'm surprised at all the blokes here wearing ties.
I tried to buy one - honest - but they didn't have my size.
Perhaps you should display a sign that says on it somewhere:
'No shirt, no shoes, no justice', so that people are aware."

For Bruddy, on our birthday.

Because we will never run out of things to say

Two girls in matching home-sewn frocks

And straight-cut brunette fringes

Grew up through skates and fluoro socks

And late-night rock-pig binges.

Each day they speak, as is their wont,

Of food and films and art,

And how Australians say “croissant”

And whether sparrows fart.

Ensconced in the loquacious now

For forty-two years long;

If two were only one, somehow

The world would seem quite wrong.

PMT

Because maybe it's real and maybe it isn't.

I want to eat dinner again, and then

A little bit more after that. I’m fat.

I’m bothered by every damn thing. I sing

Off-key and I can’t hold a thought. I’m short

With children who don’t want abuse, just juice,

And husbands who just want a smile; and while

I’m searching through odd Tupperware, despair

Takes over and I start to cry. But why?

Best Australian Blogs 2013

Because I entered a blog competition with the Australian Writers’ Centre.

I have a lot of lovely things,

I never ask for much.

I’ve love and food and sanctuary

And kids’ clean hair to touch.

But there’s one thing I’m lacking

In this state of ample bliss;

So if you wouldn’t mind please,

Could you vote for me in this?

Follow this link and vote for 'There Should Be A Sign'.

Thanks, lovely people. Thanks for reading me. 

Not poetry.

Because it's just me having a bit of fun.

I’ve tried to pen words of despair-studded prose,

Contemplating my worthless existence;

Recounting the loss and the trial and the throes

And the pangs of life’s painful persistence.

I’ve tried to see beauty where others see drear,

And take pains to express it uniquely;

To convolute things that are otherwise clear,

And refer to plain matters obliquely.

I’ve tried putting thoughts on the page in a swarm,

Without heed to strict metre or timing.

I’ve tried not to keep to the rigours of form,

Nor give in to the whimsy of rhyming.

But when I examine the depths of my bile

For pure anguish and unresolved niggle;

I only find joy and bad puns, and I smile -

I can’t help it. The world makes me giggle.

And chronicling splendour with menial words,

Seems unjust when it’s there to be tasted.

By contrast, my scribblings are budget-priced turds,

Representing a few hours wasted.

And though some think rhyming is puerile and twee,

And constrains the expression of ardour,

Any fool can spew thoughts indiscriminately;

I like rhyming because it’s much harder. 

The King's Tribune

Because great writing needs great readers. Like you.

See these words you're reading? How much did you pay for them? Not much, huh. And how much are you enjoying them? Let's be frank - they're a little bit clumsy and over-punctuated. Pretty much worth what you paid.

Now imagine that some of the best writers in Australia are putting together all manner of insightful, hilarious, shocking and informative stories about things that you're really interested in, every single month, without huge ads for pore-minimising magic skin creams or actor-endorsed timepieces getting in the way. Now THAT would be worth paying for. 

I have some good news. 

The King's Tribune, one of the best damn independent magazines in the history of good independent magazines, provides exactly those things, every month. It manages to attract some of the very best writers on what can only be described as a tight budget. I'd really, really like them to keep doing that, and after a read, I reckon you will too. So here's what you can do:

1. Dip your toe in by grabbing a single copy of the King's Tribune here. 

2. Exclaim loudly "I MUST HAVE MORE!" and subscribe here.

3. Do your bit to keep brilliant independent media afloat by donating here.

4. Give yourself a biscuit.

Thank you. Now you may have a pome.

The King's Tribune is quite the thing

For morning coffee pondering,

It feeds your brain

Aboard the train

Or omnibus. 

Twelve times a year it treats your eyes

To words of every shape and size

Arranged in lines.

It redefines

Perspicuous. 

For culture, science, politics

And sticking it to backward pricks

You’ll not find more

In any store.

For serious. 

Fine writing and subscribers mean

Few ads pollute this magazine.

It’s good that way,

So what’dya say?

Be one of us.

Song for Gina

Because being really really really rich is horrible.

(with apologies to Messrs Rodgers & Hammerstein)

Owning a wad half the size of Great Britain,

Iron ore slabs on which poetry’s written,

Pulling Fairfax’s executive strings,

These are a few of my favourite things.

Paying a pittance while raking in oodles,

Telling the poor, “get your hands off your doodles”,

Flying to parties in Learjets with wings,

These are a few of my favourite things.

Going to court to solve family clashes,

Not telling most of my kids where their cash is,

Money and all of the wealth that it brings,

These are a few of my favourite things.

When I pay whites

Market wage price

I get very sad.

But then I buy mines and more sparkly things

And then I don’t feel so bad.