I looked into her deep brown eyes
tears rolled dark within
a scent of pasture
sweet upon her breath
mood welling
pity stumbling
I looked into her deep brown eyes
love is a word
legs are for standing
ears are for tagging
don't leave me now
don't count me now
don't load me now
eyes are for crying
I looked into her deep brown eyes
I hugged her crying
I wept her crying
a stench of bbq
chuck brisket t bone eye fillet
eyes are for crying
ribs are for holding
air is for breathing
cheeks are for eating
tail is for swishing
flies are for dying
eyes are for crying
don't eat me now
cow is for being
cow is for mooing
cow is for grazing
cow is for eating
eyes are for crying
Allan Padgett (Western Australia)
An independent poetry journal. Watch your step.
Showing posts with label Allan Padgett. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Allan Padgett. Show all posts
2017/12/14
2017/04/19
When I Used To
I used to track porn sites
until I realised that
patting my dog
was a better use
of time and emotion.
I used to write love songs
and then, one extended day,
my thoughts turned
to the sourness of failed
words and a jumblefield of
vapourised dreams.
I used to love planting peppercorns
and watching them grow
into salt shakers,
until I realised that
the pharmaceuticals in
my brain were setting me on fire.
I used to suck on memory, until
one blistering whitehot night
only a vacuum remained
with no trace in sight
of the path I was on.
I used to read a poem once
that seemed to posit
a choice of turn:
left here and your boring
life can continue; right here,
and whatever may happen,
will.
Allan Padgett (Western Australia)
until I realised that
patting my dog
was a better use
of time and emotion.
I used to write love songs
and then, one extended day,
my thoughts turned
to the sourness of failed
words and a jumblefield of
vapourised dreams.
I used to love planting peppercorns
and watching them grow
into salt shakers,
until I realised that
the pharmaceuticals in
my brain were setting me on fire.
I used to suck on memory, until
one blistering whitehot night
only a vacuum remained
with no trace in sight
of the path I was on.
I used to read a poem once
that seemed to posit
a choice of turn:
left here and your boring
life can continue; right here,
and whatever may happen,
will.
Allan Padgett (Western Australia)
2015/04/22
A Tentative Entry
It didn’t take his
finger up my bum
to tell me I had
benign prostatic hyperplasia.
I’d been reading
about it for years –
and it felt good.
A finger up my bum
told me more than
I needed to know
or feel. A tentative
entry, first night trembles
on a stuttering stage.
It told me more than
a dark shaking whisper
in a light-glanced
world of dazzling marigolds
could hold in one open
hand. Or in a stretched
maw gaping with memories.
A dark shaking whisper
pre ambled into a vale of fears,
moistened, glistening, a zephyr of anticipation
and digit. The penetration had begun.
Allan Padgett (Western Australia)
finger up my bum
to tell me I had
benign prostatic hyperplasia.
I’d been reading
about it for years –
and it felt good.
A finger up my bum
told me more than
I needed to know
or feel. A tentative
entry, first night trembles
on a stuttering stage.
It told me more than
a dark shaking whisper
in a light-glanced
world of dazzling marigolds
could hold in one open
hand. Or in a stretched
maw gaping with memories.
A dark shaking whisper
pre ambled into a vale of fears,
moistened, glistening, a zephyr of anticipation
and digit. The penetration had begun.
Allan Padgett (Western Australia)
2013/03/29
Hit Me With a Coconut, Sunshine
She asked me how I was, how I was
going, and I said I’ve got salty lips,
I’ve been down in the deep blue sea
biting shark’s penises, trying to control
the great white plague so they eat less of us,
less humans, so we can breed more of us while
killing more of them. This is socio-pathism,
this is population dynamics in action, this is
crude justice: bite me, and I kill you.
Then, with you gone to the bottom
of the azure limpid sea with a hole through
your big ugly sharky head where
your brain used to be, then we can get on
with fornicating and making more of us, since
we are in charge, shark boy and shark girl—
and if you get in our way, and we don’t like you,
then we net you out of your grazing grounds
and we hire big fat ugly policemen
with bigger fatter uglier guns:
and we blow your fucking brains out,
fish head.
It makes me wonder, really,
who I am and who we are
and worse: where we are.
It is easy to get lost in this
undeclared war between top feeders.
I am confused, I hear it is
more likely that a man like me
can get killed by a falling
coconut than by a hungry
savage heavily-fanged pulsing
thrashing toothy fishy thing—
but I know what I’d prefer,
even if I don’t know who I
am: hit me with a coconut, sunshine!
Allan Padgett (Western Australia)
going, and I said I’ve got salty lips,
I’ve been down in the deep blue sea
biting shark’s penises, trying to control
the great white plague so they eat less of us,
less humans, so we can breed more of us while
killing more of them. This is socio-pathism,
this is population dynamics in action, this is
crude justice: bite me, and I kill you.
Then, with you gone to the bottom
of the azure limpid sea with a hole through
your big ugly sharky head where
your brain used to be, then we can get on
with fornicating and making more of us, since
we are in charge, shark boy and shark girl—
and if you get in our way, and we don’t like you,
then we net you out of your grazing grounds
and we hire big fat ugly policemen
with bigger fatter uglier guns:
and we blow your fucking brains out,
fish head.
It makes me wonder, really,
who I am and who we are
and worse: where we are.
It is easy to get lost in this
undeclared war between top feeders.
I am confused, I hear it is
more likely that a man like me
can get killed by a falling
coconut than by a hungry
savage heavily-fanged pulsing
thrashing toothy fishy thing—
but I know what I’d prefer,
even if I don’t know who I
am: hit me with a coconut, sunshine!
Allan Padgett (Western Australia)
I Was Young As, Once
When I was young I was as
skinny as an undernourished
sewer rat—they poured
cod liver oil down my throat
and told me it would turn
me into a man, but it tasted
like dog shit crossed with
North Sea cod sperm so I
regurgitated more than thoughts,
I regurgitated my memory and
was left feeling blank: there
was only a distant past to
refer to, and not only was it
beyond time: it was beyond me.
When I was young, freshly
born, they found me in that
rapid descent from foetus to
neonate, they found me with
two club feet. Fuck, you know,
my father likely felt like
handing me back to my
maker—but then he realised
that he was my maker, and
he would inherit me anyway,
two club feet included!
But then I smiled as they
handed me back to the nurse,
and I heard them say:
this one’s not ours, ours is
that nice one over there, the
handsome boy with feet
that are made for walking,
not talking.
When I was young, a man
kissed me, he was handsome,
he might have been my uncle,
he might have been the butcher
or the baker, or the candlestick
maker. But he kissed me,
and you know, it felt really
nice, and I wondered even
then, before I even knew I
was a boy, if I should have
been a girl, and then it
dawned on me: a kiss is a
kiss, and bliss is bliss.
When I was young, I sat
high up in a gum tree and
I defecated from branch to
ground, I was naked, I was
young. I was an orang
utan, doing what comes
naturally to orang utans.
So I went to the zoo, when
I was young, and I steered
my hormonal glaze toward an
orange flaming very hairy
monkey thing, and I said to
her or him: hey, I’m very
young, moderately confused, and
I have this powerful urge to
make out with you.
When I was young, I
whirled around the dance floor
with a young man of same
age, and it felt like, right,
and it felt like, alright, this
is it, I know who I am:
I am a young boy turning
toward a man, I see and
touch a hairy monkey, I am
at home in this jumbled
jungle of soft erotic touch,
ecstatic mood and electric
shooting feelings.
When I was young, though
it might be hard to discern:
I was younger then than now.
Allan Padgett (Western Australia)
skinny as an undernourished
sewer rat—they poured
cod liver oil down my throat
and told me it would turn
me into a man, but it tasted
like dog shit crossed with
North Sea cod sperm so I
regurgitated more than thoughts,
I regurgitated my memory and
was left feeling blank: there
was only a distant past to
refer to, and not only was it
beyond time: it was beyond me.
When I was young, freshly
born, they found me in that
rapid descent from foetus to
neonate, they found me with
two club feet. Fuck, you know,
my father likely felt like
handing me back to my
maker—but then he realised
that he was my maker, and
he would inherit me anyway,
two club feet included!
But then I smiled as they
handed me back to the nurse,
and I heard them say:
this one’s not ours, ours is
that nice one over there, the
handsome boy with feet
that are made for walking,
not talking.
When I was young, a man
kissed me, he was handsome,
he might have been my uncle,
he might have been the butcher
or the baker, or the candlestick
maker. But he kissed me,
and you know, it felt really
nice, and I wondered even
then, before I even knew I
was a boy, if I should have
been a girl, and then it
dawned on me: a kiss is a
kiss, and bliss is bliss.
When I was young, I sat
high up in a gum tree and
I defecated from branch to
ground, I was naked, I was
young. I was an orang
utan, doing what comes
naturally to orang utans.
So I went to the zoo, when
I was young, and I steered
my hormonal glaze toward an
orange flaming very hairy
monkey thing, and I said to
her or him: hey, I’m very
young, moderately confused, and
I have this powerful urge to
make out with you.
When I was young, I
whirled around the dance floor
with a young man of same
age, and it felt like, right,
and it felt like, alright, this
is it, I know who I am:
I am a young boy turning
toward a man, I see and
touch a hairy monkey, I am
at home in this jumbled
jungle of soft erotic touch,
ecstatic mood and electric
shooting feelings.
When I was young, though
it might be hard to discern:
I was younger then than now.
Allan Padgett (Western Australia)
When Mastodons Roamed the Earth
I was feeling rather feeble,
you had me by the trunk.
I kept thinking of times long past,
when mastodons roamed the earth—
and life, for them and for me,
was so much simpler.
To start with, there were no:
hoons driving at 235 km on public roads;
football scores or updates;
red light districts to distract a man;
governments or policies or police or regulations;
brain surgeons;
soup du jour;
massive bills for consuming water, electricity, gas;
force-fed geese;
ads on free to air;
fucking red lights;
plasma screens;
poets dreaming;
nor—love.
But, there were plenty of mastodons,
and their role in life, their casual ordinary everyday routine, was to:
nuzzle up to each other,
in their mastodonic fashion—
to kiss and fuck each other,
to make more mastodons.
And then those mastodons went out to graze,
and they held their peace and they held their trunks—
and life was nothing more
and frankly, nothing less,
than roaming across fertile sucking tundra—
and eating frozen grass.
And then, if they were lucky,
they got a kick up the arse.
Allan Padgett (Western Australia)
you had me by the trunk.
I kept thinking of times long past,
when mastodons roamed the earth—
and life, for them and for me,
was so much simpler.
To start with, there were no:
hoons driving at 235 km on public roads;
football scores or updates;
red light districts to distract a man;
governments or policies or police or regulations;
brain surgeons;
soup du jour;
massive bills for consuming water, electricity, gas;
force-fed geese;
ads on free to air;
fucking red lights;
plasma screens;
poets dreaming;
nor—love.
But, there were plenty of mastodons,
and their role in life, their casual ordinary everyday routine, was to:
nuzzle up to each other,
in their mastodonic fashion—
to kiss and fuck each other,
to make more mastodons.
And then those mastodons went out to graze,
and they held their peace and they held their trunks—
and life was nothing more
and frankly, nothing less,
than roaming across fertile sucking tundra—
and eating frozen grass.
And then, if they were lucky,
they got a kick up the arse.
Allan Padgett (Western Australia)
The Melting Gazebo
I recover well from
fatal wounds:
crushed by failure
marooned by fear
quartered by anxiety
burned by lust
decapitated by tranquillity.
Circumcised by derision.
It is a long way
to abandonment—
turn right at Tipperary
tumble left at the
melting gazebo
stroke the neck of
a rutting zebu.
Fuck me dead!
Walking into this
dreamworld is more
work than the
pleasure principle allows.
More heavy than a hundred cows.
Just as bent as a Roman nose.
Allan Padgett (Western Australia)
fatal wounds:
crushed by failure
marooned by fear
quartered by anxiety
burned by lust
decapitated by tranquillity.
Circumcised by derision.
It is a long way
to abandonment—
turn right at Tipperary
tumble left at the
melting gazebo
stroke the neck of
a rutting zebu.
Fuck me dead!
Walking into this
dreamworld is more
work than the
pleasure principle allows.
More heavy than a hundred cows.
Just as bent as a Roman nose.
Allan Padgett (Western Australia)
2013/02/20
I’ve Got A Kronic Headache
I’ve got a kronic
headache
I can no longer see —
or feel my freedom
I am caught and tethered in the
stale dry molasses of a
nanny state
My development is
arrested by the forces
of coercion
It may be wise to
ban something that
erodes good health
and promotes a selfish self
and leads to fun, even
if it makes you feel good for a while,
for you can never guess where it might take you, it
might take you to 100% happiness, it
might take you to an early grave,
it might take you to dystopia, it might invigorate
your myopia
But while we’re on it, while my
kronic smokes its way into my
illegal smile, let’s get real, let’s:
ban all alcohol
ban all nicotine
ban all bad drivers
ban god
ban families
ban sexual intercourse, especially with horses
because you might break your back
ban amphetamines and
analgesics and
dopamine and
impregnation and
fertilisation and
imagination
They might kill you, or make you sick
Ban the bomb, ban
a walk in the park
after dark —
a squirrel might bite your arse
Ban conversation — a
difference of opinion
might lead to homicide or even, regicide
Ban touching yourself,
you might go blind
and walk in front
of a bus and —
that might kill you
Ban kissing cows, you
might get mad cow
disease, especially if
you tongue kiss
Ban kissing flying foxes, especially
if you are a race horse
Ban diarrhoea, I no
longer enjoy gastrointestinal contortions or —
being caught with my
pants down in some inconvenient laneway
Ban dysmenorrhoea, it’s
no fun being periodically painful
Ban stamps, there might be arsenic
where you lick the sticky bits
Ban gazing into your
lover’s eyes, you
might see their
hidden agenda and —
hang yourself
I wish this kronic ache
would go away —
it’s made my day
Allan Padgett (Western Australia)
headache
I can no longer see —
or feel my freedom
I am caught and tethered in the
stale dry molasses of a
nanny state
My development is
arrested by the forces
of coercion
It may be wise to
ban something that
erodes good health
and promotes a selfish self
and leads to fun, even
if it makes you feel good for a while,
for you can never guess where it might take you, it
might take you to 100% happiness, it
might take you to an early grave,
it might take you to dystopia, it might invigorate
your myopia
But while we’re on it, while my
kronic smokes its way into my
illegal smile, let’s get real, let’s:
ban all alcohol
ban all nicotine
ban all bad drivers
ban god
ban families
ban sexual intercourse, especially with horses
because you might break your back
ban amphetamines and
analgesics and
dopamine and
impregnation and
fertilisation and
imagination
They might kill you, or make you sick
Ban the bomb, ban
a walk in the park
after dark —
a squirrel might bite your arse
Ban conversation — a
difference of opinion
might lead to homicide or even, regicide
Ban touching yourself,
you might go blind
and walk in front
of a bus and —
that might kill you
Ban kissing cows, you
might get mad cow
disease, especially if
you tongue kiss
Ban kissing flying foxes, especially
if you are a race horse
Ban diarrhoea, I no
longer enjoy gastrointestinal contortions or —
being caught with my
pants down in some inconvenient laneway
Ban dysmenorrhoea, it’s
no fun being periodically painful
Ban stamps, there might be arsenic
where you lick the sticky bits
Ban gazing into your
lover’s eyes, you
might see their
hidden agenda and —
hang yourself
I wish this kronic ache
would go away —
it’s made my day
Allan Padgett (Western Australia)
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