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A Pensieve of Poetry
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Monday, 29 February 2016
Requiem
Topic: Comedy

Alas! Poor Percy, his pointing days gone,

Along with the porcelain he knew;

 

Now, it's quick, easy and painless, to

Shake young Stanley at the stainless. 


Posted by Tsc Tempest at 12:46 PM CET
Updated: Monday, 29 February 2016 12:47 PM CET
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Thursday, 18 February 2016
Kestl La Vie-Eey (... such is life...)
Topic: Descriptive

      (1997. This one won a competition once...)

 

The morning paper blows in the street. No one no  

longer able to read the words that flow from page  

to page like so much graffiti scrawled from fence post  

 

to junction-box. Adults hide. Behind their desks by  

day and in their beds at night. Frightened of the children  

they've brought into the world. This world, their world, a 

 

social nightmare.  

                               Somewhere, on the interconnecting  

pathways leading to new knowledge, someone car-jacked  

my education and left me beaten and broken, 

 

lying in shadows near Spring Street. Where are my  

mentors now? my teachers? my parli'mentary  

protectors of my right to know, to grow? They too 

 

hide in their beds as childish mobs gather in the   

dusk. If lit'racy standards could be written with  

a spray can on the walls of schools instead of chalk.... 

 

Schools are no more than glorified drop-in centers,  

kindergatens for the elder kinder.... hell.... spell...  

They call us the 'T-Generation', the Techno 

 

kids, but what use is technology when you've got  

to scab food from welfare, money from casino   

junkies....  

                 The evening paper blows along the  

alley, chased by some waif in brotherhood clothes; eyes  

alight with possibilities.... newsprint makes a 

 

good blanket or a good fire in a Salvo bin.  

Pa watches the box. Junior gurgles from Pa's  

lap as another gangland murder explodes on 

 

'Real TV' in a squeal of tyres. Ma yells from the  

shower, shocked at Daphney's new clit ring. Bubba's gotta  

see some guy, something about moving some shit.... 

 

A daily paper blows down the street. No one wants  

to read the words that flow from page to page like some  

cry for help. The children hide in this world. 'Their' world. 


Posted by Tsc Tempest at 5:21 PM CET
Updated: Monday, 22 February 2016 8:36 AM CET
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The Stainless god
Topic: Comedy
‘And man shall go before the stainless god, 

a god to whom The Acolytes give scented   
offerings with the passing of each new moon, 

a god before whom the True Believers  
chant out their holy, sacred mantra 

“Ahhhh...”  

with such wonderous euphoria... 'And make   
daily gifts of the waters of their bodies.... 

the stainless god is a good god, a  
generous god, a god whom rewards  

each sincere devotee with blissful peace. 

Posted by Tsc Tempest at 5:16 PM CET
Updated: Thursday, 18 February 2016 5:23 PM CET
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Playing with Fire
Topic: Love
(1995. For Rita A.)
 
You make me itch  
with a listless senselessness  
I've not known for so long 
devouring my  
waking hours like a phoenix  
vision rising from the 

smould'ring ashes   
of my thoughts, torching my heart...  
torturing my heart with 

soft and gentle  
gold-lash rimmed eyes, eyes which fan  
the dull glowing embers of 

my mind and blaze  
through my slumber, leaving me  
restless and unrested. 
You inflame my  
senses with coyly directed  
glances, stoking my 

passion, scortching  
the very fabric of my  
being. They say I'm playing with  

fire... You! A golden  
glowing solar flare of hair  
of wonder and desire.

Posted by Tsc Tempest at 5:14 PM CET
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Silken Sheets
Topic: Descriptive
looking,   
looking across the floor   
drifting, shifting in the disco fog   
and dim light  
eyes that speak desire,   
mouths that mouth, “…on fire!”   
hands and lips, that tease, please,   
entice… like ice on nipples bare.  

dancing,   
talking, touching under the   
table, legs gliding, sliding like   
quicksilver on sand  

a dark hallway, a stairwell,   
a cedar door by moonlight   
wafting incense, intense…

(magnolia blooms devour the night)  
waves on waves    
on a waveless waterbed   
crash in tortured thrusts   
over soft, silken sheets  

lips on lips   
arms entwine   
legs link, bodies flex    
in spasms of passion  

the sun   

parting clouds, pressing   
forward… fondles folds   
of curtained lace moving   
in a gentle breeze

Posted by Tsc Tempest at 5:12 PM CET
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HICS
Topic: Cyberspace

       (1997. Hero In Cyberspace)

 

I curse the daylight and fight to remain  

 awake while others are doing the RL   

thing. Give me the night and a fast, tight line  

 to my provider. A sharp, swift on-ramp   

to the world wide web. I am a cybermage,  

 an electronic punk, a chat room hero   

saving the desperate from the unkind  

 - my only claim to fame! Yet I function! 

I’m free! Alive... and yet... I rot away

 each night in front a poorly made CRT  

absorbing radiation till my eyes

 hurt in my skull and my stomach feels sick  

from the dull roar of artificially

 induced migraine. Hour by hour it kills me  

slowly, yet I cannot face that day to

 day subtle struggle with RL people.... 

I'd die even quicker! A hopeless moron,  

 a scarecrow,  stick insect,  unable to speak...   

A sallow coward that falters and trembles  

 in the face of physical and   

psychological confrontation,  

 trembling pathetically as  

others take cover for fear of being  

 hit by my shrapnel - little pieces of   

me - like a turd gone to pieces at the 

 slightest poke with a stick - so lacking in back  

bone or substance.... I can’t even remain

 solid enough to hit 'the fan'.... But  

in E-Space... I can soar! and fly!

 and race  and dance and shine and be a hero, and  

reach out and touch someone... At the end of

 the day I sleep, sick in the gut, thoughts numb  

with headache pain, yet feeling somehow, good.



Posted by Tsc Tempest at 5:06 PM CET
Updated: Thursday, 18 February 2016 5:20 PM CET
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Triads
Topic: in the vein of...

(1989. Working with Irish Triads of a similar name, to explore techniques.)

 

Three excellent qualities in naration:

a good flow,

depth of thought,

conciseness.

Three dislikable qualities in the same:

stiffness,

obscurity,

bad delivery.

Three things that are always ready in a decent man's house:

beer,

a shower,

a good TV.

 Three acomplishments well regarded in Australia:

an orginal joke,

performance on the sporting field,

conviction in hard times.

Three smiles worse than griefs:

the smile of a dingo snacking,

the smile of your lover when another man has been with her,

the smile of an Aids carrier offering you a syringe.

 Three things with the lightest hearts:

a student after gettin an "A",

a young woman embarking on a pleasent journey,

a boy in the arms of his first lover.

The three doors by which deceit enters:

anger in retaliatory defence,

dodgy information,

evidence from a bad memory.

Three times when speech is better than silence:

when urging against violence in action,

when quoting a well turned line of poetry,

when giving due praise.

Three scarcities that are better than abundance:

scarcity of fance talk,

a scarcity of grazing stock in a small paddock,

a scarcity of glasses around a jug of beer. 


Posted by Tsc Tempest at 4:55 PM CET
Updated: Wednesday, 23 March 2016 5:34 PM MEST
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Wallpaper
Topic: Cyberspace

(1997)

 

She dances across my mind's screen like a

 jerky animation running at fifteen

frames a second, all the right curves and

 creases in all the right places taunting

me like a 2D picture rotating

 in 3 Space the lighting and the shadows

capturing my attention as surely

 and as securely as a pretty woman's

RL smile – but I sit and rot away

each day in cyberspace, chasing the ghosts

 of promises from electronic harlots

falshing their all on a stage in Amsterdam

 blowing a deeper hole in my 'Big Pond'

deficit even as I flog myself

 to sleep and dream electronic fantasies

woven around conversations with

 some other-sex webfriends – Real Audio,

Streaming Video – continuous replay

 until exhausted, unconscious, spent. 


Posted by Tsc Tempest at 4:48 PM CET
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Ticklish
Topic: Introspection

(1998)

 

You touch me

I squirm

 

Your softness tickles my skin

setting my nerves aflame

 

Searing my muscles with

spasms... beyond enduring

 

Such pain!

Please... (Please stop.) 


Posted by Tsc Tempest at 4:44 PM CET
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Bent
Topic: Love

(1995 for Rita A.)

 

You crawled across the floor,

beneath my arms, my mind 

exploded into stars ...

Phosphenes danced before my

face, my hand brushed your side,

one look in your eyes

bent me out of shape,

now... I can't think straight. 


Posted by Tsc Tempest at 4:31 PM CET
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