Wednesday, November 24, 2004
pic by Darling Ms Cat
Was very fortunate last Monday to read my poem 'Dear Elliott' at the Elliott Smith Tribute Night at the Corner Hotel, Richmond. Many thanks to Chris Chapple for asking me to be involved and for accompanying me on guitar (see above) to the tune of Between the Bars. The sold out gig was an amazing success with all funds going to an Australian child abuse charity. For those who don't know, Elliott Smith was an amazingly talented American singer/songwriter who died tragically in October 2003 from a self-inflicted knife wound at the age of 34.
My poem 'Dear Elliott' will also be appearing in print in the soon to be launched 22nd edition of Going Down Swinging.
Wednesday, November 10, 2004
Everytime this doorbell is rung a cowboy appears from behind a tumbleweed, approaches the visitor, one hand hovering over his gun with deadly intent the other hand extending in welcome. The virtue of the visitor is tested immediately by the appearance of the cowboy both menacing and welcoming at the same time.
If the potential visitor does not flee at this vision the cowboy will nuzzle his well worn and stubbled face against theirs and then whisper come in, come in before delivering a cowboy kiss to the cheek.
This is the signal for the visitor that it is okay to enter.
On the way to her house I realise that I've invented her. How can I go to her house? I haven't even imagined where she lives yet!
I tell my cowboy friend to come out from behind those damn tumbleweeds and come help me find a real girl.
He takes me to the local saloon and we get totally slaughtered on Sioux City sarsaparilla.
He tells me inventing a doorbell powered by cowboy kisses for an imaginary girl is a pretty dumb idea but I point out so is getting drunk on sarsaparilla.
I guess that makes us even.
Tuesday, November 09, 2004
Monday, November 08, 2004
I sat on the balcony and I hoped I would see you.
I knew it was this time every evening you walked to the park by my house at dusk to your favourite spot. Where you would lay in the grass and invent new names for trees.
While I waited I discovered a small black and red insect crawling through the hairs on my arm.
It seemed harmless but I could think of more natural places for it to live so I gently took hold of it and placed it on the railing of the balcony.
Suddenly being removed from one world to another without any will of its own was a startling moment of liberation for the tiny black and red insect.
It promptly re-invented itself as an insect neo-folk singer and vibrated its tiny insect wings in a way that sent vibrations of personal and political frustration through the air audible only to other insects (more so to other insect lovers of folk music.)
This moment of altered destiny reminded me of when I was a child visiting my local bayside beach. While wading through the shallow tranquil waters I would often reach down and pick up small rocks from the sandy floor. I would stare at these rocks and consider the fact that before I had come along they had probably occupied almost exactly that same position for hundreds of years, maybe thousands. With one fling of my tiny hands these rocks would land with a splash in an entirely different world. And all I could think of at the time was how incredibly relieved the rocks would feel to finally have a different view every day.
I sat on the balcony a little while longer staring at the re-invented folk singing insect and then gently blew it over the edge where it plummeted into the front garden below and an entirely different world to the one it had just occupied, hence beginning its new career as an underground hip hop artist.
I never saw you walk by that evening and I’m thinking now maybe you don’t come this way anymore.
Maybe something has thrown you into another world.
Wednesday, November 03, 2004
A rare picture of the Evil Bunny in human form momentarily startled by the sound of a gentle old man nibbling quietly on a Saltine Cracker in the corner. A moment later the bunny disappeared into the portal on the right leaving a trail of Saltine crumbs behind him.
Tuesday, November 02, 2004
Found a review online recently of my chapbook Love is the New Hate. I'm particularly fond of this little gem...
"Sean has little idea how to structure his poems, just as he has little idea how to structure his life."
He must be reading my mail.
To read more look here.