With more skat
than a stray cat
can poke his eyeballs at
the punk
in the Midnight Choir
starts to twist and shout
Yet …
the All in All
all too beautiful
for even a bird on a wire
to sing about
Like that
concert hall in Vienna
where your lips
were so warm and wet
Getting a feel
of the real deal
… that love thing
Upon a mission
a royal commission
seeking foremost
the rock solid Kingdom
It all starts from within
Seizing the living moment
Best be in it
to win
And Leonard Cohen
he’s moved on
to the Tower of Song
To find truth
without love
or at least a trace
of faith and hope
like trying to climb
the highest peak
of Mount Everest
naked
without oxygen
or even a rope
Not saying it can’t be done
but man …
sounding much like
a clanging gong
in the Temple
of a world gone wrong
Or have I found
that love thing?
From the mire
of the dire basement
that we’re standing in
try as you might
to sight the heavens
across the endless skies
Far better
in the light
seeing the world
through heaven’s eyes
Heart and Soulful
Holy Mindfulness
is the rightful place
where we all belong
And Leonard Cohen
he’s moved on
to the Tower of Song
I too
have tried
in my way
to be free
If it be your will
then let it be
Yet
here on earth
they sentenced me
to forty years of mayhem
for spying
the celebrants
of sin
Tell me
where does
this world end
and the next begin?
Because
I don’t like your
toxic culture mister
And I don’t like
the choir
you’re singing in
I don’t like Big Brother’s
twisted little sister
The King
of everything
He’s coming back
He’s coming to reward them
The King of hearts
and minds
the Prince of Peace
returning
But first
we seek the Kingdom
Then let freedom ring
And Leonard Cohen
he’s moved on
to the Tower of Song
I’ve been buried
and I’ve been dug up
I call it grace amazing
You called it dumb luck
And thank you
for those items
that you sent me
The stone monkey
and the ink
under my skin
I’ve tunnelled
towards the light
and now I’m ready
First
we occupy the Kingdom
then
let the revolution begin
Yes … Jesus was a sailor
when he walked upon the water
Seeking the lost at sea
and the drowning
The stranger
the gambler
and me
And Leonard Cohen
he’s sailing on
to the Tower of Song
Through all
the rise and fall
the pulp fiction
from hell’s kitchen
I really like
to walk
that tightrope, baby
I really like
to hear
those Sirens sing
But to see that nightmare
of deception
prowling through creation
Jesus told us
yes he told us
Kingdom starts with
Remember me?
I use to to live
without rhyme or reason
Remember me?
I plugged your Hi-Fi in
You loved me as a loser
You’d hate
to ever see me win
With Christ Jesus
my ship has finally
come in
No longer tied
to a kitchen chair
With a Glory
and a broken Hallelujah!
But first
we take the Kingdom
Losing it all to win
And Leonard Cohen
he’s moved on
to the Tower of Song
I’m counselled
by a whisper
from the heavens
Once I was blinded
by visions in a spin
Now it’s …
So long Chicken Maryland
That frozen turkey
who nearly did me in
For now I’m guided
by the beauty of creation
and a thirst
for the Kingdom
where I first heard
those angels sing
Jesus told us
yes he told us
Kingdom begins within
And Leonard Cohen
he’s singing along
from the Tower of Song
~ by David B. Redpath © 2017-20
Artwork;
‘La Musica Sacra’
~ by Luigi Mussini
Photography:
David B. Redpath © 2017-20
David Redpath 
don’t roll your shirt cuffs back
if you have hairy wrists
light kisses
don’t rape my lips
your touch
a friend
not
a stranger
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sooner or later
death shows up
chomping a cigar
hand-rolled by virgins
(+) virgins come hell or high water
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Nick Cave singing,
“come around here and I’ll shoot your face”
end-of-the-world hornets with their stingers
street people just slump down and die
lesbian librarians put up a struggle
I petition the Lord
He sends angels willing to fight
I stand on a ladder and do my best
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my God sends angels willing to fight
hammers and nails
coffins closed
cemetery glued tight
sad to say, winners escape
they organize their thoughts
and slip away in the darkness
=========
=========
creative writing course:
3000 words or less
suicide in a shabby motel room
limited dialogue, chutney flavored farts
space socks shredded into a messy cotton tangle
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the poem
a probe of the last privacies
stark shades of Placebo Town
black people with store bought underpants
washed by sister-mother
the river clouded
the rocks worn
children pee
downstream
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small hands with histories
nicknames stolen from margins
gather and scatter the words of Frost
painstaking colors never fully understood
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artwork/craft
the little ones
in bird cages
nude children
and
tremendous
irregularities
the aftermath
Jesuit scruff
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it had nothing to do with pleasure
it was about power
demonstrating that power
the pain
it was different than
a roughed up kneecap
an elbow in the eye
a simple finger bite
angels all about
but they were playful
caught up in the moment
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THE TRUE HOME OF COUNTLESS MICHAELS
——–secondhand bookstores——–
———————————-
the exchange of dime-store merchandise
for favors
androgynous lovers
often thinking of Captain Ahab
the thuds of touching bottom
reproduction: a kind of recreation
grab-bags of vulva
deep totemic signatures
small, large, ape hair or bald
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THE TRUE COUNT OF THE HOMELESS
The huddled masses
stalking the shopping malls
in the buying and selling
of meaningless trinkets
soon broken and useless
lives measured by possessions
with passions unspoken
The persistence of existence
amongst the walking pointless
Bodies stored in houses
… just a temporary residence
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bodies stored in houses (+) bodies stored in houses
my wife wants me to be her identical twin
but it is impossible
in the war
face down in mud
a thousand tanks ran across my back
bad men marched across me
I had to terminate others
no longer a nice guy
(+) once back on earth, music caused me to cry
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a kind of innocence adored
a child-woman
unicorn stationary
sentimental assemblages
tiny cups and saucers
mermaids
haunting silence
soothed somehow by the quiet
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I keep my inner minotaur
under strict control when driving
the next door neighbour’s
pubescent daughter to school
which I dutifully do
every weekday morning
despite all her relentless taunting
The young thirty something
widow next door is Scandinavian
A tall blonde Viking
but parentally dysfunctional
and needs my altruistic helping
Her husband was killed
in a longboat explosion
during a hostile invasion
As for her flirtatious daughter
she needs a damn good spanking
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soft romance
best strangle the appetite
take religion from your mouth
and return it to your heart
help average remain itself
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Nick Cave upset because of MUTE
he performs in silence
his riddles unsolved
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Jesus calling
to the underworld
Come out of the Cave
you boys and girls
Jesus calling
now look to Christ
Phony Beatlemania
has bitten the dust
Jesus calling
see heaven’s got the swing
Except for that angel
who crashed Eden’s Garden
The ice age is coming
the sun’s zooming in
Meltdown expected
the wheat is growing thin
Engines stop running
but have no fear
because I’m always near
Jesus is calling now
go to the river
~ The Refurbished Clash
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an avalanche of words
released from an odd prison
“free at last”
what was asexual in the background
now parading down the street naked
extraterrestrials
the whole tribe
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Earthlin’ earthlin’ eathlin’
I can’t wait to probe you
Your subservience ain’t enough
I can’t wait to invicserate you
… in the flesh
~ Blancmange the Grey
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to take bliss at another’s expense
TO TAKE BLISS AT ANOTHER’S EXPENSE
to take bliss at another’s expense
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TO TAKE THE PISS
is a time honoured
Australian tradition
Unfortunately
when interfacing
with denizens of the US
much is lost in translation
TO TAKE THE PISS
should always be taken
as an expression of affection
(except when addressing
an unfortunate mutation)
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THE UNRAVELING OF CIVILIZATION
the lines of one poem onto the lines of another
selling stop signs to people at entry points
rickety letters, fragile loops, curves
homing instincts to sin
poetic worksheet
jottings
(+) the need to define and contain
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let them go
line after line
let them blossom
or die on the vine
generations generating
like fish in the ocean
there is magic
in all creation
the diobolical
and the divine
poetry in motion
birth and death
feeding at the bottom
or at the top of your game
creation and destruction
keeping pace
the expanding universe
a continuous outpouring
of time and space
virtual experience
the virtuous and the devious
giving the choice
to purse or reject
the demonic chaotic
or the perfectly divine
beauty is where you find it
the hard to accept
the hard to obtain
the hard to resist
the impossible to explain
for it’s man’s innate character
his fallen nature
to alternate
from one extreme to another
from the poetic
to the catastrophic
having a wayward heart
art is the expression
the foundation written
throughout human literature
ever drawing a dividing line
between brother and brother
haters and lovers
between sister and sister
even mother and son
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(+) unravel the poem into a tatter of words
send a priest to examine the outer edges
Herman Melville a nomad
his bondage to menfolk
Bible narrators
citizens of up above
no need for reproduction
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“Art is the lie that enables
one to realize the truth.”
~ Pablo Picasso
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“Art is the backdoor that enables
the truth to escape.”
~Johnny Walker
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“Art can be the morning dew
on an angel’s nipples, or the
detritus from a demon’s anus.”
~ Johnnie Wanker
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road rage in the grocery store
Nick Cave whispering in my ear
“shoot them in the face”
at the edges and outer borders
the apes scatter, all directions
they communicate without words
bright blue butts swollen
opened and rendered
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Michael owns a house in Placebo Town
on a nondescript street in the middle of nowhere
mementos of his happy marriage line the driveway
Greeks, Romans, and apes that munch on the landscape
the driveway is wide but narrow to conventional thoughts
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Go back ten years ago
Sunbeams dancing round
Go back ten years ago
Sunbeams dancing down
Autumn’s child, autumn’s child
Autumn’s child
Got a loophole round her finger
Halo rings her head
Corn husk hair makes me linger
A cat’s stare meet s my dare
A man’s chair greets my stare
Gonna be my wife
She sang, she said
Gonna be my wife gonna
Spice my life, she said
Go back ten years ago
Sunbeams everywhere
Go back ten years ago
Sunbeams fill the air
Harvest moon be nimble
Apples bob and tremble
Fish pond streaks love kind
Found the child I have to find
Apples shine share together
Got the time to make her mine
Fish pond streaks love kind
Found the child I had to find
Autumn’s child, I met her
At a balloon bust picnic
She caught me
With the beauty queen
With jade green eyes buttons
And bows and fancy ties
The feet of dust
under trees of rust
Make them sandals gambol
under knees of trust
Gonna be my wife
Gonna spice my life
She sang she said
Gonna be my wife
Gonna spice my life
She said
Go back ten years ago
Sunbeams shining down
Go back ten years ago
Sunbeams glancin’ round
Autumn’s child
~ Captain Beefheart
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an apprenticeship in romance
rough-and-tumbles in bed
lucky to have a Michael
stake driver
with soft lips
attuned to the exact moment
the horny bird attacked the worm
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Jack Kerouac folded up
in the back pocket
of Captain Beefheart
(+) Allan Ginsberg was just an empty dustjacket
they say that poets try to extract every nuance of meaning
but that is just a crude joke, a silent fart
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VORACIOUS READERS WELCOME
pessimistic fleas carried home
from the library
absurd communication
existence precedes essence
(+) the itch first exists, then essence
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FEROCIOUS BREEDERS WELL DONE
in the wood oven of vanity
at the Placebo Town Pizzeria
where we make you feel welcome
with a splash of olive oil on the
genitalia before we start cooking
(+) anchovies will cost you extra
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action determines identity
habits and appearance
the Bible internalized
Jesus running around
an omniscient punk
————
————
the climactic battle
big shots in Heaven
photos for publicity
in the background
the workforce
squeezing
love
from
the enemy
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keeping on the move
the whole point is to be active
they didn’t bury me too deep so I escaped
just got up and ran away, smelling like a dirtball
a used up Michael in a hole in the ground
it takes very little soil to establish legitimacy
come tomorrow they will just plant a new body
—————–
—————–
nickel and dime the poor citizens, the winos, the hobos
life is about unearned credits and keeping your mouth shut
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it wasn’t nice of me to say
that Heaven takes everything
before the drop in Placebo Town
a haunting memory
having every drop of love
squeezed from my cold heart
(+) Bless the labor force that perform the “dirty” work
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at the Placebo Central Laundromat
the undergarments go in white
barely a jizz stain in sight
and come out black
they call it karma
but I know it’s kismet
as the Placebo Town pipes
are leaking a bitter substance
but the citizens keep on drinking it
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up above the Placebo Central Laundry
a Chinese firm
prepares Sea Cucumber Jelly
pilgrims that have displeased the Lord
well, they pay the Laundry
to freshen their underpants
the Lord sees fit to punish
and punish he often does
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Chinese poachers
invading the territorial waters
of defenceless paupers
stealing their prized Sea Cucumbers
even if they give back
all that they take
regardless of how many trips
to the Placebo Central Laundromat
their stains
will never
ever come out
in the wash
because a Sea Cucumber never
forgets
and they don’t like
those godless communists
who make
all that plastic crap
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highly verbal
with a good
opening
line
something about your sister
jacking off the guy at the bakery
in exchange for stale doughnuts
(a poet in the flames ready to emerge)
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people are silent about the sister gone astray
a library-bound waif in a white dress
plenty of time to luxuriate in fiction
the sister with the yellow eye
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the sister who climbed trees naked
she tried to count the buds on a dendrite
it was an eternal battle that she could never win
I think of her often, her deep psychological wounds
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Crocuta … Crocuta
the hermaphrodite hyena
my twisted older sister
some things are forgotten
some things
I’ll forever remember
Crocuta … Crocuta
as androgynous as ever
round up a few
of your frisky little friends
and we’ll all get together
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neither feline or canine
even the blackest of sheep
and the wildest of wolf
fear the Carnivora Hyena
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watching a movie where Luna
takes photos of Tony
cutting up a dead body
Luna says that it is art
she masturbates
Tony seems frightened
he kisses Luna
Luna cries
LOVE
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Luna just cut the tongue off her stepmother
she enjoys the silence, her gospel veiled
Tony rips a hole in her pantyhose
he and Luna make love
clouds fall from the sky
the world
seems upside down
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“The path to wisdom starts with
watching a Placebo Town rom-com
from the sweet start to the sticky
ending, and to then know nothing.”
~ The Dire Lemma
(the 15th reincarnation … as
some Dire Lemmas never learn)
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Michael
torn from a poem about human error
a criminal from an undecorated Florida
minuscule, homebound
permanently shoeless
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(for the kid who saw dead people everywhere)
this morning a zombie was sucking the doorknob
a faint cadence, possible porno ventriloquism
NATURE AT WAR WITH ITSELF
guilty people on TV
expressing sorrow
(+) I pay the circus to move to the next town
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Mister and Mrs. Biographied
marriage and honeymoon
the continual nightmare
disfigurement
yielded up
NO outfox
the sound of the trumpet
orphans and poorhouse maids
even doll parts in the attic nervous
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children trained for 12 years
the knives of matrimony
cleaned and polished
fairy tale nonsense
HONEYMOON
without tutor
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to keep his hand off his problem
he wrapped a towel around it
HE HAD TO CRUCIFY HIS SIN
merely struggling was not enough
——————
——————
sleeping with an erection
leaking cottage cheese semen
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money coughed up for the Honeymoon Suite
the lights went out/flying knives
a festival of love maturing
leaking jism like a bull
desperate calls home
unanswered
a heavy solid bathroom door with 3 locks
bellows and the pounding of the chest
a lunatic groom with his pants down
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Oscar Pistorius
is the toast
of Placebo Town
with gun in hand
charging like a rhinoceros
his short pants pulled down
proudly displaying
his prosthetic horn
Reeva and the Blade Runner
a love story for the ages
the poetically tragic
pages from a book being torn
where a funeral pyre rages
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down Bourbon Street
in the French Quarter
of Placebo Town
you’re sure to meet
a lunatic poet
out of his mind
or a homeless beggar
with his pants pulled down
old burnt out hippies
blues singers past their prime
and new age psychos abound
in the French Quarter
of Placebo Town
I once had some pity
but now there’s too many
littering the sidewalks
of my old stomping ground
a never ending circus
under a big top curse
complete with performing clowns
forever making an appearance
in Placebo Town
down Bourbon Street
in the French Quarter
my old stomping ground
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God turns Sin into mud
those returning home
find themselves
coated
Michael found himself dirty
no longer able to maneuver
(+) a haunted house with no foundation
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tormenting paralysis
the haunted house with no windows
the wife both the servant, the superior
she on her broomstick, once a household pet
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discover yourself a creature of both sexes
a button above your dong
begs to be rubbed
press it hard
have private
thoughts
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Sex
it hasn’t rained in two years
the weatherman hints “any day”
Sex
not without a sign
check the calendar for a full moon
—————
—————
guys at the pool hall
joke about masturbation
about being “self-tutored”
—————
—————
members of
poetry workshop
share experiences
and mutual affection
men in purple pantaloons
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there’s always trouble
in the pool halls
lurking in doorways
and underneath tables
pin-up girls
covering the walls
Rita Hayworth
and Betty Grable
lit cigarettes
burning holes
in burnt out souls
taking a gamble
stuck behind the 8 ball
with a broken pool cue
a game of true survival
where no one
will ever miss you
in the pool halls
there’s always trouble
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Honeymoon Hotel
before the wedding day—the bride and groom were 100% virginal
they often kissed on the cheek but never on the lips
they were Christians
(+) he experienced shame, having seen her in a bathing suit
———————————
hobos and those living on the street
lower their eyes at the mention
of a therapist
———————————
the pool hall had a library of instructional pornography
———————————
she had several prescriptions from her gynecologist
———————————
they were told to smile at their awkwardness
———————————
she was reminded not to smile at his penis
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real poetry passes cognitive sequences
real music awakens cognitive sequences
poets live in a region of memory reversal
memories are physical
no, not on the street
cognitive code
holding hands
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cogs within cogs within cogs
springs in motion
teeth engaged
with abstract projections
desperately seeking
the hormonal stimulation
of opinion based validation
blog after blog after blog
of banal regurgitation
with a business class education
in clockwork creation
poetry is the victim
of meaningless crime
time after time after time
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poetry workshop:
old buckets of lard
discussing computer speed
what it takes to break encryption codes
(what happened to fascination with Kanye West’s penis ?)
untitled, undated prose
badly formed words
letters elongated
too many Capitals
the spacing between individual words
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“Art has no end but
its own perfection.”
~ Plato
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had to be a bad Michael today
I don’t enjoy it
I promise myself “never again”
and then, shit rag Michael to the surface
transference
doctor-patient relationship
psychic dynamite baby
that bastard is clinging to the rocks of Hades
at this very moment
I was forced to load my collection of pills
into a new shiny wheelbarrow
and I made for home
the night porter
picked me up
in his chariot
we donated the wheelbarrow
and $50 worth of quarters
to the street creeps
one must pay the toll
Placebo Town
home sweet home
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Eternity
It has been found again.
What ? – Eternity.
It is the sea fled away
With the sun.
Sentinel soul,
Let us whisper the confession
Of the night full of nothingness
And the day on fire.
From human approbation,
From common urges
You diverge here
And fly off as you may.
Since from you alone,
Satiny embers,
Duty breathes
Without anyone saying :
at last.
Here is no hope,
No orietur.
Knowledge and fortitude,
Torture is certain.
It has been found again.
What ? – Eternity.
It is the sea fled away
With the sun.
~ Arthur Rimbaud
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the doctor was eyeballing my penis
he was drooling and he was thinking
that I was a zipless suck
how easy ?
but the Michael on duty
he don’t play that game
the doctor’s persona
stirred the burly, confrontational
male inside me
the Old Testament Michael
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the deeper one delves into the primordial Michael
the less one concentrates on restricted head size
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a zipless suck
how lazy can one be ?
hollow, frozen core in hospital wrappers
“be a good Michael and eat your gingerbread cookie”
——————-
——————-
verse-making
poems begging for rhymes
friends promising to meet me
as if one dies
and enters Heaven
through an arrival gate
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puppet-master/ventriloquist
with limited filter
poems about hot soaks
soft tissue
to be penetrated
her hand on my longing
her pace the craft of a snail
(prose that qualifies as stream-of-conscious)
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fantasies
and reveries
inside the jungle
outside the jungle
domestic idyll where apes behave badly
creatures searching for a fulfillment out of reach
cartoonish fantasies under the eyelids
Michael being taught bitter and sweet
(+) the floodgate opened
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Investments in abstracts
left me totally bankrupt … but
at least I got to enjoy the trip to
Pan’s labyrinth via the River Styx
A persistent fantasist insisting on
assisting the Master’s apprentice
bungling in the jungle of existence
I suspect it was all suspiciously
highly superstitious when this
Cheshire cat offered me a smoke
Especially after a dreamy genie
put me in the captivity of mortality
and then granted me three wishes
as if life was some kind of joke
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guests at the table
are saying,
“the food looks pretty”
what a thing to say
feeling good about oneself
riding britches
and that place inside
that hooks onto
lovers
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survival first
the night porter
shoots Abstinence
no limit to the spirit
passable or impassable
(+) steep and precipitous
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the Candy Man
has been busy
breadcrumbing my dreams
with oblivion promises
submerged in a sea
of lost memories
fortunately for me
I sleep in a straight jacket
and the padlock
on my padded cell
is rusted shut and has no key
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+(stick in the eye)+
to make the experience of literature more like real life
a straight jacket moment:
ripping the baby from Sharon Tate
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readers wiggling out of handcuffs
(X) bipolar reliable (X) bipolar unreliable
cheats and freeloaders
the circles of Hell
Placebo Town
where God drills a hole
to spy on his children
without their
knowledge
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on 9/11
local radio stations
play 24hr “Stairway to Heaven”
David Bowie complains from the grave
Robert Frost mumbles, “shit for brains”
I went out with my beach legs
picked up some litter from the sand
chatted with a one-breasted woman
saw teenage pubic hair, out of control
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Osama bin Laden never
replied to my 9/11 invitation?
It’s very rude, and
I won’t be inviting him again.
Even Salman Rushdie seems to be
ignoring my entreaties … and he
always enjoys a good beach party!?
At least Gidget turned up for some
end of Summer fun, along with
Annette Funicello in an itsy bitsy
teenie weenie yellow polka dot
bikini. Not forgetting Moondoggie
shooting the tube in his arm whilst
wiping out on probation
… or that Annette Funicello bikini
floating free upon the ocean
as the Twin Towers started collapsing
like acid injected directly
into the veins of a junkie nation
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perverts want to sniff
the artificial replacements
poets talk about distal locking
suction, suspension, even pressure
God never tires watching me hook up
(+) is it possible to gather up the wreckage of ones life ?
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When asked on occasion
my dear friend, Karl Marx,
would make insightful remarks
such as . . . “Es ist nur dein
scheiß haus sitz im leben.”
Karl would often come out
with such pearls of wisdom
when puffing on a pipe of opium
in the corner of my lounge room
whilst losing his religion with
Friedrich Engels, and listening
to Led Zeppelin. Those two were
inseparable, and always good for
a laugh. I really do miss them
… but I guess that’s Capitalism.
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