tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-43893754566002161262024-03-05T00:53:35.689-08:00dream nexus poemsa world for writers and poetry, post beat, performance, anything... Jazz27http://www.blogger.com/profile/09831542831425545725noreply@blogger.comBlogger83125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4389375456600216126.post-24990134319891648192023-01-07T02:46:00.003-08:002023-01-07T02:54:05.141-08:00Dear Prisoner <p> https://youtu.be/xwgHJ9KlTXM</p>Jazz27http://www.blogger.com/profile/09831542831425545725noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4389375456600216126.post-85930327046847589882021-03-27T04:40:00.001-07:002021-03-27T04:40:50.385-07:00Love Motes Map<p> </p><p><br /></p><p>Motes,</p><p>castle dreams </p><p>Lazily ascending float.</p><p>As end portal</p><p> phone line of light is</p><p>Telling me these</p><p>afternoons </p><p>stay awhile.</p><p>So live </p><p>like magpie </p><p>chortle captures</p><p>All fray nights as flights,</p><p>As he insights </p><p>air back to freedom.</p><p>A live reclining chair whim</p><p> on mind of breezes </p><p>humble beginnings</p><p> and tiny shifts grinning </p><p>poised for</p><p> all one -</p><p> no reason.</p><p>That which breaks lengths </p><p>of photonic waves making</p><p>Platonic spider caves of sunsets</p><p>Into learnings.</p><p>Which are burnings </p><p>shriftful-pupil of paramour.</p><p>Which breaks to write!</p><p>Autumn smiles,</p><p> old balances,</p><p>Go!</p><p>Harvest!</p><p> magnetica!</p><p>Take this poem</p><p> to your dust bed,</p><p>I will know you tomorrow,</p><p>The place space port</p><p> orb flung will fall back,</p><p>align gaze signatures.</p><p>Charred ships </p><p>may smoke</p><p>From hope, </p><p>running along</p><p>Our contours.</p><p>No tv capitals inside</p><p>Our bubble brackets</p><p> of time. </p><p>That</p><p>Forever...</p><p> all movies are ours,</p><p>Your wings to fill my home,</p><p>The dot</p><p> in the dot </p><p>in the dot...</p><p>The perfect spinning of us,</p><p>The celestined unlock,</p><p>The slow big momentums</p><p>Life-slide-dock, home,</p><p>Mandelbrot...</p><p><br /></p><p>#lightislove #poetryoftime #poetryoflight #poems #poetryofsunset #poet #poemsofloveandlife #poetryofinsta #poetryramble #mystylepoetry #poetryofsoul #poetrymagick #poetryofautumn #poetrydream #meditation #poetrylover #melbspokenword #melbournepoetry</p>Jazz27http://www.blogger.com/profile/09831542831425545725noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4389375456600216126.post-91982436534165347402020-11-22T01:09:00.006-08:002020-11-22T01:09:54.777-08:00An Apple falls in a Dream of our Forest<iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/N7o-Src0U7s" width="560"></iframe><div><br /></div><div>Poem made for the prompt group "Pendemic" by Fleassy Malay. Discussing topics such as erotics, Lillith, and equality. It explores and reimagines the apple and tree metaphor of Eden, while in a dream of making love out in a forest meadow. </div>Jazz27http://www.blogger.com/profile/09831542831425545725noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4389375456600216126.post-40596942399001374312020-09-04T22:05:00.002-07:002020-09-04T22:10:47.240-07:00The Best Part<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIR8jD3v8qH8KX6E_UpQZ0SIMkqDUNOG16E9E0TFR7ia3E1rqHGXdNMhYpNWUQLNKkRXd9bJlti2JOIFVvGajRdeUr6DQiycaPN0NyfH31cPIR7N-pGapZB_AklHyZ_9iDetjzR3n0PUmZ/s640/105617166_10223249089405255_5627753737133228641_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="551" height="781" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIR8jD3v8qH8KX6E_UpQZ0SIMkqDUNOG16E9E0TFR7ia3E1rqHGXdNMhYpNWUQLNKkRXd9bJlti2JOIFVvGajRdeUr6DQiycaPN0NyfH31cPIR7N-pGapZB_AklHyZ_9iDetjzR3n0PUmZ/w674-h781/105617166_10223249089405255_5627753737133228641_n.jpg" width="674" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /> <p></p>Jazz27http://www.blogger.com/profile/09831542831425545725noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4389375456600216126.post-48597095768950147212020-08-14T06:09:00.001-07:002020-08-14T06:09:08.122-07:00After Watering the Sage<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL4i2UDNRMkbznOUhL68kGjvC4u0pUUAunFClkd8VuPibL0loqsGBQ9rLgobeJX_hibWhnEtGkcenCByJuJnH4HlDjzf-YDVGpGEKJ4iU-WCLO31VLaxwkZfL8RO_P4tZz7k3m96mcJHHf/s1119/76732184_10220763655630964_5944550469299863552_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1119" data-original-width="1080" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL4i2UDNRMkbznOUhL68kGjvC4u0pUUAunFClkd8VuPibL0loqsGBQ9rLgobeJX_hibWhnEtGkcenCByJuJnH4HlDjzf-YDVGpGEKJ4iU-WCLO31VLaxwkZfL8RO_P4tZz7k3m96mcJHHf/s640/76732184_10220763655630964_5944550469299863552_o.jpg" /></a></div> <p></p>Jazz27http://www.blogger.com/profile/09831542831425545725noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4389375456600216126.post-33147013011743577082020-05-30T02:52:00.000-07:002020-05-30T02:52:11.396-07:00Family of Light Poem<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfH-ZoEVMPgCTcc-NH-yANt62yJbF3wxHGS9jWh-NYv_ZvLaYzE3u_azkRIIFjyXnj9jvp3paXdszXNNPdgMqhhimUx1AaVwnOB5-79XvIsrLM_qAvelYLzKMCN6UBLgx1DphngI4xa6Bm/s1600/10338309_10153462701953825_3764540679107224988_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="580" data-original-width="465" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfH-ZoEVMPgCTcc-NH-yANt62yJbF3wxHGS9jWh-NYv_ZvLaYzE3u_azkRIIFjyXnj9jvp3paXdszXNNPdgMqhhimUx1AaVwnOB5-79XvIsrLM_qAvelYLzKMCN6UBLgx1DphngI4xa6Bm/s320/10338309_10153462701953825_3764540679107224988_n.jpg" width="256" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Peom made amidst this years April prompt group; "The Dirty Thirty," hosted by Abdulrahman Hammoud. The prompt if I remember correctly was what I would do if the world was empty of people. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<iframe width="560" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/AW2007cyNUo" frameborder="0" allow="accelerometer; autoplay; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen></iframe>
<br />
<br />Jazz27http://www.blogger.com/profile/09831542831425545725noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4389375456600216126.post-18623208015832623462017-08-17T06:43:00.000-07:002020-05-22T23:02:24.820-07:00Anyway, Waterfall...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghJc-9zav0TJNMSqWmRHXWAPt4ZKtw3gfQ-7M-Z40ZgCGYAi4x1MXI6egOz1Bxn3-GoWKTi59CFstBJ9WkUjPU6THa-ZLWSqUFmad0uiRGIzfbvL8_sNnDGy6AyGTJX7EDOR5VwHoERiUR/s1600/601849_303204489769242_226665448_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghJc-9zav0TJNMSqWmRHXWAPt4ZKtw3gfQ-7M-Z40ZgCGYAi4x1MXI6egOz1Bxn3-GoWKTi59CFstBJ9WkUjPU6THa-ZLWSqUFmad0uiRGIzfbvL8_sNnDGy6AyGTJX7EDOR5VwHoERiUR/s320/601849_303204489769242_226665448_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
#oldpostbeatpoem #odetothedreamer
Stuck on the last page
of the poetry book blues,
BB king died the other day and
Nuthin new to be news but news is a trap,
Now is like my kids today while autumn
Not yet falling to winters crystal sunlight
and the some leaves still clinging,
Like how now is too beautiful to express
And a violence in splashing too many rocks into
a side of the forrest walk wishing pond,
so small and graceful it could be for fairies,
now is I can’t tell you what they wished for
nor what they’re dreaming of now
in peace spacesuit breathings beatitude,
now thinking my adult attitude over complex,
rememories of why I had to leave the poetry gig early
and caught all Lego piece light words
for moth switch right anyway
upon just the right metaphor,
two Hindu men that day pointing to my aum badge
and saying things like O that’s the why of the world!
The fork of the river!
and yes it had a beautiful longer version anyway
and the beautiful people were too painfully curved
into bad capitalistic machines
not toys made of the parking metre,
yet, why is always too beautiful
for this old tree stone from the hills…
all the meanings left behind
I can’t remember,
for now is a silent deep well
that the moon leaves in the sun,
especially when that girl who
I thought connect realizes
I’m gone a leap of the last verb,
And cockatoos are some of the most
playful birds for no reason,
spirals for any no reason
there on facebook in no one’s everyone,
simple wondering what stuck together songs
and stories gunna build
themselves tomorrow
outta ordinary,
what excuses for air currents swirl on
end-of-light shadow ball wall outta memes
and themes such as Whitman randomly
poking his face out of a frame on my table
and with lifted bushy eyebrow, telling me;
“why yes son Maya is the dreamer
and Heidegger is a hydrogen seashell
left upon a powerline on Brunswick rooftop
near a waterfall, but you knew
that didn’t you?”
and yes its all gunna collapse when
ink pin steps forth and drops anyway,
in the mean time I finally lit
my writers candle in my darkness
and am breathing,
so look;
the unicorn herds
run across the blue grass sky,
the naked men and women who ride them
never needed to wear clothes their whole lives
and the cashless catchless knowing
of who does what in their society,
and the don’t worry,
now is the hazy ‘ol
green not-too-real ground in fuzzy smile,
a centre up that thinks it’s all too perfect to anyhow,
and so spaceships with Elizabethean bathtubs
fly by…Jazz27http://www.blogger.com/profile/09831542831425545725noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4389375456600216126.post-53674015575567628132017-08-04T07:14:00.003-07:002017-08-04T07:16:47.522-07:00Journal Entry 21st May 2015<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqMtm1k7wmwy4B4a1pdrNOsbi2d0vZjldOmz9tKDgyjFryuw5XUbBsj3F_tPp-0E4R5vd8AetmoIhWSijHJE6ulkMBMoeKVfC69pSptwbzkeBC_QirecSKvGzm5uVYUfnnZTUjW8sMRtf4/s1600/182819_10151034131798278_1065431862_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="954" data-original-width="960" height="317" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqMtm1k7wmwy4B4a1pdrNOsbi2d0vZjldOmz9tKDgyjFryuw5XUbBsj3F_tPp-0E4R5vd8AetmoIhWSijHJE6ulkMBMoeKVfC69pSptwbzkeBC_QirecSKvGzm5uVYUfnnZTUjW8sMRtf4/s320/182819_10151034131798278_1065431862_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ok trying to do this quickly, got too much work to do. Too much on my mind too much in the world pace, but 3 pages every morning is the
jam. The sticky sweet goo of mind encapturment. O but you spelled that wrong! And every day contains the same old discomfort and inaccurate blashmamy that is
description. How exact can the swan flight into storms of grieg’s piano, how
well does the grey leech out of the sky and exact its presence everywhere, as
if to say sorry son the colours over so you gotta get to work. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And that’s what I
fear and crave, desire and dread, work, good work bad all work all the same
work, here I’m working at my mothers house making kimono bags for no real
reason whatsoever it seems cause not sure if they’re even selling, and all a
meaningless exercise except I’m getting to pay off the debt to my mum. The
thousand dollars I owe her for living beyond my means and having a massive
holiday in Vietnam. And O the reward before its earned, my life, the out door
ed scuba diving bush walking etc… the doofing massive psychedelic experiences,
the kids beautiful and healthy, the time off writing poetry, all time without
real employment.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now don’t get me wrong I worked freakin hard in those vinyards
and for that –hang on coffee break- nursery, but it was all for naught in the
real career sense, and yes they say that the average human goes through about
3-4 career changes before they get to the one they are meant for. But really,
how many others do all that in their teens and stick to something, become
successful and some even rich. See I don’t even care about being rich, I just
want to be successful, that is, make a difference where-ever I place my time.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This success, this striving O how can I put this feeling into words, like
walking into a sunny room and having this 12 flocks of sand pipers land at once
and look at me through their branches, waiting for me to send them on the winds
of literature analysis or English, like the din of the class fading into my
dreaming out the window and me just closing the window subtly and the whole
class, stopping their little games of inattention and social rages on a 34
degree day in the afternoon and launching into fine focussed performances of
Dylin Thomas. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And me tuning into all the different personalities with mutual
respect that each is craving channel, needing a way for them to accept the
world in its mad chaos, its inexplainable misunderstood turmoil. The idea
that’s its ok not to know something, that its ok if one doesn’t know how to
learn, that it can be found, that a way through the dark forests or the bright
neon clubs or the desert winds of the mind in the midst of chemical mayhem, the
midst of becoming a man or woman, that a way can be slashed, forged, barged,
waltzed. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
O all these the symptoms of me right now, the mega teenager, the
raging hipster jock nerd that never grew up at highschool cause the ceremony
didn’t fit, I never got to waltz at the graduation, never got to respect the
classroom cause of my social inadequacies, and the run away from the art class,
the run away from all of it, under bridges with a bong in my hand and an ego to
supply who ever needed a likewise escape. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
O there is no escape now, whether
primary or high school teaching the desire to go back to school is strong, but
is it just in the shadow of not knowing what else I could do or be happy with?
Is it all just a trick of association, cause of course if you are interested in
poetry, teaching is the natural option? What about the fine art of the kitchen,
the delicacies of the plate art? Or the love of massage and health? What about the
garden, or the publishing industry? What editing or literary agency or copy
writer positions will be made available when I finally graduate? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One thing is
for sure I don’t want to rush, and yet some part of me does, says o you have no
time! Just do it it’s a great idea etc… but these next 40 or 50 years or
whatever of my life, I want to spend in love with my life… O I want to do it
all, the great romance with ground, sound and sky, the forrest and expanses of
existence… fly on… </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
Jazz27http://www.blogger.com/profile/09831542831425545725noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4389375456600216126.post-68030355028054836242017-08-01T17:45:00.002-07:002017-08-01T17:45:41.601-07:00Lonely Soul<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinOttAE1kLL2LzFApqmPCKD1XW-bpg_EtnxA9aEkeXAgSzF-jWIptchhZqgTp-CpTdNaq6pgzgvXj9P0Z0IvCgT7NShyphenhyphenGzjbwGmBxZtlxWDFJzT4nmYwug6ZcXpDS-xCrJCpzedv2ylCmi/s1600/13592792_983240041795750_5490094344355083781_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="799" data-original-width="640" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinOttAE1kLL2LzFApqmPCKD1XW-bpg_EtnxA9aEkeXAgSzF-jWIptchhZqgTp-CpTdNaq6pgzgvXj9P0Z0IvCgT7NShyphenhyphenGzjbwGmBxZtlxWDFJzT4nmYwug6ZcXpDS-xCrJCpzedv2ylCmi/s400/13592792_983240041795750_5490094344355083781_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
"Just keep on flying" sings the Shadow sample,
and so I dance here for all introverts like me. Those who, through great
flights of consciousness and time current, end up alone and dealing with the
prison/comfort paradox our brains can become. O and my thanks to DJ Shadow for
this and all our tune experiences...<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/9-3MOxQQpcw?ecver=1" width="560"></iframe>Jazz27http://www.blogger.com/profile/09831542831425545725noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4389375456600216126.post-40296731520014425442017-07-25T04:18:00.002-07:002017-07-25T04:25:25.901-07:00Cold and Reason<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTrfOrowXl9JIR1MGQEGBX_OYTJbGLrLZwlduOvZhRH3jFUfMVoUHFNxh4gWOMF-SiH8xCxmBzDnnNcfPyl9p8OSUpaPxNI3J0tef2mXkabolisYCIt7SYFFSDnU1zfFt_R1MEPuq453kU/s1600/DSC07350_1024x1024.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1019" data-original-width="1024" height="397" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTrfOrowXl9JIR1MGQEGBX_OYTJbGLrLZwlduOvZhRH3jFUfMVoUHFNxh4gWOMF-SiH8xCxmBzDnnNcfPyl9p8OSUpaPxNI3J0tef2mXkabolisYCIt7SYFFSDnU1zfFt_R1MEPuq453kU/s400/DSC07350_1024x1024.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Thankyou">
<span lang="EN-US">Jammin with a mate long ago, this poem is
made of many smaller poems. So while alittle random it talks and sings about
the cold darkness of time and age, and ends by renewing old prophecies of love.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<iframe frameborder="no" height="450" scrolling="no" src="https://w.soundcloud.com/player/?url=https%3A//api.soundcloud.com/tracks/334737939&auto_play=false&hide_related=false&show_comments=true&show_user=true&show_reposts=false&visual=true" width="100%"></iframe>Jazz27http://www.blogger.com/profile/09831542831425545725noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4389375456600216126.post-33205144201650217592017-07-23T01:05:00.001-07:002017-07-23T01:05:35.631-07:00Ode to Evolution<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmqzpF5MuR8AUNlMmwL7tzqpGTAOjQStd8SzXXtebTNBF6Ciz0AdRMBPk4Vs0byLWVtryiFccV3a-Gn46GL-QRZikG3-MmDTh8ARZ0ZQ-Rab5j3BW3395gOFc0yBqflxmDa6WCcjdF9YWu/s1600/59551_428304136558_170453996558_5161618_7099244_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="365" data-original-width="486" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmqzpF5MuR8AUNlMmwL7tzqpGTAOjQStd8SzXXtebTNBF6Ciz0AdRMBPk4Vs0byLWVtryiFccV3a-Gn46GL-QRZikG3-MmDTh8ARZ0ZQ-Rab5j3BW3395gOFc0yBqflxmDa6WCcjdF9YWu/s400/59551_428304136558_170453996558_5161618_7099244_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
O what nourishment divine fractal core thread,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
what sap root sun
feeding do they deserve?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Those who skyscrape
to ghost bleeding<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
mitote maddness the
skyfather's flesh.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Those who watch the
acid rain of <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
human darkmatter falling and<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
piercing the earth. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Those who crack the bone dragon eggs<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
to still-born peace and speak unholy word<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
in their bomb hearts.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Those who manipulate <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
to produce death products in <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
cycled desert cracks creeping, <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
searching for another <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
farmers suicide. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Those undead armies <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
of Hitler's scientists for profit.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Those who made
headless <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
the spirits of the forrests, now<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
wondering the felled
wastelands<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
amidst the lost paths
of the extinct.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
O those who committed
sane<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
the Banks of Wall
St's fraud, <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
the trillion headed axe. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Those political frauds the billion edged bulldozer, <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
policy dying beneath drama, hypnotized consent<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
a blasphemic core sin
against the meaning of light<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
now imprisoned in smart TV's. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Cowards!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Death clouds of
obscene chauvinism,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
all you do is feed on
our suicidal tendencies.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
All you do is kill
the new gods our children<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
deserve to create. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
All you will ever claim in the holy name <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
of water's flower fruit is your own destruction.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We will survive you. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We will survive you because we give back our umbilicus, <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
because our tree core is permacultured to every fellow<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
spirit kin, every
animal saint, every ray of the universes<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
star seed in our
beings eye.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We will survive
because of<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
how we weep as your
teachers, <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
forgiving but never forgetting <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
the witness to your own suffering<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
and its exponential
virus teeth marking.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
O yes, you will hear us now you <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
the 1 percent, you the careless, <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
you will not bite again,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
from now on, <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
you will be the one to starve...<o:p></o:p></div>
Jazz27http://www.blogger.com/profile/09831542831425545725noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4389375456600216126.post-85747555252552168132017-07-20T07:17:00.003-07:002017-07-20T07:17:37.827-07:00The Dark Lake<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDPp5iVjY_QxF-5E8RorFBx4q-emvowC0zaZGuZmQ9RIMn5djar0n_KGGh7TH9SsGMRRL_5SuuW5R9BEy0xc5YvAUSeJHabYHGSr935Cir2pwbCmFlZcu2Khgi0MsWaAcH6qEYwWwlCebE/s1600/303314_10150837452351504_308585406_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="399" data-original-width="403" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDPp5iVjY_QxF-5E8RorFBx4q-emvowC0zaZGuZmQ9RIMn5djar0n_KGGh7TH9SsGMRRL_5SuuW5R9BEy0xc5YvAUSeJHabYHGSr935Cir2pwbCmFlZcu2Khgi0MsWaAcH6qEYwWwlCebE/s320/303314_10150837452351504_308585406_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I dreamed I was dragged out to a huge dark lake via social
powerlines, out with the golems of testostorne AKA the frenemies of my youth.
They had invented this new game where the cities mega watt powerlines were
partly stripped and hung towards the waters edge. Adrian was the genius, “a new
way to fish boiz…” “fuck yeah!” “holy shiz balls man!” “idn’t that err… kinda
suicide?” was my response. “Only if you let go of the fire fox too early, when
you get close enough, the bolt earths in the water.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And so it was on.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I watched in excited
horror, in Schoedinger’s perceptual torture, how they would fly under huge
bolts of lightning which would zap into the dark water. I only picked up the
courage to protest when I saw the dead fish float like stars killed, their
silver, their twitch, no one gathered them, booze was the only thing passing
their lips. “Stop you bastards! You’re gunna kill the lake!” it was a broken
shrill in the end… Surrounded in an instant, Iphones and snarls, regret was
amidst the most prevalent of the distant and strange world’s things. “Awww
common Jas, you just haven’t had a go yet, don be a pussy!” I could feel Sam
wink. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The next part came in blinks –all the hands on my limbs, the
death monkey sniggers, “remember if you jump off early you’ll be fried like
your beloved sex toys…” Then the light flashing above, the realization there
was no rubber tyre on the line to stop me, someone had taken it. “Now swim
boi!” Frantic water and breath, a howling pack about to… <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And that was the end of my dream.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I woke in a sweat. Terrifying right? The demons of my youth
destroying the life of my subconscious? Luckily, I count Carlos Castenada as
better than Freud where dreaming is concerned. And thus nightmares serve no
purpose for me. To me, if you leave the defragging process of the mind in a
mess, all you’ll ever be is a mess. So in my waking state I day dream the rest.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was sure to be zapped, the teenage golems were beating the power
lines with sticks and they zapped in their monstrous threat. I kept swimming,
into the darkness… How far must I swim? I thought. A huge island of dark water
rose before me in waves. I was terrified again, I had heard stories of the
giant who eats children, those who swam too far. I never thought they were
real. I turned back towards the shore.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Surely these boys were bluffing. Had Sam
found out about me and Harmony? I mean, she doesn’t even like him! And anyway,
he wouldn’t kill me over a girl now would he? I looked back over my shoulder.
‘Hey its gone, phew… what the hell was tha… " and then terror shook right through me. Something had my hoodie and I was being pulled back through the water. When I looked back again, a giants face smiled at me from the
water… But that smile, it was soo familiar. So familiar that I did not fear a thing anymore. Next I’m in his hand, I’m rising high into the sky, I can hear his thoughts, we slush and stomp
our way over to the screams on the shore…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />Jazz27http://www.blogger.com/profile/09831542831425545725noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4389375456600216126.post-34489288329678024402017-07-12T00:14:00.003-07:002017-07-12T00:14:35.078-07:00Awareness Poem <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrnOSmkXybChtAp9T0dxE5OdZvi_xi0TMK9OO-PJ-HnW5_Z7xcTnsCtIqTsj2Bkgf1GGyWBazisgru-mT8Dujt9jRnG36r7zp2ZbBaRm2EMmSBJErprugRpY86EYdgyI3weWRa8b3ATtnn/s1600/16807139_1398495410231272_7427100735273994829_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="640" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrnOSmkXybChtAp9T0dxE5OdZvi_xi0TMK9OO-PJ-HnW5_Z7xcTnsCtIqTsj2Bkgf1GGyWBazisgru-mT8Dujt9jRnG36r7zp2ZbBaRm2EMmSBJErprugRpY86EYdgyI3weWRa8b3ATtnn/s400/16807139_1398495410231272_7427100735273994829_n.jpg" width="267" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This poem, written during "the dirty thirty" April prompt
challenge, follows a theme; the word "stillness" verse
"awareness" comparing their use-fullness. The prompt was trying to make a
blade of grass exciting. And so of course, I took it in a very spiritual sense,
exploring some of my experiences in meditation technique and the sensations of
time and connected-ness. For with the sacred skill of this awareness, we can connect
to planet consciousness. Enjoy my friends!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/hbtM5Ilne9A?ecver=1" width="560"></iframe>
Jazz27http://www.blogger.com/profile/09831542831425545725noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4389375456600216126.post-1984345692060258582017-07-09T04:13:00.003-07:002017-07-09T04:13:23.722-07:00Dimension 35c<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilXBv5JJM-ngXDgExfDU6vGTsv3JKFyrtQ6APMUR4yCAS49a4sWqZR6KhbpBgzPzMdxQb2HCv6SIVFUeBXmn_Tjwhkd1wjhsmZggjOZeU_3ZSj5q73kPbxRLArT5JoZbPGzuvK3Fpd_iGM/s1600/l_c9440a36baa25a766568fa0f25b03447.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="298" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilXBv5JJM-ngXDgExfDU6vGTsv3JKFyrtQ6APMUR4yCAS49a4sWqZR6KhbpBgzPzMdxQb2HCv6SIVFUeBXmn_Tjwhkd1wjhsmZggjOZeU_3ZSj5q73kPbxRLArT5JoZbPGzuvK3Fpd_iGM/s400/l_c9440a36baa25a766568fa0f25b03447.jpg" width="297" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<br />
What to do on a sunday night? Lounge room dance session!! Yep regular part of the new me, 5-7 of these a week. 'Cause I've realized I've been neglecting one of my favorite mediums. Like, why only dance at gigs, doofs and clubs? #mythankstoterrafractyl.
<br />
<br />
<iframe width="560" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/1BGwIIWueBk?ecver=1" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>Jazz27http://www.blogger.com/profile/09831542831425545725noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4389375456600216126.post-69737017366210213362017-07-05T19:14:00.003-07:002017-07-05T19:14:45.554-07:00The Willie Wag Tail and the Goldfish<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCm3HiwBS_DvvloGm4jiLleboglo_170FmNgiH2w8mhZSG_ax7l9-MMxc0UqBT7jB7IlBn_-d4hmSPS1nnbQLb7YwvsBB3_QZ_fjB25sL12z8MhoXtsOWbxcaRDCnahvIPSseEtoKmqwh4/s1600/10952851_916449935093990_6257467767936424685_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="599" data-original-width="799" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCm3HiwBS_DvvloGm4jiLleboglo_170FmNgiH2w8mhZSG_ax7l9-MMxc0UqBT7jB7IlBn_-d4hmSPS1nnbQLb7YwvsBB3_QZ_fjB25sL12z8MhoXtsOWbxcaRDCnahvIPSseEtoKmqwh4/s400/10952851_916449935093990_6257467767936424685_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
They met<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
beneath a half
moon summer,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
she the free fool, a Willie Wagtail,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
thirsty, surprised to hear<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
the large
wineglass surface speak<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
in a deathlike
whisper;<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
“Please,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
eat me, O angel of
light and death.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
And there was double the surprise,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
for he was an
angel of light and death himself,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
a moon lit golden
fish, an orb like gift…<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
“My human gods have abandoned me,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
why do you
hesitate?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
“I do not eat angels like you,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
it would be a sin
against the animals…”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
And art that the only beauty?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
No, they could each take no more <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
and swam and flew to the depths<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
of their despair,
each gasping their<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
light to hideously
defining shadow…<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
A world passed, <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
yet there was still none like that surface. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
To her, the water’s voice was just like<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
her own air-free-heart
yet filled with<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
a completed
miracle…<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
And so she returned.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
And only to an orange and still thing.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
And only to her leap of a world bridge faith,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
a piercing, a kiss-full
ripple of the sky breath<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
and dropped crushed soft abdomen<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
of silver moth
left over from her children.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Yes, it worked for a while,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
love began to
move,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Slowly, <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
rising and descending.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Each day<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
he glimpsed her
god and gasped her in,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Gifting her sips of his waters poetry as she <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
perched upon the rim. And then her children,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
they grew and drank the same and he gifted gladly,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
for they grew wise
and bold and he laughed bubbles<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
at their wise
remarks.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
And love was love
for a while.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
And so powerful in
tides of the storms <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
and the sky blue wonder. And so powerful<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
because it was the
end of the world<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
when that wonder
began to win.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
At last a great drought ended too late<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
on a crescent waning moon…<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
When they all fell in around him<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
there was one
fifth left,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
there was unmeasured sipping guilt<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
and their eyes
half submerged <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
with his last metaphor escaping.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
And yet there was a feeling,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
like each to their own leaping,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
a world bridge,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
their own <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
kiss-full ripple<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
of the sky breath<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
returning…<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Jazz27http://www.blogger.com/profile/09831542831425545725noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4389375456600216126.post-39059787572439100122017-07-02T22:56:00.000-07:002017-07-03T02:59:32.796-07:00Questions from the Fire<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3hVgMWyDWBoPGH9Ccw1kvFwbRsb2TN3H5Xx_vqzR0YA06ucBYmDaBsgtz4gkvthsUoee-1SIlkeUBsjWoTLz3-sP-gwABm9U1DszfbwW_MzOMoBdxVSDeKsNW2-Q5CtaG2-KHmNzLBkb1/s1600/505059.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="700" data-original-width="700" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3hVgMWyDWBoPGH9Ccw1kvFwbRsb2TN3H5Xx_vqzR0YA06ucBYmDaBsgtz4gkvthsUoee-1SIlkeUBsjWoTLz3-sP-gwABm9U1DszfbwW_MzOMoBdxVSDeKsNW2-Q5CtaG2-KHmNzLBkb1/s400/505059.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
Ok its winter, and so I've been a little obsessed with fire. Fire the great path back to the eternal now, as original inception of our dreaming. In that vein, this poem poses questions. Questions that come from how far we can remove the old paths, the old cycling, "seen it all before," that would keep us trapped in electrical boredom and devolution. <br />
<br />
Poems note; the word "Yod" is a word in the Kabbalah that is used in the first letter of god, and it represents fire as the first spark, the initiation of anything. Further, the "shadows that Plato screams about" refers to his philosophical story of the cave of shadows, where humanity is stuck looking at shadows instead of the original forms of things that are actually pure light, i.e. what casts the illusion...<br />
<br />
<iframe width="560" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/5s0ySY5d78s?ecver=1" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>Jazz27http://www.blogger.com/profile/09831542831425545725noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4389375456600216126.post-69895353074342140212017-05-28T02:45:00.001-07:002017-05-28T04:21:33.084-07:00Poems from the Sun trapped within Me...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid_mxVQWxy58-tybxKHBY-LJZnK3EinlI7TLkXPCCh7BO9O7w5wjv6ptdK-yhR0kspJMuFVBDGuPNhtZAzmF42a8iqIkN5nVjFP4ueS3wJpebXw7KUJ8RiwMHYCyaJ0-kXP8AZEPPfcSUb/s1600/sun+trapped+.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1031" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid_mxVQWxy58-tybxKHBY-LJZnK3EinlI7TLkXPCCh7BO9O7w5wjv6ptdK-yhR0kspJMuFVBDGuPNhtZAzmF42a8iqIkN5nVjFP4ueS3wJpebXw7KUJ8RiwMHYCyaJ0-kXP8AZEPPfcSUb/s400/sun+trapped+.jpg" width="257" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
After struggling putting pen to page for a few months,
this new work comes from the magical assistance of “The Dirty Thirty” in April
2017. Begun by poet and community leader Abdulrahman Hammound, “The Dirty
Thirty” is a Facebook group of poets who all gather on the first of April to work
toward one prompted poem a day for that month. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
While hesitant when forcing my art (I only started on day
9,) I slowly began to find it dance-full, something to relish each day. It
ended up a practice that saved my pen from near nihilistic destruction, a
prompt group that developed many friendships and a prompt group that got me
amongst the ‘dirty madness’ that is suspending the edit mad stigma and getting
to the business of creating something magical. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Thus my work is intensely love born, vulnerable, abstract
with secret mashings of terabyte glitch, with astro physics, Buddha, viking beat,
with Carlos Castenada warrior stories, Letters to myself from the Future, political
screams and jazz memoir splashings. It is a work set to the idea of a
connected-ness in the universe, a single essence of things that is trying to
escape my poets life and shine, entering our dream places. Places where we can
meet and drink of the beginning-ray-spectrum-cadenza, breath the now and turn
into the ghost holy wisdom of the future. Places where we can feel warm
memories of enlightenment and sigh. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="smashwords-widget" data-bgcolor="#fafafa" data-buttoncolor="#ffc801" data-font="sans" data-height="250" data-items="book:727084" data-ribboncolor="#4181c3" data-type="single" data-width="300" style="height: 250px; width: 300px;">
</div>
<script async="async" id="smashwords-widget-js" src="//www.smashwidgets.com/1/widgets.js"></script>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I’ll meet you there…<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
Jazz27http://www.blogger.com/profile/09831542831425545725noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4389375456600216126.post-65485627851787541992016-11-22T22:18:00.002-08:002016-11-22T22:23:35.077-08:00A few Powerful Spaces<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZB1ifZ8I1nxX7aamQlgen96k0XIeb4vEfky0cP2hYaXFwK9-VjDt45mKnWqeEKfJbSky6WCyIE6pJAFv34ehjVYl0-Ryp4j2PbbUPF9HubMpTzzoegSCeGdgBY6o5SxBul0gsybZLBUPZ/s1600/eye+puddle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZB1ifZ8I1nxX7aamQlgen96k0XIeb4vEfky0cP2hYaXFwK9-VjDt45mKnWqeEKfJbSky6WCyIE6pJAFv34ehjVYl0-Ryp4j2PbbUPF9HubMpTzzoegSCeGdgBY6o5SxBul0gsybZLBUPZ/s400/eye+puddle.jpg" width="246" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
This work
was written in 2012 when I was lucky enough to be driving an 'ol drunkard roof
plumber to work in Melbourne Victoria, since he had lost his license. One of
his jobs was an egg shaped building next to the Alfred hospital and Fawkner
Park ( an "egg for quacks" we called it). Now there is just something
about Fawkner City Park where I spent those days, a well of resonance, of
intention for so many people, for better health and meditation or worse war
between nature and mad capitalism rush. Inspired by the beats, the chaotic
nature of these poems, streams these conscious essences with a wild vernacular,
a spiritualism guided by the modern doof electric festival culture. And so
while some are quite large world and impossible, there are many micro moments
from my simple humble camera balance as well...<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: #fcfcfc; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica neue" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: #fcfcfc; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica neue" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="smashwords-widget" data-bgcolor="#fafafa" data-buttoncolor="#ffc801" data-font="sans" data-headline="A Few Powerful Spaces" data-height="250" data-items="book:684464" data-ribboncolor="#4181c3" data-type="single" data-width="300" style="height: 250px; width: 300px;">
</div>
<script async="async" id="smashwords-widget-js" src="//www.smashwidgets.com/1/widgets.js"></script>
Jazz27http://www.blogger.com/profile/09831542831425545725noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4389375456600216126.post-24660990179756161052016-01-03T04:59:00.003-08:002016-01-03T05:00:58.415-08:00Fire Twirling to the Sounds of the Rebel Horde<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMtB2644IrEA78d2uq44HjXUvuamY8Qb_YXcWeBiJz7qoNdTmVHV-6M3ie0aPEQ4IqHUsvwpsPw1mPGAyUqlU0QgqjaiWT8Hx8WRGh9BSGcrQvVYziUdSU_iw8qcjZ-euQA7nbnLCISSVU/s1600/firetwirling.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="531" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMtB2644IrEA78d2uq44HjXUvuamY8Qb_YXcWeBiJz7qoNdTmVHV-6M3ie0aPEQ4IqHUsvwpsPw1mPGAyUqlU0QgqjaiWT8Hx8WRGh9BSGcrQvVYziUdSU_iw8qcjZ-euQA7nbnLCISSVU/s640/firetwirling.png" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
This poem is born from my deep love of the fire twirling art and the love of fire in all of us. As an art I learnt from a very young age at a festival called Confest, the feeling of its spiral through my body has guided my thought, life and poetry ever since. And so inspired amidst its idiom, I find this poem parallel to what W.B. Yeats said in his lines from Sailing To Byzantium;</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
O sages standing in God's holy fire</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
as in gold mosaic of a wall,</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
and be the singing-masters of my soul.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Consume my heart away; sick with desire</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
and fastened to a dying animal</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
it knows not what it is; and gather me </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
into the artifice of eternity. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
My special thanks to;</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Yurylvov,</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Emma,</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
funktifino69's channel,</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Fringe Theatre ETRE,</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Pheonix of Avatars,</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Nighthawk Light,</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
and the</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Ugnies Sokis Fire Collective</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
for the clips!!</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/SCI7eOzTzG4" width="560"></iframe>Jazz27http://www.blogger.com/profile/09831542831425545725noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4389375456600216126.post-64938925455276539942015-07-16T06:53:00.003-07:002015-07-16T06:55:21.227-07:00Saints Down at St. Andrews Beach<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGHCJuj_gQN7R1tGIRHyLLycriOqhjvCAqfSRbc99R2w01C2X84T31203ekdNsPGnG3QE8_TIISg0Gdycaw0Qw8nyb40NLeYRlzHyz_IgEEKMo_FVEkLi0ghGjM0kotDh_84Ty5mHVmdUG/s1600/ocean.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGHCJuj_gQN7R1tGIRHyLLycriOqhjvCAqfSRbc99R2w01C2X84T31203ekdNsPGnG3QE8_TIISg0Gdycaw0Qw8nyb40NLeYRlzHyz_IgEEKMo_FVEkLi0ghGjM0kotDh_84Ty5mHVmdUG/s400/ocean.jpg" width="275" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So yeah I've decided to put a bunch of words together into a
thing called a chapbook. A free chapbook at that. This work from 2014 provides
a photo frame into my life as much as it opens up the vortex worlds of my mind.
From my near death experiences as a child, to my experiences watching my
children grow as a father, to experiences of macro consciousness and
psychedelic tendency in the weirdness of life. You could call it my attempt at
thermals for minds. For eagles. For those who rise within the concepts of love,
of family, of existence supporting our wings.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Fly on my friends!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Helvetica Neue, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: #fcfcfc; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22.2222232818604px;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="smashwords-widget" data-bgcolor="#fafafa" data-buttoncolor="#ffc801" data-font="sans" data-headline="Down at St. Andrews Beach" data-height="250" data-items="book:560405" data-ribboncolor="#4181c3" data-type="single" data-width="300" style="height: 250px; width: 300px;">
</div>
<script async="async" id="smashwords-widget-js" src="//www.smashwidgets.com/1/widgets.js"></script>Jazz27http://www.blogger.com/profile/09831542831425545725noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4389375456600216126.post-16454631228000234952015-06-30T23:32:00.002-07:002015-06-30T23:32:20.874-07:00Sharing the Land<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNZj1PTS9r3hoMdeaLXlsvdhyphenhypheno7d_JBSvKNj93NZwN_RTGxBu8FkwhLf7G5WKrXlRvuXqZCUOMohmt2F149Bdw3xJmfVzP0uEkQ26znMIGZ-WubovmEFFON8R-X7GHCwqQp2Ljo-jrFEVG/s1600/180419_1443468186189_1817664765_803910_7529281_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNZj1PTS9r3hoMdeaLXlsvdhyphenhypheno7d_JBSvKNj93NZwN_RTGxBu8FkwhLf7G5WKrXlRvuXqZCUOMohmt2F149Bdw3xJmfVzP0uEkQ26znMIGZ-WubovmEFFON8R-X7GHCwqQp2Ljo-jrFEVG/s400/180419_1443468186189_1817664765_803910_7529281_n.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<b>By Jason B.R. Maxwell</b><br />
<b>Curtin University</b><br />
<b>16072794 </b><br />
<br />
On the way to the festival, apart from the occasional gum tree and the drought beaten grass, I thought; ahh… this must be what a true Irish road feels like. The twisting, rolling hills, the wind tormented sea, the occasional blue stone farm with massive expanses of old rock wall dividing the paddocks… Ancient ways stretched out in patchwork artistry. As the distances meandered past, I imagined the weight of each boulder, rough on the hands of my mind, the least of which the size of a Gaelic football. I imagined the strain and sweat of the farmers placing each one by hand and I imagined the relief, the whistle for knock off time, going back to one of the many crowded dark wooden bars for a pint of Guinness with the mates I shared me very pulse with.
I knew I shouldn’t be day dreaming like this since I was driving, but I was beginning to feel the five hour journey on my shoulders and on my eye lids. Since mum had to work the market stall, selling hand crafted women’s clothes for the next four days, I had volunteered and I was relieved that we were almost there. To refresh, I decided to put my head out the window.
In the icy waking blast that hit me, there was the smell of fresh salt on the wind. For me, it was old Ireland on the air - it was fresh, wide-open Irish life- their fishermen, their whalers, the salty taste of their kippers after the hearth, the visions of waves that leapt away from the bow of many.<br />
<br />
Port Fairy the township, wasn’t named “Belfast” by its Irish captain for any old reason. After initial settlement, Irish fishermen, whalers and potato farmers flocked to the area in fleets. And yet there were many bows that ripped these peaceful people from their green homeland families too, families they loved as much as their very souls.
And this wind still tells of their salty tears, still there floating in the drift of time, salty tears that once fell on the salt encrusted floor of cramped leaking cells.<br />
<br />
As I accelerated and saw the ocean heave its distance over the crest of a hill, I knew this howling sorrowful wind remembered the tears born of a harrowing injustice. Of being taken halfway round the world for stealing a few loaves of bread or worse or less, all in the name of crowded cities, colonisation and a flag.
But taken to what? Without ceremony, the rarity of the strong, the many weak, and the rampantly diseased were all conscripted into an unofficial army. Through bloodying dictatorship of the penal colony and the dogma of monarchy, they were then manipulated into a war of muskets against spears and boomerang, pushed into pushing the native Gunditjmara fishermen off their own land.<br />
<br />
History still echoes the massacre near Port Fairy, of whalers verse koori, as one of the worst in Victorian history. Starting with a fight over a beached whale, it led to the unrestrained slaughter of these people, a war of genocide that lasted twenty years. It was dog eat dog while the masters smirked. Surely, this wasn’t the Irish way. The genocide and enslavement of another country, this wasn’t what her heroes dreamed of…<br />
<br />
Yet centuries later, at a festival hosted by an ancient, strong and continued Irish settlement, at a festival with cultural experiences from all over the world coming to perform, I somehow expected cultural resilience, a renascence even, a renascence of free thinkers and community in the face of this English hangover called colonialism. At a place like Port Fairy Folk Festival I expected a party as wild as the sea, as wild as Irish whisky, Irish dancing, Irish beating hearts of poetry. I expected fluid dance floors and careless socialist freedom where everyone was welcomed to express themselves.<br />
<br />
But as I arrived I sunk into the reality of what I would experience, the steel walls of a monarchist, neo-Liberal Australia post Abbott election, I felt it among the eyes and in the air.
Where you collected your wrist bands for instance; sheep pens. Yep, cardboard cut outs of sheep and steel sheep-high barriers manipulating the incoming masses. None of the volunteer workers there seemed to wear anything else than straight jeans and white tee-shirts, and none were a day younger than fifty. As they put the wrist bands on my mother’s left wrist (instead of the right since she hasn’t any lymph nodes in her right arm and it tends to swell) I thought; ok, this ‘ol girl can take a joke, “ya better watch my mum, she’s abit of a black sheep” – and for some reason I didn’t register at the time, this prompted a severe scowling. Aloof, in the mood to celebrate my single-ness and earn a bucket load of cash, we giggled onward.<br />
<br />
After setting up that afternoon, after the first patrons swarmed in and a few customers were busy chatting away to mum, I got my hands on the set times and zeroed in, past the headlines, looking for the Aboriginal people’s welcoming ceremony. As a central part of many festivals I usually frequent, electronic music festivals such as Rainbow Serpent and the smaller yet potent Maitreya, I make it a tradition to always attend these ceremonies.
There’s just something powerful about them, as if the core of the very earth flows through these people as they dance in the same spot their ancestors did for more than forty thousand years.<br />
<br />
And in a world that’s constantly shifting, chaotic in the machinery streaking nightmare of capitalist postmodernism, I look at these performers, these contemporary shamans and feel as I sit in a circle with a whole festival in attendance, somehow connected to a constant, an organic source of humanities originality.
In the old days, to pass into another family group’s land, travellers used to light fires near the borders, and then the welcoming family would set out to meet the newcomers when they saw the smoke. It was a matter of upmost honour for the hosts to take them back to their camp and celebrate with them, usually for days at a time.<br />
<br />
Today, at festivals where travellers cross cities, oceans and vast deserts in the blink of an eye, this is what the central fires and dancing rituals replace. A central ritual that has lost its family borders, lost to the war fought with flags and numbered, ghost-coloured plastic paper.
But of course it’s still something. Its meaning is steeped in the wisdom that those who have been there the longest know the connection to land better than anyone. They know the animals, the plants, the sea, the very rocks themselves. As I knew Archie Roach, the most famous Koori folk singer in the world, was headlining, as was the grandson of Yothu Yindi’s lead singer, Yirramal Yunupingu, with his band of traditionally dressed dancers the Yolngul Boys, I thought it was a given that this ceremony would be a welcoming of grand importance, with nearly everyone taking part.<br />
<br />
So where was it? Almost hidden in fine print…<br />
<br />
Was this forgivable? At least they pay these artists and support them, right? At least everyone had fun and enjoyed them, right? Don’t get me wrong, it probably is forgivable and I don’t want to spoil the arts for the sake of making a political scene, but I just have this crazy idea that if you truly respected and engaged in the true roots of the music, one would be asking the questions. Why was the welcoming ceremony so minimized? Wasn’t it the sacred evidence of the musician’s messages, of land and community? Or was it because they weren’t ‘famous’ enough to be central?<br />
<br />
I knew Kevin Rudd would ask this question, he, before his apology to the Aboriginal people and the stolen generations, cemented the Aboriginal welcoming ceremony at Parliament. And I definitely knew Archie Roach would ask this question, after all he sang; “I can never return until there’s contrition and we can all breathe in my history” - Archie would definitely want this tradition in bold, on the very front page of the program.
For me the Gunditjmara welcoming ceremony’s minimization, through privilege, gradually forgets that the Aboriginal people of this country were invaded and slaughtered and now have a life expectancy a decade less than white culture, forgets that racist policy and practice still runs riot through Australia and not just in the Northern Territory.<br />
<br />
But at its worst the minimization forgets that without the enactment of tradition, tradition no longer exists. And this is how cultural war is waged, through the memory of the masses.
Apart from the minimization of Gunditjmara tradition, the most alarming thing about Port Fairy Folk Festival was the absence and accepted segregation of culture itself. This is the alarming iceberg underside of the ritual problem. For one might say, what’s the big deal in minimizing the rituals, as long as the cultures engage one another at a human level right?
Well the problem is they don’t. They just accept the consumer status quo which replaces the rituals.<br />
<br />
At Port Fairy Folk Festival for instance; the accepted rule of one sitting down and not dancing. Seats were everywhere, right up to the front of the stage. During one high energy performance, a Mongolian band called Hanggai, my mother received a scowling disgruntled comment; “can you tell your son to sit down please?” In another performance, Ash Grunwald admitted how everyone just sitting and staring at him was quote; “freaking me out” and he promptly told everyone that it was ok to get up and jam it out with him. It was like someone turning on a light. And how could you not? What would a good traditional Irish publican say about THAT I wonder?
But sadly, time and time again during so many acts, I saw this same absence of cultural expression. People came in, sat down and continued throughout the whole performance like watching a TV at home. When the music ended, everyone just went their separate ways. No one introduced themselves and conversed in the old language of the gypsy road, let alone asked one back to their campsite for a cup of tea, a feed or a swig ‘o whisky. Time and time again I heard the last applause of powerful, beautiful music drop as if a penny had been dropped in a dry corrugated rain tank, everyone just scattering like dust.
This was not the meeting of families through artistic expression, this was a manipulation of arts true purpose.<br />
<br />
But for me, what secured the evidence of this culture-less adherence to a monetary monarchy, was one particularly confronting experience. As we were sleeping in our stuffy van the first night, attempting to avoid the expensive accommodation not included in our ticket price, mum inquired about the fenced off area that the whole festival seemed to be camping in. Mum was not only told that no one was allowed to stay in their cars on the threat of two hundred dollar fines, but tickets were two hundred and thirty dollars for the weekend.
Disgruntled, but with no choice, mum bought some. As mum was busy working, I carried the tents and bedding to what I thought was a good place. Out of the wind, under a tree, flat and with lots of soft grass, sure, it was next to a caravan, but I was nowhere near them really. I wouldn’t mind if I was them, good excuse to meet a festival friend I thought…<br />
<br />
So, happy with my choice, I set up and didn’t return until well into the depths of night. But it was a bad move. In the morning I was hit heavy and hard.
Mid sixties, medium build, brow like an overhung cliff, she was the owner of the caravan and was not happy I was on her site. Instead of a hello she looked me up and down and; “Excuse me, did you pay four hundred and fifty dollars to book this powered site? -No you didn’t” she fired. “Sorry, I wasn’t told, I thought it was just festival camping” I stammered back. “Don’t give me that bullshit, you just didn’t want to walk” she snorted.<br />
<br />
Hmm… One of those hey? I thought, diplomacy then… “No, I just wasn’t told, I’m sorry, but I’m not using electricity and I’m nowhere near the front of your caravan, listen, we work all through the day, you have lots of space, you won’t even know we’re here,” this failed, miserably… “Ah don’t give me that lefty bullshit, you just didn’t want to walk and you won’t admit it” -since the election, I had never faced this type of political rhetoric, not in any direct personal sense anyway.
I was horrified, I had been judged, politically judged, by an old right wing conservative. “Where is your humanity woman? You accuse me of lying and shove me away without even attempting to even know me, it’s people like you that’s going to be the downfall of this country…” I was surprised at how angry I sounded. “You know I was going to let you stay, but now, you move your tents or I’ll call management” this was her concluding humph. “You were going to let me stay? HA! Yeah right…” She walked away with my rude finger hanging in the air.<br />
<br />
I really didn’t like being called a liar, let alone a lefty bullshit artist. Later, when I came back to move the tents I found a sign from management; “Please move these tents, you are on another person’s site –management.” And so it was with political glee, with a full knowing of which side of parliament truly acknowledges the true ‘management’ of this land, that I blue-tacked the sign squarely on her caravan door.
In hindsight it was interesting, because that very morning I was considering which clothes to wear, conservative straight jeans or comfy hippy pants, fitting in or standing out. Hippy comfy pants were the choice of course – comfort to me always comes first over fashion choices, especially conservative fashion. Sad as it is though, I now have to wonder if the quantum split of that choice would have changed the outcome of that argument. Especially the ‘lefty bullshit’ bit of it. That was the clinch. But most probably the liar bit as well. Under Koori law, she had a right to be angry, I had entered her territory without asking permission nor receiving a welcome to country. However under Koori law, you have to be hospitable to all family groups if reasonable requests are made, you can’t accuse anyone of lying just because of the way their dressed.<br />
<br />
As I drove away from the festival I thought; wow, that’s what cultureless-ness represents. Shallow judgement. It was shallow judgement that grouped the Aboriginal people amongst the fauna of this country and it was shallow judgement that slaughtered and still disinherits a culture of beyond forty thousand years. Yet it was shallow of the Irish to go along with it, shallow of all the convicts and colonising people to go along with it, shallow to go along with the status quo and not think beyond the colour of the skin.<br />
<br />
This was a shallow judgment given to them by a Monarchy who enslaved most of them in biased dogma and unfair laws and shipped them away from their homelands. Sure, there was still cultural fear in the lower classes, but that didn’t lead to genocide, it was only the Monarchy and the Church, the rich strong arm tactics that taught the colonies that.
Today, the same shallow thinking cuts multicultural Australia from its roots and in Port Fairy, cuts these Irish and Koori from true reconciliation, once again, all in the name of crowded cities, colonisation and a flag.<br />
<br />
And yet beyond the colonial race, beyond the dogma of nationalism still present today, the music and the rituals all remain to speak the truth, that we all once danced and laughed and shared the stories of our traditions with all strangers and friends alike and still can. And so as our van drove over the last bridge to the sea, with thoughts of my children, I asked myself, can we change? How can we ensure our combined cultures wake up to the welcoming of others? Surely it’s not too late, surely we’re not all too greedy with our time that we’ll refuse to dance to the ritual music of community, surely, we will remember the way to share this land…
<br />
<br />
Works Cited<br />
<br />
Archie Roach. “The Tracker.” Mana Music, (2001). CD-Rom.
<br />
<br />
Australian Bureau of Statistics. “3302.0.55.003 - Experimental Life Tables for Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Australians, 2005–2007.” abs.gov.au, (25th May 2009) Web. 29th May 2014.<br />
<br />
Clark, Ian, D.”The Convincing Ground Aboriginal massacre at Portland Bay, Victoria: fact or fiction?” Aboriginal History, 35 (2011). Web. 25th May 2014.<br />
<br />
Heritage Australia. “Port Fairy” Heritage Australia Publishing, (2014). Web. 25th May 2014.
Korff, Jeff. “How to name Aboriginal people?” Creative Spirits, n.d. Web. 25th May 2014.
<br />
<br />
Mcauley, Gay. “The National Apology Three Years Later.” Performance Studies, University of Sydney, n.d. Web. 1st June 2014
Jazz27http://www.blogger.com/profile/09831542831425545725noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4389375456600216126.post-16013660384562127302015-06-06T09:23:00.001-07:002015-06-06T09:23:28.643-07:00Anyone?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_7-05tWcaH67Exp-noRHt0AZRGL_EIn8v0zJIITqLz7uguCm6EGBWEbcsmg36VLbCs1yDOI6RtoOFLEeCjiNuw3Hr2__fDhQ9M7r9ptdoCpS-MqXU7ddZrMD6BwpT-G8ZkLb8QhL6loat/s1600/181421_375666872494868_59000956_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_7-05tWcaH67Exp-noRHt0AZRGL_EIn8v0zJIITqLz7uguCm6EGBWEbcsmg36VLbCs1yDOI6RtoOFLEeCjiNuw3Hr2__fDhQ9M7r9ptdoCpS-MqXU7ddZrMD6BwpT-G8ZkLb8QhL6loat/s400/181421_375666872494868_59000956_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
In attempt at integrating all macro consciousness into "god particle" theory or <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Higgs_boson">Higgs boson</a> theory comes the practice of this poem. Long
story short it asks the existentialist's question; why are we trying to prove
what we already know? How do we prove the idea of the god particle when we know
all things are connected by the very fabric of existence? And some what more
importantly, Is it some vital function that we find out?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<iframe width="560" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/D9DlON4HXRU" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>Jazz27http://www.blogger.com/profile/09831542831425545725noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4389375456600216126.post-43981369638486472492015-03-24T08:42:00.000-07:002015-03-24T21:12:17.606-07:00One Mob, One Dream...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3kbq-AiahyUQpmy6R-lvoix8-5aGko20ABsoY-zugei7nr29J2XKt4UDyhaWemHfAWuW1ljRxd6IHJYCe_4fs77kPdLypndk8_DzvSo7mQ1Us3F7jZNbtU-K5aq9Cl2cd1W_eCmh3AmHy/s1600/11065892_802775436474098_5942088601126106044_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3kbq-AiahyUQpmy6R-lvoix8-5aGko20ABsoY-zugei7nr29J2XKt4UDyhaWemHfAWuW1ljRxd6IHJYCe_4fs77kPdLypndk8_DzvSo7mQ1Us3F7jZNbtU-K5aq9Cl2cd1W_eCmh3AmHy/s1600/11065892_802775436474098_5942088601126106044_n.jpg" height="640" width="411" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This is a poem of protest made for the aboriginal
communities struggling and being swept away by the greedy WA government. To
this day there are 192 communities with planned evictions, and it is clear from
all the media that their removal has only financial reasons despite how many
degrading social insults the government like to invent. Insults like invented
child abuse cases, invented disease and malnourished cases, as if their poverty
is reason enough to convict and evict them without proof. In such a rich nation bent on racist
and corrupt mining practices they seem to be getting away with it. But we cannot let this happen. These are so clearly invented hysterics that have no comparison
study to other communities for it continues to deny the amnesty reports that these
evidences are forgery. So enjoy
the words my friends and join in the protest in Melbourne on April 10th.
#noconsent <a href="https://www.facebook.com/sosblakaustr">https://www.facebook.com/sosblakaustr</a>
https://www.facebook.com/events/43102...<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/CSVZC2C7o8Y" width="560"></iframe>Jazz27http://www.blogger.com/profile/09831542831425545725noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4389375456600216126.post-35285640736406729972015-03-20T04:26:00.000-07:002015-03-20T04:26:43.715-07:00Across the Abyss...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRSmhMJ504yDSM21xiq5Z1S7GFfYZSRNhGePqQWqwxKKfv8k-YJcl8f9oTrcbrD8_v0eVWv1v6SX_Ya1oBR2_16ZPk7xzD_AbeKykPl_fgGA-YotAm4sGPHN26Uv-Rw8rPxSL2hnLpnswy/s1600/268194_225320217501889_224422337591677_689751_5941871_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRSmhMJ504yDSM21xiq5Z1S7GFfYZSRNhGePqQWqwxKKfv8k-YJcl8f9oTrcbrD8_v0eVWv1v6SX_Ya1oBR2_16ZPk7xzD_AbeKykPl_fgGA-YotAm4sGPHN26Uv-Rw8rPxSL2hnLpnswy/s320/268194_225320217501889_224422337591677_689751_5941871_n.jpg" height="400" width="382" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">(photo from unknown source)</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Today the 20th of March 2015 marks a powerful day of
transitions and new beginnings. Not only is it a day of eclipse and the day of
the equinox, but a day when the dark moon passes just before Aries rises its
new month, with a new moon to take us forward. In the light of this magic, I
cast this poem, an ode to moving past old worlds of ourselves and our
communities, to new homes and comforts of empowerment. And so I say, Aumetaba,
Namaste dear people...<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<iframe width="560" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/yzQI5WCmAvI" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>Jazz27http://www.blogger.com/profile/09831542831425545725noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4389375456600216126.post-68289784187833227582015-02-22T15:13:00.002-08:002015-02-22T15:13:57.465-08:00Dream Stream Session<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGx4cmjvjGP-HOgdNc-U2a1lFX24mKN8HKJ7IuAR-PvNY3mkmjwTR9mLoF5i7vaxwlVedp4eSkEh2qjK4X4ov9vWAqtQTilVK0Ds1r1XEYUZH29Vcpgp33dmzzq4BCk9R0pNCVCN4MwWI3/s1600/10603628_698874606886432_8162860035427968808_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGx4cmjvjGP-HOgdNc-U2a1lFX24mKN8HKJ7IuAR-PvNY3mkmjwTR9mLoF5i7vaxwlVedp4eSkEh2qjK4X4ov9vWAqtQTilVK0Ds1r1XEYUZH29Vcpgp33dmzzq4BCk9R0pNCVCN4MwWI3/s400/10603628_698874606886432_8162860035427968808_n.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;"> (very thankful for yet another photo </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">from unknown source)</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Here I'm grateful to be able to bring to you a live recording from To the Ends of the Verse freestyle sessions @ Open Studio upon the 17th of Feb 2015. Within its funky jazzy confines brought to you by the 7 piece band the Square Roots, we have a paper born abstract poem by yours truly that explores the idea of humanity as a river changing things down stream while also experiencing bliss in the now. What follows is a brilliant freestyle response from the dread-less, dead-less, dreaded rappers Alex Willey and Josh 'Shua'li' Buckle. </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><br /></span></div>
<iframe width="560" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/gKoHEgyJJ8U" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>Jazz27http://www.blogger.com/profile/09831542831425545725noreply@blogger.com3