Mel From Melbourne - Music & Words

  I’m just writing for the therapeutic pleasure of it   I like the way my greyhound Pepper moves on his side when he’s napping outside As if without limbs, he pivots his shoulder & hip It’s much easier to write when Milhaud’s La Creation du Monde is playing in the background Than when James Brown’s Hot Pants funk is Slow rhythms work well particularly if you’re feeling your way in the dark You can lean in to classical music Whereas funk, while ok if you have some va va voom about you & an idea about what you’re going to write about But today there’s no one home upstairs I have no ideas no burning theme I’m just writing for the therapeutic pleasure of it     Published & Copyright Malachi Doyle 2024.

  My sexual purple patch   Thinking about my sexual purple patch. 3 years in London in my mid 30s. Australia has always been a land of the prudes. The women more angry than horny. They tend to lack wit. In London I’d get propositioned. The women were friendly. Don’t know what the problem is here. Maybe all those of Presbyterian stock. Maybe it was this thing about being a novelty in London. The novelty always gets laid. London was a smorgasbord. Women from all over the former empire. Women would talk to ya. Also I lived amongst the working class. More experiential, less analytical. The middle class deal in 2 nd hand stories, the working class more in experience. Anyway, thank you ladies. It was a hoot. Good to have a penis. Happy times.     Published & Copyright Malachi Doyle 2024.  

  The rules   Feeling intimidated by the rules. Unable to express ourselves. “Can you please stand behind the line!” When were kids, lunchtimes at primary school we played beyond our potentials, because our potential had not been measured in the context. Because the teachers butted out of it. We felt liberated. We knew if it was a free kick or not. We knew if we’d hit the ball or not. We didn’t need an umpire. Our decisions were more accurate than those of a stranger umpire & we always played better in a game governed by kids’ honour. The minute the teachers got involved, we clammed up, feeling intimidated by the examiner umpire. It’s like we wrote better when it wasn’t a test. The minute we sensed we were being examined we’d tense up & it would play with our minds. It would raise questions in a child’s mind, like what’s going on here & what are we s’posed to do & even questions we didn’t yet have words for like what’s normal, or what if I answer like a freak, what

  Underwater swimming   Jackson Pollock painted Lavender Mist, possibly my favourite of his paintings, during a long period of sobriety. Lee & he were living in bucolic surroundings in upstate New York. So fear not the artist within. Drugs & alcohol aren’t necessary to make great revolutionary art. I’m writing to myself of course as I often do when I write for others. As a school teacher I was the same. It’s good to hear yourself say things aloud. I would like to climb inside Lavender Mist & wander around. I’ve felt that about certain paintings, certain films. The last 24 hours I’ve struggled to write. I feel a bit blocked. Although I did just write a 20 page poem the night before last & edited it yesterday. No more 2 nd class citizens. Indija & her rhinoceros. The hand splodge on the wall. & African woman painted in profile in Chinese Ink. The kangaroos in honour of siblinghood. Then it was red like a woman’s dress or a candle lamp. Best to roll with the p

  24 Hours in the life of a sic kunt Day 2   So I rose at 8 Not early Coz after a couple of days off the piss I was back on It felt amazing being sober Too good Like I might lift offa de Earth Like my old housemate Mark put it “Malachi’s getting a head job from life”   Anyway I had an appointment with a job centre for people with mental health issues at 9am I was 2 minutes early I booked an early appointment Because if it was pm on a Thursday I might well be half cut I can work early Just don’t make me wait for you   Anyway the woman was late 9:15 Enough time for me to put out my poem of the week My main occupation She turned up No apologies All laughter Like it was my fault for being “early” Anyway she couldn’t get into the system on her PC Coz the Government had changed the website Yesterday   So time wasted More laughter At wasting my time   That’s two sessions with the job centre & nothing achieved   Na

  Poetry for a world at war   I’ll meet you at the Empire Where roads build up to a crumbling centre Masked faces in red robes & hyenas are fed stillborns’ placentas   I’ll meet you for cheese & du vin rouge & we’ll have too many topics of conversation We’ll be proffered women sold on the street We’ll start a rich puritanical nation   We’ll be spoiled for choice & in the spoiling squander our wealth But we’ll know enough of the right people To have the world’s stage upon our shelf   We’ll be a contradiction like all great things Fabulously ugly with vast engines & wings.   It’s been a while since I’ve written a poem. I just write & it’s short, so I call it a poem. Because I’m an irritable bastard, I don’t have time for poeticizing. & too much happens while I’m writing, like the synth riff on that JJ Cale song in the background that got used as an ear worm in an ad. Adorno famously posed “how is poetry after Auschwitz p