Mel From Melbourne - Music & Words

  Questions & Posits (After Neruda)   What are the first words I will write in the new year?   What colours born in Heaven enflame a fighting baboon?   What is the purpose of a question without an answer?   Why doesn’t rain taste in grasslands the way it does in space?   A possum came a crowed like a night rooster   The eagle circled close to the highway   I had to balance observing & steering the car   Like balancing dreaming aloud with the landlady’s ego     Published & Copyright Malachi Doyle 2024.

  Small towns   The group is safest Heap advice on peeps overwhelmed with pain Heap another rock to their load & gossip   No emotion Merely motion & yet Rousseau wept publicly Freely & often Too many buttons & pop ups But if no screen Ten more poison Choose best the common addiction Rather than a bygone Drugs are out Tech’s in When one self loathes Over indulgences It’s an admonition of one’s own deviance   The group is safest you see Heap advice on peeps overwhelmed with pain Heap another rock to their load Gossip & smile smugly Hands washed Job done.     Published & Copyright Malachi Doyle 2023.

  It was about   It was about turn It was about my turn I was about the page’s turn It was fresh by the coast & the tale contained ghosts Hamlet’s father & Ophelia’s palaver A stone’s throw away from the I am a tropical fruit & wouldn’t you wander or wonder with goldfish to the end of the fringe & strip For a quick drip from the shower & dip in hibiscus Fantasies about the discus, the sirens Always sighing & crocodiles crying Like a prodigious swell portentous Thank sex without commitment But their songs Was to bend like a trusted friend No stand, no band Yes, I was glad for the rise & fall in the shadows of the Milky Way   & when the scribes swept the road the next morn They read homilies & outrage need not be torn Yes people responded a lways with outrage It was much, so much safer, you see, that way Everything you know was taken to the utmost IMPORTANCE Especially comedy & poetry ...

  I walked into a dark tunnel   I walked into a dark tunnel & all the blue elephants were spoken for So somehow my flight must proceed from within I forgot I could swim, you see The tunnel was so dark I wasn’t sure whether it was a tunnel or a pocket 2 exits or 1? Or a zipper? & if a pocket whose jacket? Or pants? Or skirt? Or Shirt? You see I knew very little about it Or even how I got there No I am materialist enough to realize self-neglect can trigger fate & so I must dissolve Drink a lot of water & sweat my wife out So the way is a self help book Truisms et al So really, knowing how these things work It’s quite plausible I’ll never get out Or at least get out according to precepts of others Wisdom is not infallible In fact, often it’s proved to be bunkum But really what else is there? Data? Still those dices are loaded one way or another & someone who doesn’t have a feel for language tells a causal story ...

  On the Street, Middle-class World   On the street the worst thing they can do is take your life (so be it) The middle-class world is worse, coz they’ll take your liberty. Take away your mortal time. Evil you know. Con-trol. Under the guise of civilization. Hubris of Intelligence called process. Under Law. Litigation washing its hands. Burn them all. Paper cranes. Chow brain. But then you slept on a bed of nails last night & remembered it’s not as neat as this. Criminals use similar ways to control & take away people’s liberty. Organised crime is much like the state. Hierarchical & bureaucratic with its own prisons & surveilled life. People hellbent in all echelons in preserving life & prolonging control & enslaving. For there’s profits to be made from living bodies. So, potaeto, potahto, tomayto, tomahto forgive them each. Mother fucker. Don’t make a scene. Or they’ll forever lock away the key. And inject your brain with lobotomy. ...

  No banter on the street   Jumpin Jersey cows Pineapple throws IT'S STRAIGHT! In the big head Affixed an ashtray closed No banter on the street And they say no humour no banter on the street  Why wherefore & paradise paradoxical beat mission No batter on your tea He he he he No banter on the street Mealy mouthed with flour & power Defens-IVE On defence, skip Won’t laugh if the Benz is grape Or participate in a gentle tease, please please forgive me Fergal People thinkin they're SERIOUS!? SERIOUS?! I am the only peach Living on the back of the piggy piggy rich dessert & still less banter on the street Than ever’s to be shone a light in a poor country's life Wakka wakka wakka Puritans what is it? PURITANS! Play wiff me, please?! Get  Health Placards banker’s lanyards Botox, small locks Plastic Masks no walking on the grass But no no no no banter on the street! We're so serious!? & furious & cheese gravy, great dayz! Serious?! You mean me? Ave ya ea...

  Remembering Dad at Christmas time   “How ya goin Doora?” That was dad’s love name for me Poet father of a poet The family trade But that’s just the surface He was a stronger force An incredible singer Of rebel ballads My education in the arts Was, dad advised, To “become the song” That's the job of an artist A lesson from earlier generations Before recorded music & its self-consciousness Ascend the mountaintop with your notes From singing at the low point of the valley Stand mid-air As Okri says the job is to astonish the gods It was a privilege to have someone to talk about letters As Intensely & beautifully Even as his powers waned in Aged Care He let me fly We'd just started our climb back together With my psychosis A liberating event Coz finally, after bearing life's early weight, To fuck up ridiculously To make such a mess Like he had done He & mum brought me home Rescued me from the asylum ...

  My childhood was carried by play amongst nature, imagination & myth   My childhood was carried by play amongst nature, spirit, imagination & myth I can’t imagine what so many children live today Cynical too young, broken horizons, not know the seasons & the birds’ names What kind of poetry will they sing Who never get past learning to read So that they never read to learn My brother Greg & I walked miles through the hills Climbing logs across creeks & gullies & climbing cliffs by the sea We dived down deep into rock pools & watched & laughed & gaggled & dreamed It seems inevitable that a few years later for both of us Would visit visions of infinity & eternity It was only a small log to cross Books were read to us & we learned reading young My father was an amazing story teller He enthused over reading to me His tones were enthralling Of course I became a poet I was the way I was bred. ...

  Closed for Christmas   My heart shop Is closed for business   My marriage ended My parents dead   Numb Numb   Coz I know That if I open my heart shop   The tears will start & might never stop       Published & Copyright Malachi Doyle 2023.

  The shadow Rears up The more we Advocate for justice The more for justice We advocate Up rears The shadow     Published & Copyright Malachi Doyle 2023.

  A different Time   As Mallarme said to Degas “poetry is not about ideas It is about words” Poetry can’t be willed Milosz said that a poet writes perhaps 2 real poems a year The rest are just contextualizing & orientating I guess: prose No one knows, let alone the poet, when the authentic inspired poem will arise It cannot be willed A poet is in a different Time His companions phantastical & mysterious     Published & Copyright Malachi Doyle 2023.

  Dad became again the tender soul he always was   A great redemption story After some years in the wilderness Dad became again the tender soul he always was He was so proud of me his son He carried so much love in him & interest in his children’s & grandchildren’s lives & ideas We were each encouraged to express & defend our opinions We knew we were special Born raised in the light of the extraordinary love of my father & mother We were not average We were raised in profound love The good, the bad But love profound The kind of thing makes you float 20 foot high in the air We didn’t need to look around for approval We knew, we know who we are.     Published & Copyright Malachi Doyle 2023.

  “Never grow too old for Magic”   My late mum, who I always shed tears over at Christmas As I listen to King’s College Choir Cambridge Carols the old way The marvel of boy’s voices before puberty I was beautiful boy soprano I didn’t understand its fleeting preciousness at the time I loved the singing with other gifted singers in harmony But yunno boy’s schools are built on thuggery Regardless, I’ve reclaimed my love of listening to boy’s choirs Precious for the brevity of their singing lifespan Anyway, listen to Herefordshire Carol The old melodies Ethnic music it is I always weep & think of the night before Christmas & the peace in the air & the reverential labours of my parents The Miracle of Christmas for me I loved it, I still do Songs of Peace, the innocence of children I am so thankful for the beauty of our Christmas Eves & Father Christmas didn’t get milk He got brandy! Haha Anyway, mum was special She w...

  Holiday poem written just before holidays   Get in the water people Where I spent the last few boxing days & challenged as a game myself to think of problems But I couldn’t I had no problems I couldn’t think of anything My being was bathing & at one in my physical, mental, emotional & spiritual   Everyone deserves a holiday     Published & Copyright Malachi Doyle 2023.

  Political Correctness I’m really in several heaps of sugar This way! How to break open the gates of the pub & let the cows out There’s been a severe storm in there Plenty of eggs for the pavlova But who to milk the credit card for all its chickens I don’t belong on this farm I belong to the mountain & its not what I’m talking about It’s not my preoccupation That is my summersault opening In the rinse My whites & reds came out aubergine & I’m obsessed with it Now that the gallaghs are finally competing on an unequal footing & the mind is in different boxes Polyrhythmic & I won’t let it out Because as Plato announced It is a little devil like wind up chattering teeth So best be gagged Because the audience can’t be entrusted with complexity Best to stir in plenty of sugar & forget me plentys Sequin pants & a showgirl dance The flesh trumps the tail There is too much treasure for man not to turn int...

  Getting towards the end   I've finished my book about my childhood & feel like I really don’t want to air it, for an audience who wasn’t there will have their conclusions & I don’t want that. We live in a country where if a man lays a finger against any members of his family, he is written off as being beyond redemption, in a country that has only villains & victims, like Hollywood. It’s old testament, fire & brimstone stuff. Strange for a post-religious time. Most people here have watched more movies & tv than done anything else. They see ‘narratives’ in life, which may or may not be there. Modern medicine, for instance, doesn’t look at narratives to heal people, it looks at what works/proximity. In our post-God era, there is no basis for belief in narratives. Narratives are biblical, homilies, parables. But in a world of competing subjectivities, which story trumps the others? The reality for my father, if we’re to say fuck it – if you can’t beat em joi...

  Raw   I remember the first time I had grapefruit without sugar My mum never needed it She was a black coffee girl & it must have been 15 years 20 years later & the bitterness was strangely refreshing I learned to enjoy being naked with life Regardless the flaws in my body   Intimacy with life yields pleasant company Like today’s crimson rosella Who’s eaten the last of the plums After first the possums & then the cockatoos had their way.     Published & Copyright Malachi Doyle 2023.

  The every & the all   I’ve been so good Like mixed citrus wedges in soda So last night I let loose To weaken my memory Set obsessively I needed to get free Do people who don’t feel the need Have poor memories? & don’t read so intently Don’t love so deeply The every & the all     Published & Copyright Malachi Doyle 2023.

  Upwards from the clay towards the Heavens   She was transitioning The whole shack shimmy Plumb a swim Born again Birth as adult Benjamin Button Chemicals a swimming Learning to BE again To walk, To talk I was a brick wall Only 3 times Had I fall I was a stage set The bricks papier mache I should have put her up But she would’ve walked right through me & talked all night & the drug binges House inspection Wednesday Plus my feelings Were not quite platonic, not quite sexual As the night intoxicated me, Angela Carter, & the myth of her life Which poet wouldn’t fall In love with a symbol? What a story Makes horny this poetry More intrigued More spellbound Like loving a god Met in the flesh Flesh, glands & muscle that is changing Man into woman metamorphosis I always loved Ovid Living outside nature’s laws Living outside of time How flesh can extinguish a former concept Image replacing...

  Pollock versus Kant   What I like about Pollock’s paintings Is their articulation of our primal selves The paintings are eruptions of that Which socialization & medication attempts to kill We all know this reserve is horse shit The human erupts in fits of rage & passion Be it verbal, physical or sexual So what’s with the act? So much writing these days is sanctimonious As if one can choose what one is Social Media is such a disciplining tool The Danger with our Arts being dominated in this country by the Academy Means art that is top heavy You’ve all had too much to think The job of the poet is to UNLEARN What has been force fed us & let the tiger fight the horse Poetry must be wild Must not be aimed to achieve “outcomes” Art is not policy But it appears controlled by it Why I like Pollock is not just his genius But his volatility An artist doesn’t have to be a nice guy Her job is to unmask us all Overwhelm us...

  Amplifying irritation to the Macro What was the cause of her passion? Easier to scratch bad conscience Than look death in the eye The fashion for shouting Deafening the world to the sacred The light in the dark room Changing the dressing on a sceptic wound A kind ear to a soul in despair Preferred it was to shout That the sky was a-falling The advertisements interrupt the spell To make one feel distressed & the healing is broken So pre-recorded messages Can call the world to repent     Published & Copyright Malachi Doyle 2023.