Mel From Melbourne - Music & Words

  By the rivers of Babylon   “By the rivers of Babylon, There we sat down, Yeah, we wept, When we remembered Zion; When the wicked, Carried us away in captivity, Required from us a song, Now how shall we sing the Lord's song, In a strange land?”   I’ve alluded to it but never really addressed it: that my greatest experience of loss is not to belong to a people. What am I? an Irish-Australian universalist, but in Ireland I felt like an Australian & in Australia I was Irish.   But it’s not just that. Australia is not a people. I’ve rarely known of a more competitive, superficial & divided place, except the US. Every person for themselves. I’ve never felt part of a we that felt authentic. The closest I came was when singing in a Fijian band in my 20s, my married life with a Mauritian woman. Then I felt a sense of a belonging to something beyond blood & my time in Lewisham SE London, a motley bunch of multicultural poor with a song in their hearts...

  On white people, by a white person   Bob Marley laments that “all I ever have is redemption SONGS” Well that may be But what do we whiteys have Songs of misery Or inanity We whiteys are misanthropists Shut the world out Walk around with sour faces I’m sick of it I’ve seen poverty But with it a community culture Dangerous sure I don’t wanna glamorize it But yunno, people cared for one another In Australia it’s impenetrable Closed cliques It’s awful here People comparatively globally affluent Gripeing with every devalued cent Man try telling that to someone in Mozambique They’d think they’d won the lotto The 3 rd world are determined The first world Have fake given up Lacking in spiritual depth They’re doing ok Their greed goes beyond their means that’s all What’s my solution: To have an open hearted jam But no one will come So have your misanthropy & leave me out of the bullshit The fake middle class vic...

  On ‘issues’   I don’t understand why every day, people love to get incensed. They scroll the doom & gloom to get their rise, as a way to avoid looking inside. I find the current habit of political art a case in point. Pointing the finger outwards & leaving the self unexplored, as if a propagandist painting will have any effect. & if in the remote chance it does have an effect, what kind of effect? Seemingly each work of art deals with single ‘issues’ of the day & what? an audience member sees a bit of propaganda to put on a tshirt & preach to the choir at dinner parties? So what. At no point is the inner person express in personal language. At no point is candour & honesty in self reveal seen. Rather academic categories are used, as if people are rational or can be rationalized. We’ve seen the killing fields of rationalism over the centuries, because neurology aside people are irrational, regardless of mappings of the brain. For me the job of art ...

  You don’t replace loved ones   Disillusioned in people You don’t replace loved ones It feels like the best people are gone Not what they did for a job But their energy, their spirit Their ability to create beauty & hope When most can see none My loved ones performed miracles & magic people are rare No matter the news or the weather Always something interesting or funny to share Mum always quoted that what you remember When are people are gone Is how they made you feel  I don't get many belly laughs these days Or people with the power to heal   Published & Copyright by Malachi Doyle 2024.  

  It doesn’t make sense   My ex-wife is my best friend we have super-relaxed close chats & yet we’re fighting a divorce On those days we tackle hard It doesn’t make sense But the older I’ve got Not much does We married for love I still love her & she loves me & yet she’s my combatant Like in certain martial arts Where the person you fight Is yourself     Published & Copyright by Malachi Doyle 2024.

  The wrong place   I went to the poetry reading in Castlemaine A once progressive town & felt like I was in the wrong place For a start it was deathly quiet It was like one of those 50s country competitions There were competent poets there But none stepping out of party lines I’ve rarely been in a more closed & competitive space   I believe in openness We live in a society Where the arts speak to political issues predefined rather than to life Our artists reveal nothing unorthodox of themselves   There is a lack of the intimate/infinite & the rise of secularism in art Presents an earth of death There’s a reason why first nations artists produce the best art today Because they celebrate the sacred   But spirituality is out Sex is out Unless it’s queer My poem about my spontaneous erection in the sunshine & rain was greeted with hostility In a culture that thinks of the penis as a lethal weapon ...

  THE BUCK STOPS HERE   THE BUCK STOPS HERE NO MORE WEAK CRAP LIKE A POLITICIAN WHO USES THE RUSE OF ENEPT RULE THEY INVADE SCHOOL THEY SAY GIVE UP ON PEOPLE THEY HAVE NO SPIRIT I MEET MORE SPIRIT FROM MECHANICS WHO’LL SHARE A BEER WITH YA THEY WANT TO MAKE THE HUMAN INFERIOR TO AI SO NO ONE WILL CRY WHEN THE SHOT DIES DEATH TO ALL TRAITORS & FOE THE RISING OF THE MOON MY FENIAN SELF WILL NEVER SURRENDER I’M AS AHEAD OF THE CURVE AS A BLUE JOKE     Published & Copyright by Malachi Doyle 2024.

  Poesy   Yuck Yuck Yuck Yuck Yuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Cunt Cunt Cunt Cunt Cunt Poesy poesy poesy     Published & Copyright by Malachi Doyle 2024.

  A Betrayal of Humanity   Well the Poeticas event was fuckin awful Oh Jesus! No wonder people hate poetry Ersatz acrostic vomitorium Rich old bags & young rich old bags Cutsie wimp men waiting timidly for death Poetry is meant to be the spirit of humanity But that was a betrayal Of the cry in the night the howl the scream of desperation & war All absent in official Australian poetry Nowhere a Fenian, nowhere a Black Panther Nothing alive I full of rage helped a 90 year old read I was struck dumb lest I throw over the fuckin sedentary chairs Fake poetry is all we’ve got People timid that word again &  anemic   spiritually That evil Industry of Academics in search of careers A true poet is a warrior & a soul barer a torch carrier Who shouts to the mountain top Naked lacerating vulnerable resolve Poetry works best amongst common people It should speak to all Not of pussyole paintings & historical ‘resear...

  He’s not very jolly   My social worker’s the gentle devil Seeking to normalize me, nominalise me With her beautiful terrifying silence Her bourgeois echo of non understanding I write sonnets to her She observes & shares nothing inward I model my captor Putting me into sane acting mode Observing me for report after report I'm like a rat in a laboratory But she doesn’t bloody HELP me I can’t fuck I wanna fuck my mind I’m under fire Full moon & a divorce & I cannot meet my rent I will starve once I’ve run out of life savings I’m poor & schizophrenic  I’m sick with codes of conduct What is the right way To conduct yourself When you’re out of control So people will help you?! I’m sick of being observed Foucault’s Panopticon Countless misery Reports being written When all that is  needed  Is food, shelter & some autonomy To feel what I feel & think what I think Is that too much to ask From a...

  The cast of the next marvel movie has been announced   Ok, the last shit I’ve written was crap so I have to pick through it like a forensic scientist & find the cause of death Back to Peter, no enough bible, no offence writing in the age of euphemism & people pleasing more Paul’s job growing the company as I’ve said decent enough bloke just a poor drummer kind of like the girl in the white stripes bit wonky but looked good in the film clips & where the reader or more like when no where always a hard one in this time/space thing where would the poetry emerge (from?) when one is looking backwards to speak to the future now postmodernism has done well to kill our traditions so we no longer share myths which makes it hard for the poet to find footholds if one is to write today’s myths the names change too fast to be read in the future & the technologies also & so we are stuck with theory which generates about as much momentum as a blank wall concepts repl...

  For Jason Crump   Write something interesting & not just a rehash of the romantics! some days there’s a calling, some days there’s just writing & over the hill with Jason & Jill, poor old Jase pulled a funny face, writhing in pain, that descended from the brain, & over the rivers the eagle flew, different names in different regions, like a poet in different milieux, & would it ever come, would the stones ever produce a spark that would fire the dampish wood reflecting & reflected a fire that burns within, shedding skin, shedding skin my face new every day, but there is a fire that burns within, not for sale, not for sale, “you cannot buy my soul” (Carmody) & so Jase, regardless his face, in and out of writhing, endures.     Published & Copyright Malachi Doyle 2024.

  After Coleridge & Wordsworth   I love the quiet of early mornings The birds starting to move about These breathless days of late Autumn Clearly Winter’s already begun I think of Coleridge & Wordsworth Thrills of pleasure amongst the local creatures It can’t help but thrill you & give you pause For the wretched state of man made by man The beauty of life Outside the song of a solo shrike Again the trees are still, so still As if I am merely an observer in a bigger story Than the absorbed affairs of the powerful Nothing new in it, this was observed centuries ago Still the beauty of a new country day & the thrill of living nature But still the refrain, echoes in the brain What man has made of man     Published & Copyright Malachi Doyle 2024.

  & now you want to call in lawyers   You vowed to love me forever & now you want to call in lawyers   I should’ve known better Than marry someone who’d never had a serious relationship before   You didn’t know the ups & downs You hadn't suffered loss You had worked on yourself You hadn’t developed a serious life view What is realistic & not That words are not to be thrown about on whim All you’d had was Hollywood & pop songs   Not tough enough for love An ego the size of Texas You do not know how to love   & so it’s over After 11 years of trying my guts out To support you & help you   Now it’s over     Published & Copyright Malachi Doyle 2024.

  A simple man   Flooded with emotions Of deep soft tears of light My mum My wife My best friend My father Love, kindness All gone & as I take the unknown road ahead a lone So much of the time I harden my heart But certain songs Certain words Certain exchanges Gift me Not a despairing sadness But one of love     Published & Copyright Malachi Doyle 2024.

  The rootless peasants   Jeering I have no time for & I think the King Charles portrait is a good one, people showing their ignorance It is cold this morning for a house without adequate heating The wishing chair flew in & people said it’s a mirage I say no more 2 nd class citizens I learned to put cream in my tea from Chekhov, he was onto something as were the Russian middle class of his era 2 bananas & 4 green pears, far short of ripeness, in a pear growing region, fruit is imported The all ordinaries has dropped a lot still no paper will ever talk about the fact we’re in a recession, less market ‘confidence’ is damaged & so papers do not report the state of play. They too are part of the strategic press release My dog Pepper is lying in the sun on this freezing morning dreaming of summertime, while Rhonda is sleeping on the couch near the heater The peasants laughed at Picasso particularly in the Anglophone world where culture is balls,...

  Underclass   There are things I would like to teach the middle class about the underclass & teach it right But it would merely be a game for them, an exercise, an entertainment It wasn’t till I lived there & lived it That I realized my knowledge to that point was profoundly superficial, a bit of theory that’s all As the rastas say who FEELS it KNOWS it, but how to communicate this, to impart it? The rasta proverb to feel is as INSIDE & OUT: to live it   My years with the underclass changed me, transformed me To witness any semblance of innocence quashed, broke me Steely Dan sang of a middle classer becoming the 3 rd world man I think that’s a bit cute Because I had OPTIONS The poor don’t I had an escape & so even my view is shallow   By my ability to escape worst case scenarios I mean I still could’ve quite easily have been killed or locked up Nevertheless, I was only a participant observer Still it broke...

  At the supermarket   I started the day in receiving a playful compliment I managed to get everything I needed at the supermarket Without a list, She said “you did well” I threw my arms in the air The drone sale was on & my guerilla army decided to blow it up Anyway the one thing I forgot was the sugar but I remembered when I got to the car parked only across the road, so it was easy enough to retrace my steps He said tight paragraphing sounds like I’m shouting & I said no, I just want it dense so the reader with feel it difficult to read, requiring greater concentration, afterall the prose poem was about being & nothingness, hardly cotton candy, as the yanks call it She said it’s 2024 & if people find something difficult they just give up, intellectual resilience is another thing to have died Anyway, the protectors of the peace Arrested us for terrorism, afterall selling drones to bomb places with is a legal enterprise, the Terminator ...

  And so the end of spending   And so the end of spending It’s gonna be tight the rest of my days I won’t afford cafes or pubs Maybe an art gallery opening for a glass of wine Cheap cuts of meat, deal with the gristle As long as I’m writing I’ll have my calling My poetry is not extrinsically motivated like so many professional ‘artists’ today I’m doing God’s & (hu)Man’s work I just need warmth, food, water, some alcohol, internet, electricity I’m going to be poor I have fallen from the middle class No war pension for teachers cast to the scrapheap Though that’s really where the knowledge wars are fought I gave it my all, was always feared & hated by leadership Because my kids were activated & enthusiastic They want drones The whole economy is about drones Drones to wage slave Drones to spy on us Drones to drop bombs Poetry is despised because it is about the invincibility of the human spirit if activated & so I will s...

  Far/Close Dover Beach (after Arnold)   I attempted to write a poem in rhyming couplets… … I Got Bored Forest Creek is the nearest water source to me But like all water sources it runs to the sea It runs into the bay where both parents lie in ash mixed with brine & that to the oceans that gather the past future present in Time It still seems incongruous that ignorant armies continue to war But attack & defense aim at a different score Anyway, Matthew I also hear what Sophocles heard But I need to break from couplets for all I hear is dissonance & there is no regular rhythm for a world undone I hear a break from nature now that the world across Bases its peace on drones bombing high & low That won’t be ordered into the oceans’ ebb & flow Poetry feels like a parlour game I am deaf & dum More likely great oceans we rush & lurch & I am as late on the scene as a Central silver birch It’s different now storms...

  There was something about that sky that captivated him   There was something about that sky that captivated him today. The harmony of faint layers of blue between the white & darkening-lightening grey. It invited him, encouraged him to introspection. There was the off hand cutting that painting pastorals wouldn’t win him the Turner prize. The focus was on political art. Anyway I’ve banged on about this before. What is it about the middle class that they enjoy reading about privation far from their ken. Sometimes in the same street. Not that they would notice. They keep suffering for text & colour, line & form. As if by feeling vicariously they are fighting a battle. & so he stuck with the sky. Inscrutable yet undeniably inviting him somewhere as yet unknown. The blue thickening out a good deal yet intertwining with the grey which now was filtering the late afternoon/early evening light. & barely a breath of wind. The birds moving about yet almost mute...

  The Zen of the Kitchenhand & it’s Friends & Enemies   Working for years as a dishwasher I have old man’s hands Wrinkled and lined I like them They are humble like me at my best Like an ancient Indigenous Mexican woman’s face I loved the job Back when I was fit enough for it If it wasn’t for the revoltingness of the chefs & their incessant bullying I might still be doing it Lucky for me I was privileged enough to be able to quit Evidently I’m not as mentally strong as the many Who are forced to endure it In order to be able to live I don’t really know Maybe I’d somehow be the same I hear stories of the rum fathers of Mauritius Broken men Forced by responsibilities to go on In a destructive Tao There are so many stories Of which I am ignorant I prefer listening to people I meet Than reading official discourse I don’t want to be a literary tourist anymore I want to move & sit   As a kitchenhand ...