Heaviest Christmas since I read Kafka’s The Trial back in
the 90s
Blood
Blood geyser spraying the mountain fertilizing with death
nature is greedy to be born again
Human sacrifice
Dog sacrifice
Rat sacrifice
Fairy wren sacrifice
Breathe in
Published & Copyright Malachi Doyle 2024.
The Death of Liberty
It’s over all over your face written in sardines & oil
the olives are prohibitively expensive & the sky & the sea expansive
& yodels from Gödel would embarrass JS Bach for the course of his hurtling
through the universe. You forgot why I am your dog your flea bitten boot hittin
mutt you can relate better to the mute than one who debates you seek
authoritarianism like the burger eaters. Undo your clothing tied in knots
around a garrot to unicycle & clamber down the ladders of escape like Miro.
& although a world war has not yet broken out many small ones link up. I
scribble with my niece & nephew all summer footpath & Christmas is a
giant rideable swan in the watermelon soup the seeds blocking the streets as
the cars float & are amphibian tanks & missile launchers & drones
& free expression is ruled out by left & right & the human spirit
is shackled to an anchor as the drowning race Australian is forgotten by its
carriers who huddle in front of giant television screens and do as bidden by
the powers that be. No one flies with their pants a parachute & mountains
are trudged for the death of liberty.
Published & Copyright Malachi Doyle 2024.
Dust Storm
Toni Morrison doesn’t believe in writer’s block. She sees it
as a writer avoiding talking about what is most pressing for them. However,
sometimes the situation is so delicately balanced that one fears breathing in
or out too vigorously. An example of this is the divorce I’ve been going
through for the last few months. Best avoided really. There’s nothing
contentious going on, it’s more a sense of holding your breath until the time
is done. But a holding pattern is not the most defiant or triumphant position
from which to speak. Working out where to live, intentions to move back to the
city, uncertain about timelines, waiting for the dust the clear.
The dust storm is thick & localised. You can’t make out
much. Afterall you have eyesight issues yet the storm whipped up so quickly
that you had to by a generic hardware store pair of work goggles, so everything
that isn’t thick with red is blurred. & so I write of ochre & a scarf
wrapped around my mouth. The top soil so profoundly denuded by the gold rush a
century & a half ago, there is nothing to bind the soil together. &
still it goes on. The hostility of the leadership of this country towards the
land. Destroying the land for mining & cattle. Remembering before the white
man invaded, there were no heavy hooved animals here. The environment can’t
sustain it. These fragile ecosystems. & so the dust storm continues.
There’s little you can do when you’re caught out in a dust storm other than
wait & maybe click your ruby heels. Your horizon is not beyond the
extremities of your body, your mind dizzy & spinning & completely on
watch, not the time for expansive thought. You are living in an eternal present
with a population of one. Then you are somehow watching this happen to someone
else. But let's face it, it’s you. You’d better get down low & give up
composing this nonsense. This is life & death & all you’re composing is
dust.
Published & Copyright Malachi Doyle 2024.
There is no conversation to be had
Just write bitch! I say to myself with my excuse for not
having anything burning to say. I was going to repeat the statement after
Hunter S Thompson that in a day of Trump where everything is too depressing,
that you can’t find anyone to eat acid with. Alas all we have is repetition as
Dump comes back from the tip. & so no one is consciousness expanding,
they’re shrinking from the horror. & so we eat chilli powder for vitamin C,
we can’t afford olive oil & dance the wahtoosie on the skull of the James
Cook sacrificed as a formerly worshipped godhead. This hurts like an unoiled
machine the screams of the frozen steel, an arthritic guitar player. Writing
without purpose just to get the words down & out, without rhythm without
pulse without inspiration. God is Dead dances the madman at Christmas &
there is no conversation to be had.
Published & Copyright Malachi Doyle 2024.
& became the grandest prize
The Industry broke god into dust.
The purple shroud of Cain.
Why would a dog bark who wasn’t mine?
Yet make me feel full of longing.
Black blood pours from her stomach.
& peter stole the jewelled harp.
The industry of god in a satin pillow.
Spat stars of ink across the maddening page.
Art was all the rage.
Once it had died.
& became the grandest prize.
Published & Copyright Malachi Doyle 2024.
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