Mel From Melbourne - Music & Words

  Humanity's universal call   It’s a modern habit to be cynical To see the flaws & not sail on the beautiful Things that move us to golden tears We think there’s no one else who hears But believe me my dear People hear Regardless the reaction we perceive Caught up in our delivery Life is wondrous & time is vast & wars do end People labour for love & sacrifice ease for truth Within you your forebears’ spirits As far back till we all are one breath Is them who hummed a primal hum Like felines purring The word YES   Published & Copyright Malachi Doyle 2025.

  People see what they recognise   People see what they recognise My maroon sweater coincided with the State of Origin & a stranger patted me on the shoulder I wear an ochre t-shirt coz I like it & it speaks to me of this land & its ancient people Yet as I approach the Irish pub I place over it a green windcheater Yesterday I met a man who believed that lions breed with panthers Not quite grasping the concept of species & I met a woman with bi-polar 5 years past a psychosis with the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen Obese on lithium I can sympathise with all When I get beyond the cleverness of words I find the human heart as vast as the universe     Published & Copyright Malachi Doyle 2025.

  3 blind mice   3 blind mice were dearly loved by their mum Meanwhile people in the house Set traps to kill Palace of cheese The palace of solid gold got stoled By a small time hustler in a poker game He could count cards It gave rise to the I-Ching The sky could be read & it seemed a message of redemption or hope & the demon turned into a keenly puppy dog Into flying angels Into a fluffy bush rat I remember in the country A rat came up to me as nonchalant as you like We kinda checked each other out “No problem mate” Some days I look at the sky & see the sexual everywhere The sun behind the late autumnal clouds is silver Like an alligator smile That just hustled a golden palace & became king     Published & Copyright Malachi Doyle 2025.

  Some days it’s invisible   I said I write everyday But some days it’s invisible As often the better Coz it doesn’t want to be dragged along So I won’t take your pressure It’s not me anyway I don’t know what it is Though some have called it the Tao     Published & Copyright Malachi Doyle 2025.

  After Billy Gibbons I said I write evermore nevermore Rapturous dance I pass her to the side Verisimilitude wot’s that cunt?! Pretensions of loftiness when cramps of loneliness rock my cave She’s a friendly sex worker & I’m thinking I like the way she moves, I like the way we move Street hood checks me out for size Lygon in Winter, quiet Tuesday evening People ask for my phone number I still hold out hope that people are genuine I’m told I’m perilously naïve Behind the front, & the hours Lonely Avenue The guy in the yacht club is actually quite a nice guy Little Lygon is a wonderful vibe Alfredo fantastic fellow as my Mauritian father-in-law would say I like the Venetian guy too Like my great grandfather Malachi Mclauchlin a ‘gintleman’ I guess I’m sussing it all out & they’re sussing out me Anyway I’m here to stay Until my knees won’t take me up the stairs again Or down Then Wednesday I receive a “Bello” from the waiter on the street I’m s...

  “You Know”   Couldn’t Be was born into something, said his brother Could Be Was was in charge with Is Will Be was their secret weapon Like a roof over the Heavenly dome When in Rome… you know, you know   Couldn’t Be went crazy, couldn’t be trusted Safe I said, I’m already busted No more! to add to the mountain pile! I’ve already got a fat file! I liked Could Be I liked Couldn’t Be Will Be was a bit of a cunt Though we few times shared a nice cup of tea Was & Is did their thing & I did mine   I don’t know mate said a kid I met I need fuckin fresh air! I can't breathe! It’s suffocating in here       Published & Copyright Malachi Doyle 2025.

  Flying   The empty space requiring to be filled is stress Unlike the empty space not requiring to be filled: Ease Much like the graffiti writer is the poet Even if the former writes on walls While the latter writes on paper   Some rare beasts of the latter Incarnate the former The poet becomes the street writer They are the true Fauves (Wild Beasts) Wild does not mean inarticulate & beast does not mean it either Like the Japanese workers in paper* They tear up the streets between their flying fingers & confetti the beat of the street     *Chigiri-e Published & Copyright Malachi Doyle 2025.  

  Sun   Today Sky is dressed in concrete, glass & steel Sun embraces the homes across the courtyard from Pen, Pen yearning Angels in the ink have fled To be with Michelangelo, who has mixed feelings about his creations, despite what people say about them He would rather the embrace of Sun Pen agrees with him     Published & Copyright Malachi Doyle 2025.

  Short morning narrative   Sky blue gold streaked onto Football Field wearing grey goggles & blonde bleach, lighting the way She had earlier Correctly, he decided, Accused Mind of being a ‘prig’ It was language wot did it Writing put the pen at a distance, & life went by unlived So, Sky with only 3 or 4 trees demonstrated     Published & Copyright Malachi Doyle 2025.

  Fit (For Lu)   We searched for words to fit & our words seemed to ‘have a fit’ Ill purposed & only partially clothed Convulsing like fishes out of water & Winter was coming & our feet were exposed We spent the next weeks in bed Groaning & feverish & were served death in 9 acts Roasted in a cage atop a goose shaped dish     Published & Copyright Malachi Doyle 2025.

  Noise Ballet   The wasp dangles on the ledge The beer can thinks “this again?” The street sweeper puts out to the trash Takemitsu’s ashes The whole scene is a mechanical noise only Anxiety flutters in the chest’s ear like a seagull’s wings pretending to be a pigeon Green are the eyes of the lover twins Let the noise become music & the silence begins     Published & Copyright Malachi Doyle 2025.

  I need a friend   & so we are asked “how are you?” Of course no wants the truth It’s not the Australian way You’re supposed to say “I’m well” Or the American “I’m good” Completely agrammatical If you answer “I’m shit” Watch people attack you & so I prefer “No comment” Oh I’m sick of the self Sick of self reporting But I’m overwhelmed by my condition I need a real conversation Two ways Where one can be absurd & candid Ridiculous & serious I need a friend     Published & Copyright Malachi Doyle 2025.

  Letter to Mum   Mum how are you? I get the feeling you’re having a lot of fun Like you’re at a party & there are no kids at your elbow whingeing “Mum, when are we going home?” No, your spirit is flying around the place You’re being coquettish & mischievous You at your best Sometimes you visit me in my dreams & are somewhat judgemental I too know I’ve not taken care of myself the best But this bloody brain chemistry of mine Is all over the shop If you read my diagnoses You'd see I’m doing ok Yes, I realise that was defensive Anyway, I don’t wanna talk about me It’s my requirement as a mentally ill person To endlessly talk of myself to professionals It’s a drag Since when did life make sense? What ever happened to humour? I miss yours I see you up there having a gay old time     Published & Copyright Malachi Doyle 2025.    

  Meditations of a solitary walker (After JJ Rousseau)   Following on from Coleridge & Wordsworth I walk They were tailed by a government agent who called them “the Frenchies” In that they’d been in France for the Revolution Not knowing that they’d abandoned politics for poetry Why would we have a revolution now? We could barely be anymore alienated from one another As Orwell pointed out The Political model in a country must reflect the National character  & Australians are wary of zealots The job of the poet is a slow one Building up a developing People in reflection As Whitman did for the Americans Today I said “G’day mate” To a guy emerging from his home & onto the street I was walking along He replied “I like your hat” My XXXX beer cap When walking my brain chemistry settles & I find life very possible Had a great chat with the owner of my favourite Japanese café in Brunswick I say “g’day champ” to people on the ...

A Winter’s Tale   I went off half cocked Not for the first time Such befits our age A fragment is taken for the whole & consternation erupts Nevertheless one must take leaps of faith Else one winds up shrivelled Like a late Autumnal leaf At least the coloniser’s leaf Mon oncle is worried about me That I don’t sound very cheerful He makes me feel self conscious He lives in Spring So he is feeling hopeful My poem got interrupted by a counsellor I get so tired of talking about myself When professionals offer nothing of themselves As Foucault said the soul (or psyche) is the State’s instrument of disciplining & punishing In my case, as a mentally ill person It is required for me to eat As I get a disability support pension  (Of course I have imposter syndrome on top) But one point was raised That when one is sick & lonely Happy things radiate for less duration Than when one is stable & in a functioning (Ok dysfunctional, but crazy enough) relationship At the moment...

  After Peter Tosh   & so I must “pick myself up Dust myself off & start all over again” As Peter Tosh sang A 3 & ½ day high is over & I’ve lost something from my soul I burned fast seeking to wrest control From going over the edge I dare myself to go into the abyss But I don’t wanna end up like Coleridge Addicted to drugs A shadow of his former self Greek soul psyche forever damaged Mired in the negative A loss of light Anyway it’s done now So I’ve gotta rebuild Just hard to write when your head & head are numb So I proceed in ennui A frozen poem on a white page     Published & Copyright Malachi Doyle 2025.      

  High Poem 2 You don’t like Art? Think again It’s just like a product you can buy! Relax Enjoy A little Wray & Nephew my good man This talking game takes itself unwisely seriously shaped by the sentence, As does prison People think that they make sense A discriminating mind used for discerning on the computer One must say no or hear the word no so often here in this concrete & noise It’s not a jungle really Coz the locals can't/don’t (?) hang out on the street Where people tell themselves they love themselves Tears dew the topical gutters I saw Involuntary mirroring Unconscious mirroring A perspicacious mirroring People getting nervous about facts as if one is making a value judgement People don’t know why they head on to Carlton on a Wednesday late Autumn evening “People.” Find a more interesting word fuckwit! Ok Tabatha Tabatha gets nervous about all the icecaps melting as she looks hungrily at her choc top Fernando gets...

Though it made me a poet   This is a superior microwave to the last if  everything has to be a competition I guess it does! In the Kafkaesque vortex Where one is trying merely to ask a question Instead one is sold something I’m monastic or have acute anxiety Anxiety is pretty cute Like a decapitated bleeding brain Covered in snails turned carnivore By the wrack & ruin of a child’s innocence The fist in the sister’s face The knife in the wall Did I imagine the latter, dream it or see it? Who threw it? Must have been the bowie Still life goes on So I went to school the next morning & got my mouth taped up For being a chatterbox Such is the life of a privileged 5 year old It made me a poet     Published & Copyright Malachi Doyle 2025.  

  Labelling   The psychiatrist labelling me Really hurt my confidence I know it’s a Johnny come lately discipline  & humans functioned fine without it for millennia I know also the ‘civilised’ West Has a problem with mystics What with the Inquisition, the witchhunts, heretics burned at the stake To show how ‘civilised’ its normalcy is Even in my case The power imbalance between the man who points the finger & the pen, asked to reveal nothing of himself Versus the patient’s disclosure & passive role I don’t talk about him In his Italian suit & performative ‘even tempered’ style & his money grabbing receptionist No the focus is always on me I am the ‘scientific problem to be solved’ Like how many jelly beans are in the jar I’ll just have to let it go I’ve been stamped & labelled “Like they do with pants & shirts” As in Dylan’s Lenny Bruce Anyway it hurts But I can’t carry it for society, for the wor...

  Rupture/Return   When the flow is broken downstream The water trapped by obstacles, by detritus It takes some time to regain It may well be altogether another stream Or estuary You can’t fight it Rather let it flow from the rupture I became angry yesterday & rejected wisdom There’s the temptation to self destruct Who knows? she whispered Wasn’t that the point? The flow doesn’t know where it’s headed It allows itself to shape anywhichway A non-being concentration Not a doing shaped strain Refrain The flow enters my brain From the great beyond From the great within My dogs, twin & I swim & my ancestors Unto the progeny of the spirit We don’t know how we make friends We just do     Published & Copyright Malachi Doyle 2025.  

   Diagnosis   I was just getting somewhere with my life & my poetry & the flow has been ruptured by a psychiatric appointment with diagnosis “Schizo-Affective Disorder, Acute Anxiety, OCD, Complex PTSD” get fucked! I’m a sic kunt original man & I’ve read Immanuel Kant & does my psychiatrist know who he himself is? I’m not even sure I or indeed any of this exists We could all be characters in God’s or a kid’s or a dog’s dream My flow broken They set traps in my way Just when I’m feeling gay It’s been great at home with Lao Tzu Where nothing key can be understood But it can be embodied But the minute I go out I get mugged by people in expensive suits I’m just trying to mind my own business But everytime I start to feel good People come for me & try & box me up Maybe I’ll buy a baseball bat & tell em all to fuck off! & only go to the IGA I like the guys in there They even get in okra for me I’m ...

  Dreams   Having a skin full Passing out in the chair That consciousness Lids reaching to open but falling closed, such a gift Between waking & sleeping The whole following day’s been like that My psychiatrist appointment came & went As if a dream I dream recurrently That I’m resitting my senior schooling In order to better understand what went on Only I refuse to go through with testing & exams Which requires much justification to the authorities As it’s pretty much what schooling is, now I’ve been a teacher My days pass between dreams & books read Kind of like dreams Poems written Kind of like dreams Like my late greyhounds I wake fleetingly To prepare, cook & eat I walk A lot like dreaming I’m walking in the footsteps of Chuang Tzu’s butterfly & yet some people are so sure they’re awake They lead our world Sleepwalking to cataclysm Staking that it’s only a nightmare     Publis...

  Afterimage   Reportage to what end? Grade 5 Show & Tell How do I present to you his face? A red tartan scarf held by his specs t o form a face mask s lash kid’s tv puppet rabbit Above his older grey-suited man’s gait Was he performing a lampoon? One never knows intention i n the Swanston Street parade But it was certainly very funny Really tickled my fancy He looked like a serious man But perhaps that was his schtick? Its afterimage echoing throughout the day In the first poem m y first wife translated from the Japanese for me The word “afterimage” featured I was called to by Japan today 25 years later In the form of a Suntory Premium Malt beer advertisement  How could I communicate this to the waitresses? Such a polite society A rambler like me flounders 2 ears 1 mouth Whereas I’m 1 mouth 2 ears & a little queer     Published & Copyright Malachi Doyle 2025.

  What would it be like?   What would it be like? He wondered when she set out On their voyage We will be the subject Salt tablets in the desert The windmill drew up Some water Maybe there is an ocean Rats gathering on a ghostly ship & the crowd held aloft Their lighters For the slow song About hope Against all odds The colours were synthetic Designed on a computer AI generated A foot Came down upon it & danced the Tarantula She was dressed in blood rose & black His memory came back Of the lessons As the knee To split the pack A life Apart from the crowd It got cold at night Poem without direction He woke with a pounding erection She was far away But heard the vibrations One day perhaps They’d be together again & he’d kiss her shoulder  & she’d kiss his     Published & Copyright Malachi Doyle 2025.

  A thankless task   A thankless task But then a sky with 2 rainbows 4 months later So it depends on how you read the signs Whether you're looking for instant returns Or doing it for the taste of it Mist on the tongue A bucolic hour will come & like the Tao that has no name It matters not How long one has drifted It is the return to the source that matters Pigeons For all the urban pejoratives Fly astonishingly in formation & if you don’t remember this You do not attune to life You’re merely repeating 2 nd hand ideas & such ideas tell you It was indeed a thankless task     Published & Copyright Malachi Doyle 2025.      

  Heart Breaks   Starting with failure I guess we mostly do Worse for those fated with beginner’s luck & seeking obsessively to codify They’ll have a lot of collateral damage & so this doctor Is forced at threat of death to him & his loved ones To sew up a singer’s lips & deafen him With a long needle through the ears The poet afar Finds himself looking far away Ironic considering his radically foreshortened horizon In the cheesegrater metropolis I remember during Lock Down Driving across Bolte Bridge to teach & beholding those graters all in darkness They walk in the sun across the concrete Only the peppertree knows the object of their business Will you ever paint on a canvas again? Or even with your pen? Now you are forced in the jackhammer day To hold a scalpel Because that is the order of things     Published & Copyright Malachi Doyle 2025.