Tag Archives: Chris Coon

Bushwhacked!

poems, ,

Check it out! Here it be, our videopoem adaptation of Bushwhack, the book I’ve collaborated on with visual artist Tina Schliessler. Some images are colour, some are black and white. As I said, my old school punk rock cohort Chris Coon and I composed the music and he scored Bushwhack in the 11th hour. I don’t have it up here yet but you can watch it at YouTube in the meantime if you like, and I hope you do.

BUSHWHACK

Lofty
midrib splayed
dual cedar blades
soar.

Bare, pushing bare,
singing Be,
columns stand,
bear heat, stings, ruptures
to make sound,
bring form to mound
and limbs.

Lowering maven trembles.
Hourly swells
rustle spores,
life,
galloping life.

Heaven supporting pillar
in this below
regenerates,
unfurls
her hide.

Slattern in the grove
whisker in Eve,
flymphs and treasure within.

Twisted sideways for the sake of light
shedding, blushing lost in cinnamon.

Barmy birds eye pistachios,
fooled by flying V’s Icarus molting.

Sunlight mackled nub,
pert tummy truncated mute,
spread legs spring ovules.

Giraffe freckled legs,
whistling monkey mouth
sashay past vivisection.

Closely furrowed strut
hecklers scattered to the wind.
Power to divine.
Her brawn perpetual,
stance, a pledge.

Persisting many seasons
in lace bark
peepers penetrate,
ogle, wink.
Spy or witness?

Coarsely fissured bole
muscles in on a finite niche,
damp, narrow, coastal fog belt.
Hardy, assurgent,
frontal as weather
prehensile Pan grasps
blundering larvae.
Spared by the hand fallers
for his perceived charm,
multifarious bush ape
trounces rot.
Flourishes!

Unfallen, unadorned
unashamed hydra,
free of thorns, caprice.
Plenary femme sole
indulging in whorling,
forsaking heaven for nirvana.
Brandishing titties,
budding insurgent
claws Adamite armour,
grips the root,
embraces the earth.

Tracking bear, deer, cougar, weasels; snaking past catastrophe

Journal, , ,

Don’t tread on me! In a funk, discombobulated, plagued with a nasty headache and nightmares as I scramble to meet two hard deadlines, recovering from a low blow by our (former) collaborator who “terminated” our video projects. Terminal City? He might very well have succeeded but happily, I’m working with the inimitable Chris Coon, my Bent Tail-punk rock cohort. (Impatient Youth, The Sleepers, The Woundz, Clocks of Paradise, No Alternative.) It’s a relief as well, to drive 15 minutes to a studio rather than 5 hours to record who-knows-where, or how, which saves heaps of money too; no more travel expenses.

Do we engineer the crises in our lives? In search of authentic experience, to provide creative stimulation? Certainly, it’s something artists, writers do. Is Van Gogh not equated with tortured? August Strindberg is another example: “Of humble origin and melancholy disposition, Strindberg was consumed by an insatiable desire for knowledge and a need for authentic existence.”-New Foundations. “Strindberg created experiences and pressured situations in order to write about them; he inflicted pain on himself to gain extra material and he became suicidal when fiction and reality were interpenetrating so deeply that he was scared of finding which was which.”-Ronald Hayman. I know the difference and though I’m no longer no one’s victim, by associating with artists in various stages of evolution, conflict is inevitable.

Lately, a veritable zoo of of animals stampedes my dreams and reality. Fortunately, I am able to distinguish between the two! Bear, deer, serpents. Someone was holding the head of a . . . Continue reading →