"dingo" poems
there are women who love demons
you can see it in their eyes
like a sick hunger
silence in a straight jacket
smiling limbs on a pyre
staring entranced
whiskey blind
as if marveling
at a howling blood-spattered dingo in a crater
seduced to wander off half-naked into a bush of thorns
********* barbed hooks for heroine kisses
women on fire who believe in nothing
except their atavistic compulsions
they are a burning land
beauty in ruin
ready for the slender whip
and black-toothed kisses
who giggle and then plunge into an abyss
i hold her like a jaw holds teeth
Jul 26, 2018
Jul 26, 2018 at 3:08 PM UTC
i felt like talking that night
reciting poetry to your big blue eyes
and raw pink mouth smiling
high as a wind whipped kite
discussing
art, ontology, and existentialism
sitting like lotus
at the
Cafe Figaro on McDougall st
in the west village
belly of a ghost
lost in a vagrant memory
afterwards
we went to a
little one bedroom flat in the east village
haunted by the vapors of its history
a slight stench of ****
and dingo tongue
dripping toilet
all peeling walls
intimating births, cheer and squalor
after a hot bath
of lathered torsos
we followrd each other naked
winding around a table
into a swaying bed
that beckoned
**** here my darlings
and i licked and drank out of your drenched
rose red blossom for hours
it licking back
I salvaged the loneliness
of my soul between your thighs
like a desolate dog whimpering
thanking God with every graze and ******
of your all supple shifting limbs
your company
your company
your sweet droplets
of company
in moon rise
summer balm
we looked in the mirror
reflecting on my glistening face
all red raspberry
my lips like blood hydras
laughing our ***** off at how artsy we looked
smeared
with your rouge painted thighs
appearing as if half eaten
you growled swallowed and
licked big butter piggy
till your nose ran like the Ganges
gagging
eyes bloodshot pools of fire
cooing and oowing
driving me maniacal
with every ****** of your wild flicking tongue
we poured our selves into each other
viscous creels gushing
coursing like slime silver
radiating
and finally used to the marrow
we found ourselves drooping sails
our eyelids leaden
the night mist fell upon us
muttering shadows
and our *** shriveled
like cast-off umbilici
and we fell to sleep
steep steep
buoyant
like two buttermilk clouds
adrift
your company
your company
your sweet droplets
of company
in moon rise
summer balm
Nov 28, 2017
Nov 28, 2017 at 1:50 PM UTC
Someday I'd like to wander free
like butterfly, like bumblebee,
perhaps to plant a willow tree
beside the silent solemn sea,
before these things exist no more,
from mountain top to shifting shore,
when, soon, bald eagles cease to soar
and build their aeries nevermore,
and fish forsake polluted streams
(where sulfur swims and typhoid teems
since no one really cares it seems)
to die inside our toxic dreams
while ice caps melt and winter steams,
and all the air surrounding reeks
as children choke, for no one speaks
of fracking wells or oily leaks
(Big Brother's silenced all critiques!),
and rancid rains acidify
so woods no longer multiply
(for God so wills, we can't deny,
which is, of course, our alibi).
And as the deepest ocean fills
with plastic bags, and garbage spills
upon the plains, across the hills
and turns to poison dust that kills
wild dingo dogs and daffodils
which sink in swamps’ forsaken swills,
the mocking bird makes light and trills
(midst waning wails of whippoorwills)
"Behold the surreal scene that chills
and greet the dread that death distills!
You've had your day with all the frills
that brought the flood and final ills
that can't be cured with bitter pills
nor yet undone with further thrills
of profit gained that grinds and fills
dead desert sands with dollar bills."
EPILOGUE
Though swaddled still in infancy,
we feel we’ve reached our primacy
(aloof, though preaching piously,
disdaining deeds of decency)
and have no need of augury.
But in the pit of prophecy
the crucial questions seem to be:
“Is doom Earth’s fate, our destiny
to twist in tides of agony
destroying nature’s progeny
with no return a certainty
assured by death’s finality?”
and
”Should we plant a willow tree
to someday weep for you and me?”
Jun 16, 2015
Jun 16, 2015 at 2:45 PM UTC
So here, twisted in steel, and spoiled with red
your sunlight hide, smelling of death and fear,
they crushed out your throat the terrible song
you sang in the dark ranges. With what crying
you mourned him! - the drinker of blood, the swift death-bringer
who ran with you so many a night; and the night was long.
I heard you, desperate poet, Did you hear
my silent voice take up the cry? - replying:
Achilles is overcome, and Hector dead,
and clay stops many a warrior's mouth, wild singer.
Voice from the hills and the river drunken with rain,
for your lament the long night was too brief.
Hurling your woes at the moon, that old cleaned bone,
till the white shorn mobs of stars on the hill of the sky
huddled and trembled, you tolled him, the rebel one.
Insane Andromache, pacing your towers alone,
death ends the verse you chanted; here you lie.
The lover, the maker of elegies is slain,
and veiled with blood her body's stealthy sun.
5.7k
there was a little wombat he lived in the wild
somewhere in australia a proper natures child
he would make big burrows that he made his home
where he would hide from dingos when they were on the roam
he would jump inside so he could get away
for the roaming dingo the wombat was his prey
he would live on grass eat shrubs and chew on bark
a happy little chap as happy as lark
such a lovely creature so beautiful is he
all cuddly and so furry a lovely site to see.
Mar 13, 2010
Mar 13, 2010 at 12:43 PM UTC
That time of drought the embered air
burned to the roots of timber and grass.
The crackling lime-scrub would not bear
and Mooni Creek was sand that year.
The dingo's cry was strange to hear.
I heard the dingoes cry
in the scrub on the Thirty-mile Dry.
I saw the wedgetail take his fill
perching on the seething skull.
I saw the eel wither where he curled
in the last blood-drop of a spent world.
I heard the bone whisper in the hide
of the big red horse that lay where he died.
Prop that horse up, make him stand,
hoofs turned down in the bitter sand
make him stand at the gate of the Thirty-mile Dry.
Turn this way and you will die-
and strange and loud was the dingoes' cry.
4.4k
"There's a wild duck's nest in a sheltered spot,
And I'll go right down and I'll eat the lot."
But when he got to his destined prey
He found that the ducks had flown away.
But an egg was left that would quench his thirst,
So he bit the egg and it straightway burst.
It burst with a bang, and he turned and fled,
For he thought that the egg had shot him dead.
"Oh, mother," he said, "let us clear right out
Or we'll lose our lives with the bombs about;
And it's lucky I am that I'm not blown up -
It's a very hard life," said the dingo pup.
3.5k
there was a little wombat he lived in the wild
somewhere in australia a proper natures child
he would make big burrows that he made his home
where he would hide from dingos when they were on the roam
he would jump inside so he could get away
for the roaming dingo the wombat was his prey
he would live on grass eat shrubs and chew on bark
a happy little chap as happy as lark
such a lovely creature so beautiful is he
all cuddly and so furry a lovely site to see.
Nov 25, 2013
Nov 25, 2013 at 2:27 PM UTC
there was a little wombat he lived in the wild
somewhere in australia a proper natures child
he would make big burrows that he made his home
where he would hide from dingos when they were on the roam.
he would jump inside so he could get away
for the roaming dingo the wombat was his prey
he would live on grass eat shrubs and chew on bark
a happy little chap as happy as lark.
such a lovely creature so beautiful is he
all cuddly and so furry a lovely site to see.
Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 9:10 AM UTC
my **** is like a monster
not dimensionally speaking
it's a monster like a wild little dingo
with a huge appetite
and some really mean *****
like kamikaze surfers waiting for take-off
with their engines on
when i see you
you are blond like something i might regret
you are pretty like something i always knew and loved
and your voice reminds me of a girl i used to care about but never actually met
your voice is perfect and always sings in tune
its midnight, really
and the band plays the last song
and they play it like its their last ever
and you say you always wanted a double-bass player
in your band
but i say i can play the banjo like the world is coming to an end
and "baby its cold outside"
yes it is colder than it ever was
but its OK
you got a bike
i live around the corner
so its goodnight from me
me
the out of order gentle ****** predator
the ***** watchman that just switched-off the lights
the good lieutenant of the debauched night shift
me, with a heart as big as the Pacific
and a smile that says **** me pretty please
goodnight
Apr 7, 2010
Apr 7, 2010 at 4:49 PM UTC
(On the death of a daughter)
The death I must pronounce upon
For you, parents, the wait was long
Across this land unjustly tried
Your silence only proof you lied.
In pitch darkness, dragged overland
By Dingo jaws and human hand
Guilty and gaoled, she would have read
In her sixth year, were she not dead
Just six weeks, never spoke a word
Now flies the night, free as a bird
Over deserts ochre and red
On Uluru she rests her head
Wakens and plays in sunlight stark
Darts in rock shadows, cool and dark
In Rainbow Spirit surely trust
She lies lightly in sand and dust.
© M.L.Emmett
Apr 18, 2016
Apr 18, 2016 at 4:56 AM UTC
I have deliberated long
said the kangaroo
to the dingo
over the great mysteries of life
*And what
did you find?*
asked the dingo
Oh,
said the kangaroo
*nothing.
They still remain
a great mystery.*
Oct 25, 2010
Oct 25, 2010 at 1:05 AM UTC
squidgy swish squish pish posh peeled pretend I don't dingo ding **** diddled dod dead dig stick still silent silence screaming softly silly
.....SOUP
pretend I don't
pretend to fly
dreaming and flying
dreaming
rêver de vous
diving in the deep end
rêver de vous
walking under an
umbrella patterned umbrella
rêver de vous
fly
fly
fall
sky
rêver de vous
rêver de vous
and always eating chocolate
rêver de vous
Apr 17, 2013
Apr 17, 2013 at 11:20 PM UTC
i watch you inside my head
with eyes like binocular surveillance
spinning bulls
dancing widdershins
in mind erasing rituals,
from witchy book
voodoo tropical itch
that spits a mudslide
and who are you in this poem
maybe a hungry ghost or
just a girl who has a kink
for shadows burn
from midnight suns
algorithms of bleated conundrums
and luminous smiling star eyed teeth
your undulant music
melodically bleeds desire
swelling
aching worm tongued clitori
in teary shredded *******
that bows her head like sinking stones
to touch blood silent puddles
of Pomegranate Martinis encircled by
drunken Pentecostal Lucifer's
better than a kiss could ever be
you would **** to die goat horned
pink as dingo ****
and held down by storming arms
that stop you dead past memories blur
a martyred fruit darker than night
in a leg show
scumbag halo resurrection
under threat
ankles bound
fledged
split wide and trussed
she panted
"I hate pain
but love being forced to take it".
Nov 8, 2020
Nov 8, 2020 at 1:25 PM UTC
Each morning I listened
to him **** as he slowly awoke
I jokingly called it "surfacing"
and I, like any wary prey,
gathered my armor for the day
This man thrashed so hard
in his sleep he'd bruised me
dreaming of his mother
again
WHY I OUGHTA he says
and TO THE MOON ALICE
I say in my head
He weighed himself each morning
and grew to twice my size
as I inevitably dwindled to half
if only he would join a pack
and hunt better meat than me
But I was separated from
mother love long ago
So now I'm more like penned veal
barely a meal and this is what
saves me from the cutting machine
He has decided on therapy
a diet of sorts, as he learns to eat
but not swallow and it's much like
training a dingo to be a deer
who is smart enough to let
his garden grow even if one night
feels like an eternity, never having
felt the sting or the birth of denial
Jan 19, 2019
Jan 19, 2019 at 12:46 PM UTC
A fish out of water slaps
for the wet familiar
as first rainbow gasps
for all colour beneath
evergreen eucalypts
and boy becomes hunter.
White flesh in the pan
rainbow now grey;
a dull eye pops in the fat.
The first meal of camp
"We're all about survival"
says the voice from the beard.
In that first howling night the tent holds no echo:
a cocoon of down
muffles the want of a scream
for mother’s goodnight.
Terrain is now is real and not just a geography lesson.
When morning arrives
relief and sunlight slap awake
the face of survival.
Mosquitoes frustrate the zippered gauze, march-flies marshal to march.
Wisps of gum-smoke, the smell of the wild, steam from hot-streams on tussocks, beans in the pannikin, dust in the billy, leaves of tea and gumtree chase the boil.
Longer walk today; boots even more ready for rubbing off skin.
Fourteen miles to the next creek and next water.
Ache in the pack
No rest only winter.
The dingo pads on.
Wild boar root en mass. Wombats rummage the banks.
Wallabies thump up the ridge-line.
"We’ll circle our tent-line and raise tonight’s fire after dark."
Says the beard and walks on.
The hunter
Seeks now no quarry
Dreams the snap of a soft sheet
and mouths words
for the water of home.
Oct 30, 2014
Oct 30, 2014 at 10:37 PM UTC
she was walking next to the road on the way to a date with the boy she loved. she triple dingo the road and got hit by a semi. she flew into an embankment. the driver never stopped. she rotted for three days before a runners dog found her. he never came looking.
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 2:28 PM UTC
Ravenous as sly dog
Avid upon the street level
Seeking annuity
Smells of the sensual
Languishing wanting
Vintage yearnings
Come greeteth me to mine death
Take the blade from among mine neck
As the flow is decorated with turquoise shield
For wherein's the real?
Of Shakespherian romance
Tired of the same old play,
As some tis say
Broke by night
Released by day
FRINGED hair cometh out
A smile I couldst say that I haveth
But truly a lie it shalt be
When shalt one giveth their all
To loveth all of me?
Jun 21, 2015
Jun 21, 2015 at 11:45 PM UTC
Oh the cat is out of the hat
the maiden has lost her knickers
and my aunt Nelly blimey
oh what a kerfuffle
My wife just put ****** on the sausages
and one from the oven has shot up the dogs ***
oh this is not good, at party like this
oh what a kerfuffle
There must be at least twelve saints here
those that must be revered
yet they are dancing like nutters
oi the beers are over here
God look at peter paul and dingo
don't they act like plebs
I would not dance
if I could get the beat out of my head
Lets take it to the garden
and do the moonlight shuffle
let's be foot loose and fancy free
oh what a kerfuffle
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Oct 24, 2014
Oct 24, 2014 at 4:58 AM UTC
my brother used to tease me with MY friends and i simply stood up for myself, whether or not i know how to fight or not, i think my brother got the message, but he didn't leave me alone, i threw cricket stumps at him, i threw ***** at him very hard, he still wanted to tease me, i killed our cat, because my mental condition was thinking i must **** the dingo that killed azara, i want mum to go to her grave not knowing i told you this, i have told all of canberra, because, at the end of the day, i was sick and mental, mind you i was showing compassion since then, by attending funerals, you see i was scared of dying, but i am dead now, so to speak, i can see my dad and my grandma and my nanna i know their next earth bodies annie from bratayley
who is gran, john robert rimel who is nan, betty campbell, who is dad, now, i know i ain't really dead, i am having fun treating my mental illness, and getting reformed, i am going to dance
class room to move, theatre group ignite and i perform at poetry slams, i do shows on youtube
i join poetry groups, where i write crap out of me, i liked myself as a kid, but i must grow up
i am learning about schizophrenic kids, because i had one delusion which started the pack,
i must fight to get people to leave me alone, that is a bunch of crap, i tied up a boy to the toilet
and it was only me and the kid that knew for sure it was nothing, but, i was sick, in ways, i have been getting these weird vibes that people in the cosmos were trying to touch my pension say, i am a little girl, and chop my ***** off, saying foo doo doo doo
brian is a little girl, cause he touches up people's penis's, but they think that, cause that
they don't know squat, ok, i tied him up and let him go, i would fucken know
Feb 16, 2015
Feb 16, 2015 at 4:05 AM UTC
A flowered, timidly small bird I passed,
limp and shivering on the unforgiving asphalt
echoed within me all of which he never had
with his creaking sepia beak
through his lungs, out his throat.
He peeped feebly to plead me to lean closer,
I obeyed, slowly kneeling,
as to never disturb this creation.
He projects the coasts of Indonesia
to tell me how he so wished to dip his wings in its pristine water bodies,
He carries me through the forbidden treetops of the Amazon
withering over each exotic insect he never tasted,
He cradles me over the mighty Atlantic until we reach Australia
pointing toward each kangaroo and dingo he never spoke with,
And lastly he showed me the family he never followed
to warmer worlds, blanketed from winter’s rickety breath,
too afraid to conquer the blustery heights above.
Which led him to this moment, waiting for their return on this sidewalk,
losing feeling with each escaping tendril of life.
He spread himself to reach towards my face.
As I lower to make contact with his damp and disheveled wings
I feel each feather individually sweep my cheeks
as he died weepy and swollen in grief,
turning my skin pink with shame, because
we all lie hypothermic on the sidewalk, too timid to take the first flight.
And I, a fledgling,
have many miles left to pilot before the Floridian warmth will comfort me
in endless palm tree affection,
kissed by the fragrant shoreline.
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 3:22 PM UTC
and who would have thought that there would be such
certainty governing ι (iota), as to effectively stress it
all the ****** time? guise it in whatever pronouns
you want, either modern or ancient and if ancient
then bound to psychiatric theory - but who would have
thought that so much pinpointing was to be allowed
over ι? and yet there are hordes of people without
a clue as to who they are and what identity to rattle
the world with... pinpoint above the iota...
if it was absolutely precise, and if it was truly identifiable
with a great accuracy, i'd find people in shackles of
certainty, hardly deviating from that's already apparent
to them... but it's not the case... so presumptuous
to ascribe iota (ι) that sort of certainty when ascribing
it a holy pronoun status... there's hardly a pinpoint
about the iota, hardly any certainty, always the spontaneous
venture, and that's still bound to what aesthetician you
speak to...
ᾠ (oi)! wriggly serpent of
arabic in greek, wriggled in, subscripted, prefix: al-,
then the l'ah the l'ah, la la la... la la... mmmbop! handsome,
innit? kamoze... na na na na na na na na na na nah...
'ere *** d' 'otstepper... chilli chilli in sprechen dingo...
roughing up the woof downunder.
and wrote a surah about the byzantine defeat...
true up to the point of mongol and the mamluke...
for if not the serpent to teach man handwriting,
what animal? is not the serpent the jurassic spine
and our pause for thought? or what does predate
the discovery of dinosaur bones if not bonsai
morphed into welsh and chinese dragons?
exaggerations of sleeper's intuition collectively?
to bow, or say: prior: all things worthy of a palette -
then the revisionist meteor, then all things condemnable
and bound to excess - gluttonous eyes staring poignant as if
gnats stuck to venomous arrows with a thirst for st. sebastian...
for what audacity asserted that it was always to be so:
a pinpoint above ι? there was no universal agreement -
as is to say: a god of the omni realm will never consider
a peace treaty unless the people abide by the mantra om
and subsequently flourish... and what animal taught us this
wriggling? should we rewrite our stance basing all
metamorphosis from shouting to a hush and then compound
with statement: genteel reader away from the serpent
and haloing the worm, that too wriggles? it all depends which
aesthetician you speak to... if you speak to me,
i'll tell you this version of human history's worth of
soap opera.
Nov 18, 2016
Nov 18, 2016 at 5:37 AM UTC