Terra Nullius born from the ashes of colonies past,
from a nation over seas far,
the white cliffs of Dover show their colour,
they reached a land of beauty rich and rare,
they saw and they conquered caring none for those that stood in front of them,
for years this ravaged,
destroying ancient culture,
until a man realised that the land he loved was not his,
taken from him unbeknownst,
he stood in despair,
the system against he fought,
until he died a young man of pain from tortures past,
in his grave he heard the victory he won,
Terra Nullius is gone,
Long live Eddie Mabo.

alabaster wool over a lamb


           bleat like a tinseltown
earthquake

the whole world used to be terra nullius
until humanity came along
they sticked their hand
claiming this is mine, mine, mine

There he is,
between the Siberian Tiger and the Maui's Dolphin,
**** Mobilis Nullius.
She does not own a cellphone.
Text for her is the letters and words
that make up a book.
If he wants to take a picture,
he'll use a camera, thanks.
She doesn't want to download, upload,
freeload, overload,
girl, you've got to carry that load
of debt to the telco company.
He watches movies in the cinema
and he doesn't want to be hooked up
to the internet
or caught in the ever-widening net of commerce.
She's happy with the ancient ways,
songlines on the landline
lines on the land
where a woman can walk away
and hear only the ringing
of bird song,
lines on the land
a man can follow to the heart
of somewhere lost
and know only peace.

you say you don't want me,
between texts about
who i'm talking to these days.
ways of holding space above me,
and dark matters to hide in.
to my mind you say "terra nullius",
invading open corners of my lands,
as if to cheer for my loneliness
with a batting swing
making sure you're still around.
"What are you up to?"
context is the killer here,
knowing that I'm alone in a new town,
thinking it will make a difference.
and it always does.

I've heard, someone criticise her, yet
I see the green and gold in a sunset
Through a eucalyptus curtain beside
A river, rippling and glimmering, wet
Light dancing till the cusp of night swept tides.
Twin winds headed West, windless pirouettes
Of a gentle warmth, who sleeps in the air,
Curled up beside me when I feel free to care
So much less. Even when the tears cascade
And stars fade, she, like a wave to the shore
Inevitably throws me this and that way
With foam and a thousand visitors more
From places they left not so long before.
Though I know an aeroplane goes sweetly,
I have Australia and she has me,
Sure she's not perfect, but neither are we.

i'm trying to think of a greater joy than that
of: drinking cheap wine
in the form of kalimotxo...
i'm trying to think: so much for thinking:
let alone trying...
i was doing some gardening today
since the weather allowed it to be done...
trimmed the evergreen bush...
this other Japanese bush of tenderness...
mowed the grass...
and by some "miracle" of absent-mindedness
i managed to cut the cable...
the fuses in the house popped out...
flicked them back on...
i wasn't "there": had to cut the cable
expose the copper wiring
and "connect the dots"...
   absent-mindedness: guilty of cognitive
negligence...
why? well a wire usually has two streams...
one encased in blue rubber
one encased in brown rubber...
what did i do?
technical man... ha...
i fiddled the two streams together...
the arteries with the veins: as it were...
the fuses popped out once more...
mind you: rarely can an appliance break:
if you first check the plug fuse...
the **** thing comes back to life:
regardless...
an unbelievable faux pas...
first encase the blue copper wiring...
exclusively... then encase the brown
copper wiring... and then...
bundle the two together...
but... since this was a demand of chores:
i was most probably thinking
about the joys of cheap wine...
i've tried it: the more expensive the less
joy in it...
perhaps i was thinking about that
Turkish ******* and... how...
she'll be gone in a year's time... perhaps more...
will i wait that long...
another hour with her:
i'll even bring her a signed copy
of a book of verse i published...
i'll get to the bottom of knowing her name...
drinking cheap wine
is a bit like riding a bicycle in the night:
or walking into the forest: also at night...
esp. when it's autumn and its dry
and the leaves murmur a polyphony
or rustle... crunch... hell: if ol' baldy is there
too in the sky... and you catch glimmers
of him through the branches that
begin to resemble cobwebs with your
one eye squinting...
just now, though...
i came across a video...
'the great gaming crisis' - thinking-agape...
not judging: men still in their 30s playing
consoles...
my last memory of gaming came
in the form of PS1: final fantasy seven...
tenchu... metal gear solid...
i wanted a PS2 so badly...
dead end...
eh... the odd spell of Rome Total War...
or Medieval Total War...
but even that fizzled out...
having invested in vinyl...
and more music... it's all music...
an old mix tape: where i surrendered
to "guilty pleasures"... mostly pop...
i'm a sucker for pop:

manfred mann - doo wah diddy diddy
the monkees - i'm a believer
joan jett - i love rock & roll
the rembrandts - i'll be there for you
phantom planet - california
sixpence none the richer - kiss me
suzanne vega - luka
madonna - beautiful stranger
eagle eye sherry - save tonight
leonard cohen - take this longing
belinda carlisle - heaven is a place on earth
deep blue something - breakfast at tiffany's
the cranberries - dreams
the connells - 74 75
4 non blondes - what's going on
leonard cohen - in my secret life...

drinking cheap wine might be deemed a guilty
pleasure...
for all the riches in the world...
give me all the emptiness of the head
and all the stone-grip of the heart...
what's the alternative?
stay sober: play video games...
it's hardly a reciprocation within the confines
of backgammon...
i tend to never touch chess:
su doku... that's me:
no room for crosswords...
i'm playing a game of stalemate with words
as we speak: i don't need clued avenues of
dictionary / encycloepedic entries...

no... i don't want to be a Buddha story:
to have it all and then give it up...
me? i want a trickle of having it all:
but at the same time: not having it...
a rare injection of: the banality of the carnal...

besides... what scene of horror gripped me
most?
in Amsterdam i spent an afternoon
with two Germans...
we went back to the hostel... an Egyptian armed
with a bottle of Absolut ***** and a joint...
i spent the next day with him...
he smoked... i drank beer...
he introduced me to Le Trio Joubran
and gave me a single **** of a joint...
while putting headphones into my ears...
my jaw dropped and i sat there
mesmerized by the abyss that my self
had become...
i must have looked like a ****** *****
i saluted a girl with a V (not for 5 or peace...
V for: i'd like that oyster... very much)
she sat there in awe:
no bigger awe that i was in...
we walked back to the hostel while i laughed
in the street...
those two Germans?
me and this Egyptian: an architecture student:
great at cartoon doodling...
we looked at each other with horror...
in the dark lit room...
the two Germans just ingested some
mushrooms and...
   ended up... watching American Dad cartoons
on the t.v.

- you heard stories from London about stabbings
and idiotic cyclists playing the wild card of
solipsists en route to something unimportant...
headphones in...
eye in the back of my head...
the thrill of the roundabout... always looking
out for a speed ticket...
usually an ambulance...
or just gagging for something than might
**** me... the momentum of a large
truck... always exposing myself from
the thrill of the blind-spot... swerving into
the eye-sight of the driver in the mirror
on the outside of the lane...
large gear into 3... small gears beginning at
3 working through to 6 for a sensation
of cruising in a convertible at night...

the bulging sensation of having a pulse...
in the legs and in the constraining sensation
of the torso being endowed with muscle...
watching the first proper summer
lightning and thunderstorm...
watching how the rain turned to hale...

underworld: born slippy...
if only i had the sort of chemical nostalgia
surrounding the end of the 20th century...
lucky me if she'll offer some angel dust
to sniff... she'll disappear in a year's time:
i'm not going to give up
that sort of ******* any time soon...

it's all true what William Burroughs is known
for having cited:
never a wasted moment with cats...
they'll dream for me...
dogs? that ******* leash...
and... toilet hours...
cats like plants: they can entertain themselves...
they don't need to be recognised
as cats... as pets... as hierarchical cretins...
although: children should be raised with
dogs if they don't have siblings...
cats come later... much later:
when the peers have hammered in
a preservation construct of their genes...
waiting game before child becomes
the automated self-fulfilling will:
how soon: sooner than never those...
happy pictures of having offspring will...
fizzle out...

i could sometimes be bound to watching old
movies while admiring the beauty of
seemingly ancient actresses...
then came a moment in my life where:
i stashed enough memories
for them to become a cinema:
while i played the leading role...

and as i aged: i became less and less angry
with youth... i stopped being the
"angry young man":
my anger was rooted in youth: per se...
perhaps i'm tinged with melancholy now...
but i'm hardly the repressed-depressed
reflex symptom carrier:
i like the romance of the melancholic
reflection... i don't know the i.q. scrutiny of
my sense of humour:
given i'm inclined to laugh at impromptus
that don't deserve much thought:
innuendo... or whatever you want to name it...

a scuttle for truths from advertisement:
this is why i don't like international football...
this is why i prefer club football...
i don't want to belong to some "whole":
so "entirety" when all it is: is a game of 22 ballerinas
kicking about a guillotine dead of
****** into: sensibly done...

now... me sober occupied with gaming or me...
drinking scribbling this...
best case scenario:
i'll be choking on my ***** of happy Cheerios:
oh look... here's a loop... here's another loop...
here's a cut-back...

come 2am i will leave life encrusted with all
the necessary impromptus:
because... this load of bollocking (on my part)
will still preserve itself as being: best left alone...
unscripted...
which is why i wondered: what of the tenacity
of these actors... their gargantuan gloat...
oh... right... they're only so because
they have been... scripted...
i am the antithesis of actor...
i'm looking for my whip-tongue from time to time...
i can't find it... if i were an obnoxious woman
in need of soap-opera company i'd be on
the ready...

       last time i heard...
a small dog barks...
a large dog... bites...
a wolf can't bark...
what am i... a barker... a howler...
or a biter?
never mind...
i see it as follows:
i'll cycle and spare myself the excess
calculation of the 20 odd mile
from the outer-reaches of what's
considered London...
into Hyde Park...
i'll drop to the height of pansies...
wrap my legs around my bicycle frame...
and drink a bottle of Merlot lying
back... sipped through the side of my mouth...
like a drip... drip... drip...
i've... had enough!

i'll expect myself to be peered at...
better that than... imitating
voyeurism not expected in a brothel...
to be seen is to be:
in some, questionable... heights of Frankish thought...
well... let it be known that i might be seen...
to hell with the whims of pissy-pants ms. chastity
who later feigns a lost "free-will"
among the... Pakistani abusers...
to hell with her:
give me the ol' raven haired Turkic woman!

wine wine more wine!
i don't want to hear another iota's worth
of a woman's whining!
and now the grave warm with
her expectations...
you bring women to the fore...
you can't expect the war to end:
any time soon... esp. this... "culture war":
death by proxy...
to hell with it...
           a war: a supposed war
where: no one dies... but everyone else
i numb-skulled senseless seeking out
positively-passive narratives...

i like the idea of cycling behind a greater
momentum than i can ever have...
behind a truck of concrete behind a truck
of ash...
behind a truck of solipsistic dunces coming across
the altar of sacrifice...
so far so good: concerning my wedding with
death... tight grieving ***** with tattoos of dates
and all her: crocodile tears...
almost as if a mother that...
no... sooner a sister i'd want to ****...
because: all that's good feels false...
and all that's evil is a conundrum of thinking
too much about, it...

all that same **** different cover
moral lingo...

mistletoe: a variation of: cancer:
botanical cancer...
i'll be feeding my sleeper cancer cells
some poison a while...
all those trees coming up to Warsaw
equipped with afro-bundles of
jemioła...

unlike dogs: dogs recognise drunks...
dogs don't allow drunks to get: tender...
cats? eh... a drunk will pass them by
with smooches...
my grandfather was a drunk...
and a solipsistic fiend...
my grandmother knew...
now she's happily widowed:
but my mother has this pristine
effigy of her father that...
boils under my skin...
that's simply not true...
the problems started when he retired...
and the entire shift of
the satellite-state post-Soviet
metallurgy industry came to a halt...

for the love of dogs: but not the leash
or the muzzle...
i can disown a concern for either
in the domain of the bonsai tigers:
i can: and since i can: i will!

cheap wine... nothing comes close:
except... relapses into spineless love
being adorned with an hour's worth
with a *******...
two bottle of red wine...
lord of mosquitos: nameless...
give me more!
between the cling to climbing mt. Everest...
and second sights of looking
at a naked body of a woman...

chase the tides!
put a stick into a river and will
a change of flow!
i'll go twice mad
looking at this altar before
i'm even once alive: therefore twice dead...
it's not her raven hair..
her ****** contorts when she follows
up on ******* with a kiss...
may i sacrifice her hands:
before the ice and the fire...
hands: one knuckle "short"...
it took me 4 years sleeping: bypassing my libido
to "somehow" suddenly wake up...

that old thirst for... underperforming yet
all that body that's heat...
toward Hyde Park...
drinking a bottle of wine while...
reclining: i'm not denying the fact
that certain words rhyme...
ancient Roman poets weren't lyricists...
they were: prosaic masters...

   scurror ego ipse mihi, populo tu:
rectius hoc et splendidius multo est.
   equos ut me portet, alat rex,
officium facio: tu poscis vilia -
           verum dante minor, quamvis fers te
nullius egentem...

utrius horum verba probes et facta, doce,
vel iunior audi...

i, joker unto myself i am,
but you unto the people;
i live better, moreover lightly,
a steed by the will of the lord lifts me :
the king feeds...
you, thus... begging...
        lash out and so tow horribly...
you are the sire... without...
needs...

no one is expected to sing these words...
2000 years from now:
i presume them to be cited:
once... the English tongue comes across
an impossible transformation:
that this here: now... tongue...
becomes... unrecognisable...
like Latin is to the modern amore! amore! Italian...
no?

  between the sight of the mountain:
or the sea... my death... and the sight of a body of
a naked woman...
i will forever cling to the latter:
starve me some more!
more! but don't expect me to be the pawn
in the supposedly sufficient "games"...

that i grieve these stones
and a softness i hardly begin to fathom as:
welcome... that my words are the illuminations
of a chapter lost...
a paragraph first written...
i will not allow time to be kind...
i will want time: to... shackle me toward
an unforgiving tide...
drown my sorrows in the croaking
of the priesthood of crows!
come i resurrected:
with any eye that's worth a
clepsydra's libra.