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Apr. 14th, 2008 @ 12:03 am
dr_mindbender82
Oh come on people.

Does no one object to my challenging of an institute of literature that has stood for at least four hundred years, purely on the basis that every professor and forefather of this fine art was, in some way, bluffing? (Read the previous post in this community) Surely someone is going to raise an out cry on the behalf of syllabication, if only for propriety and nothing else. . . Aren’t they?

Is anyone even interested in the subjects they are studying beyond a test score, and a bit of paper at the end? Am I a lone thinker in a world of androids? What happened? Once upon a time people posted stuff in this community.





Mindbender 1: Literary establishment 0

(Victory by defualt)

Apr. 11th, 2008 @ 01:29 am
dr_mindbender82
I’m calling bluff on the whole Terra-dactylic, spondee, iambic, Anabaptist church, tetrarch-o-saurus nonsense of poetry scansion and versification.

Here’s what I think. I don’t think there is a method for finding which syllable is truly stressed in a line of poetry. I think its all carnival mysticism that has been carried on by English Departments for the past few hundred years. I think the tarot dealing, hand clapping, pen tapping, chicken sacrificing, dice rolling voodoo methods for finding the stressed syllable in a verse, suggested by poetry manuals, are really all just a big cover up for the sort of mystical nonsense that looks good on a PhD, or for filling out a few more pages of introduction in a textbook, because the French Existentialist poet happened to pull out at the last moment due to some sort of reality crisis caused by the realisation that words don’t actually exist in the objective world.

I think deep down, we all know there’s no accurate way to actually tell which syllable is stressed in a poem, we all know the advanced system of measuring metric feet to a cubic inch is a lot of high sounding nonsense, we know that counting out and then weighing the cordas in a syllable to determine how many moras they are worth, is a waste of time. I suspect when all has been said and done, the curtains drawn, the theatrical smoke machine turned off, and the cleaner fired for stealing toilet paper, we simply don’t have anyway for regulating, determining, divining or invoking the stress in a syllable. It can’t be done in English.

So I’m putting my foot down and calling bluff on the whole thing.

The Birth of Atheism Nov. 12th, 2007 @ 06:08 pm
dr_mindbender82
The slaver ship at crazy dusk. It’s huge bulk now! Behind it the screaming afternoon-orange sky bleeds red flares into those grey blue storm clouds, brewing, brewing, brewing.

The slaver ship. See it now. See it now! Painted by the arthritic hands of the old masters.

Broad and long galleys. Burn the lamps before the coming storm. See the long shadows and there, up upon the decks, look now!

Stricken faces of slaves tumbling into the sea.

See the slave faces. See their faces!

The traders are casting off the sick and the dead. Living bodies and the lifeless, together, mingle, flop and struggle, wallop and thump and scream from the boat to the waves.

See the faces?

Some wide with open eyed horror, fear, panic stricken, no, please, not despair. “Oh God, Oh God, Oh God!” cry, cry, cry, they in their heathen tongues. See the limp lifeless ones fall like sacks, with peaceful faces sleeping now, into the dark, dark, dark, green sea, while yet the others with their living tongues scream.

Hear the scream? Hear it now like the gulls about the shores in distant cliffs. Hear the heathens and the gulls, pitched as one in the desperate, archegh, archegh of doomed survival? Do you hear it in your mind? Hear it! Archegh, archegh, archegh.

Blundering mindless things in a world without form or shape. There is a reason why the ancients coined justice blind and fate deaf.

Archegh, archegh.

And where the bodies of the slaves, living and dead, touch the water, a subterranean light now glows. What mystery awaits the slaves beyond this empty shell? See it, can you see it? the light of green lamps shining, all around, under the frozen waves ready to crash the ship, ready to swallow the slaves, hungry and desperate it is the mouth of the world ready to eat men, and the sound of the waves against the ship, thumpa, thumpa, thumpa, is it not the same hungry moan of anguish as the gull-men make at death; archegh, archegh, archegh?

And where is God in this painting. Look, look now. Look closely. Get down on your hands and knees and kiss the canvas with your eyes and tell me; where is God?

Our bodies - a light that fades. Oct. 15th, 2007 @ 05:43 am
dr_mindbender82
A thousand dead theologians
Dead in the ground
Their voices as leaves in the wind
From the book unclasped, unbuckled, unbound
Now fly to the heavens, a pillar of light,
A tumbling pillar of pages
Like that pillar of fire, handed down, down, down
To us, through the ages
O sing, O sing your lustful song!
Of King Solomon’s temple that I dreamt
We coupled naked on turquoise tile
Until at last we sweetly slept
And I held you all the while.
O sing that ancient song,
That song of flesh, the flesh dweller
We mortals know but mortal sins.
Played out, two stars, our sins interstellar
And our bodies, a light that fades, never to return
Whence like the dead theologians
We fall, and sleep, and rest within the earth

A thousand dead theologians
Can not know what our bodies now know!
This pulsing life that came from the abyss
And yet unsure, after life, where shall it go?
But lying here now, with me, under florescent skies
We know only living flesh, and then the flesh dies.

Rain from Nowhere Sep. 26th, 2007 @ 06:08 pm
w8n4jc
My Partner sent me this and it hit home for me as much as it did for him. 

Here it is:


Rain from nowhere By Murray Hartin

His cattle didn't get a bid, they were fairly bloody poor,
What was he going to do? He couldn't feed them anymore,
The dams were all but dry, hay was thirteen bucks a bale,
Last month's talk of rain was just a fairytale.

His credit had run out, no chance to pay what's owed,
Bad thoughts ran through his head as he drove down Gully Road
‘Geez, great grandad bought the place back in 1898,
Now I'm such a useless bastard, I'll have to shut the gate.’

‘Can't support my wife and kids, not like dad and those before,
Christ, Grandma kept it going while Pop fought in the war.’
With depression now his master, he abandoned what was right,
There's no place in life for failures, he'd end it all tonight.

There were still some things to do, he'd have to shoot the cattle first,
Of all the jobs he'd ever done, that would be the worst.
He'd have a shower, watch the news, then they'd all sit down for tea.
Read his kids a bedtime story, watch some more TV.

Kiss his wife goodnight, say he was off to shoot some roos.
Then in a paddock far away he'd blow away the blues.
But he drove in the gate and stopped - as he always had
To check the roadside mailbox - and found a letter from his Dad.

Now his dad was not a writer, Mum did all the cards and mail
But he knew the style from the notebooks that he used at cattle sales.
He sensed the nature of its contents, felt moisture in his eyes,
Just the fact his dad had written was enough to make him cry.

‘Son, I know it's bloody tough, it's a cruel and twisted game,
This life upon the land, when you're screaming out for rain.
There's no candle in the darkness, not a single speck of light
But don't let the demon get you, you have to do what's right.’

‘I don't know what's in your head but push the bad thoughts well away,
See, you'll always have your family at the back end of the day.
You have to talk to someone, and yes I know I rarely did,
But you have to think about Fiona and think about the kids.’

‘I'm worried about you son, you haven't rung for quite a while,
I know the road you're on 'cause I've walked every bloody mile.
The date? December 7 back in 1983,
Behind the shed I had the shotgun rested in the brigalow tree.’

‘See, I'd borrowed way too much to buy the Johnson place,
Then it didn't rain for years and we got bombed by interest rates.
The bank was at the door, I didn't think I had a choice,
I began to squeeze the trigger - that's when I heard your voice.’

‘You said “Where are you Daddy? It's time to play our game,
I've got Squatter all set up, you might get General Rain.”
It really was that close, you're the one that stopped me son,
And you're the one that taught me there's no answer in a gun.

‘Just remember people love you, good friends won't let you down,
Look, you might have to swallow pride and get a job in town.
Just 'til things come good, son, you've always got a choice
And when you get this letter ring me, cause I'd love to hear your
voice.’

Well he cried and laughed and shook his head then put the truck in gear,
Shut his eyes and hugged his dad in a vision that was clear,
Dropped the cattle at the yards, put the truck away
Filled the troughs the best he could and fed his last ten bales of hay.

Then he strode towards the homestead, shoulders back and head held high,
He still knew the road was tough but there was purpose in his eye.
He called for his wife and children, who'd lived through all his pain,
Hugs said more than words - he'd come back to them again.

They talked of silver linings, how good times always follow bad,
Then he walked towards the phone, picked it up and rang his Dad.
And while the kids set up the Squatter, he hugged his wife again,
Then they heard the roll of thunder and they smelt the smell of rain.


Murray Hartin

Current Location: Home
Current Mood: grateful Blessed!
Current Music: Boyz II Men
Other entries
» Downloadable poems.
I have been trying to get some of my favourite poems I have written on to CD, by recording them as spoken word, but it’s a slow process going through my old computer files, note books, and pages, and pages of prose finding them, then recording them onto the computer with the faulty sound equipment I’ve got.

So far I’ve got six, five of which I’ve loaded up here, I’ve got another two half finished, but the microphone is old and low quality and keeps cutting out, so I keep losing vocals.


Downloadable poems


National Trust



Neon Sign



The Great Soviet Empire in the Clouds



Nest of the WInds



Windowless House



Click on the title to download any of these poems as mp3s
» The Windowless House
This is an audio poem I created about nightmares I got after watching Apocolypse Now and the horror of the Vietnam war, and reading Conrad's the Heart Of Darkness. In the dreams I'm in a windowless house, and I keep wondering what I am doing there, or why I am there. The dreams set somewhere in the Vietnam war, but everything is silent and dead except the wind.

There are two vocies, one represents the nightmare, dreamscape, the other is me wondering what I am donig here, in the dream as I obviosuly don't belong.

http://www.mediafire.com/?al0mmxymxxh

You can click on the link it will download as an MP3
» My kid 's got no legs
Sodium benzoate really fucked with her nerves
I read that diet coke gave us the cancers
And radiation from the powerlines
did things they don’t talk about to our brains.

Agent Orange left something in my genes
When grandad came back covered in DDP
And the more pop fizzy we drink
Sweating funny with diabetes,
Grandmas sweating like a drunk.

Did you know that those Big Macs,
well they can shut down your liver
But when my kid was born with no legs
Well, we knew something was going wrong.

Turns out the lead from our cars
Can make your kid twice as dumb
As the lead in the paint, on the walls in our kitchen.

Those aluminium pots and pans can’t be good.
Old Betty swore by ‘em till she got the second childhood
And I swear there’s something wrong
With the young couple who live across the street
Cos I see them drinking Pepsi, all through the day
And hear them fighting, all through the night.

My wife bought the new cream
It did something to her face
Now she got to use another cream
Because she’ll never look right again.

The company wrote back
Claiming no liability
And pointed to the subclause at the end of the bottle
She was the 1% with a negative reaction.

No there’s something wrong with the kids today
They all seem kinda Odd.
I remember some one telling me
the Government back in the 80s, it
was spreading ADHD through the Cartoons on the TV.

And everyone they gave the Vaccine to in Africa
ended up with the Aids

I think there’s something wrong with these vitamins
They are making me feel ill.
It must be something in the food
the companies keep feeding us.

Yes my kids got no legs
And there's asbestos in the ceiling
And if I take these little Prozac pills
maybe I’ll feel alright again.
» (No Subject)


» Running

I was running away

Away from he world

Away from everything and everyone

Nothing else mattered

Except…

Running

 

Running as fast as possible

Running away from everything

People I love

People I care about

People I trust

 

Just running away

 

Away from problems

Away from life

Or was it just avoidance?

 

Avoidance of life

Avoidance of everything and everyone

 

I kept running and running and running

Because it felt so good

It felt better

 

Better than what

Better than hurting

 

I kept running as though…

Nothing else mattered

 

It was the easy way out

A way to freedom

To run away

Escape the world

 

So…

 

I ran and I kept going until…

I ran so far

That it hurt too

 

So…

 

I stopped running

To face the demons

To face the world

To face life

 

I was running

Running away

 

Until…

 

I choose to live.

 


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