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myninjacockle's profile
AGE:
36
LOC: Australia
GEN: Male
LAST LOGIN: April 03
LOC: Australia
GEN: Male
LAST LOGIN: April 03
Having been born at an early age, and having maintained a wide-eyed innocence and trust untarnished by the cruelty of this world, and having abandoned the vagaries of steady employment and the joy of alcoholic oblivion for the thin veneer of civilisation which parenthood bestows, I find myself in my thirty-fourth year (pronounced ‘early thirties’ for some time to come).
Somewhat hale of body, half-keen of wit, I am a mature-aged student by day; hated, by the younger students, as a poser of questions. They roll their eyes and gnash their terrible (white) teeth and wish, like, why won’t the old bloke, like, just shut up so we can all go to lunch.
Debt collector by evening; hated by other youths who thought it prudent to borrow fifty thou…
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Three Months in a Juice Tank It had rained recently, but not enough to wash away the filth from the narrow streets. I was glad for the neural blockers that protected what remained of my olfactory senses as the rotting wet stench competed with the pollution washed from the rooftops and the smell of the cooking from the gas powered handcarts. A Bolivian lady, heavy, weather-beaten and toothless cried her ‘choco con casa’ in direct competition with a Thai family murdering squid on a stick. None ...
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No-one remembers the cyclist’s name They remember Eugene McGee The drunken lawyer Who ran the young father down With his big, shiny, four-wheel-drive Then hid at his brother’s house Making discrete but frantic phone-calls Calling in favours From the legal fraternity. Only when plausible deniability And reasonable doubt Had been manufactured Did Eugene turn himself in. ‘Case dismissed’ cried the beak. Talkback radio squawked outrage The pollies gave their sound bytes And undertook To paint mor...
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The moon is just the bloody moon A rock in space Effecting only sailors and fishermen And the oceans they sail upon. Autumn leaves Are not my lost youth They are tree dandruff Dead things that clutter my gutters. The wind never caresses But withers crops instead Drawing moisture from parched land Drawing tears from farming families. But there is magic in the world In my wife’s eyes In my son’s gummy grin In hope for us all.
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Nick is from a tough family That believes a man Should never cry And always take a punch well. When I told him I’d been training in Crazy Monkey Mixed Martial Art He stubbed out his cigarette Put down his drink Gave me a wry grin And said 'Show me' I adopted the stance. He hit me in the face The ear The gut. 'Maybe you need some more practice, hey mate?' Four weeks of killing school Does not compete With a lifetime Of being a right hard bastard.
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Murphy was Granddad’s dog (I’m the son of a farmer’s son) And it was hard to judge Who was the meaner of the two. Murphy, old, grey and bent Skulked around the stables Whose working days were also passed But the smell remained. The scent of the pepper trees Oil from old, old leather The ghost of straw, manure and… Dust rolling in from the Hay Plains. We kids were terrified of Murphy Back in the late seventies And of Granddad’s old, mad, mates Who slept rough on the verandah. Dad used to tell ...
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Who is the scorn directed at: the American public? The press? Celebrities or War itself? Your piece does not make this real clear, maybe that's your point. It left me more than a little confused - especially 'giving freedom to people that already had their liberty' and 'surfing on the ocean floor' - what does that mean...aargh? I did like the celebrity bashing.
a beautifully crafted poem that delicately balances a very personal subject matter and the need to retain artistic integrity. love the way the line 'death was simly another occasion' evokes the character. but the last line of the first stanza fell flat for me. thank you.
is the structure meant to mimic an arrowhead? if so; yay me. if not; didn't think so. you've tackled a generic topic and done it well, loved the last line. but the line 'omniscient of its target' comes across as self indulgent. enjoyable.
the flow if this poem is pleasing to the ear, but i can't help but think you've sacrificed meaning to the altar of esotericism; 'to tassle','tartareans' & 'we plim'? and are you sure of the meaning of affect/effect? I do love 'where the brain retards the heart'.
strikes a great balance on an emotional level - between your pain and trying to understand your father's life. the second question of the 3rd stanza especially questions the difference between social drinking and flat-out dipsomania quite succinctly. why the quotation marks for on eggshells? i'm not a fan of the 'aabb' format. when the rhyme isn't quite right, as in 'soul' & 'fool' i find it really detracts. gritty, honest poem though.
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