Wednesday, February 03, 2010
Sunday, January 17, 2010
2nd draft of 'Wattle and Daub' on markwilliamjackson.com
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Friday, January 08, 2010
Thursday, January 07, 2010
New posts on markwilliamjackson.com
Artwork: What happens when you leave your 7 year old daughter alone in your study with the typewriter your wife just won for you on ebay…
Wednesday, January 06, 2010
Art appears on markwilliamjackson.com
original appearance of Compass as text
Tuesday, January 05, 2010
Saturday, January 02, 2010
New posts on http://markwilliamjackson.com
Sunday, December 20, 2009
New posts on markwilliamjackson.com
Poem: Caught As Something
Poem: Now is the Hour
Link: Poem published on kipple online poetry journal
Saturday, December 12, 2009
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Monday, December 07, 2009
New posts on markwilliamjackson.com
Opinion: This Will Be Our Independence Day support independent publishers and book stores
Thursday, December 03, 2009
Wednesday, December 02, 2009
Tuesday, December 01, 2009
Poem: Dreams as Finite as a Life
Announcement: Cordite Poetry Review 31: EPIC now available online
Sunday, November 22, 2009
New posts on markwilliamjackson.com
Poem: Pushing for the Moment
Announcement: Release of Going Down Swinging No. 29
Sunday, November 01, 2009
Thursday, October 29, 2009
This blog is moving
Please follow me there.....
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
This Is Where
This Is Where
This is where my seeds are planted,
this is where my thoughts are filed,
this is where I house my visions,
this is where I lose my mind.
This is where my ghosts are living,
this is where my child was born,
this is where I mourn the lost day,
this is where I dance the dawn.
This is where I feed my cattle,
this is where I starve my pig,
this is where I bury my feelings,
this is where I start my dig.
This is where the sun is colder,
this is where the moon is hot,
this is where the jazz bleeds pictures,
this is where the rock’s forgot.
This is where the smoke is golden,
this is where the fruit is stained,
this is where I rest my body,
this is where I feel the pain.
This is where my mind is floating,
this is where my feet are lead,
this is where my life excites me,
this is where I seek the dead.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
From a Box of Old
From a Box of Old
From a box of old photos
fell the picture.
I am pressed against
my dad’s back,
cheek firmly between
his shoulder blades,
arms wrapped around.
We sit on a rock
overlooking the Celtic Sea,
wind running through our hair
and I don’t want to ever let go.
We stare through the camera
and I am happy,
a smile as wide as the picture itself
features on my face.
From behind I could not see my dad’s face
but thirty years later
he looks worried,
something is about to happen,
the picture is about to be lost
amongst so many other
painful images.
Saturday, October 17, 2009
At the Airport
At the Airport
The laptop-tapping-
cell-phone-talking-
bad-suit-wearing
zombies wait for their flights,
dragging bags and life behind them,
a slow death delayed
due to head winds.
The departure board flickers
like a stock price ticker
to all the hopeful suit boys
taking the delays as a personal affront,
the forces of nature having conspired
to keep Mr. Tie-Wearer
from his meeting.
I sit in my jeans and t-shirt
reading a poorly researched
Bukowski biography
waiting for the same flight,
delayed by the same winds,
only difference is
I’m laughing.
Laughing at the wrinkled frowns,
laughing at the frantic phone calls,
all the huffs and grunts
as the schedule is updated.
What can you do?
I guess some things
cannot be bought.
Friday, October 09, 2009
I Miss Myself
I Miss Myself
My little girl hugs me, squeezes,
Daddy, I miss you when you’re at work.
I squeeze back, me too.
She commands my eyes with her question look,
you miss yourself?
We laugh and I say yes.
But, you’re there?
But I’m not.
Sunday, October 04, 2009
Death Without Any Words
Death Without Any Words
When you roll out the folds of your failed years,
and carefully trace back your choices,
each morning that you stepped into the shackles of life,
closed to the torment of voices.
When you lay down for a final time to rest,
and stale visions turn out the lights,
what stream of empty memories will climax with your death,
without any words save for last rites.
Saturday, October 03, 2009
Freak Show
Freak Show
inspired by David Lerner’s Mein Kampf
Step right up,
step right up,
come see the poet at work.
Gasp at the furrowed brow,
the constipated demeanor,
marvel at the rigor mortis life skills.
But please Ladies and Gentlemen,
DO NOT FEED THE POET,
this creature must not be encouraged in any way.
Hopscotch
Hopscotch
Rain cries away chalk on ground,
my Angel howls,
all those opportunities lost,
but with the promise of reincarnation
television calls
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
The Price of Art - Commercial Success Kills Another Artist
The Price of Art / Commercial Success Kills Another Artist
1/
I got the movie
“The Basketball Diaries”
I bought it from K-Mart
I wonder if the shareholders know
while they’re sitting there
in middle class splendour,
counting their dividends,
and cursing their tax man,
I’m watching a crazed drug fiend
bash rebarbative
on his mother’s door,
looking for an angry fix.
2/
I stole some art
and deprived the artist of income,
but Nevermind the artist’s dead,
fashioned himself into
a martyr for an unknown generation,
though I do feel bad I deprived a
major corporation of royalties.
3/
Commercial Success Kills Another Artist.
Starved from starving. Exploded.
Blinded after darkness.
Suffered a corporate soul extraction
with a stylus tipped syringe,
chemically reproduced
for the herd to devour.
Feral primal measure
replaced by a mission statement based pentameter.
Weighed down by grammys.
Sank in the flow of royalties.
4/
Ginsberg tore me,
Carroll restore me,
Charles Bukowski
is Henry Chinaski.
Kurt Cobain
died in vein
‘cause in his vein
was heroine.
Monday, September 28, 2009
Why Do We Do It
Why Do We Do It?
Why do we answer the chatter in our heads,
why do we soil white paper,
giving birth on a page,
painful labour not helped by Lamaze.
Why do we send our children out to suffer
what we must suffer.
We could be doctors or bankers
or deal with the politics of the world,
or the pure mathematics of the universes.
Sometimes it would be easier to part a sea
than have to bury another child under the epitaph
‘thank you but space is limited.’
Friday, September 25, 2009
Hote Hell
Hote Hell
The walls bleed hate
in this god forsaken place,
taps drip with torturous monotony,
they've short sheeted my bed
to mess with my head
and effect a frontal lobotomy.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Life by Remote Control
Life by Remote Control
Ensconced in the images.
Injections from the 40 inch frame
across the room.
Bourgeois buttocks comfortable
on a lounge cut from old growth
forest by third world underaged.
Watch the news for sports updates,
interspersed with messages of the
latest products, requirements for a
new and improved reduced fat life.
Abject images are quickly flicked.
Reality TV
is an oxy moron.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Dust
Dust
I drove through the dense dust
carried to Sydney on western winds
leaving antique coverings.
As the sun supposedly rose,
the air changed from pitch to a sepia brown,
framed in forgotten photography
The traffic slowed to a crawl
I lowered the window to have a cigarette
and felt injected into a horror movie.
Everyone driving the one road
to escape the evil entity
that had descended.
I tuned my radio
to listen for messages
of Armageddon.
Through the city streets
branches had fallen in overnight conflict,
leaf corpses lay strewn across roads,
and emergency services sirens
howled in the distance.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Reversion (Ode to the Lackadaisical)
Reversion (Ode to the Lackadaisical)
Cry, scream, bleed,
as the sun sinks behind
the horizon’s teeth.
Ancient shapes appear in the darkness,
raining
their two thousand year old warning.
The past, present and future mould
into a surge of grey.
-like a cyclone.
A man screams as his toes are ripped out
by the jaws of a mechanical beast,
and are melted, to be used in car manufacture.
A baby cries as his breast is taken,
his mother is to be used
welding weapons for the poor.
I laugh and joke with my next door neighbour
over the fence as we have a beer,
“it’s been quite a good year.”
The soil turns to rock before my eyes,
the leaves are turning brown,
I’m feeling rather sleepy.
Monday, September 21, 2009
Some People
Some People
Some people
clean their cars,
paint and polish them.
Some people
iron their shirts,
putting razor crisp edges into the sleeves.
Some people shave their faces.
Some people
build their careers,
becoming more and more important
with each step
they take.
Some people
go to church
and can wash the sins of a weak
in one Sunday mourning.
Some people
choose to lose.
Addictions.
Lost At Sea
Lost At Sea
Scatter scumdumps on the sand,
step in sea, be crushed,
words in air, blow and freeze,
to a melancholic mush.
Foamy kisses caress bones,
fluorescent orange life jacket sag,
remnants of ocean meal strewn,
beaches face, a hag.
In seaweed, mulch, hair long, knotted,
a skull hides to decay,
velcro to sand and wait a while,
to stink on a sunny day.
A ship, whose name will be lost in time,
sails into the death,
swirl and twist at the moons order,
and anchor on a final breath.
Anguish and sorrow from castaway lovers,
at the mess and what could have been,
step over mulch, and condoms, and twigs,
to once more challenge the sea.
Friday, September 11, 2009
Life Doesn't Go On
Life Doesn’t Go On
You’re gone and
life doesn’t go on,
life becomes still
and horrible,
and every time
I see the trophy
that you won
in 2003 for
Most Improved
in Division A
Photography
I’m reminded that
you’re not here and
neither is the year.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
My Stay Shun
My Stay Shun
I guest it was my stay shun
too sale with the fools
who ride the tide of iddio sea.
I tried to ply the game
I couldn’t grasp the rules
now I’m doomed to drown in sanna tea.
Wednesday, September 09, 2009
While I Sleep
While I Sleep
Time does not stop while I sleep,
breaths continue to turn the globe,
Europe dances above my head,
and bombs fall on Gaza while I sleep.
The gears keep working while I sleep,
machinery keeps crunching,
clouds form and rain drops and skies clear
and seasons pass while I sleep.
Books go unread while I sleep,
poems go unanswered,
thoughts wrestle to no end and
die in a dawn ambush while I sleep.
My daughters keep growing while I sleep,
possibilities germinate,
where will they go, what will they do,
how can they leave me in my sleep.
Tidal movements, and traffic lights, and moon phases,
and whale songs, and bread baking, and coffee brewing,
and street sweepers, and death, and birth, and learning,
and singing, and chasing, and barking, and shouting,
and life,
life does not wait for me
while I sleep.
Tuesday, September 08, 2009
Men of the Lowest Repute
Men of the Lowest Repute
Men of navy, of black and grey,
who bleed their lungs to take the day,
who scream their rules, their roads, their way,
who choose the price that you must pay.
Men who should loud with votes,
their promises and souls they quote,
whose lives would be of little note,
who send ‘their’ people on straws to float.
They’ve chewed the earth, and spewed concrete,
throw us tiny morsels to eat,
with snide remarks they bid us greet,
and pull the grass from under our feet.
My vote to none, I won’t condone
the willful selling of our home,
to the beasts who deny our megaphone,
who carve their effigies with our bone.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Eighteen Months for Silvia
Eighteen Months for Silvia
I saw you.
Azure blue vomits fond memories,
celestial visions of our dance.
And how we danced.
But the song distorted,
hideous spasms controlled my mind
and forced my foot on the throttle.
I was starved of light in a summer sky,
minutes stripped hours from my life.
I drove a wicked road past vicious memories,
and crashed against introspection.
I craved for your nicotine
and to chase your caffeine buzz
while my salivating rabid dog of addiction
spewed shackles around my neck.
But in the distance you sang our song,
somehow the bruises hadn’t stolen your vision,
and you stood braver than I could dream.
Eighteen months is a long and short time
to stand in one spot and travel,
a lost weekend? a lugubrious retreat?
This poem should read as a song of ‘thank you’?
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Gripped in the Middle of a Week
Gripped in the Middle of a Week
Wednesday crashes
like a drunken friend.
Gripped in the middle
of a week.
Too late to turn around,
too early to start
plans for a real life.
Separated
from your lungs,
weighted under
the water of week.
Wednesday washes
wishes away.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Only Tuesday
Only Tuesday
Reds and orange
attack the black
from the eastern horizon.
Car engines start
(the earth’s tired moan).
And today is only Tuesday,
but, like all others,
it is the best one ever.
Another morning
heralds
the best day of my life.
Monday, August 24, 2009
Monday Cripple
Monday Cripple
It starts again.
And the memories
of laughs
played last week
have faded
to black.
The end credits
have rolled.
The next movie begins.
Title screen:
“A new week.”
Starring:
“You.”
Directed by:
“You.”
With Special Guest Director:
“The Unknown Force.”
Fade in:
We find the protagonist
struggling
trying to lift
a great weight.
“Monday.”
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Souls Reunion
Souls Reunion
After the long sleep,
after the dark tunnel,
comes the light,
the warmth of mourning.
Somewhere, hidden to terrestrial minds
reunions happen. Great heavenly dances
celebrate the end of loneliness.
Souls that travelled together
in frail earthly bodies
rejoin in ethereal flight.
Forced Words
Forced Words
Coffee cup stains on empty pages,
sunlight fights the poet’s eyes,
mourn the darkness remain in sombre,
dreaming dreams of unborn lies.
I called for you to add your coinage,
and build upon the mound of junkyard spit,
but found you lying in accidental sobriety,
prophesising doomsday millennium bullshit.
Force the words to fill your pages,
seek acclaim from those who count,
drop the pen in fits of laughter,
seek to blame the ones who’ve found.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Happy Fathers Day
Happy Fathers Day
Sitting haunted at the end of a rented bed,
he lets his head drop into the paper he holds.
Paper from a happy past,
paper pressed before the bottle.
Tears drop from his bloodshot eyes
onto the crayon coloured picture
of stick figure girl standing between
stick figure pretty lady and stick figure tall man.
Old hands shake the ageing words underneath,
Daddy I love you, Happy Fathers Day.
Words from a happy past
a long time ago.