© David Graham 2015

FALLING FROM THE

HIGHTOWER

a poetic journey into the mind of David Graham

performed at the Art Bender 9th May 2015 at

The Lock Up

Contents

Part 1 – From the Window of the Garret

(gloaming) 1

Orkney 2

One Penny Black 3

York 4

He wanders listless 5

Going Home 6

Part 2 – The Blurred Lines as I Plummet

The Head of Dionysus 10

The Dreaded Mistrel 11

An Apocalyptic Pitch 12

streaming on the firmament 14

aurora corporealis 16

miniatures 17

Sonnet 1 – Brain Damage 19

Sonnet 2 – Sebastian Goes Shopping 20

Sonnet 3 – You Are 21

Cawk 22

Part 3 – Notes from the Undergroud

A piece will be written and performed

on the 9th of May at the Art Bender

exhibition at the Lock Up, 2015 26

1

Part 1 – From the Window of the Garret

(gloaming)

my life is like an endless gloaming

half-light

weird times

a clipping kaleidoscope

of shifts and geometric patterns

and i swagger

the streets lit by lamps fighting dusk

above and happy

boots scuffing comments

and eyes on tree canopies

church spires

and graffiti

these are the slow times

of careless streets

and evening swarms of birds

the cold comes on slow

and the eyes make bulbous

shapes; intense thick

and always

at the edges

2

Orkney

At the end of our great Northward dash

they come quietly out of the deep

low and humble and open with

a silence that screams from the past

before the clouds sparked and rang with the cries of

metal

where stove-song sang to the space between stars

and the cold gale whispered for quiet

where the people lived mystery and stood vigil

over a tiny world set on a disc of water

a sea that was like a blanket for those sleeping islands

that stand there still – ancient sentinels

clad in the greatness of stone – time clinging to them

like moss before dripping away in the rain

in an endless cycle of green and cold and

lonely for they have all together lost

the gods that made them

they long now for their first summer

when all the world was new

when their fresh hewn bodies sparkled

in the endless evening sun

when they were the gentle rulers

of the land where we all must come

3

One Penny Black

keeping it all together

in the colours of a puddle

red leaves, wet, grow darker

memories of dyed hair and singlet bras

as mournful cars sweep

across the paved road

coffee quickly lukes

the crema moment passes

today their jowls are longer

dragged down by raincoats

as if the damp is catching

& the mud stains black

but sleet only makes the palette richer

& as I write the picture, glass falls like rain

4

York

there are bricks and then

there’s ivy, but that says nothing

about feeling them both with you

at a place where a drunk eye

can be happy with a blue streak sky

with riling clouds

as we drive, the trees perform

a merry-go-round of chance

encounters curtained by boroughs

we have drunk of the river Ouse

and fed on the miller’s leaves

washing our tongues with stones

it is an old way to be

related to the growing of mushrooms

5

He wanders listless

He wanders listless. Away from the town-home

of his bygone path. Now on a beach, whose shore has

long

since left the sea, he is unable to read the shifting

sways of sand shrinking into mirages. He wants for the

long margin

that skirts and divides the endless land. He waits for the

pen-hammer

to smelt the lines into knowing. The smell of flux:

liquid ink-metal flowing.

But in the endless day,

there is no rhythm to guide his footsteps, only the

ceaseless

flat line of static ear-ringing. Bereft of sensation,

footsteps meet footsteps - the endless cycle, formless, a

nowhere

exhausted in sameness.

6

Going Home

Home is not a mansion, but an entire landscape.

A realm of dreams and made-up memories,

half-seen visions at the edges of a

third eye. A home alien familiar:

forgotten senses from childhood, fog

and dew like ancient stone made new. Spider

webs mis-en-abyme in attics on top

of rustic portraits of a dead poet

playing lute-hypodermic. But the

window is open, he’s looking outside.

It is time to leave the fresh earth-burrow

and return to the waving sea of hills.

A land of seasons dry and lush where the

stars will sing throughout the day. At night the

sun burns, but only as a flat disc of

light surrounded by darkness. Here the West

wall crumbles and mirrors shine down allies

brittle with agelessness. Ancestors stare

with frog-like eyes from shady alcoves and

the needless hearth suffocates boiled airs.

Behind the town: graves teeth the hills, old thoughts

left to rot. At the foot is a forest

and a creek that backs onto rust faded

fences. A lovely park for picnics and

fucking on the grassy rocks in dreams that

become untrue. Nearby: the hut of the

river hermit shakes from passing traffic.

7

He shivers in the Autumn frosts and bakes

in summer’s haze. His beard is gnarled and propped

with sticks. Deep-set eyes know how to escape.

Salmon in the river are feeding on

primordial insects and gazing at

the hermit on the shore. In his fire

voices message from the misty Other-

world. It comes out his mouth in mumbles and

spittle soaked in fish-oil and sour beer.

Hard wisdom from the old country, cut with

antipodean dryness all upside-

down and doesn’t make sense. School children throw

pebbles at his swearing bramble crowned head.

In the uncleared scrub, see creatures mythic

and untold. A great hawk or eagle walks

brushing its talons on dead bark and twigs.

Its wings are folding, legs are lengthening

then disappears past a tree. Further in,

the bush is almost impenetrable.

Cold, violent eyes stare from a hairy face.

Its carnivorous teeth drip saliva.

A huge body, covered in hair, full of

power, loathing in the darkness, waiting.

Yet, in open meadows dance emerald

clothed women with sunshine hair, whose beauty

inspires lust and love. A kind of Elvish

grace, their eyes like fresh spring water

singing spells of beckoning and warning.

As they move they change, hair goes red and

8

dark like sunset, flesh turns brown and then lips

broaden into a beguiling knowing.

Laughter is everywhere. Untouchable.

They return to the betrayed earth sleeping.

On the highest hill silently standing:

a great domed cathedral. Shadows cast upon its

sides carve languid long triangles that flick

when lightning storms wash the surrounding peaks.

Ghouls and skeletons dance on parapets.

In the clouds a skulking demon plays them like

chalk drawn puppets, growling thunder laughing.

As the tempest abides the red bricks dry

slowly draining into the moistened ground.

The holy temple of dreams and influence.

Inside it is a mason’s sanctum, but

with Viking runes and weird Australian

icons. A Lindsayian folly with nymphs

lusting among the wattle, cherubs and

dryads naked in the jacarandas.

A white budda on the alter smiles with

a pot-leaf on his forehead, his thumb and

little finger grasp a tiny wine glass.

Dionysus instructs Orpheus to

break hearts in a Byzantine mosaic. Yet

the marble floors are bare. There are no pews.

In the wings: stained-glass portrait saints. They rein

with serene benevolence: Virgil and

Dante in the darkwood, bearded Milton,

sad eyed Shakespeare, Goethe morose and then the

9

Romantics… messiahs and martyrs all.

Lastly, arrayed in a farcical supper,

the Beats line up in a West Coast landscape.

In the copse lay statues of the local

deities. The Keatsian Dransfield and

Yeatsian Robertson, cracked and dusty.

On the roof and dome: spectral colours in

astral patterns dance, reflecting light like

jewels. They change shape as they dazzle and then

explode, coursing across boundaries, splitting

open the fabric, escaping into

the void where in empty soundlessness they

fade, returning to the fresh earth-burrow.

Here the waves make hills that roll and thunder

and the land gives way without mirth and wonder

while lion, leopard and she-wolf wander.

10

Part 2 – The Blurred Lines as I Plummet

The Head of Dionysus

from the realm of reaching minds

to the world of grabbing hands;

by the way a twig grows static

between the fingers of passing traffic:

there is the rise of an ancient face

fresh as polystyrene –

a spinning statue’s head on the dining room table –

blank eyes spring a stream of husky liquid

a Hellenistic drainpipe, fluid running

through its curdled locks and trickling into cups

the break comes only as the thread

of eternal treason runs away to leave

red rings, swallowed by the swirling flow

the hollow vastness at the edge of a pillow

11

The Dreaded Minstrel

Cut me like a dollard

a prince of aftertaste

i take each draft like

it’s not my last and

dregs do not suffice.

Here is the dreaded minstrel

turgid at his worst

riding clouds and folding

like a paper bag

’round a corked bottle

Did you say wine? i’m

never lost for company

with a red and a pen

and a paper. Constant

friend, you’ll only change

when i tell you to.

i talk to you and beat

you; put you through a grinder

and it only makes you sexier

total indulgence with no hope

of outcome

12

An Apocalyptic Pitch

railing, always railing

against a rhythm in binary

for reality reaching

an apocalyptic pitch

in bush or beachhead

in bars and empty boardrooms

an imagined chant shakes doorknobs

cacophonous in the

flailing wind, nascent

and raspy in rheumy evening

but with the air

of barbaric sophistication

it is heard in the lilting sway

of the tree on the hill

the weight of the lonely one-eyed man

bending branches in a tarot card tautology

singing truths trailed in the sun –

a sum total of symbology –

and in that dawning of pencil lines

an instant is nothing but a scribble

or a tipple in a pane of glass

quickly lost down the beer drain

it releases a whale

at the Apocalyptic Pitch

13

it is the thought-sound

that rings in testicles

and breaks the best

of science’s test tubes

while the born-again bassoons

are baking in the backroom

or when the eyes and mouth kiss

the tongue licks the eyeball

and two lives freefall into

a spin cycle

brawling and crawling

fawning for a desperate grasp

that intimate forever

that comes too quick

two heart drums quailing

at the Apocalyptic Pitch

railing, always railing

against a rhythm in binary

for reality reaching

an apocalyptic pitch

14

streaming on the firmament

the blood aquarium erupted

a very long lime flavoured drink ago

now short sleeves & shorts irresponsibly

trap the last vestige of flesh

monuments to bone gazing

& the spirit of eden

spot the cityscape while gnarled grandpas

quote yesterday

long & loud enough to let the love lower

to a limbering lamp of wet dead leaves

still the sum of a soul can go

streaming on the firmament

coaxed out from the crisp

clean creases of cyber leases

& greased with the grey green

groove of garden gates

relax your retinas and go

gliding at the edges

of drain drops & shoe prints

with the wild ebb of sensation

blasting peripheral visions

there is grinning, then there’s brimming

emotions like curdled milk

sucking on flowers like ice

swimming past footpaths

this style is the shoe clipping of fools

leaving the life of lasers

& living in the mind as wildfire

the body pulses lightning

and sparks electric across the

15

technicoloured sky and skims

over the shadows of the star studded statues

of the sun-baked bodies and silicon follies

it’s not too late to go streaming on the firmament

16

aurora corporealis

clipping across the northern sky

an aurora corporealis called Carlin

hellspont of inspiration & candid utterance

between café coffee & hard liquor

this rainbow Bukowski spews haiku

while scheming collage conumdrums

& midnight ’zines / i have a memory

from the meadow of the sleeping tram

where the mosquitos suck on poetry all night

while the summer hours cling like dew on the roof

dripping and draining up to the cricket-croak moon

before slipping back to the rhythms of friendly speech

with him smiling mildly through the steam

of green tea infused with the afternoon’s jasmine /

it is warm tonight too & the bats

are crying in the trees for you

they want to be in a Northern sky

with lights & the spectre of Carlin

17

miniatures

i

waifing in the static rigid hair

of pretend labels,

the reeking kiwis of plenitude disturbs my austere

reveries

ii

they are alchemists

mystics of haze &

glooping eyebrows

inventors of the swiss

shower hose & the

greek moustache

iii

my bending armchair

cracked a three syll-

able word

yesterday

iv

pubic icicles

choke the valves

beneath by tongue

i wish i could say

never again

but i can’t

18

v

tucked shirt

tokyo queen

takes a shower

to get lean

vi

the worm is growling for

a long & dandy

frying pan

vii

windy wine song

devolves to the hunting

of a snark

ballad

breathing for cursive

thoughts

a contract against ill-will

& philanthropy

19

Sonnet 1 – Brain Damage

O to take a sledge hammer

to the fettered thoughts of glassing days.

It would be a turning point

of a pin tight revolution.

I have more spouts than teacups.

It’s a costume conundrum.

Only blank sheets come to my party

and they never change places

Only sort of sway like curtains.

I’ve heard them say “that’s not blood

or sideburns, just red wine flowing out his ears.”

Does blood have a meniscus? Does wine, for that matter?

Try long enough at one and get the answer to both

in the end, it’s just a headache.

20

Sonnet 2 – Sebastian goes shopping

Breaking the gap between aisles

an entire ocean opens its manacles,

folding the line between tiles

that sit in rows like teeth in cubicles

and in that endless waste you look ahead

and watch the humans splash and pay.

It’s engrained in them, the crust of bread,

the way they wash themselves and pray.

White lights gleam off bottles green

but inside red seas mix the ocean’s hue.

While religious images flash on screens.

Easter fish eggs beg you to join the queue

Across the waves the island rises to a point.

A synthesis, a landing, a reefs joint.

21

Sonnet 3 – You are:

the bright of beach sand,

the cool washing flavour of seas

salt & sweat before a tequila shot

the gentle burn of brittle sheets.

Soldiers march the bridge between our mouths.

Merchants mill at the temple mount.

They throng in angst, against the wasted moments.

The clouds arch and make blue cathedrals

clasped hands that wrench divine fleas from cats

resolving into liquid, a lozenge of contention

a day in the city of catatonia.

22

Cawk

in the course of inventing catastrophe

this doctor recommends a steady destabilisation of your

sense of truth

therefore stare into the warped eyes of your reflection in

a metal kettle

stare until you see as the pot sees

watch as the skies sway from side-to-side and the stars

and streetlights are indistinguishable

the windowsill dips and lets the ground come in

carpet and dirt make a dirty carpet

as a doctor i must warn you - in this state

when you go to spout beware

aware that when your tongue gleefully flaps

a seed will sprout underneath it, drawing-in saliva,

growing limbs and leaves

and hopefully a flower that will, in time, become a fruit

and if you are prepared to share this fruit of your mouth

be prepared for someone else to eat it

but if you’ve spent your days staring at computer screens

& newspapers

or worse, newspapers on computer screens

that fruit will come out like an unsavoury brown nut that

not even birds will eat

but maybe, just maybe the warped eyes of a kettle will

produce something interesting

a long red seeded chilli that will sear the tongues of those

game enough to try it

and cause hot gusts of air to exhaust from their nostrils,

their eyes will glow with bloodshot and their intestines

23

will recoil & squirm

a frontal attack on the bowels of reason

your mind is a spoon that can & should be bent

hang it up as an ornament and sell it at an art market

it’s better off there than counting dividends or watching

commercials

(no matter how critically)

if anything the more savage you lie the better it would be

for everyone

so spin great big green ones

“if a man fucks a pig you will get pig-babies”

“the cure for most problems is to masturbate more often”

“the labour & liberal party are two different things”

“the most nutritious way to eat mincemeat is raw after

it’s been frozen”

such quips are drips in the pond but large ones fill

bathtubs

it’s like sitting up in the middle of the night & releasing a

thunderous “cawk”

with only the dull thrum of the refrigerator to answer

and as you stare into the darkness of your room you start

to hear its words:

“itsagoodtoeatthesootthatcomesafootyouunderstoodthat

whenyoushookandhadalookan-cut”

neither of you make any sense, no matter

that fridge – is a carbon criminal – and if you follow my

prescriptions

you will be a cawker,

24

stand above the rooftops and cawk

freak flag flying, angel haired hipsters dying,

make friends with mosquitos, talk to parking metres

draw a perfect circle, never jump the hurdles

wondering where the days went? thinking ‘bout the

environment?

holy, holy, holy smokes that rots your brains out

holy, holy, holy idols that knock ya teeths out

holy carlin, holy susannah, holy gormley

holy, pete, gina, saidition, cluff daddy

holy bethany reeves

holy elise jarvis

holy mark whitiker

they’ve chalked cawks braver than the toothpick sugar

natzis

and the glamour rung bourgeois hicks hiding behind

razorblade glasses

and the sit-com phonies hosting panels on the benefits of

dry humping classes

they’ve chalked cawks when the heat haze glooped the

sun on the sea

and when the jasmine shot its pollen in the eyes of

magpies and bees

and when the salad tongs played a saxophone tune on top

the analogue tv

they’ve been cawking even though they’ve never heard

the word,

sometimes not even cawking with words, but cawking

25

absurd

little posies through prescription milk that comes from

giant birds

cawking in the moonlight of streetlamps, cawking up the

hunter river in a rune trance

cawking in their mother’s silks, cawking cawk cawking

cawking for a hot piece of leg on a warm summer’s day

cawking the vicissitudes of victimhood

cawking for when everything feels really real

for what’s in a cawk?

any other noise will sound as deep

so cawk you will & cawk you must

and in the end in cawk we trust

in the course of inventing catastrophe

this doctor recommends a steady destabilisation of your

sense of truth

but i’m not a doctor

26

Part 3 – Notes from the Underground

How to get Bent at the Lock Up – composed at The

Art Bender 9th May, 2015

It starts in a state of cell rot

of carted artworks and Australian forest smells.

An acrid burning reaches me

the burning of lamp light.

The empty stage is set in want

for an audience to climb the barricade

and break this cell where I thought I was manacled.

“Welcome,” I cry. “I welcome you all.”

I scream to maintain your attention

as environmentalists roar like so much static.

And then the hordes come and we banter and play

grooving to each other’s rhythms as the night takes hold.

Art Bender. What the hell are you?

Some kind of devilish pelican soaring across

the Novacastrian sky, disgorging paintings, fillums

and multi-media installations from its bilious beak.

I have recently fallen from a hightower,

relatively unscathed and found myself in a sea of art

dwellers.

27

Pig’s breath on my shoulder and Candice smells of a

myriad scents

- mostly good.

& the blue wren appears

& whispers sweet nothing

a floor filler to be sure.

But where’s the substance?

emotions are more complicated than economics

but with a pinch of salt can be

deliciously morbid

something to remind you to

be kind to your mother

unless she was one of those sea faring women

immune to land-lubber methodologies.

it’s getting serious now

people are here and they’re all so lovely

if only the toilet in my room had plumbing.

potato cunt, what’s wrong with you

you are a drunky.

we love your mind and body.

… suffocating and disturbing

28

foggy wisps that pass through

lowering the tempo but creating a groove

two words that are actually seven

along a

wire

sparkling

amber

& resulting in

that is the

anomie ^ growing disorder

no more shall the people

cherish the purple

their

minds reeling from that padded cell

into a free form revolution

a Marxist devaluation ultimately boarding the ship of

absurdity

this broken town where we get our coffees in, where we

spend hours

so reknowned in memories

some times forgetting that we often

make something new

29

& when we do, we realise that

along the line it’s pretty fucking good.

Contact: David Graham at david.graham88@hotmail.com