The silicon lip of the precipice

In my dream there wasn’t a magpie
warbling caroling arguing garbling
back and forth back and forth
with another about resources

There wasn’t a lorikeet,
shrieking competing wreaking clichéd
havoc in the last remaining
clichéd freaking shivering tuart trees

There wasn’t a raven
hahring and harking electric on the lines,
calling conversing drak, black, smack,
crack on the concrete lawns

In my dream there weren’t sixteen
lightly birded hedged picketed lines
There was only the edge of everything
The silicon lip of the precipice and you

on it
with your eyes
like the ice that’s about to melt,
and in your grip

a broken bottle, its razor neck
like a talon or a hooked beak,
bald as a silver dollar
or a Jolly Roger, you

on it
with your eyes
warding off my tooth and clichéd
nail and greedy breathing

Book cover 'A coat of Ashes' by Jackson
The above poem is from my book “A coat of ashes” (Recent Work Press 2018). Click the image to order a copy.

My thesis has won the University Research Medal

On Wednesday I received a letter from Edith Cowan University saying that my PhD thesis has won their University Research Medal for the best thesis of 2018, as well as their School of Arts and Humanities Research Medal. This is a win not only for me but for poetry, writing, the arts and the humanities.

My thesis is a collection of poems and creative prose accompanied by a set of essays about poetry. The poems are to be published soon by Recent Work Press (recentworkpress.com) as a book entitled “A coat of ashes”. The rest of the thesis is online at https://ro.ecu.edu.au/theses/2125/. It includes a few of the poems, quoted in the fourth essay.

his dragon, his wings

that wasn’t my bell it was his,
it was his, his bell, his smell,
his line, his tab of acid,
his line of cocaine, coke, his coke,
his glass of coffee, his exquisite corpse,
his sick meta-writing, it wasn’t mine,
it was his, his, it was never mine,
Nevermind, all those boys, chanting,
all those men, boys, that
Dancing with Wolves Avatar hero,
flying in on a dragon or on
his own wings to save us all,
     but not to save me, they weren’t
     my wings they were his, his dragon,
     his wings, that wasn’t my bell it was his,
and I am so sick of all his names for things