A social site for poets in Sydney.
You know, I like being a man.
I like having shoulders broad enough that I can pick up a set of shelves and walk up a few flights of stairs, when I've had to.
I like being able to do pushups and climb things and jump a few fences if I had/have to, or being able to sprint so I don't miss that train (or only just barely miss it, anyway).
I like feeling strong and that I can defend myself when I've had to.
I like having the genitals I have and the way they can make me feel, I like the impulses they give me, in enjoying the sight and smell and touch of other bodies.
I like the hair on my face and shaping it to look how it suits me. I like having big lungs and a big voice so people can hear me, when I want them to.
All of these things I like. It feels like I'm confessing but I have no shame about these things.
What I don't like about being a man is that somewhere between the time where I was more scared of women than they were of me, as an object, was learning all that shame.
I don't like how unsafe women feel in society. I don't like being the object of fear, potential danger, harassment, or even just annoyance.
I don't like thinking back on times, incidents, moments in my past where I have definitely done, said, allowed things like that to happen.
I don't like how I've interrupted, shouted down, ignored, competed with, and taken up more space than I needed, around others.
I don't like that it's taken me this long to get here, figuring it out.
I don't like having to connect all the things above that I like about me, my body and who I am, with all these other things that do not like about who I am.
I don't like how close to home this all is. Whether it's Brunswick or beneath the skin I live in.
I don't like trying to figure out, think through how much of this is my fault. Me. But I'm trying to.
I don't like making this about me, but it is, because I am a man, and because I am a man here with you, with other men and everybody else and we have to.
Enough good people have already been hurt and killed.
I do not like that.
Sometimes it seems pointless
There was a point
Where I was addicted
To not being addicted
Kicked that habbit
Gave up on giving up
Because being a misanthrope
Only works around people
Truth is I rather like people
When they're not around
Don't tell them but
The most times
I've masturbated in a single day
I ran out of stuff to think about
Also I was pretty sore
There was a point
That I thought the things
I really liked
Were things I was addicted to
Had to be gotten rid of
I know better now
That I'm not
My own harshest critic
Friend of my girlfriend once saw me
He described me to her as having
"no redeeming qualities"
I'm unclear if he said this
Not knowing that we're going out
Or because of that
Either way I'm almost certain
She doesn't agree with him
Even if I do, at times
She's the smartest person I know
...except for the bit
Where she's still going out with me
She's also the kindest
Don't know what she sees in me
I do know that-
There are lots of stupid questions
There are always wrong answers
In every situation
You'd be amazed
How often I think
Of the wrong thing to say
But then don't
Mmm then again
There was a point
I gave up writing poetry
Then I gave up on giving up
I still have some stories to tell
When the kid asked me
What it's like to work in prisons
When someone asks
what all that extra stuff on my bike is for
When my teacher asked who Randall is...
Just throw my garbage over your fence
Without separating out the recyclables
I write for an audience
And any jackass that says they don't
Is a fucking liar
Who probably can jerk off seven times
And even more
Without running out of ideas
Or getting sore
Such people make for poor friends
I mean not that I don't
Just that I tend to categorise friends
Except I like the things I'm addicted to
Which means poetry isn't one
There was a point I thought it was
Too much of anything
Makes you an addict
Or just shit-boring
Most of my friends shit me to tears
So I'm fine
The big fucking hole in my roof
And it's going to rain tonight
And this isn't a metaphor
Even if it is
I'm still writing
They are so similar
Despite my brain's best advice
I have no immediate plans
To quit anything
It's far better trying
To add things to your life
Than trying to subtract
It's sometimes seems pointless
I just have no points to make
A really fowl mood
And a really minor panic attack
Standing hands in pockets
Trying to look like I know
What I'm doing here.
Stole a four-pack of batteries from the supermarket tonight, then ate a big bag of potato chips, then ran through three maybe four sets of red lights getting home, because why not. There's no judgement under this moonlight.
Light running on third phase power, off the grid.
Listening to Trent Reznor's social network soundtrack. The ride home has lots of highs and lows. My fingertips are cold, my face is warm. Then it's the opposite, and back again. I love it out here.
My bike is perfect, it is the very height of human evolution and technology. My bike specifically. It is at the top of the ramp above Flemington Bridge Road, with me.
It's all downhill from here.
Hello Sydney Poetry,
I'm a performance poet who regularly visits Sydney. I've performed features for UTS, Live Poets at Don Bank, Word in Hand,Text Styles (and probably something else I'm forgetting right now).
I'm looking forward to returning to Sydney in September/October 2011. Here's what I'm all about
Hello Sydney Poetry!
I'm a performance poet who regularly visits Sydney, and I just wish I'd known about this site sooner!
Anyway over the past 18 months I've performed nearly a dozen features in Sydney for poetry nights at UTS, Live Poets at Don Bank, Word in Hand and Text Styles (plus something else I'm probably forgetting right at this minute).
I've haunted Melbourne poetry for a while, and been in poetry slams in New York and London, ran a weekly…Continue