• Pam Brown


those painless

               virus people


     in the spam folder

could break a mirror

           to fall into


      a bottle of wine,

it’s then the spondee

                 doesn’t matter


happy birthday

            you’re seven(ty),

        as fractious as ever,

alkali and acid


I’ll eat my mistakes

           and promise to read

       the printouts


you never phone me

                  you said

     you’re no longer

                going to the movies

because they mimic

           our ordinariness,

our limitedness,

             they just iterate

                     a fucking annoying

          rhetoric of sincerity,

but I’d like to see

                   ‘The Master’


         Duncan Jones’

        science fiction films

    could be some kind

                   of amelioration


           you have your theories


the clandestine project’s



               worth examining


I wanted to tell you

                 your photos

            of passing encounters,

       you standing beside


     English-language poets

         and famous poets’ graves,

 don’t make you

                     any more of a poet,

but then I didn’t care


with those vaccination scars

            you pretend

you’ve travelled

          when you wake up

      under vines, vanilla pods,

                     vetiver grass,

  weed-carpeted craters,

                the sun going down


running home

              to soda water,

       pig hocks, mangoes,

              a telethon

        and a band of what

  at the front

                 of your head


one side dry

                one side wet

    island topography,

 tying down tarps

                    before the tornado.

    If Box struck by lightning—

    not working—

    plug in Black Cable

    straight to TV

technician’s note


             to the magazine rack



      you’re a dynamic presence

      but a casual player

      and that’s exactly

      how it should be


through a tinted windscreen

            the past piles up 


          arrives again 

                    piles up again


the true picture

           of the past

                       flits by                                              


on the periphery

                     it’s strange,

    you’re wearing

                   your best blouse 

       for the memorial


                time fills up


you’re looking


   looking bourgeois,

      little blobs of red dirt

                 on the axminster



it’s strange,      

      sash windows





the fence is a thesis


who is

         the comprador here?


in ‘Ham House’ !

                      no thankYOU -

stomping off

               in a huff,

bits of umbrage


       down the hallway



tantrum fragments 


      like letters & numbers

                   in your dna


at the reception


individual fractions

            of wasabi

  pink out



it’s strange,

          sharply focused photos

no one cares to look at


a grey area,

       what you’re doing


and what you think

                  you’re doing



camera camera

                    a lens

      in each pore

              in every cranny



            laughing now,

  the eulogist’s on a roll,

                 holy roller


I really want

               to write my name,


                in pencil

        inside your book


fifteen years ago

       a fishing boat


       in Blackwattle Bay,

  everything still,

                    the best poet

                 had dropped dead


instant classic


mineral consciousness

           protects the mendicant

      applying for a grant

                    for tonal poems


hairdresser electronica

           makes you feel


         DOING something


three men in a cherry picker

             thirty metres up


           orange basketballs

                     to the ground,

 a high bounce test

        that makes

               invention trivial


I want to do this -

    please verify

    you are human

    by following

    the directions

    in the graphic,

                      but I can’t


what happened



turning easterly

            in the evening

      the situation shifts

 between Point Danger

                 and Gabo Island,

      two unknown places


nowhere better

               or worse

    to calculate

                a beautiful dullness,

  and lucky enough

              to be right in the path

              of the radar