Duncan Bruce Hose is a poet, essayist and visual artist from Australia

Tinkling Spur’s Shanty

Blythesomely

Bobby Peru blewd the head off the bunny is this violence un-

Sublimated or sublimated and how would we know my fond cheroot?

I would like to spend my time staring into space or at the gold-painted knuckles

Bearing the names of sheepstations we have reconquered: MONA VALE

VERA CRUZ   BONA DRAG          VIVA HATE            MUMBLEBONE STUD

Saved! from the exquisite tedium of the harvest

What to do on a Saturday morning but go trinketeering

Not necessarily to acquire but to ravissh with the wanton

  Eyeball- the transparent jelly

     Medusae of tremendous succour

Whered ye get that ye aul’cunt??

That is my button of the electromagnetic dandies

Chic like the leperaccaun    that is        .. like nothing you’ve ever seen

Bonnie purchaser of the flesh of roses

   Cocaines diamonds furs         the marble butts of the three graces aglow

  This tramp coat looks wraggly but it protects me from the metaphysical gossip

The Madonna has her hands open in a gesture of universal welcome

A gift I meant to give you last century sits here charming me still

Analogie is magical tinking: I rely on you for my best ideas cherry

 Your High Animal Spirits

The high tide line of foam around your orifices tells of a recent excitement

The larrikinning belt through Melbourne is slightly chubbyer than Sydneys’

‘the irish submariner’ ‘the black goat strut’ not pubs but moods

Soft and mollified be the whole jelly arrangement      (the body)

Wired up to buggery with crystal silicates and semiconductor clairvoyance

Shining how ever with undisturbed lust

As the Rich are lit from within and we should pray for their continued existence

Blooded revolutionaries jacobites the whole mincing crew rush to please them

Somewhere in this mist rides the Shepherd King’s

Daughter in her fine-boned Toyota her load: three black kelpies

& her Furious brow’d beauty which is clapt to your mind

How long did you stay staring for lightning Darling?

The Paul Revere Girls

Gelignite seamstress I address

You as . .     California

O modern lump of elk, American phur seal check

Dead skunk check                            becoming dead skunk check

Whaler’s pussy shade and a various shanty I wreck myself on obsessional currents that are you

                                                     Licked mythologies that gt burred on the fault

There is no going back in the way

                                              You fancy

In paso de Robles

They’re building a town called Paso de Robles its raining

  That black pea-coat you left at Los Alamos

                                                    Was your home          idiot

                                                          Coma spare aparts in the raven lots.

Fat farmed oak with the initials from four wars.

Santa Susanna’s Aztecs brought to

     Contemplate the single figure of the Christ

Yr. gun-cuckoo nudity and streak

   You still think and spasm

      Like a bird. So bruised.

With affections and Spanish Calculus, got

  Any apple seeds? We’ll make these hillsides pay and pay

Yours in the brambles,  Sir.

New England Clam Chowder.

                                                                                Somehow preluding was all the scene

                                                                                 On the English ship pussie-hall

                                                                                                                     H.Melville.

Far days on the mizzen-mast

                                         deshabby as the scarecrow

   I;m pleased with my employment, I rejoice

I think of my honey-pussy, i think of the stray pony

                      I had meant to pur-chase of something serious

Avast,               

                                                   the lavish scroff that quiets the lips

In the pre-cordial mist, all ir harpoons are bent and canny,

                                   Ranked to buggery, Off the Azores

The harpoon has the job of attaching the whale to the boat and exhausting the whale.

To cure estrangement, bite through the wrapper

   There is no centre to the sea it’s all an uncommon bog, ‘hearties’

         Rare stinks and polyps, natural to shipping thought

O spermy, whae turns sea to fat, I turn fat to song, sea into

   Polyps

‘dont look boys; I’ll look for ye’

And   in   such   and   such   a   place   as

 This

   I might make mention of the Milky Way.   I Might

And I might not

I folly kiss you on the neck, I mean aplace my lips aparted

Because you are Libya, are you?

Yes.  You are salt,   my streak o’lean           insister of fish bones    black stellar dessert

 my ships-biscuit my layered chow my cup

                                                                     Of heavy cream my vault

                                                                                                                                Of spermacetti

my chaunting

           & fluked

Moby Dyke.

 Lamb Chantey

Woodpies lurk near what may be a very fancy shantie

 Wild clover up close is the detail of compromise

 Hey noddy noddy

2  loins form a very grand roasting joint known as the saddle

Soft bickering of your teats I prefer

Your preference of weeding in the “nude”

The choler deepens to a purplish red in mutton

Hey lolly lolly

Historically two-tooth was very important, especially to country families

The fousand tiny hairs  out the nose out the ears are bowled and chirmed by the wind

Hello middle-age, hello bone-flutes and summer’s corpses that go pop

How do you pronounce Eurydice?  Why is caring for a rifle and loding

                                                                    It so sexy

One attends to one’s musts or lets the will go to   vapour

The promise of alcohol and the promise of song orders the blood about

Obediently like a flock of well-loved lambies: there it goes to the foot

      There pesters the gut, carrying off sausage, there it festoons

The cock to take charge to tink tings over, to speak gladly and finally

                      To rest

Thismorning I cleaned my teeth with stew I think I want to

               Smirch and be smirched

Rich in Ballinphunta

Kissed by Banjo

 burbury drunk and satan-haloed

 on the late and wet St George’s Road

Just scause I’ve got a skull, b. bone and tail

Does that mean I’m still Snakey? Each little terrifying scale

Holds its own torrid history of cinema … the oily movement of all the legendary little faceys

                          That I have pastimes occulted   growing in a trefoiliate mass

                                         Superexploding clover   take me over and over

who is Beau-Dean McDonagh?

where can I find more felt-pressed

angels to amply or simply terrorise the West?

Les Saboteurs    the most tender assbiters of these sixteen counties

& you, you prick, casually emerging from the lair of the golden moley

 Feeding silkily on the moist bellshot of our post-apocalytic haze

 Turning it through your jenny wheel into shimmering garments

 All of our possible weaelth smelted in to a golden stirrup (up!  Get Up!)

  Fr. Which there is no Horsie

Lifting the architrove by virtue of the most tender wench (what a morning’s work!)

An occasion marked by its bonhomie and bonfemie

 I’d like to be salubriated inside and out thankyou

In my dream someone being tortured on a workbench and the village children

 All stop you sweetly to ask of you the same question:

   Schmutzfinken Zie?

Who is this hornless   wingless  tail-less Shulamite

Cradling the jowel of the horsie?

It must be the Angel of Bunrattie!

                                     Duncanpoiesie    (Duncan made me)

Candelo Speedway

Going bitch-kegs at it

After our Demon Tweak

Seven thousand pistonlicks per second

B.now I have stolen my own weight in pork products

Reader, self-annihilating and semi-devine!  Do this in memorium of me.

As revenge against the ones who gave us a taste for infinite things

All our love of Australian Aeronautics

  Is concentrated in the corvid   crow    corby

A kind of songfoul and airborne Satanic Pastie

Half Cornish Half Irish me ma

Has a taste for Scotch Greys

In the Celtic League it maketh me

             A treble cleff’d bastard

Familiar t’all   loyal

                       To not

                           One.

Fornication                                                                          aplenty

Of Lies?                                                                 A great cov’rage

Barbarism                                                      we try and we try

Unlike Juptire we want to effect a more delicate lechery

Appearing to Leda as neither Bull nor Swan but as a declasse Candy Baron

Having a vivid little roister behind the kirk at Bellbrae

­To make mushrooms burst on the side of the blood oven

An organical democracy where every cell might ­­think for itself

                           And is at war with every other.

 In this messy era of the rule of the South Gundagai Molls.

Giddy up.

Dalgety Dalgety

There’s the Bunny

Flashin his Bunny.

Yr seriousness has spread over the parlour

   Like a goddam Cumulonimbus Incus

I stare at your broken heroes Nose

                 & Finger my soft Shillelagh

I am as Historically Fond of you as a pissup at a shipwreck

Or a brief détente between two unquenchable foes

What we want is an explanation not of charisma but of shipwreck whiskey

 Which swells with charisma

   Become the excruciable arbiter     in a fancy dram

     Of dead to dying souls

Connoisseurship of the destruction of everything to make way

                                                                For Muttoncraft

On the High Monaro Plains

 The desecration of the Snowy        Country and its lovelies full of heroin picks and holes  

Dalgety Dalgety

I think I want to walk to the bottom of Lake Jindabyne and live in the drowned town there

 Make out with passing drovers

 Thr little pussies biting thr bicycle seats

Quite out

 Of my mind on Trucker Speed our adrenal gland seems to have taken its own

                                                                                                                      Captain’s Ticket

  Playing the throttle O

                              Tempertation!

   Drop me off at Rosie Wroe’s

Night riven with some bucolic brawl over the Cobargie Bridge

& the sweet-time ditty of a small-block Chevy

      S’it rides up and down the sacred mountain

In the exchangeable fluids of lovers comes

 The melee of family demons

Let’s leave on each other a fresh Gorgoneion

 A Dalgety bruise (masterpiece!)

   A Dalgety lovebite

BLACK ‘N’ BLUE MAROUBIES    (it’s a surf-town chantey)

Ma daddy hadda chop-chop physique    mumma hadda secret

                                 Leprachaun nipple

       When I told the uncorked genie

 exactly what I wanted he slapped me.

O my dusty rose my frisky charm not-quite-in-the-pocket

Moody mistress of the brunette downs

You look famous. Are you famous?

Did and did I not slap you wonce over supper at Destiny Bailey’s Kitchen of Enlightenment?

We’d just been to see HOT SYDNEY BLUEBIRD DYKES at the Palais

 That documentary concerning their complicated tattoo language &

Th’importance still of sporting a false mole   -it can rove-

         Like  Dietrich in ‘Lil Marlene’s Roving False Mole’

A great Narcissistic malaise but what the hell it’s entertainment

Phantom shapes keep filling out the periphery

Like Bob McGob’s striped shirts frittering on the washing line

Along with seventeen pairs of XL Bonds undies and a scrap of flannie

He lives the disciplined life of a retired mob enforcer

    That’s quite popular here in Maroubra

Sydney Harbour the night ferries to hell are very  busy-  Sirius     Scarborough    Pemulwuy

                                         The May Gibbs

All we can see are the lightly candescing lights of the ship of death as it recedes in a negative infinity

All these faces we will never see again but do not worry there are always new ones on the way

I often tink   when I join Joe Lynch at the bottom of the harbor         near Fort Denison

    -outside life’s vicissitudes-

  What I’ll miss most is the songs of the crows       those dinosaur bogles of a fine repletion

 When I am minded    that the underworld is their own home town.

‘Member Terry’s advice?

That the worse a shaman stinks

The better the shaman she is?

Cockatoo Island Convicts in chains- those mottled canaries- still find time for the writing of poetry.

I’d like to give me ma a Tingle but I can’t she’s      deid

Hey ma   ‘sit true crows have their Bobs in both worlds?

Tired of the songs of dissident chic.

Time for a little putsch.