recent posts

Monday, June 13, 2016

Featuring Tim Parkin

A LANGUAGE WARNING TO READERS: M rated poetry- some adult content to follow

Holy Joy for Allen Ginsberg

Running to holy joy with my ears pinned back and hurricane love in my heart

Joy of kicks against vicious anal darkness

Joy of tweaking the nose of federal conspiracy of cabalistic capitalism

Joy of dacking Tony Abt and laughing at his microscopic cock

Joy of reverberating with hilarious companions and feeling love-struck and passionate blessed awe

Joy of being overwhelmed with enthusiasm for all fruits of fertile earth, full of budding glory and full of glorious buds

The air is holy, space and time are holy, the chora of coincidence is double-choc holy

Every tree and creature is a Bible portraying a loving Buddha-God incarnate

O sacred Ginsberg

Great bearded bodhisattva who berates the military industrial mind-fuck come-down conspiracy

Calling them out on their death-lust and murderous urgings from ultra-zen East Village New York side-walks

Dancing down water-colour rainbow roads with harmonium and gnostic humour

Spinning words like yo-yos with Whitmanesque wonder and universal compassion

I hear your voice great sage and prophet-poet who blasts the bomb by saying Om

And calls forth forgotten America with lascivious dactylic lines of passionate poesy

I hear your voice master teacher, gentle prophet and blessed fool for love in all your sanctified inscriptions

You beat down the CIA with hobo love and succulent sound-bites

You pumped out magic texts against the rapist mind of Moloch

You took off your clothes to say that America had your entire soul revealed for health and healing

You ignited the children of flowers with Buddhist Jedi mind gimmicks and dancing sunshine Manhattan madness

As you heard Blake I long to hear your stratagems, stoned and impeccable with my beard well stroked by forbidden books and day-dreams

Pre-rejection jitter-bug blues

Because you’re gorgeous

And I’m decrepit and fat

Because you’re a wonderful woman

And I’m a corrupt middle-aged man

Because you’re an indelible arrow in my heart

And I’m a drug-ravaged mop-haired cliché

Because you know all the cool new bands

And I’m stuck in the nineties

Because you’re nubile and radiant

And I’m corpulent and a bit of downer

Because you’re a heavenly angel

And I’m a horrible toad

And I’m not sure if I’ll turn into a prince

Even if you kiss me

Because you’re rapidly transmogrifying into a goddess from my unconscious mind

A sacred projection of my deepest anima

So high above and so lovely

But this is not healthy

You want a man, not a worshipper

So I postpone and procrastinate

About telling you

How much you mean to me

And just try to be friends

But not in a passive-aggressive ‘Nice-Guy’ way

Because I know the answer to the song of my heart

Will be no


After work drinks while I was working as a shipping clerk

Whole office in a pub in Northbridge

Five beers

Improved social skills

Feel relaxed and engaged talking to beautiful women

Ten beers

Not so many social skills

Starting to be a bit of a dick

Starting to repeat myself

Fifteen beers

No social skills

Slurred speech

Load of toads squirming and whirling in my brain

Pissed as Bukowski, I stagger off from the pub, collapse in an alleyway on James Street and fall asleep

Wake up early in the morning surrounded by graffiti covered walls on cold bitumen

There is a weedy little guy with a beard and a shit-eating grin on his face staring at me

When he can see that I am awake he says:

‘I sucked your dick while you were asleep’

I am struck dumb and numb by shock

Not a good feeling- paranoia ensues

I get up and walk briskly away towards the train

At least he didn’t fuck my ass


I wonder what it would be like to have a wife
I wonder this a lot until the meme eats into my brain and repeats continuously
What would it be like
What would it be like
To have someone to listen to my bullshit
And tell me that everything will be okay when I'm depressed
Someone to tell me that she loves me when it seems like rabid wookies are at the door
When the schizophrenics gibber and the bipolars polarize
When the autistics discuss their interests and the learning disabled drool
She would be there for me
When the dominant males preen and the poets dream
When the vicious harridans howl and the posers pontificate
She would be there for me
Every person needs a companion
Say the cold fingers of genetic fate around my throat
My soul screams for unity in togetherness
My soul howls for love

If I had a wife
I would insert the words 'my wife' into myriad sentences
Like women always insert the words 'my boyfriend' or 'my husband' when they're talking to me
Just so I think they're taken whether they're single or not and I don't have a chance in hell
I'd say things like:
My wife has a stomach ache and

My wife loves to eat peaches or
My wife is a divine angel of pure light and her breasts smell like strawberries or
My wife gave me a most excellent blow-job this morning and now the whole universe sparkles with possibilities

Somewhere between divine and human
Loved forever no matter how much this crazy world longs for the abyss
She will be my soul mate and my partner in crime
My dearest confidante and my gorgeous honey-darling
My antithesis and my synthesis
I wonder if she's out there now
Locked up in some kafkaesque insane asylum tied down on a stretcher, overdosing on anti-psychotics
I might channel Sean Connery's James Bond and go and rescue her
If only I knew where she was
Or if she even exists

I in my Image for Dylan Thomas

I in my image who never sought scandal

Fried in a vision of celluloid mist

Bearded and beaded and broken like egg-shells

Newspaper lifelines that twist around friends

I in my image of speech bubble sentiment

Mired in the marrow and marred in the bone

Cracked and corrupted like a corpse’s maggot

Craving an instant of vegetable sleep

I in my image of gossip hewn character

Sliced to a stereotypical density

Daily confused by bent backed insanity

Near to a candle-shine movement of light

I in my image so soaking in solace

With cellophane junctures of alien anxiety

Woman soaked consciousness restrained by indifference

Never becoming yet destined to die

I in my image Hawaiian shirt swollen

Bent bud-brain reeling by gleaning the green

Poison attempts to fit into the in crowd
Caustic of consequence that mutters an end

BIO: Tim Parkin is a hairy and cuddly mammal from Carlisle in Perth. He started writing poetry in his teens but then stopped and wrote only song lyrics for 20 years. During this time he completed an honours degree in Linguistics, several stays in psychiatric hospitals and played about sixty gigs around Perth with his band Berbermerkin. He has also recently completed a diploma in divinity at Vose Seminary but is not very divine. At the start of 2014 he started writing poetry again and has not stopped since, and has regularly attended Perth Poetry Club. He works as a research assistant at Curtin University and has been published in Creatrix, Uneven Floor, Writ Poetry Review, Wide Load Zines, The Bitchin’ Kitsch and Naked Press Tank.

Music:  free mp3s to download
Berbermerkin’s Album (can listen)

No comments: