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Our Dead World 2001
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In South Street, Anti-life was positioned.

Now sweet as sick, memories come to mind.

Like smells from the drains as thick as gravy.

And when Mama broke, her face went wavy.

Hey ho, my Anti-life, growing up

With dripping on toast, strangled pup,

Dog Wilson I called him, they strung him fine,

Round and round on the clothes line.

Night-cart man Briggs shagged our neighbour,

Got her bloomers off, sand paper,

Gravel rash, abrasive fleshing.

Us kids watched through the fencing.

Eyes see inwards, blistered and yellow.

Hello, you world, I'm just the fellow.

Anti-life practitioner, thumb on my bone.

Brigitte Bardot, there's a boy's own.

This anti- development was taking place

On South Street, there we resided, that was the case.

Ride on Anti-life! You kids

Have no idea, we did the deeds.

Back then we were fine, asked for no more.

Christ! Computer games, what a bore!

Ah my childhood, memories linger,

Daddy went away with a fat singer,

Country style, yodelled through her nose,

Exotic attraction, painted toes.

I love a drink, cask wine will do.

Live near the hospital, quite a nice view,

Black smoke from the chimney, someone carked?

Anti-life, Anti-life, is what the dogs barked.

When I see a falling star like I just saw,

It's magic like crackers or being picked for the war.

They bull-dozed South Street, Christ almighty!

One Guy Fawkes night, Sally Sangs lifted her nightie.

Now I'm getting old, notice it at night.

Anti-life, Anti-life, best when I'm tight.

I heard on the radio, some Einstein turd

Said Anti-life couldn't have just occurred

... I don't know.

To be honest, I don't know where I'm at.

The wife left me. Did I mention that?

John Kidd, 2001


I close my eyes
as shadows of apathy
fast forward
and invade my dreamworld.

There's no golden glow of sunshine,
no pale color of desert grit
nor tumultuous black of agitated tornado
to trespass on the vacant screen of my mind.

Blank opaqueness
fill parallel beams of thoughtful
as bats hang obtusely
from slices of thinking matter
sparsely woven
into fine filament of spider's web.

Sorrow, shame and guilt
fill up all my empty compartments,
leaving no room
for anything else to move in.

Eyes open.

Oh, cursed dreams of nothingness
why must you creep
into my waking world
as well?

Kyle Anne Kish 2001.


The confused Morning Dove
croons his song of mourning
during midday
under heavy cloud cover.

An imminent storm
cast its shadow
and reels in thunderous claps
-- urging all to take cover.

Cover me in raindrops
as the Morning Dove mourns
and begs for the re-creation
of sunshine during midday.

Kyle Anne Kish 2001.


Bus stop tears stain back
of small grimy hand. Mother's
words of comfort bounce
from lips to slap puddles
beneath child's shoes.

Secrets must never
be mentioned lest they
no longer be secrets,
nor can years of stinking
garbage guilt be nullified.

The burdensome concealment
of mystery stomps discontent
into apathetic words of
wisdom. Bruised minds are
not yet ready to question
God's creation of
female for male.

Taut of mouth, the Secret
Maker hitches up pants,
stars out window, examines
scratches on upper arms and
snarls, "Stupid bitch will be punished."

Yellow school vehicle rattles
to halt, picks up girl with
bus stop tears rolling like tides.
Tiny girl with worldly woes
senses she will meet her Maker
soon and simply wants
to ask Him, "WHY?"

Kyle Anne Kish 2001.


you think Kerouac is gonna be denied?
he named every damned star in that wide open valley
every last one, Dean, with words that move the body
every last fuckin snapshot of wilderness and smooth expanse
man, I aint' ever gonna stop reeling from him
twisted fuckin' junkie that he is, that he had to be
we is hungry like him, dean
like when we stumbled through those cotton fields
blindly rolling east, forever
you think we could turn back?
live in a fuckin' hole in the ground -
we is what we is
we write words in the hot afternoon
take the wheel, dean
how you want it?
get this, Burroughs
Dostoevsky versus the mercurial Ginsburg
soul chaser, parasite and patriot?
old man, write me one more passage
rebuild your typewriter with the welfare cheque
we don't die until it's over everywhere we dare to look
high priest of this wicked state, you use?
got a little communism in this here back pocket
brother, you remember how it goes?
proletarian protagonists in every pregnant sentence
shoot it home, baby - ridin' on out west one last time
you feel the fuckin' movement here, baby?
this is pure fuckin' livin', ain't nothing ever came close to moment and movement
Chicago, man, you hear that? fuckin' hear that?
aint' no sound like this where I come from
we sure had fun last night, didn't we?
but nothing like that can sustain itself
and therein lies the momentum
you sure are beautiful, though
what is it they say when a man can't live anymore?
when he just stops runnin' and bows his head?
hell yeah, I'm gonna die tonight
gonna crawl on my hands and knees
right back to New York City
New York City, baby, aint' no place else to die, right?

Our Dead World 2000.