Brenton Booth lives in Sydney, Australia. Poetry and fiction of his has appeared in over 150 journals over the past few years. His poetry collection " Punching The Teeth From The Sky" is available from Epic Rites Press. To read more of his work visit brentonbooth.weebly.com
WHISPERS FROM THE ASYLUM
Don’t let them
tell you
the earth is a
book
or the fish should
walk but your hunger
has taken there
legs
or the complete works
of Shakespeare is more
than you will ever
be
don’t let them
tell you
the gods are peaceful
or the dogs should
only run in the
park
or the best pimps
wear suits and take
tax file numbers and
holiday in beautiful
Tahiti
don’t let them
tell you
without love you
are incomplete
or Frazier was less
than Ali
or the birds don’t
see the night
don’t let them
tell you
the guns are necessary
or the sandwich costs
10 dollars
or your disappointment
with the world is really
your own depression
don’t let them
tell you
you should forgive
your parents if they
don’t deserve it
or it’s best to hide
from the rain
or words don’t come
easy
don’t let them
tell you
you will always
owe them
or technology is the
most important
thing
or Facebook is any
different to the tiny
world of the school
playground
don’t let them
tell you
right is wrong
or everything has
its price
or success is more
important than
sleep
don’t let them
tell you
there is more than
one race
or women are greater
than men
or men greater than
women
don’t let them
tell you
the brown leaves
aren’t crying
or the most important
day is tomorrow
or history has already
made us all we can
be
don’t let them
tell you
Nietzsche was a
madman
or punishment is better
than cure
or the worst suffer
behind steel bars
don’t let them
tell you
the stars don’t sing
or the big bad wolf
is waiting for you
behind the door
or minimum wage
is not a crime
don’t let them tell you
don’t let them tell you
don’t let them tell you
because if you do
you will be
just
like
them.
A POEM FOR THE BLONDE ACROSS
THE STREET THAT KEEPS WATCHING
ME THROUGH HER WINDOW
Well I am listening to
Satyagraha and have
just finished my 8th
glass of whiskey
I just thought of a
new story that I will
write later about a
cold hearted woman
with a large collection
of dicks she has been
collecting from men
for many years
that falls in love and
gets her heart broken
then gets drunk and
choke’s on one of
them,
when the album
finishes I will watch
m.m.a for a while and
finish the rest of the
bottle
then shadow box a
bit imagining I could
have been a great
fighter
order a pizza
eat that
get a shower
take a dump
and try to write a
poem;
so anyway
now you know
everything I will
be doing for the
rest of the day,
so please:
stop fucking watching
me!
MERMAID
You
have
it all
figured
out—
everything
and then
she smiles
at you,
and you
are
an idiot:
again.
AFTER THE WORDS
When
the
words
stop
hang
me
like
an
old
painting
on
a
museum
wall
and
let
people
only
see
the
best
of
me.
Brenton Booth is a writer from Sydney, Australia.
NIGHT
It’s dark
and raining
heavy
and
I can hear
a car doing
burnouts on
the street
trying to
recover from
a 10 hour shift
working with
people I really
can’t stand,
Sartre was right:
hell is other
people,
I turn on the
radio
but the music
is terrible;
what has
happened to
music?
it is getting
worse and
worse every
year
I guess the
rain will have
to do for now
and the pleasure
of having escaped
hell for another
day.
DISAMBIGUATION
God is drunk again and the hedgehogs wont stop falling
from the sky my pockets as empty as my soul and the
wind wont let go it has already cracked the egg man
but wants more and I am not the big bad wolf I am little
more than alive on this new years day doing my best to
run from the monsters and stop thinking about all those
faces that no longer love me the trees falling like soldiers
in wars they will never understand living out seconds I
will never understand jesters and hangman all the same
to me now as I reach for the door hoping there’s something
else waiting for me on the other side this time.
THE UP AND DOWN
All things change
the moments that
cut through stone
like melted cream
the faces you wish
would always want
you near
the easy times when
you assume your
own perfection
it’s the way of
things:
good
bad
certain
uncertain,
days without problem
nights you pray will
never end
or
minutes harder than
death
and nights you’d prefer
to forget
it is the truth of life
the thing we all know
and must accept,
laying in bed now
on this Monday night
in Sydney
writing these words
in a notepad and thinking
about the absolute magic
of her—
wondering if we will ever
lay together in this bed
again.
THE GREAT ONES AND YOU
for most life is an acceptance;
for some it is more—
the special ones
the ones society never fully
understands,
the ones who speak as clear
as gods to us in the best books,
the ones who gave us precise
pictures of their minds in
abstract paintings,
the ones who danced finer
than beauty on the worlds
greatest stages,
the ones who turned feelings
into notes and filled our ears
with ecstasy,
the ones who spoke and
changed history;
tu fu,
nureyev,
gorki,
alexander,
ho chi min,
bach,
voltaire:
are perfect examples of this
greatness—
as were you
beautiful and alive
trying to wipe away my tears;
caring more for me than yourself—
even when i gave nothing back:
one of the truly special ones:
one of the ones that time should have rewarded.
Brenton Booth is a writer from Sydney, Australia. I like the way he writes.
BANGKOK AIRPORT
sitting at a starbucks in bangkok airport
stomach flat from two weeks at a muay
thai camp
mind weary from thirty-five years
yesterday i watched thousands of people
blocking the streets protesting the bad
government
they all had smiles on their faces and looked
like a giant close family
i’d never seen anything like it;
i was told earlier their protest worked,
my flight to sydney leaves soon
but all i can think about is a girl i met at
the muay thai camp
while planes continue to arrive and depart
full of passengers—
all hoping to reach their destinations.
SATORI ON A TUESDAY NIGHT IN KINGS CROSS
to bleed is to live
and the candy cane
decapitates the tortoise
while the locusts waltz
and the flagpoles eat all
the grass—
bottles replacing dreams,
fear replacing sense,
sex destroying everything;
as paint lights up my dark
room now in sydney on this
tuesday night:
the air on fire
and flames beautiful.
FLEEING FROM THE AVALANCHE
Some days the stone
gods have broken
&
fan can’t push past
the dust on the grill
&
dogs prefer to bark
at dwarfs on mars
&
walls melt like
ice blocks poisoning
the ground with
artificial flavour
&
the mermaids walk
freely without tails
&
guitar strings break
before hitting the
right note
&
sparrows chew cats
with no special effort
&
blood crashes like angry
Hawaiian waves
&
the words always keep
finding reasons not
to come:
somedays
the eyes cut like razors
somedays
its best to go back to sleep.
WHERE I’M COMING FROM
I am the breeze, the drunken hangover, the closing down sale
I am the coward, the villain, the midnight jester
I am the bottomless pit, the headache tablet, the blood on the canvas
I am the failed attack, the wasted pick up line, the weary face of experience
I am the cracks in the sidewalk, the day old candle, the unknown torrent
I am the silent tombstone, the last man standing, the drunkest guy at the bar
I am the January sunrise, the purple bobsled, the shark in the river
I am Australian, the traffic lights on William Street, the nervous bats in the
Botanical Gardens in Sydney; Sydney the greed, Sydney the hatred,
Sydney the ugliness, Sydney the silent wars—Sydney the most anti-social
city in Australia, Sydney the 24 hour hot dog stand, Sydney the one legged
pigeon, Sydney the 3pm traffic jam on Elizabeth Street, Sydney the legal
brothel, Sydney the illegal expression; Sydney the dirty street, Sydney the
the cardboard lounge room, Sydney the neon mansion, Sydney the heavenly
power bill; Sydney the unflappable economy, Sydney the ridiculous politician,
Sydney the hand afraid to smack the deserving, Sydney the silent anger,
Sydney the fear of change; Sydney the blind arrogance, Sydney the
architectural maze, Sydney the screaming, Sydney the dying, Sydney the
inbred mind, Sydney the empty wallet of ambition; Sydney the glass idol,
Sydney the wordless script, Sydney the fan in the desert, Sydney the melting
bag of ice, Sydney the house of no reform; Sydney the conservative, Sydney
the satisfied, Sydney the brain dead, Sydney the celebrity, Sydney the
criminal; Sydney the average, Sydney the athlete, Sydney the rich, Sydney
the pension, Sydney the desperate, Sydney the great big waste; no fishing
in the polluted harbour, no partying after midnight, no drinking once you
are drunk, no saying a new thing; Sydney the hero, Sydney the prince,
Sydney the island of Hades; Sydney the ugly, Sydney the base of the mad,
Sydney the lodging of the dead, delirious, insane; the couch, the table,
the futon, the spa bath, the inflatable mattress: Sydney the great nirvana
of my tortured soul.
