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Flash Fiction: First Draft Job Application

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*Demonstrated experience providing administrative and operational support in a large complex environment 

I am in The Matrix and I farted unexpectedly and loudly. The day was saved. No further sequels were required. The world is now a far, far better place 


*Financial management experience and literacy - including experience coordinating and managing invoices, purchasing transactions, travel coordination, asset management and compiling complex reports from these sources 


My wallet is firmly in my pocket. I tell the difference between monetary note values by colour coordination. When I look at invoices I manage them. I put them on the table. Sometimes I tell them to make me coffee. The rest of the time they are purchasing transactions, travel coordinating, asset managing and diminutive mule coaxing, and compiling complex reports from these sources and those sources too. 


*Previous experience in diary management, meeting coordination, event coordination, management and delivery. 


I am well e…

Flash Fiction: Pavlovi

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Ivan Pavlov and Anna Pavlova were brother and sister. In winter they would go ice skating in the public rink. 

In the whitest Mitteleurop frost Anna would double axle gracefully. Ivan was there to catch her and skated at great speed too. The bells of St Basil’s chimed at midday. It was then the public retired to cafes and small restaurants. 

In low tones Ivan would sometimes sigh to Anna that he wished he was agile as her. Anna would encourage Ivan to keep trying his axles, to stretch daily. 

The pines of the streets tingled cold noses with part-forest. Anna motivated Ivan continually. She waited by the edge of the rink to see Ivan attempt difficult manouevres. He’d get them in rudimentary but unmistakably successful ways. 

The bells of St Basil’s chimed. It was time for them to walk home. The blue afternoon was slowly merging into clear night.






Talking to the Psychiatrist About Poetry

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The title of this entry is a homage to poet Mayakovsky.

In this recollection I will try today's best in summonsing the philosophical points that led to what I hope to portray as panic from staff indicative of solid challenge to psychiatrists whilst in treatment

In a past post (The Political Economy of My Last Intake) I discussed the Sunday level of intake assessment that doesn't match the medicolegal standards of the rest of the week.

I kept my position to assessing psychiatrists that my condition was insomnia and physiological exhaustion. The treatment schedule was Lithium and Zyprexa along with Nicotine Replace Therapy. My intake was not predicated by any disinhibition or thought disorder. This should be apparent in the dialogues I will sketch out here.

On discussing my Hx I made reference to my current self care format that led to general stability and that running out of melatonin was what I identified as a leading contributor to my insomnia. I expressed clear reticence o…

My chapbook Commoning available signed by poet

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$15 plus postage and handling

Message me and pay through my paypal


COMMONING

released on Vagabond Press.

Described by readers as "sophisticated" and "a masterpiece"

Here are general reviews of my writing

*"...so much of Frank O'Hara in [the] cultivation of poetic feeling, [the] layering of it all - it is exquisite..." - Beckie Stewart (Co-Editor Black and Blue)

*"..a regular Pynchon Robert Anton Wilson Krazy Kat Ai Wei Wei Wilhelm Reich Jonathan Swift Voltaire.." Christopher Clancy AIA Professor of Architecture West Valley College

*"such wonderful work" - Srikanth Reddy (Literary Editor, Postcolonial Text) *"some [poems] very astute" - Pete Spence (poet and Editor of ETZ)

*"a beautiful and powerful writer" - Karen McKnight (Community Writing Project Leader - Prahran Mission)

* "not Chronos' fool" - Alise Blayney (editor of Clozapine Clinic, Verity La)

*"...so much like Georges Perec. moments of John…

Lifestyling Selfie Politics Win

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Socialising and Economising Desire

Imprints

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At the age of five
I was a febrile communist

and smoker of cubans
by default.

Eggshell integral
of childhood

that kept peace
and my mother's

home made mayonnaise
and the typicalities

of traveler cuisine
sans the televisual

or multicultural frame
made-mayonnaise

and laughter
from a seabed

in the place of birth.
We had left municipalities

with cultural codes
of historical academia

emphatically cognitive
malacologies and marine

curses. Stuck in La Nueva Cancion
and its exiles and common

wanderers. Here the taxonomies,
post war cybernetics

and the cosmic technologies
plied in an interdisciplinary

baroque between poet and mathematicians
the nylon guitar and they with

the good singing voices.

I stared at images of
murals that were hallucinogens

of astral hope. Where construction
followed form and theologies

of silver and trip of sauces
and the mayo coagulated.

We played with wires
coathangers and the clothes line

we understood was an antenna
turn the handle and tune.

The city dwellers