TEXT poetry


Brentley Frazer

Untitled Plane Crash


Sometimes, a cigar is a just a cigar ~ Sigmund Freud [1]


Let’s roll now, man, the shadows have that dull edge
like nightsticks through phone books on abdomens.
Let’s forget our poverty, if only for this dawn.

Don’t . . . don’t say it, something terribly hipster like
at least you’re not the corpse of a refugee rotting on a beach.
Let’s roll into the neon-night cold of the Monoprix
sorry, what do you call it here? Sells powdered husks
& claims it’s coffee—

The 7-eleven, you mean?

Let’s wander through West End’s ghostly lanes
& write poems in alleys.

Should I stay or should I roll
in this place I never know.

What’s this stink on the edge of Brisbane’s mercury

Benzene, hops from the XXXX brewery & nearby
mangrove swamps. Fetid wriggler-infested flower pots
& damp basement car parks.

Trucks on the M7 rumble under our feet here,
outside Cloudland.

Beneath the Met, north below the show-grounds
until it joins the dropped spaghetti network of the
Clem Jones tunnel. It’ll get you to the airport
in a hurry, man.

Let’s get out of here!

We’re not late, let’s scull this shit & have a smoke.

“Laaa Laaaaaa LAa Laaa Dududududuuuuuu
J’aime faire des croquettes au chien” (James, 1999).
[I like to make cakes to the dog]

Everything’s gone to hell here, the whole situtation has
me wanting to drink through a barrel. Let’s kill some
wild life, take the edge off, but don’t indulge.

Should I stay or should I roll
in this place I never know.

Fuck it . . . the night is young let’s hit the strippers!

No! Nudity depresses me . . . beautiful women on
Omegle jilling for credits, self love mostly, a bit of
I’d marry them, they’re not professionals they’re
liberated . . . they do it like men now.

I’m cool with that.

No—they’ll never be equal! As a whole they’re
soooo much sexier . . . it isn’t fair!

LOL. How about that machine, the poker bling
as malevolent
eyes bribe for more explicit & bigger penetrations
like mermaids drowned in virtual networks.

“The idiot professor says here  . . .
those who still believe in terms” (Walwicz, 2013).

Eliot était pas un moderniste. [2]

I’ve never viewed it live, only recordings,
           <therefor they’ll never PM me>.

. . .

So, let’s roll, east to the beach from here & now, ease
into fifth, outrun
“Death where she walks her texture
of eternity & pedestals are matched cries in the winds”
(Fogarty, 1982).

It’s the strangest thing, like finding a jellyfish
on a mountain
or watching a horse kill a lion. I feel their stares,
I’ve held them all, marked my days with cigarettes
had a foursome once on film . . . young love becomes
old devotion.

Who wrote that? Surely some great poet wrote that?

Slow dances to arguments about dishes! “Everything
is gonna burn we’ll all take turns” (Thompson, 1989).

Should I stay or should I roll
in this place I never know.

Does the First World have an ultimate curtain call?

Terrorist attack?

Nope . . . it’s an untitled plane crash & witness
descriptions: We rescued naked guys, dirty
from oil, death in their eyes. Victims
still strapped in seats, bodies all bloated & the same.

I don’t know, broheim. I think getting blown to shit
would suck pretty hard.

You’ve got a point, ball bearing under vest
       metal kissing flesh.

I don’t wanna get old, man. Sigh. Look
at my grey beard; pretty girls used to smile at me,
now I’m always watching
this infernal cinema behind my eyes.

Do you believe this shit? Reading the news, once
informative, now is torture.

WARNING: Disturbing Content.

Sign o’ the times or clickbait? Obviously both.

Don’t you dare listen to me! I’m an Australian,
Eurotrash with a drunken vernacular, a victim
of genetics the descendent of soldiers & gypsies.
I wouldn’t trust me.

I’ll help myself to your Wi-Fi your wallet & your
                        wife, given half the chance.

So many who life has mercilessly beaten like timeworn
cave paintings or faded graffiti, bleach themselves in
spirits at ten AM, measure their lives out in hits.
In the human race second is the first loser . . .
“indeed—our person is a covered entrance to infinity
choked with the tatters of tradition” (Loy, 1919).

I heard it on the jungle drums:
“outskirting anglo-saxon
. . . you all must get out of our society” (Fogarty, 1995).

Man, I didn’t get a choice where my consciousness

There you go again, bloody hippy . . . let me guess
that’s not a maggot, is a transgressing soul on it’s
 nuptial flight. Nope, it’s a fly larvae . . . disgusting

Fetal alcohol syndrome.
Condoms on the swings.

The killer said she’s obsessed with the sexuality
of teenaged girls. Exactly how self referential can
the human animal get?

It’s apocalyptic, has serious intent on murdering

What do you mean, man?

You know it works both ways, unless you subscribe
to the old silent-generation patriarchal lie you won’t
  get far,
regardless of gender.

Well, she’s like an autoerotic cannibal cheering on her
own exploitation like some sick emperor or a character
from that Pasolini film.

This is too heavy, dude.

You wanna talk about something Kim?

I’d rather drown in the Telstra pits; you’ll see skeletons
of slaves down there, forgotten while building the NBN,
in grotesque poses like artist’s mannequins or auto-
fellating swans.

I have developed
an allergic reaction to the vestiges of authority,
protocol, system, rules & regulation, control through fear
& intimidation; it’s a race you know, a silent war
with quiet weapons, hurricanes in the kitchen
ripping up the laminate, newlyweds stockpiling tins,
H5N1 in the headlines again.

Yeah man, I’ll crawl through a sewer on my face
for another fix, it’s like when
“Jane says, I’m done with Sergio
. . . I’m gonna kick tomorrow” (Farrell, 1987).

& now the night, short & orobos vomiting
  in the toilet her BFF holding back her hair,
heels snapped off in a drain while hailing a cab &
they’re mad singing some Rhianna tune the only girl
in the world I think [like two tattered homeless children
shouting a slogan, selling fairy wings in tins] & this
Dali dawn that reaches for her friend, says:
 “so boy forget about the world cause it’s gon’ be me
& you tonight” (Hermansen, 2010).

O, should I stay or should I roll
in this place I never know.

. . .


1. Apocryphal ~ perhaps a bastardisation of “After all, as Sigmund Freud once said, there are times when a man craves a cigar simply because he wants a good smoke.” American Historical Review, 1961 (66: 664–676): This quote, from Peter Gay, is also apocryphal. http://quoteinvestigator.com/2011/08/12/just-a-cigar/

2. Eliot était pas un moderniste – Eliot was not a modernist.


Farrell, Perry; Avery, Eric Adam, et al. (1987) Jane Says. Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC

Fogarty, Lionel. (1992). Disguised, Not Attitude. Lines 8-9. New & Selected Poems Munaldjali, Mutuerjaraera. Poetry Library Australia. Retrieved from http://www.poetrylibrary.edu.au/poets/fogarty-lionel/disguised-not-attitude-0214052

Fogarty, Lionel. (1995). Fuck Off. Lines 26 & 38. New & Selected Poems Munaldjali, Mutuerjaraera. Poetry Library Australia. Retrieved from http://www.poetrylibrary.edu.au/poets/fogarty-lionel/fuck-off-0214043 

Hermansen, Tor; Johnson, Crystal, et al. (2010) The Only Girl in The World. Emi Music Publishing Ltd., Ultra Empire Music (BMI)

James, Richard, D. (1999). Windowlicker. Chrysalis Music Group, U.S.A.

Loy, Mina. (1919). O Hell: Lines 5-7 p. 71. The Lost Lunar Baedeker. Carcanet Press, UK

Thompson, Charles. (1989). This Monkey’s Gone to Heaven. Rice & Beans Music, U.S.A.

Walwicz, Ania. (2013). All Writing Is Pigshit. Cordite Poetry Journal, Australia, lines 9-10. Issue 41.1, February 2013



Brentley Frazer  is a contemporary Australian poet. He holds an MA (Writing) from James Cook University and will complete a PhD submission (Creative Writing) at Griffith University in 2016. His poems have been published in numerous national and international anthologies, journals, magazines, newspapers and other periodicals since 1992. 


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Vol 20 No 1 April 2016
General Editor: Nigel Krauth. Editors: Kevin Brophy & Enza Gandolfo
Creative Works Editor: Anthony Lawrence