PAUL HARDACRE


Paul Hardacre was born in Brisbane, Australia, in 1974. He is the Managing
Editor of papertiger media, publishers of the papertiger: new world poetry
CDROMs and the ezine hutt. Paul was recently appointed as an editorial
correspondent for Cordite. His first collection of poetry, The Year Nothing,
was recently published by HeadworX (Wellington, NZ). His unpublished
manuscript, Love in the place of rats, was shortlisted for the 2003 and 2004
Thomas Shapcott Poetry Prizes. He has completed another poetry manuscript,
The river is far behind us, for which he was awarded an Arts Queensland
Major Grant. Paul currently lives and works in Chiang Mai, Thailand.






a grey doomsday in August

(i) 'make the glittering Parises'

this grey doomsday came crouched
in a corner by the curtains on top like
tea chest painted blue & elongated
for sweetness her Christmas card makes
a hole in me I can't spell or otherwise
scribe such long legs tiny footsteps &
head pats in light unreliable but this
Morocco or Boundary St old fag imitation
is what she gives to me of herself freely
opens her window at what hour but three
a.m. it is dark & cold in a singlet &
ragged corduroy feet enjoy fashion (albeit
buried heart leaf / no shoes / kissing in
doorways type) her bed-head aligned
right direction for poets draw a line
from the Hunter or Achilles on the mattress
watching Crash & it is impact or its derivatives
that makes it hot like callipers uphill we put
our calendar in a box no place for details
like hours spent waiting for her at the steps or
she her room like a hallway & later ultimatums
over fresh young coconut unbuttoned shaking
the smell of sex at his crotch means she spends
weekends crying at the beach sick of acid
car-spins / flipped past it by accident



(ii) Love in the 'place of rats'

"So suddenly, what once
loomed seems trivial -- a high, remote jigsaw puzzle we've
solved by standing completely still."
- John Forbes, Topothesia


& moonwalking in socks
is easy like falling off chairs
eating bircher muesli or riding
katie's bike / the plunging neckline
of your blue singlet white skirt grind -
forget schopenhauer or similar distractions
because this staircase named 'iggy' has
never known anything to resemble
the way she showers cold &
smells like china sleeping or brown paper
rain on the floor & luscious jackson can't predict
such spanish mamma comebacks instead
only pacific sur kerouac re-enactments loitering
beneath bridges with black Muslim flute seduction
we'd walk there in rain policed but otherwise
unharmed the worst poets in our absence resort to
gossip / witchcraft / musical accompaniment.



(iii) The Small Room (Horus in Rome)

"How clear the realisation one is going mad -
the mind has a silence, nothing happens in the
physique, urine gathers in your loins ribs contract."
- Jack Kerouac, The Subterraneans


& this night reminds me of Liam laughing
my suggestion of sending poetry to New York
or the other reality speaking like apes though they
can't even vocalise & Dionysius wears Germanic
eyes like the warmed stone of some Andalusian railway
platform right here in this the small room where
once as a poet I sat with her wearing black shirt
black slip fatty shoes & her tattooed arm tastes
the air like liquorice on her tongue when later
in white Spanish skirts she is impossibly cool
to the touch & the fig tree graffiti creeps like
massive teardrop inertia & what is there but her
this August & months burning awake at night staring
through vertical blinds where visions of hand carved
minsk poetry remembered as a storm & a car smashed
driver's window in the carpark & me running
come back soaked & she wondering how to escape this
mess this moonchild born of Kali who makes it on
Indian newspaper wrapped in brown string with Krsna &
his reliable mount in brass in her hand &
her fingers milk coffee beautiful find me hard
for explosive bush with this cock of a stranger &
not like a gypsy she loves it inside her for hours
unmoving but for emergency or morning when alone
in her room she draws women with huge thighs
& vaginas thick ankles & scrubbing brush hair on
sheets heads out for coffee or muesli with juice reads
Arundhati Roy at 'the Head' buys oranges & rice
in the afternoon & toilet paper occasionally when
she dances in circles for everything real & human
& at night when tea makes her heady she dreams in certain
pheasants & yabbies or life born of snake-grass feels foreign
like Horus in Rome & equal in beauty she thinks about running
& phone calls & dreadlocks like kraken like spongy Medusa






Rooftops Atomic

cruel harvest / their white bloodless faces
& checked shirt black short decay in country
lanes / holding his head this morning the rain &
tu dam pagoda / twenty minutes in fishing
pants / tied behind his back / the marble turtle
italian in origin / the species of frontpage
immolation / fragments from the ditch / whole
world's duck fucking quaking that lingo / two
hours forty-eight year of the monkey / emerged
from a garage & past the milling crowds / on fire
years later / hue in december / three on a bike &
shirt / john butler / is soaked & the rats / ahead
pinstripe in transparent bags / black & white
river / this city / the wolf & debris reduced
to cheap music / like rocket to rome / some corpse
in a jacket / & drumsticks for intro / a memorable
trip where shoes dry & crack / after the rain /
the romance in tropics / is reading new york / in
this light she is browner / disguised as a swan /
she appears on the ramparts / winedark & rooftops
atomic / & moving like sex or a trojan / her fiction
like jack & his mardou / asleep in a pan / like an egg
which is cracked / every morning the wound / growing
thin as an answer / to malice or time / like a skyline
in ashes when irish cops cry out / like morrissey / blind
or just blinking in code / & her hands as the river / the
sardines on sticks / making love like a back-pocket / gulag in blue






The Beetling Rocks

that the end-days with their black ships
& splinters of fatted goats & sun's cattle in a trench
will arrive shortly at gate 11 has never seemed
more obvious & unavoidable or bad for my head
with its trained & clever neurons white light tunnels
the wet dead season is rolling time to rehearse:
how's it done? tip back your head open the mouth
seal it with gum? or define exactly what is shut or closed?
this is constructed - the eastern-most point of consciousness,
the red flowers that feed the habit. three grams of reality
powdered & packaged in capsule form & he woke, dressed
walked outside and paused said it was a food earned a living
as a plumber and went on to work in film production.
not Stephen Hawking. playing Mastermind by remote.
these days the real is so much better - we have mountain
wolves & lions dressed as crew & a well-trodden path
where stag are plentiful & men fall to on skewered meat
in the proper manner wrapping the thighs in fat & making
it for the fire that we warm ourselves by is metho-fuelled
My Favourite will colour your lips purple the witch knows this
her drug makes men fall about in sties waiting the swineherd
in me makes libations to Pallas Athene with her many names &
clean hair bougainvillea & rose quartz & her hands to touch
a fine brown chalk or her lips with no reference to wine



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