this poem is not available now at Borders, Dymocks, and all good book retailers
it will not be clicked on and added to a cart
it will not be rolled in pop culture puns and leap out of a DIY hipster zine
to be enjoyed ironically
this poem will not be seen or heard anywhere else
this poem does not listen
it does not nod or shake or bow its head
this poem has no preambles or disclaimers
this poem promises nothing and delivers even less
it has no expectations or disappointments
this poem makes no excuses and apologies and gives no explanations
there is no reason for, or in, this poem
this poem proposes nothing
this poem gives no answers and offers no solutions
not even one
it has its own questions and problems to deal with
this poem does not see anything beyond the borders of the page upon which it rests comfortably fat and happy
it always has a dreamless sleep
this poem has no hope
this poem cannot does not will not make a difference to anyone or anything
this poem cannot foretell the future or remember the past
this poem does not bear witness it
does not bare anything
it illuminates nothing you don’t already know
this poem is of no concern or consequence
this poem is ambiguous, ambivalent and ambidextrous
this poem is not a sore thumb or a chameleon
this poem speaks no truths and tells no lies
this poem does not build castles in the sky or deconstructs them
this poem is apolitical, atheist, apathetic and anonymous
it cares as much about you as you do about it
this poem is just as frightened of you as you are of it
do not poke this poem or give it peanuts
this poem is not a cosmic vision or a practical strategy
this poem is insoluble and insolvent
this poem is not financially viable and has filed for bankruptcy
this poem is a gamble and plays Russian roulette with six empty chambers
this poem is not cool in any way shape or form
it does not have a lopsided fringe
it does not wear chunky modernist jewelry
it is not gluten free, free range, organic and out of your price range
it does not hang from a dreamcatcher in a New Age boutique
this poem is a geodesic dome made from old raincoats with cigarette burns
this poem is not an anarchist an antichrist a deity or a delicate genius
this poem has no real talent or potential
this poem will get to you in a minute, sir or madam
this poem no spik inglis
αυτο το ποιημα δεν βολευεται με λιγοτερο ουρανο
αυτο το ποιημα δεν βολευεται κατο απ’ τα ξενα ποιηματα
this poem WILL NOT translate itself
this poem WILL NOT make itself palatable
this poem contains NO consumable images
it is not a local delicacy or of an acquired taste
this poem has no audience or niche market
this poem IS NOT delightfully quaint, folksy, exotic or authentic
this poem is not a racist, BUT…
this poem is stubborn as a mule and dumb as an ass
this poem is not an alternative
this poem does not own a John Cage or a Nick Cave record
it attends no curated alternative music festivals
it is neither a mod nor a rocker
this poem fails at succeeding and succeeds at failing
this poem is a hazy hypocrite and a crumbling contradiction
this poem is not a kaleidoscope, a telescope or a stethoscope
this poem does not stand inside the heart’s furnace or outside in the cold of collapsing inevitability
it is not an act of desperation or a bourgeois indulgence
it doth NOT protest too much nor have a smug smirk of self-righteous satisfaction
this poem does not lurk neath the surface of a painting coloured by numbers
this poem does not emote
this poem is not a Buddhist, a Communist, or a Surrealist
it has no poetics, aesthetic or philosophy to compromise
or harp on about at parties
it stands by itself next to the hummus and avoids talking to as many people as possible this poem is not a joke or a suicide note
there is no wisdom in this poem
this poem’s inkblot is an exploding bug zapper
scattering its flaming comet-tailed larvae across the other side of a summer night
this poem is not countercultural, counter-revolutionary or counterclockwise
this poem is written with a borrowed pen and lives on borrowed time
this poem is old swallowed chewing gum stuck to your intestinal wall
this poem steals a few moments from your life and replaces them with unspeakable lines
this poem owes you nothing and comes with no receipt
this poem will go back to not living the very moment you stop
this poem is a hiccup in the mind’s heart
this poem will not tweet a parting shot and refuses to be read its last rites
this poem is killed by the flailing limbs of disembodied time

/ PAB 31st July 2010

Poetry/Poets

*George Mouratidis is a Melbourne poet of Greek origin and the author of an extensive introduction to On the Road: The Original Scroll by Jack Kerouac. He is teaching Mass Media and Communication at RMIT and doing his PhD at Melbourne Univerisity on the subject of beat generation of poets in USA in ‘50s and ‘60s. He is also the organiser and curator of a monthly poetry event (every first Friday of the month) in Red Whilbarrow bookshop in Brunswick.