So, the world at least makes a gesture towards a complete ban on nuclear weapons, and Australia, reactionary state par excellence, opposes it.
Beneath the dissembling, the reality is that Australia acts as an American stooge to retain a 'nuclear deterrent', wanting the US to maintain its nuclear weapons in order to protect its sphere of influence, of which Australia is a major component (like a jigsaw puzzle). This is an obscenity.
As further uranium mines are opened in Western Australia, the jigsaw puzzle becomes paradoxically more simple and more elaborate at once. The ouroboros of the nuclear cycle at its most vicious and absurd. The land is stolen, the land is appropriated and remade in the image of power. Some indigenous groups do deals (many struggle against this) because they fear losing all control and all sustenance from their land if they don't.
The state and mining companies peddle lies about the nuclear cycle being healthy for the biosphere.
The basis of the modern state's power comes through direct control of or vicarious participation in the atomic cycle. Humanity and all other life is threatened by the farce of the nuclear industry. And Australia, in attempting to block and frustrate a move towards a nuclear weapons-free planet, however small the first steps, is a disgrace to humanity and life itself.
This is the tyranny of the so-called majority in Australia. It is a bullying state using the big bully to carry the weapon while it serves in as many ways as it can. Micro-aggressions of an aspiring bully that has a lot of experience in its 'own' backyard. Australia positions itself for the knockdown round. Disgraceful.
Saturday, August 20, 2016
Monday, August 15, 2016
Graphology Chronotype 34: Parking Refugees
Wilson’s parking — ‘Expensive,
don’t you think?’ Yes, close kin
of Wilson’s of Nauru. Security.
You know, where victims
are guilty and sex crimes
are as the case may be
and the Minister says
what’s what about self-
immolation. Security. Private.
And privacy of a sort.
They have many locations
in the city. Each lot
a kingdom. Your cars
in their care. Security.
Underwriting the Island
where no man, woman
or child can be entire of itself.
Impoverished, bought off
by the Australian
to Wilson’s. Fire sale.
Big island little island
what begins with I?
But don’t worry,
Wilson’s is watching out
for the silent majority
right here where cars
need somewhere to park.
Security. Your cars
in their care. And anyway,
how many cars could they
fit on Nauru? Diversify.
Security. Living space.
Sunday, August 7, 2016
by John Kinsella
Graphology Chronotype 24: Fantasias on Veganism (on the thirtieth anniversary of my veganism)
I lift the word cadence but improvisation is Bottesini’s
different calenture, differing application
of eating utensils: one model
this interview with materials used in making an instrument
the tip of a pool cue
all of it concrete
remember those ballet shoes you had made? — non-leather
to dance with the troupe in & out of the wings
or gut of that doubling
I hear and integrate
what to do with, where to go
this Fantastic Voyage via
philosophies adapted to the way
they want to live ‘They’
belonging to philosophies,
not the life story
Not mentioning the craft of insectivore weebills
staying on track between wattles
in a high wind — you’d think they’d be tossed
and buffeted and dashed on the granites
knuckling through this fast-eroding hillside
but no, they are intact complete and don’t need me
and my inherited subjectivity, my wilfulness as they pinpoint
Not mentioning their craft, their particularised
strength to make landfall, line-of-sight
flight to branch on neighbouring wattle
would be to close out web of myth and facts
that might or might not catch all
as full disclosure
and though no person you know eats weebills
there’s autonomy beyond your ken
and walking into the wind —
shirt a tattered flag
without denomination —
is cross-referencing, an experientialism
hunkering down against
the ripping sou’westerlies
(iii) Ontologies Dreamed like the Benzene Molecule — an Address, of Sorts...
So, my ethical veganism becomes your ontological
categorisation to offset your own convenience store
of locality to qualify the ecology you know is right?
Property settlements. Pay-slips.
Factory farm of belief as if it needs to fit your system?
These human dualists drawing animals into the realm
of human compassion, the imposition of separateness!
Flexible templates of locality. The beautiful
hypocrisies of text. Friends and loved ones
will always believe up to a point, or stage
their compassionate interventions. Agency
of each cell is beyond the networks of agriculture,
the grain plains of the Western Australian wheatbelt,
the utility of kangaroo-farming? The factories
of agronomy? See, I can oppose the out-of-kilter
of the plant-based — as much as you can oppose the factories
of animal production and still excuse the use of animals.
Delineating consumerism’s many faces. Threat of nirvana.
Fetish of communication.
The interweaving of predators to tell a story,
to sinew experience as declaration.
No ecology is above what makes it sounds like an instruction.
Am I suggesting this? Am I ecology as definition,
an ontology of pantheism in which animals walk their way
because humans moved away, told stories
of human and animal selves separating and morphing
and separating? Our rhizomes?
Kernels and husks, germs and ears of grain. The plains.
This tree arm, the rings of my tender body shedding.
The space about ‘food’ in the mouth:
light trapped in darkness, pockets and cavities
of air and darkness, the watery universality.
Pure as the driven –ism. Re-
framed as signature terminology. Reference
in any contemporary discussion of veganism.
This infiltration of self. Of self-justification.
Wholly holy ouroboros —
snake eating itself a dream invented to fit
the new mode of living. Here in the West.
and was made
outside product — each fad that means
fewer animals exploited and killed
is good; but we must
be wary of the product
that brings down
the ecosystem, feeds the state
which will eat animal and plant,
vegetable and mineral,
with an insatiable appetite,
shit out the planet.
An example? Palm oil?
Jungles are cleared
for the sake. These vegan snacks
can mean the death of so many individuals
that the term ‘species’ (as in extinction)
is the only collective noun
that is translatable
packaging of planet
will salve only desire:
ontologically or otherwise.
And all product is local
at this point, and that.
Tuesday, August 2, 2016
By John Kinsella
It’s not adequate to be aware of environmental horrors; we must act.
There’s a report in today’s Guardian newspaper on land-clearing by farmers and pastoralists in the light of legislation brought in by the last conservative Queensland government. This clearing is so extreme that it should be considered as a crime against humanity (which it is).
These rapacious land manipulators are even violating the destructive laws in place, and going further. And for a land owner and vested interest to claim,
‘Firstly, I state that this country’s greatest environmentalists are our farmers and our graziers’
I don’t need to draw analogies; its absurdity speaks for itself. True, you can get some farmers who are more land-care conscious, and, say, crop with a mind to the ecosystem in which they operate. But by and large, anyone engaged in land-clearing in a country already cleared to bare bones has no environmental credentials at all.
When we read this, we are getting closer to the truth: it’s a business...
‘What we are doing on our properties is taking proactive expensive measurement steps to protect the long-term health of our environment and the viability of our business. We are doing this through the practice of thinning using the current vegetation laws to restore our land back to its original open woodland condition, as much as we are allowed.’
They see the land as theirs to abuse. A tyranny of occupation, a state of war against anything living that doesn’t serve their business model, has been openly declared.
These acts of violence are part of the matrix of terror we silently endure, keeping our heads close to screens and gadgets, engaging with the outside world through Pokémon Go. We are part of an absurdist play of our own writing.
Will we act? Maybe this time — how about it?
Step outside, embrace the earth, resist the exploiters, show that non-violent resistance can bring positive change. (Can poems stop bulldozers?)
Write about it. Tell others. This is no incitement: the evidence is there for you to come to your own conclusions. But take a look, consider, respond.
Sunday, July 31, 2016
Graphology Chronotype 21: Desecrations of Place by Pokemon Go and its Soldiers
The new colonialism
eliminates or integrates
the water’s edge. The Avon River
is replete and despite the chemical
run-off it can’t quite process,
birdlife is rife along its banks.
Perched in dying paperbarks
spoonbills eke out nesting plans,
and sacred ibises preen
themselves with optimism?
A problem with me using this term?
Really? Try the trampling-under
of birds and riparian vegetation
as the eye of the telephone
mediates the real world
into digestible auguries: and where
a rare white swan swings
its neck, a Pokemon perches,
scowling and grimacing.
Trodden under, this nature
of encounter, this exercise
routine to coax emergence
from the caves of gaming,
this tracking of each and every
cybernetic soul, this savvy
that marginalises non-participants
and swallows tales of capitalist
liberty with addicted gulps,
is a travesty of seeing. Too blunt?
Each step into privacy,
each sucking of another’s skin,
each moment of worship interrupted
and over-ridden, each threshold
crossed to gather location
to conquest, is the theft
of reality from non-participants,
all sucked into a vortex of deadlife.
The sacred ibises preen with optimism,
believing, along with spoonbills,
that they will nest and raise their young,
and see what they see with their own eyes.
Violation of geography, absorption of ‘outdoors’.
Saturday, July 23, 2016
Sweeney Encounters a Russian Adventurer in the Avon Valley
Sweeney had to do his shopping at Northam Coles.
There was a lot of kerfuffle in the town and more
than a few foreign voices. He was surprised
to find the foreigners were not being attacked
by locals. On his asking why, a teenager stacking shelves
told him, It’s because they’ll only be here for a while.
What was going on? Sweeney took to the airwaves.
Birds of a feather, we might interpolate. Just outside town
he came across a vast balloon being spread out and filled with night.
He swooped down and found a man who looked like
a heavily bearded Dennis Hopper. He caught the name
of this wild man whom he recognised as a holy obsessive.
Almost like me, he said. A Russian. There were many voices
speaking Russian. I know Russian, said Sweeney — I get pictures
wired to my headspace from a poet in his country dacha
every winter, every summer. It’s cold here in winter,
but not as cold as it gets in Russia. That’s the definition of cold
in overheated times. The balloon was filling and the zeal
of the adventurer was palpable. All of this just for him.
His name was Fedor Konyukhov. He was aiming to loop
the earth from sunrise. To smash a record. The media, cloying and clinging,
were saying he sees the world as a place to conquer: mountains,
oceans, everything. Sweeney could see vast swathes of mangroves
dying in the far side of the country but in his gondola Fedor Konyukhov
would fly nowhere near them. Sweeney watched the balloon rise
with the sun, hung around and did a couple of interviews, then flew back
to Coles to finish his shopping. I feel like the stork delivering my own birth,
he said, adding a few more cans to his stash.