June 21-27, 2004: Mark Allinson and Judy L. Brekke

week of June 21-27, 2004

Mark Allinson and Judy L Brekke

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Mark Allinson

Bio (auto)

Mark Allinson was born and raised in Melbourne, Australia (1947), where he has spent most of his life Returning to study as an adult, Mark gained a teaching degree and a Ph.D from Monash University, where he taught English literature for some years Since leaving Monash, Mark has been teaching literature to adults in his own Adult Education business Mark now lives in Tomakin, South of Sydney, where he writes.

The following work is Copyright © 2004, and owned by Mark Allinson and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

Get Ready

Soon comes a day when the winds of chaos
belch hot sulphur down your neck, shivering
guts and blowing safety maps of where
who what right out beyond how
Then you may find yourself alone between
twilight and dread at the wheel of your father’s
car (since he had a heart attack and can’t
drive the thing) wrong-headed for some
power station stinking of death
Lost, you must go on
But you will stop as sulphuric piss drops
rain on a badly lit roadhouse, where a jerk
on the pump will spill your last dollars
on wet cement, just to make more evil-
smelling chemical rainbows
And when you enter the Hades
of the hot food diner, some hair-flicking
harpy will tap her foot while you try
to decide between the black-rimmed
curl-top pie and the dead-dick chico roll
And you will not be capable
of deciding,  nor know the difference
between whether you should eat it
or beat it Hungry, you must drive straight
into the maw of dark, as the hot breath
of chaos buffets and bashes at the grope
of your head-lights.


It was amazing, really Her face, her face
just shimmered and glistened and gleamed
with idiocy You could almost smell

waves of it coming off her like wafts
from a junk dump And she was running
the little town’s Neighborhood Education Centre!

And she shone with an imbecile sheen Lucky for me she always turned her back
when I entered the room: a vast-arsed harpy

with a hatred of ideas Why offer a course
on the great poets, she snarled, we all know
how to read around here! In short-my idiocy

is precious to me: Don’t you dare
threaten to take it away-it is all I have
to call my own She was very happy

to offer courses on macrame or doily stitching,
but nothing she couldn’t feel superior to I hadn’t noticed it before, but one day as I strode off

in disgust, I began to realise she was not alone And now everywhere I look I see the rising
rippling quivers of idiocy distorting

the faces, like heat waves rising, twisting
the features of the granite-faced hills
to shimmering, vague, jelly wobble blobs.

Lawn Order

The lawns around here shine like polished badges
of the let’s club Nature club Lines strict as sixteenth-
century rule by ruler parterre gardens of life-

detesting Paris Even the worms are forced to endure
green plastic hosiery to keep their awful slime
from the paths Yesterday I saw a man on his knees

before a dollop of bird poop on his driveway, scrub-
bing with detol Another man collapsed in a faint
at curly pubes fuzzing from a crack of virgin

concrete At night you can almost hear the jungle
of dreaming being strip-cleared by nembutal dozers At least once a week they go out wrapped up tight

as double-thick garbags with yellow ties Spring
is bad enough, but the filthy autumn war with its mass-
acres and dysenteries and choleras of colour is the worst

time of year Just ask  the man in No 23 swinging
his mop at the bloody clots in his maple No wonder
now and again one of them starts sweating and runs

through an nicely taut and ordered house with a skull-
polished axe

Judy L Brekke


I live in Excelsior, MN with Stephen S Morse, our son, daughter-in-law, and beautiful 16 month old granddaughter Our daily life never has a dull moment Stephen and I have published JUICE since the 1970’s My poetry has been appeared infrequently (because the time to submit is limited) in small magazines My one claim to fame: winner of the Ina Coolbrith Memorial Poetry Award in 1978 and 1979 with the poems sharing a place in the University of California (Berkeley) Archives.

The following work is Copyright © 2004, and owned by Judy L Brekke and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

Quarter Pounder

girls with spit curls
and ponytails
take their pet roosters
to the local “Quarter Pounder”
singing and stroking
the precious cock’s comb
as they wait in the front seat
of the mustang
for the mustached boyfriend
and the order of fries

Pardon Me

pardon me

mr leather jacket
sherman placed properly
between fingers
neatly manicured
for strokes
some sweet
smelling woman’s breast

pardon me

your white silk
fringed scarf
blowing just right
over your shoulder
brushing your
gleaming lips
tasting bubble gum
that disappear
into the softening
and evaporate
in wisps
of sherman smoke

Bee Bop Laundromat

Bee Bop
hair tightly
wound in pink hair rollers

Bee Bop
hair rollers covered
by torn brown hair net

Bee Bop
two young men under hair dryers
sit outside of laundromat

Bee Bop
hair nets, head phones
hair dryers, laundromat

Bee Bop
high five
lots of jive

Bee Bop
Wednesday afternoon
Piedmont Avenue

Bee Bop

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