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Yuri Hospodar
condemned fool, anarch, egoarch, heresiarch
condemned fool, anarch, egoarch, heresiarch

Yuri's posts

Our guests fell asleep.
We turned it off.
We went to bed.

 I knew there was a reason I gave up on H'wood blockbusters about wot 35 years ago. Cheeziss.

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Tiny Tim prophecises the coming slo-mo apocalypse in a live(-ish) performance from perhaps the greatest lost psychedelic masterpiece, the album 'God Bless Tiny Tim'.  Had we listened and done something, our children/grandchildren wouldn't be doomed.  Ah well; sucks to be them.  We got rich and got to driiiiiive our cars.

 It Is Too Late

the cat plays with the book-
bag strings
stumbles down afloor all arms en-

Patti Smith nowhistory plays
entells me of last possible re-
ligions (
O rock and roll; o rock and roll)


and tell me of this
of where it aimed
and how far off the mark

s/he and I alive we cried
and hoped to find like harbour
some sweet raft of safety

yet grift as all we might
the dead road is all’s been followed

and like some lump we stupid march
toward inevitable
noleum extinction;

be-see us now,
ugh horizon looming

We’re Home; There Are Stars And Shit

From the dinner time of birth
-day friend in so a far from Bal
-main Rose Bay, we drift in
-to more bottles of a wines we
creep as vague some sleep atable on

-to clasp discussion clump
it all to
-gether clump
our comfort gossip clump
our friendsteady rhythms in
-to a relaxed of smile of eve
-ning us to


a cabataxi ride so
seized out
-side of restaurant we
home from wave to cross
-street friends

we love yes
we love yes
we want to be there for them al
-ways they en
-dure me

and de
-bark we do from taxi
cab and down our dead
end street we are Aust
-ralianised above in
-to the chilly night see
Southern Cross as all Aus
-tralians do we
stumble briefstreet home and
open door and give to this
crept continent an
blissful’d happy eve
-ning o my better

friends how
night how
good you are than
me how toler
-ate you do my stup
-ids how ad
-mire I am of your en
-kindening’d and

for giv-
ening en


I don't get this whole Boko Haram thing. I mean, sure, if I had to perform 'A Whiter Shade of Pale' every time I gave a concert for over 45 years, I'd be annoyed too, but not enough to kidnap innocent Nigerian schoolgirls an-
.... no, wait.

Charles Harpur in a Taxi Cab

The roads pass by so swiftly
As the wine bespeaks my temple’d rage
The driver speaks, speaks not, or so
As night flie by, as buildings sit

I look across this paved Australia
And what has not been at all done
What forests I besung you left
As stumps as flattened emptyings

I offered things to sing of; you
Mere couchsit as dug up
The land enpits your debted comfort
All around you leveled  lands

The cab vazooms o’er bridges, bays,
To swoom to house where wind wigs beard
The beard a-aired like dogoutwindow

Thrubreezycab where ‘Strayan winds
Enwifted twizzled jawstrands, chinned
And baying in the evening breeze

Amidst this slowfade, failed seizing,
My chinnychinchin is looking down
A-wagging into Australian night
At the everythingought-to 
and becausening-might

And the tossed happenstance
Of the simply-deforested
And what-dug-up

When a new world offered
Of forest, of stream,
Of blastening place of fire flood drought
Some different, some difficulter birth

Anzac Day.  Here's Aussie curmudgeon Xavier Herbert writing about it back in 1975, in his great (if flawed) novel Poor Fellow My Country.  A little long, but it's worth it to read Herbert flay flag-wavy phony patriotics to the bone (wonder if Johnny Howard and our currently-obeying-Prime-Minister-Murdoch little Abbottoir have ever read this book):
And there at length it was that Day of All Days to the Australian Nation, Anzac Day.  The Christ may have been born on December 25 and died on the first Friday after the Full Moon that falls on or next after March 21; Captain Cook may have first set eyes on the continent called Terra Australis on April 29 and renamed it New Wales and the property of King George III of England; Captain Phillip may have landed with his lags to found the Nation on January 26; the Diggers of Eureka may have hoisted the Five-starred Flag for the first time on December 3 (and been shot down and jailed for it); God may even have finished building the Earth on Saturday evening and proclaimed every Sunday a holiday thereafter; but nothing that ever happened on any day, anywhere, at any time in history, compares in importance to Australians with the Day of Anzac.

Why is it?  No one ever really found out.  From its Inauguration schoolchildren (white) have been asked to write essays about it for prizes, perhaps in the hope that out of the mouth of some inspired babe someday the truth will come.  The nearest anyone has ever got to it, of all that has been spouted annually, like the periodic puking of geysers, out of the mouths of Priests, Parsons, Poets, Politicians, Boy Scouts, and Bemedalled Soldiery, is that On That Day The Australian Nation Was Blooded.  An English term that, Blooded, in the huntin’, fishin’, shootin’ tradition, referring to the actual bespattering with a victim creature’s blood of a novice huntsman to mark his first bit of slaughter.  But how can it be appropriate to the so-called Tradition of Anzac when it was the victims who were bespattered and the blood their own?

But to say those Heroes of Anzac were victims, is to deny them their undying heroism and risk bringing down upon one’s head not simply the wrath of the God of War but what is ten times more thunderous, at least in Australia, that of the R.S.S.A.I.L.A. or as it is more generally called, perhaps because it’s much more easy when you’re drunk, on Anzac Day, the RSL – and who would dare? Therefore let the story of how it came about be told …

There was a podgy little Englishman [i.e. Churchill, Yuri adds helpfully] , lived in England, who thought he was a military genius because he was descended from the Duke of Marlborough, had seen service in the British War of Suppression of the Boers as a newspaper correspondent, and as Home Secretary had taken part in the so-called Sydney Street Siege, London, in which poor madmen dubbed Anarchists were shot for refusing to believe in the glory of institutions like, say, Marlborough House (a famous photograph shows the fat little fellow directing the shooting in a top hat).  Well, this little man was a Big Man in the British War Office, and conceived the bright idea that on April 25, 1915, the Turks could be knocked out of the war by someone’s sneaking up behind them over the Heights of Gallipoli and bayoneting the Sultan into the Bosphorus, and even if it didn’t do the immediate enemy, the Hun, much harm, it could mean adding the Ottoman Empire to that of Imperial Britain. The right boys to do it were almost right on the job, the Aussies, a mob who called themselves the Imperial Force, yet were wasting their time and substance in the brothels of Sister Street, Alexandria, Egypt.  A tough lot – as you might expect of the descendants of the sweepings of the British Prisons of a hundred odd years before. So the brothels were emptied, and the thing happened at four on that Morning of Glory according to plan.  The little fat man would have been in bed at the time; or if awaiting word on how it went, indulging in a disgusting gustatory habit he was famous for, eating sandwiches made with a mixture of Marmite and sardines.  Would he have been put off by the terrible news when it came?  Some men would have hanged themselves in the privy with their braces.  But such men would not be the descendants of dukes.

That fat-arsed old Sultan of Turkey, called Mohammed Reshad Effendi, was not as silly as he looked from the British War Office.  His nation had been repelling invaders while the War Office chappies were still painting themselves with woad.  Do the Turks celebrate Anzac Day; and if so, is it as one of the silliest things the Unbeliever ever tried on them, with laughter and dancing in the streets, or with a silence and a sense of guilt at having taken simpletons like those poor Aussie boys who’d come boasting halfway round the world at such disadvantage?  But even if they’d laughed while they watched the impending blooding of the Heroes in their own blood through the sights of their artillery hidden in those supposedly empty hills, could they be blamed, men being what they are?

Urrah! My dvd of The Overlanders (Ealing Studios' first Australian production (c)1946) has arroived! CHIPS RAFFERTY, YA BASTIDS. B&W cinematic weirdoglory. Wonder if this scores me extreecreddit points with the AusLit dept at uni. Thoy kin birruh it iffay wunt, mite.

SMARTYBOOTS BOOKFRIEND PEOPLES: I know I am probably late to the party, rarely-prose-fiction-reader that I am*, but - good god/dess/es/LittleRichard, where has Donald Barthelme been all of my life?? I finished The Dead Father and am in abject awe . I want to read absolutely everything else this man has ever written, including shopping lists and childhood notes to Santa. Luckily the book was a quick read, so my, you know, reallyreally huge list of Stuff I Have To Read For Uni was not too impacted (just a day or so lost). But honestly - drop everything, find a copy of Donald Barthelme's The Dead Father, and have at it. YURI TOSSES A BAMILLION STARS AT AND PERSISTENTLY RECOMMENDS IT.

*Look, I raised myself mostly on poetry, criticism about poetry, bios of poets, histories that would help me grasp more poetry. Then spent about a decade lost in Russian language & lit. So English/Euro/world fictive prose fell mostly by the wayside, with occasional intrusions into my little inner world. I'M CATCHING UP, OKAY?

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Sundown cloudscape o'er the Sydney skyline.
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