recent stuff by allan boyd - antipoet


27 Feb 2015

Emma Goldman: If I can't dance, I don't want to be part of your revolution.
cost me 300 dollars not to dance
to a sting, at a concert
said i’ll dance where i wanna
stand on my seat n sing Roxanne outta tune, if I wanna
so you can sit back n watch the back o my butt
swaying, lilting
you can see it swinging, and I’ll pirouette the aisles
in a rhythm, out to the 7/11
in a mini-mart spin, and spin and spin
and i’m jiggin up the escalator from the underground
up into the mall, all through town,

'Gone, Gone, Gone' by the Antipoet Alan Boyd

26 Feb 2015

20/02/2015 , 9:44 PM by Jamie Burnett

The man is an unlikely superstar. And as he says himself, who would have thought about poetry on the wireless?

But Allan Boyd writes it, recites it, and excites the audience on 720 ABC Perth late every Friday afternoon.

His rhyming couplets are radiant, his sonnets are sensational, his odes are outstanding. And his epics are, well, epic.


26 Feb 2015

peeled up from sticky blue carpet again
a strut-rush up Hill Street to the last train
before smartphones, before MP3 downloads
shared a mixtape,
got a local band new release EP cassette tape
before your burnt CD release
now you just steal it.
Going. Going. Gone.
the dank-dead ghost of a hundred thousand spilt beers
and im in a tux with high-top sneakers,
face in the speakers
escaped from another gig
needed a backroom/coolroom fix, fat sideburns
and I know dave’s at the Grosvenor, he’s door-bitch tonight

Invasion D

31 Jan 2015

this is my flag draped / over my ute / over my shoulders / like i need more enemies / i painted the cross on my face / lifted my fist at / the southern sun / at everyone / at anyone / i chanted my sweat / at those who will listen / and at the earless drones. / so, this day of / hot noise again / suburban glare forever / empty white drool / of my nation / my glass cracking on pavement / the hottest blood of all / of us / spilt flags in streets / should be half-mast / oi oi oi.

sit back crack a six pack

31 Jan 2015

on a friday afternoon
in the sticky city
ice in the esky, cricket, beer
in the guts of a stinker
a January cremation
sucking back a 2K Easterly that does nothing
does squat,
and it’s too hot to sit on the dunny
so we sit back crack a six pack
wait for the break
tell stories about no water in this country
like 61 days without a drop
think we in Bunuru now
not enough ice in this esky
a slurry and we
sit back crack a six pack
rumble cracks
like syrupy hope in 2am cloud


31 Jan 2015


31 Jan 2015

For Jakob's Zine


31 Jan 2015

in birak
this western sun hurts
some seeking reasons
not to ever live here
without a chorus
of aircon hum
this is Wadjuk country
at fire time, fruiting season
as always, there’s talk
of shifting to melbourne
or hobart
over a beer
another beer mate?

in the old days they
set flame to country
 a mosaic of management
and always, and still
that thick dark easterly at 5am
a long cello note
like a hair-dryer in your face

xmas without snow

12 Dec 2014

its roast pork and crackling on a 39 degree day

it’s a cold beer at breakfast, baked eggs, ham on the barbie, the scent of mango, pressies swapped in glee

its running under the sprinklers on a rottnest front lawn

its xmas eve, the four of us still wrapping presents at 2AM, drunk, giggling like kids – the pile under the tree a metre deep

its beach cricket after lunch, he’s out!

its baked potatoes in a caravan, drop-ins welcome

its all the prawns, all the prawns

its laughing at nanna

its life without grandads and grandmas