Tag Archives: Paul Squires

Paul Squires piece in Extempore

There are more than two reasons to go out and pick yourself up a copy of Extempore, but the first two that come to mind are:

1. Paul Squires’ piece, Teardrop Tattoo appears (and an article by Gabrielle Bryden, in memory of Paul); and

2. It is the final issue of the magazine.

It is sad that Squires is not with us to share the joy of seeing his words in print, but I know for sure he is smiling down on us somewhere, wit and pencil, sharp as ever.

Long may the gingatao narrative live!

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SpeedPoets… celebrating life through poetry

Sunday’s SpeedPoets brought an amazing gathering of people together… many of whom, got up in the Page Seventeen/SpeedPoets Open Mic Competition and delivered a poem. The music of what it is to be human was well and truly singing in the room.

In Round 1,
JK talked of old meatsheds and the ‘cry of past slaughters’
John introduced us to Fig-Leaf Phyllis
Sarah, the Hearer of all Sounds; reminding us of the beauty of Rod Stweart songs, all their love, their hurt
Paul was dancing and loving the other half
Lee-Anne walked through Friday’s Fog, its dead air and still life
Bruce conjured the stink of school and not being chosen
Ben the manufactured perfection of V8 cars
Cameron spoke of the unholy perfection of the Swan Lake Massacre and
Dave was dreaming of Kerouac

In Round 2,
Jonathan saw his poem as an arc of light
Cindy demanded all days be clothed in red
Sam saw school boys in blazers, brief and fair as lemon flowers
Arafa tilted our hearts, wrapped in green
Vanessa gave us the awkward beauty of a calf unsteady on stumps
Janaka’s voice unlocked doors
Corrie suspended us on time and tide
The Loaded Dog watched as worms dined on poems
Nemo spoke of the unspeakable rules of Scrabble Club and
Nerissa was consumed by fire

And in Round 3,
Chris turned vultures into parrots
James delved into the beauty of child birth and Justin Bieber
Deb marvelled at rock pool thieves
David heard the bomb go off… spin, rinse, spin… a life away
Israel questioned what aren’t we doing now?
Savanu asked how high his plants were
Nicola saw starfish planes crossing the sky
Chris opened Pop-Pop’s Backgammon Set
releasing the smell of library & cigars
Sally left us transfixed in the night-light
Tony stole the colour from our eyes and
Josh read an Ode to Paul Gray

And together we celebrated the life of Paul Squires, with readings from Brad & myself… and he was there, smiling from his favourite back corner. And we celebrated the sounds of Sheish Money as he sang of Hunter S. Thompson & 69 Chevys… and we celebrated. Because that’s what poetry is… a celebration of life.

Long may we celebrate…


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Paul Squires: true original, gone…

Today at SpeedPoets (InSpire Gallery Bar, 71 Vulture St West End), I will read a tribute to the late Paul Squires. Paul was a spirit with such positive force… a spirit that touched many and spanned the corners of the universe.

One of the poems I will read today is Listen. from his book, The Puzzle Box. This was the poem that called to me when the news of his passing hit… If you can make it along, I know Paul would love you to be there to keep his words alive.

Paul, wherever you are friend, as the great Sam Hunt says, ‘tell the story, tell it true, charm it crazy.’ Here’s an excerpt from his poem, Listen:


         Paul Squires

Listen. Not to me. On a cool, clear night like this the traffics are louder.
They hurrr by like bundles of compressed air whirlywinding someone
home. The old man next door has gone to bed. He coughs his awakeness
and will soon snore his dream.


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Amanda Joy & Sheish Money Live at SpeedPoets

The inimitable Paul Squires has captured some exquisite footage of Amanda Joy backed by the SpeedPoets riff-creator, Sheish Money last Sunday, April 11. Just getting to watch this again made my stomach float… the words twisting through the music (and vice versa) is mesmeric. A slice of brilliance from two very special performers.

Check it out here and be sure to spread the word…


Filed under events & opportunities, poetry & publishing

Review of the April SpeedPoets gig

Benjamin Sawon who was one of the featured poets at last Sunday’s SpeedPoets gig has posted a review of the gig on his blog – A Load of Blog.

So head over and check it out and don’t forget that next month – Sunday May 2, will again boast two feature acts:

Creator of the legendary ‘gingatao narrative’, Paul Squires and to celebrate the release of their much anticipated debut album, Sheish Money and members of Namedropper, will also be playing an extended feature set, so lock the date in your diary and don’t forget to pack your poems… The Open Mic Wants You!

SpeedPoets, 2pm Sunday May 2 @ InSpire Gallery Bar
71 Vulture St West End

Paul Squires + Sheish Money & Namedropper


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Jumping the Poetic Hurdle (part 8): the question of journals

I was reading through the comments posted in response to the recent interview I did with Rosanna Licari, editor of Stylus Poetry Journal and came across this article posted by Amanda Joy:


And this probing gem of a question from Paul Squires:

There are lots of excellent journals on line these days. They are very easy and cheap to create, in fact anyone can do it. Get a URL and a nice template, invite your friends to submit and throw links. It’s a great democratisation of the role of the editor. Given that the career path of the poet is not what it was, I am wondering where the value of appearing in journals is for the poet?

This is a question that demanded to be part of the Jumping the Poetic Hurdle discussion. I encourage you all to be part of the dialogue.


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Where do the Words Come From #5 – Paul Squires

I was recently shuffling some papers from one pile to another and came across the quote – ‘Inspiration is a word used by people who aren’t really doing anything.’ (Nick Cave)

Paul Squires is never one to stand still, so let’s take a look at where he finds the words…






The Pornography of the Self

I have a red rubber nose and bright red fingernails,
a green felt hat and an oversized geranium.
I have a history of Abbie Hoffman,
a box full of astonishing connecticons,
assistance apparent from mysterious sources,
a Chinese Puzzle Box
and several spies with flowerpot eyes but
because you asked so nicely,
(the grass is damp but
i will still sit on it i
have a new book of
written by worldfamous
masters of modern haikuschmaiku
so i will sit
on the damp grass
on my fat arse
and read it.)
I could be waving a polkadot flag and creating revolutions of clownish
mayhem, throwing flour bombs at the smugly complacent and
confabulating the hypocritical but because you asked so nicely I will
just sit here on this damp grass staring blankly into a mute mirror
and practise the pornography of the self.

“Revolution is not something fixed in ideology, nor is it something
fashioned to a particular decade. It is a perpetual process embedded
in the human spirit.” Abbie Hoffman.




Star Sign: Rover

All art is improvised, you can fiddle with the aftereffects, but you
cant escape the influence of Jackson Pollock. You can cut and paste
and blur and hide behind and elucidate all you like afterwards but in
the act of creation, all art is improvised, like life, and all art is
in some way performance art. These are common and self evident truths,
and in the past I would put punctuation round them and place them
gently in the mouth of some unnamed character like a cigarette and
then reiterate with an image after rotating on a pivot from a
smokescreen to a mirror and then rewrite for rhythm, look for a
confluence, knit around it, make a poem in other words like a craftsman whilst pretending to be a magician, or vice versa, but now it seems so reductionist, an entertainment rather than a revelation, i am my own dog i used to say, perhaps i’ll buy a puppy,




got a rolls royce

‘cos its good for my voice,
anyone can write maudlin introspection
looking into a goddamn mirror, sir ian, he said
clattering up from his chair and tossing
kings and pawns and chequered boards across the room,
play that Amsterdam Song again
the one in which squalls approached and not a man objected,
slamming his drink down on the piano in F.
and leaning in smelling of salt fish, absynthe
and the last trace of some Egyptian cigarette,
so close his whiskers brushed my cheek and whispering,
have you seen the piano player, my dear,
his gift was only in his hands,
as he closed the diamond clasp around my throat
leaned back and smiled
or has he disappeared,




So i said,

to him, Terry, mate, you are supposed to be creating a fucking
revolution not whispering in the halls of academia. Fuck’s sake, man,
get a grip, haha, said F. placing his frothy glass immaculately on the
centre of your belly where despite the many tides and storms stays
immaculately upright, though tilting, it’s good to be home,
Haha, I am back, my love, I have a gift, he says, leaning down and
kissing your nipple like tasting a strawberry, a new tattoo, it’s a
crouching tigger hidden dragon tattoo, schimply schplendiferous
looking down at you,




The True Legend of Paul Squires.

(Wikipedia Page, first draft, freehand doodlings of sunonhead after
falling asleep in the sun on Sunday Morning.)
The only known photograph of Paul Squires was taken decades ago. He is
sitting on the beach behind his house at the time making a sandcastle
with something long and white hanging out of his mouth. At high tide
it was possible to throw a line from his back verandah into Moreton
Bay. He only ever caught one fish, impaling a squiggling prawn on a
laser sharp hook and throwing it into the bay then feeling the warmth
of the fire and staring blankly out into a vast smooth ocean
reflecting an infinity of stars. There is Orion, the hunter when
Whack! a flathead grabbed the prawn as it tumbled into the channel and
ripped off into the depths. The fish is wriggling and squiggling under
his hand and a sharp knife flashes in the other and the rhythm of the
fish slows and there is a silence. This photograph was taken that

When drunk Squires is known to have claimed the most outrageous things are true, that it is possible to contain actual magic in language but
his definition of actual magic changes with his mood. He claims such
ironic absurdistries as having used the internet to have achieved a
kind of immortality, sometimes through the blatancy of not deleting
anything and sometimes by having transcended the human, since it is a
fundamental aspect of being human to know that you are going to die.
He is waiting patiently to feel that he has earned the respect of his
peers so that he can stop trying so hard, the genre settles around his
shoulders and it requires a mightier shrug as he gets older and the
concretions of age, scars, barnacles. The fact is he no longer wishes
to be reborn, to be better, he only desires the freedom to be what he

Paul’s website – http://gingatao.com/
Or you can listen to Paul perform at the podcast http://gingatao.podbean


Filed under Where do the Words Come From?