there is something else going on


o. o. mehallerbmu is the pseudonym of Lewis Umbrellahem, a hospital volunteer who, despite his aversion to attracting attention to himself, writes poems, screenplays, short stories, and theatre pieces which he resigns himself to understanding may get read by people he has yet to meet.

o. o. believes that mindfulness is a quality of being that must be practiced to better understand the reality of our lives, and that one must look long and deeply at whatever and whomever comes within one’s sights in order to avoid clichés and genre distinctions.

o. o. is reported to have said, “It doesn’t matter what you do for a living, just sit down and write a fuckin’ poem once in a while and shake off some of that ego dust.”

The Dust Collectors, the new narrative poem by Umbrellahem & Taylor is available for sale in the Co-op Bookshop at the University of Western Australia. It is published by Strangehouse Press, Perth.


by o.o. mehallerbmu

there is something else going on
in front of the birthplace of that voice
which is maybe your dream
reinforcing the actual incarnation

of a passerby
the man standing in front of a pool
equilibriums of the emotional scales
like a petal open to the faintest breeze

i’ve dreamed of you so much
like any dead planet
attempting to encircle a shadow
that dissolves into time

(coiled up in sleep
impossible to be traced
she learned to switch off the current

control of dream and sleep
a warm awareness flickers
from that pure blameless face)

maybe any of these apply
a shudder of the lid
an eye to see the man
the vacuum of her own creation

i sleep on my feet
an angel in the arms of dream
together the pieces of each new world
produce endless forgotten memories

to lose oneself in a painting
impossible to be traced
a phantom among phantoms
a light more human than gravity

(living and breathing
turned me
into a shadow that you know

in this swirl of life
you realize
how the illusion works)

going along with the crowd
in the form of a costume
she dissolves into time
straining to touch a stolen memory

as a snag or hanging thread
the dream wants you to pay attention
and embrace the contours
of your complex state

like the moon itself
the dream reinforces your attention
a sophisticated art forger
dominating the aesthetic body

(you go to see the pool
and to kiss that light
which is your intuition

it is time to dive in
and deal with that
through a body that will go on moving)

the furniture of your dream
crossed upon my own chest
reinforces the actual incarnation
shut off from the rest of the world

breathing below the level of deception
that mouth which is in your museum
dissolves into time
disturbing secrets of gravity thoroughly



A light goes on in one’s mind the instant one reads a poem. It doesn’t matter what the poem is about, who has written it, or what form the poem takes. It doesn’t matter whether the reader actually even gets the poem. What matters is that the mystery of a succession of words artfully strung along a blank page by the poet seeps into the consciousness of the reader and that reader’s outlook on life or even that moment she exists in has been altered and even, perhaps, transformed. A light is that instant which scatters the darkness to the furthest corners of reality. A poem is that light.