Sunday, April 19, 2009

Be Realistic

Be realistic demand the impossible, an old slogan from '68 days.

Also from 68 Je suis Marxiste, tendance Groucho

A slogan painted on a banner and hung from atop the HQ of the french football league
Football belongs to the People.

Football does not belong to the multinationals.
Football does no belong to those who initiate focus groups and vie over naming rights, the ones who buy and sell our teams and move them if it suits, destroying communities, breaking hearts.
Football does not belong to bean counting suits who force a change of jersey every year, so that fans get on a never ending cycle of needless purchases.
Gotta make money they say.
It is just business, they say.
Etc etc etc...
Blah fucking blah.

Murdoch tried to buy up rugby league, (rugby league started in australia in early 1900's after starting in northern england a few years before.) he failed, but damage has been done.

Do not be afraid, brothers and sisters!
The world is hurtling to disaster and we are constantly told "We can not fix the problems, global recession and all that."
What the bosses lack in imagination they make up for in avarice.
The bosses will destroy OUR world for a few bob.
Let us not be so constrained.
We have nothing to lose, we have a world to gain.

(Every political failure is
A failure of imagination)

For the old men and old women
In the factories ten twenty thirty
Years on the same production
Line. Knots of knuckles contorted
Twisted arthritic pain
Constant missing digits or
Fractions of digits
Burnt - cut - calloused

Be Realistic -
Demand the Impossible
Why not free buses?
Why not free health care?
Why not free education?
Why not no armies?
Why not no racism?

Thursday, April 16, 2009


gotta love bus stations all of life in one block. must have written this on a Wednesday.

Fragile underneath old-timey
Wan god of war and leftist lover
Of pale poetry

Pilgrim bus station -
Dressed all taffeta - drunken
Police Methadone

Today the nameday giver of poetry

Wending my way northwards - to hell -
Windy the modern onset - underground -
Twisting and turning now facing East
Now Vespers - Now the roaring clotted
End of day

Now the reedy couple -
Junky rushed - Screaming Desires

Thrown packet of cigarettes
Into the face -

Obscenities hurled
Along the platform

Young woman on a bench makes
Herself small, not easy to see
While screaming they care not
Only intent on each others failings
And so ignore as she sends messages
To her friends

A thin silver cross
Between rounded breasts.

Wednesday, April 15, 2009


I wrote this sometime. just over a year ago. looking over some stuff and i thought, i like this one. so here it is.

In the laughternoon
The settling son sorrows
The thousand and one
Bosoms of Artemis
Away walking
The slight blush our ladye's
Waye away lousy deer!
Away you Elders!

Sway away - false economics
From the lien of the loan
To the bust of the bank
The surface is beautiful
Dazzling - but underfoot
Only corruption and death

The view from here
Seem limitless
Far into space
Far across the future
But when one looks down
Everything stands on a motion
Of death - a motion to despair

Or the jenny sister would
Mouth it - Windmer day
When all would speak
And be taught shame.

Monday, April 13, 2009


Wow almost a month since my last posting! Time flies. This piece, among other things, was written on Good Friday. So look up Inferno Canto 13 (line 34). Christos Anesti! Christ is risen! Go In Peace.

Nascondere is Italian for Obscure.

She chose to pass her days
The Greenway Country Comfort.
Just Behind the Tuggeranong Sports Club.

She chose her end,
On a delightful late autumn;
Typical high pressure system
From out in the roaring Tasman
Afternoon, when there was a
Slight brisk around and all about
In the air; Football weather
Her Father would have said, and the
Planned English planted wide avenues
Of draughtsman inner suburbs flame
Informed a Little Britain.
Goyder Street in Narrabundah,
Majura Avenue in Anslie,
La Perouse St in Red Hill,
Wattle Street in Lynham,
Crunching underfoot acorns.
Crunching underfoot dead dry.

Planted by Edwardian gardeners,
Harvested local old Italian men
Parchment lifeless underfoot.

Uomini fummo, e or siam fatti sterpi.

Yellow red orange brown
Falling and floating artificial
Parchment softly to the ground
Decaying and releasing slowly
Releasing crystal sunlife tears.
New growth mulch and filth aroma
Abubble with spores and microbes.

Drifting deftling dancing the air
Softly slowly silent down
Too weak, too powerless to
Influence; too weak, too scared...
'Che mai non fur vivi'
Never truly alive.
Caught between...
And nothing.

One remarkably attractive
Afternoon, tiny white cap waves
Ruffle lake surface. Flashing police
Light, the speaking crackle,
Amber empty bottles, slow slipping
Drip dropping away.
Slipping away.
Breath by laboured breath.
Beat by slowing beat.
Now ghost.
Now ivory
Now stillness.
Now dark.