Poetry

The first nine poems. Written in the time of fire, Covid and war.

In defence of Sydney
(or the poem that landed me in jail)
12/12/19

Sydney is my home, you see,
I’ve no-where else to go.
Sure, I travel ‘round a-lot
But that’s all just for show.

Sydney is the finest place
I’ve ever laid me head,
But lately Sydney’s suffering
And the sky is fucking red.

It’s those lunatics in Canberra,
Who circle-jerk to coal,
They turn their backs on rising seas,
With cash their only goal.

I wonder what their money gets,
That is so bloody great,
For them to torture kids like that
With such malice and such hate.

For while my city suffocates,
And we lose the sacred bush,
I’d like to lead ‘em to The Gap,
And give ‘em a friendly push.

But I ain’t wasting time on them,
It just ain’t worth the cost,
So here’s 10 things to do today
Before Sydney’s fucking lost!

Catch the ferry to Taronga,
And trek past Chowder Bay,
Strip down to your birthday suit,
And drink the day away.

Then head out to Katoomba
On that rattling purple train,
And watch the flames inch closer
As you cry and pray for rain.

Or hang around in Newtown,
Where you’re bound to be accepted.
(Until you tune a lesbian
And swiftly get rejected.)

And catch my famous Rabbitohs,
As we smash the next-door scum,
Which doesn’t happen much these days,
We’re in a shocking run.

Then lark around in Paddington,
And crawl from pub to pub.
Then stumble down to Oxford Street
And shout yourself a rub.

Better yet - head to Bondi,
Where it snows and snows year round.
Sniff around the cubicles,
You’ll find plenty on the ground.

Or piss off to Star City,
And pick yourself a fight.
They don’t have to report it there -
All their mates are on the right.

In Surry Hills - check out Belvoir,
And be sure your phone is hush,
You’ll probably catch a decent show
But you won’t see Geoffrey Rush.

Then cab it out to Red Leaf,
Under a midnight summer moon.
Be sure to take a “special friend”
And punish the pontoon.

And finally, The Rocks,
My favourite on the list.
The place in which I’m writing this,
(As I steadily get pissed.)

The point - I s’pose - is lap it up,
For soon it will be gone.
All these joys we take for granted
Ain’t gonna be the norm.

Sitting in this convict pub,
And staring out the door,
I want to think the world is great,
And worth the fighting for.

So let’s tell these politicians,
- Once they’re home from Murdoch’s parties -
Their legacy ain’t looking great,
(And neither was the Nazis’.)

If they allow our world to burn,
We’ve got no fucking choice,
Bring revolution to their door
And unite as one loud voice.

For Sydney is my home you see,
I’ve no where else to go.
For all its flaws I love the place
And I wanted you to know.

So while it slowly suffocates,
And those poor koalas burn,
Remember - revolution -
And that history can turn.

A poem for the restless
21/08/21

With lockdown in slow motion -
I sit and dream about the ocean,
And of all towns and cities
Which I'd love to go and see.

Of countries that I've come to know,
And bars I've conquered like a pro,
And the whole thing has me wonderin'
Is there a time when we'll be free?

For Erskineville is great and all
But give me Paris in the fall,
Where I'll wander under streetlamps,
While moonlight drifts along the Seine.

And while I love my balcony
I'd rather be in Tuscany,
Sipping wine and eating olives
As I wait to board a train.

But Havana's where I ought to be,
With a cigar, a beer, a daiquiri,
Two eyes fixed to the horizon
As the sun sets the sea alight.

Or fly me to Morocco,
And let me sweat in the sirocco,
While I explore the old medina
In the breathless kiss of night.

Then I'll navigate the alleyways,
In the ceaseless heat of Bangkok days,
Passing hours playing snooker,
Ordering one more Jack and Coke.

And I'll set sail off to Portugal,
Where the drinks are more affordable,
And I'll find a place with fado,
And I'll stay there til' I'm broke.

But actually - and you ought to know -
It's Spain, the place I gotta go,
For the gypsies in Granada
Have my soul all tied in knots.

The Camino I'd walk again,
Madrid I'd visit now and then,
Then I'd return to San Sebastian
And drink in all my favourite spots.

But none of this is happening,
And I find it all too saddening,
But perspective's what is needed
And it ain't all bloody crook.

The sun is always gonna shine,
And here at home there's boundless wine,
So until the borders open -
I'll have to write another book.

a poem for ukraine
4/3/22

It rained in Kharkiv,
A rain of fire,
A rabid little man’s desire.
The rain in Kharkiv,
Fell from above,
It dimmed the city
It blacked-out love.

While elsewhere,
Men of Russian steel
They slowly burned and mothers reeled.
And one by one
They wondered why,
‘Why was he sent off to die?’
In a land so similar to their own -
A land they’ve loved
A land they’ve known -
And now they kill and maim and slaughter,
Every son and every daughter.

I text my friend -
Get out!
Get to Poland!
‘I’m not leaving,’ she says unfazed,
And a part of me is glad she stays.
She stays for Kharkiv, Kyiv
And more,
She stays for Ukraine
In a war,
She stays for Europe
And the world,
And we’ll never forget how well she held.
She stays for love and hope and truth,
She stays for old
She stays for youth.

While elsewhere in a gilded hall,
The devil dares erase them all.
But when dictators die
They die in blood,
And when he dies
There’ll be a flood.
For history won’t forget the fight,
As fire rained in Kharkiv’s night.

It rained in Kharkiv,
A rain of fire,
A rabid little man’s desire.

For those in the burning bush
16/12/19

As the fire crossed the valley,
valiant men and women made
war with water hose, their faces
charcoal black like the poisoned hearts

of elected fools. T’was pre-dawn
as the fire crossed the valley,
and nothing could defy those flames
as forests - ancient and alive -

fell like forsaken soldiers on
forgotten fronts. Lives were taken
as the fire crossed the valley,
while entitled pigs poured scorn on

those wisened to the way of things,
those wisened to know that thoughts and
prayers just mocked their final moments,
as the fire crossed the valley.

Hell I’ll pour one for the crow
5/1/20

It was on a Tuesday morning
When Old Jack had heard the calling
Of the old molested crow
Who hunted lizards in his yard.
The call was somewhat haunting
And the blood-red sky so daunting
So he nudged his old blue-heeler
And said ‘this summer’s bloody hard.’

His land, you see, was sacred
And there was nothing that he hated
So much as packing up his ute
And leaving his property to burn.
So he called his son in Cooma
And his daughter in Narooma
And said ‘there’s more ash in me coffee
Than in your dear old mother’s urn.’

‘I’m staying to defend her,
I’ve got a hose, a rake and liquor,
And there’s nothing you can say
To make me change me bloody mind.
I’ve had a decent inning,
And I’ve done me share of sinning,
And if this is how it ends
A more at peace bloke you won’t find.’

He loved them ‘em like he loved the stars,
Or his droving days before the cars,
But the valley was his home now -
It was more sacred than the lot.
And peering out the kitchen door,
He could hear the towering fires roar,
And the vision got him weeping -
He could’ve done it on the spot.

His Colt revolver well in reach,
For himself, the dog - a bullet each,
It was never how he planned it
But there were worse ways they could go.
But ’Nah,’ he said, ‘we’re gonna fight,
And if we make it through the night,
I’ll pour the dog a whiskey
Hell I’ll pour one for the crow.’

With hose and rake and nothing more
He left the porch and faced the roar
The highways were all closed now,
No last chance for an escape.
The eaves they caught on fire,
And the fight was getting dire,
So he called the old dog over
And they took in the landscape.

'I remember when you were but a pup,
Things were great and looking up,
But slowly man stopped listening
And the land began to change.
I’ve never seen it hotter,
Nor the rainy season shorter,
But it doesn’t matter now mate,
Those flames are flying up the range.’

And in the morning when they found him,
Under a grand blue-gum with burnt limb,
Old Jack and his blue-heeler
Were sharing a well earned tin of beer.
The firies couldn’t believe it,
For his valley was the worst hit,
But Old Jack - well he just smiled,
And wished ‘em all a good new year.

strange travels
8/1/22

The same cicada, hear him cry?
The same disturbance from a fly.
Unchanged the bush it hums so sweet,
For nothing changes in the heat.

The same old wasp injects its prey,
The same goodnight, the same g’day,
Unchanged the days roll into one,
For nothing changes ‘neath the sun.

The same old stats we’re daily fed,
The same procession of the dead.
Unchanged the currawong will cry,
While nothing changes as we die.

The same old pub - stop for a drink,
The same belief we’re on the brink.
Unchanged the barman doesn’t smile,
For nothing changes by the mile.

The same blue-gum, its limbs still burnt,
The same cynic you wish you weren’t,
Unchanged the virus stalks its prey,
Though nothing changes day by day.

The same highway which shimmers bright,
The same regrets which haunt the night,
Unchanged the moon it lights the past,
Yet nothing changes very fast.

The same wombat hit by a truck,
The same old town ran outta luck,
Unchanged the road it goes too long,
And nothing changes bar the song.

The same old house you must return,
The same lessons you’re yet to learn,
Unchanged you lay down, rest your feet,
For no one changes in the heat.

in defence of newtown
14/5/22

Above a pork-roll shop in Newtown
Is the place I lay me head,
Where I wake-up every morning
To the smell of baking bread,
But there ain’t much cause for bragging -
Just a mattress on the floor,
And a rotten piece of timber
Barely passing for a door.

But the squatters life is useful -
If you’re to save a bit of coin -
For Sydney’s damn expensive
If you ain’t born of lofty loin,
And while freedom is delightful
When not splashing cash on rent,
It’s one-tenths worth of useful
If the bars are where it’s spent.

On a Monday - it’s the Marly
Where you’ll murder a pint or seven,
Then on Tuesday - to the Erko,
Which is some other kind of heaven.
And on Wednesday, Thursday, Friday
Ain’t important where you are,
So long as they pour Reschs
And have a stool parked at the bar.

Then like all good things in life,
The weekend cometh and it goes,
(It’s the kind of steady truth
Of which the poet rarely knows),
It’s a time of mad elation,
For the bars are lit til’ dawn,
When the old-folk stumble side-ways
And the kids pass-out on lawn.

When the rodeo that’s King St
Gets a bath of neon light,
When Newtown flaunts the grandeur
Of a city at its height.
When kebab shops are a riot,
And the bastards hit the beat,
When the fresh acquainted lovers
Get it on above the street.

When the throng of luckless actors,
Mumble lines to empty rows,
When the burly, little biker-bros
Are coming close to blows.
When the massage-parlours swell-up
And the brothels overspill,
And the battle-hardened bouncer
Does his darnedest not to kill.

When the homeless ask for money
But you flick ‘em fries instead,
When the coked-up young barista
Is regrettin’ what she said,
When the taxis hurl abuse
And delivery-riders stack it,
And it seems the whole damn postcode
Is a seedy, small-time racket.

But layin’ above the pork-roll shop,
I hear all this go down.
And even though it keeps me up,
It’s rather hard to frown.
For the squatters life ain’t glam’rous
But it holds a special charm,
And for all its grand-illusions,
Newtown does nobody harm.

ode to shitmo
(or how the hell did anyone vote for him)
16/12/19

The world ain’t bloody heating!
As every moron knows,
How can it be getting hot
If in Antarctica it snows?

The world ain’t bloody heating!
It’s really not so grim,
If those islanders don’t want to drown
They should fucking learn to swim.

The world ain’t bloody heating!
But it’s just so fuckin’ funny,
The amount of cash we’re gonna make
From those gangsters at Adani.

The world ain’t bloody heating!
And that Greta is a bitch!
We can’t let a teenage girl
Stop mining men get rich.

The world ain’t bloody heating!
Didn’t you read the paper?
Murdoch swears the world is fine
Even though the ice is vapour.

The world ain’t bloody heating!
But you’re in my thoughts and prayers
Nothing like a throw’way line
To pretend your “leader” cares.

The world ain’t bloody heating!
And I laugh that I’m prime minister,
How the hell could half of you
Ever vote for one so sinister?

The world ain’t bloody heating!
I’m telling ya - relax!
If the climate takes your life
You’ll get outta paying tax.

The world ain’t bloody heating!
You’ll have it great you’ll see
You’ll even have it better
Than a shithole refugee!

The world ain’t bloody heating!
It’s just a lefty lie,
Designed to scare the children
As the ash ignites their eye.

The world ain’t bloody heating!
If it were - zero farks!
At least the world ain’t quite so shit
As my steroid pumping Sharks.

The world ain’t bloody heating!
So piss off down a hole,
Or better yet watch parliament
As I masturbate to coal.

The world ain’t bloody heating!
But if it starts to send a text,
I’m heading to Hawaii
And I’ll be hoping it ain’t next.

And if the world is heating!
And it turns out all our fault,
We offer you our thanks in spades
For never both’ring to revolt.

remember december
17/4/20

Remember December,
How hard it was each day,
To open your door
And find smoke in your way?

And then New Year’s Eve,
A monstrous affair,
The skies were blood red,
The seas full of despair.

In Feb things got better,
A precious ray of hope.
The firies had freed
Our necks from the rope.

But news out of China,
Was choking the air,
Like lambs at the slaughter
Outside Tiananmen Square.

A bat in a soup,
A fox in a bun,
A wolf in paella,
A koala well done.

The rumours were swift,
Of how it all started,
And they stunk up the air
Like the dearly departed.

But here in Australia,
Things seemed fine for a week,
When the flames had died down,
And we could return to the creek.

We could gather with friends,
In our local watering hole,
We could order a Reschs,
And recoup what they’d stole.

We could turn on the footy,
And switch off the news,
But it only lasted two rounds
Til’ a return to the blues.

For it wasn’t to last,
There was a virus to come,
From China to Italy,
From penthouse to slum.

From salons in Paris
To plazas in Madrid,
From execs in New York
To those far off the grid.

From those living in agony,
To those feeling just fine,
To those getting refunds
To see the great Mr. Prine.

The whole world was equal,
The enemy was one,
But the scum in high office
Would not be outdone.

Trump got on the news,
Move along, naught to see.
A hundred thousand dead?
Hell, living ain’t free.

His bitch in Brazil,
Who’d see the world burn,
Ushered his people to death
From the land to the urn.

And in London they managed,
To cut the head from the snake,
We’re glad it survived,
Just to learn its mistake.

And the mobster Peter Dutton,
Tough cop on the border,
If the virus were junk
And he were a horder.

From the gateways of Mecca,
From the banks of the Nile,
From the assassins at Red Square
They all dined on denial.

And the people revolted,
Against their own self,
Corbyn and Sanders
Were thrust off the shelf.

The right created their phantoms,
In the guise of 5G,
They strung Dr Fauci
From the branch of a tree.

Then the funding was cut,
And around Africa a fence.
Isn’t charity the basis
Of Christianity, Pence?

But Dylan arrived,
When we needed him most,
He cried murder most foul,
For those feasting on toast.

22 million unemployed,
Across the US,
The rest of us no better,
I gotta confess.

A vaccine sat waiting,
Many years ago,
But lives ain’t worth saving,
If there ain’t no profit to show.

So here I sit now,
In a room down in Sydney,
Wondering when
I’ll be selling me kidney.

In order to eat,
In order to sleep,
In order to smile
While elsewhere they weep.

In order to laugh,
In order to cry,
In order to pause
In a world bout to die.

In order to stare down,
The blue boys of authority,
Who take away freedom
With power their priority.

The virus will pass,
The world will awake,
But it won’t be the same
And there’s too much at stake.

Working for nothing,
Ain’t no meaningful life,
A man’s freedom to think
Is worth gripping the knife.

Burn the conventions
That are tying us down.
Burn the establishment,
Fuck Trump he’s a clown.

Remember December,
How hard was each day,
But that’ll be nothing,
If the thugs get their way.