"We shall not cease from exploration and the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started
and know the place for the first time." (T S Eliot)
"A dark and chanted verse is what I am." (
Forough Farrokhzad)

Sunday, November 30, 2014

DEATH'S DREAMS


Sleep was once a refuge, an escape hatch,
But now it is a place of dreadful states;
And in my bleak slumbers my fingers snatch
At black nightmares, montages of dark fates.

Cruel themes recur and bind me with their rope -
They tease me with nonsense and useless schemes -
Until I wake, recall that there's no hope,
And death begs me to gamble on its dreams.


Wednesday, November 26, 2014

SCAPEGOAT

Scapegoat.
Goat.
Like a beaten cage fighter
You can’t rise up
And you never will.

Here I stand and the good go by.
Some of them sneer
But none ever ask why?
Why am I here and no longer there?

Scapegoat.
Goat.
Like a punch-drunk boxer
You can’t rise up
And you never will.

Now I crawl, thrashed by whipped words
Of those who never erred -
The worthy horde never wrong,
And never duped by a fraudster.

Scapegoat.
Goat.
Like a spear tackled forward
You can’t rise up
And you never will.

Soon I’ll expire and punishment will end.
This life became another death
At the hands of perfect critics
Who can only condemn.

Scapegoat.
Goat.
Like a horse with broken legs
You can’t rise up
And they won’t let you.


Sunday, November 23, 2014

MIDSUMMER



The heat of midsummer brings you to mind,
Your brown skin warm and fiery to my touch.
I reach in quest for you but fail to find
Those silky supple curves I want so much.
Sun-filled skies spin me to your eyes of light,
Shining as if the stars were all stored there,
And then my thoughts turn to your smile so white
Before I see in visions your black hair.
In the talking wavelets on the sea’s shores
I hear your voice whisper love on a kiss,
And, as the day slows down, dusk’s darkness pours
The sounds of you breathing in sleep’s drenched bliss.
For now I’ve quenched the ceaseless seasonal heat
Recalling one who makes daydreams complete.

Saturday, November 22, 2014

ALIEN


I am no longer an Australian.
How can I be a member of this tribe?
I face this nation as an alien,
My birthright slashed and burned and cast aside.

If I could suicide I'd catch the breeze

And vanish into distant fiery skies
That glow at sunset just above the trees,
Then I would rise to kiss death's ochre eyes.


Friday, November 21, 2014

IN THE DOCK

I live shackled and weeping in the dock
Of the courtroom of woeful omissions,
While those who hold keys to my chains and lock
Cast slurs by way of brisk expositions.
It seems the judgement of imprisoned fools
Is deemed always and evermore impaired.
Respect cannot be won under their rules,
Even esteem must nevermore be shared.
As I seek sleep but instead fight my chains
I work through each day of the nightmare time.
How could I have done more to force a change?
Why am I lower than the heirs of crime?
Now the baying crowd prowls around the dock
And calls my name to shame and then to mock.


Friday, November 7, 2014

DOG BEACH

I walk the beaches of a skin-cancered country,
A land where a nihilistic refrain reigns,
Where the youth are iced and insolent,
Parents have pock-marked arms and collapsed veins.

I wander the streets of cities soiled by sleaze,
Paying high prices set by the casino’s hogs.
Rip-off merchants outnumber honest vendors
And old age pensioners have fewer rights than dogs.

I watch to see if our rulers respect our history
And observe only snouts seeking the richest trough.
It’s seems Orwell was right about trusting pigs;
We’ve not had a real leader since the days of Gough.

I would wish for death but I can’t afford it
And I don’t want to be a burden when I expire.
So I’ll find another country that will tolerate me;
I’ll go there to die and donate my sins to its fire.


Thursday, November 6, 2014

THE LIAR KING

A stately old heritage building,
With tiny windows,
Near the cenotaph,
The dingy room was so small
It was crowded by a coffee table.
Water glasses half-empty.
Inroduced by his business partner –
A man with shifty eyes
And the pointed face of a weasel,
Or perhaps a ferret,
A badly groomed tickler
From a bogan background.
He seated himself a little way away -
Intent on covering his back? -
Occupying the only walled corner.
He offered a limp hand
And a silent greeting of sorts –
A slight curl of his pursed lips.
His pet ferret did all the talking
About nothing that was new –
Just the same old stuff.
Hedge funds, New York, Hong Kong,
Now for Australia.
Another slight twist of the mouth
As the story was told.
Then compliments for me
From the snout of the weasel.
He seemed bored.
I decided to cut it short.
I knew little about hedge funds anyway.
That admission got his interest.
The weasel asked
About my connections.
Got him more animated –
He even leaned forward.
Signals I could not see.
Then farewells began
And he stood.
He was very short,
With a solid build.
His large head almost gave him
The appearance of a garden gnome.
His face was still expressionless.
Large brown eyes said nothing
And barely moved.
I was determined to make him speak
To get a sense of the man.
I looked him straight in the eye
He seemed uncomfortable –
A genuine introvert,
Simply shy, I thought,
Preferred to let others
Speak and schmooze.
Asked if he was from New York.
“I’m Canadian.”
His voice was deadpan
And dour,
No evidence of humour -
A hedge fund manager.