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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.