(1997. This one won a competition once...)

The morning paper blows in the street. No one no  

longer able to read the words that flow from page  

to page like so much graffiti scrawled from fence post  

to junction-box. Adults hide. Behind their desks by  

day and in their beds at night. Frightened of the children  

they've brought into the world. This world, their world, a 

social nightmare.  

                               Somewhere, on the interconnecting  

pathways leading to new knowledge, someone car-jacked  

my education and left me beaten and broken, 

lying in shadows near Spring Street. Where are my  

mentors now? my teachers? my parli'mentary  

protectors of my right to know, to grow? They too 

hide in their beds as childish mobs gather in the   

dusk. If lit'racy standards could be written with  

a spray can on the walls of schools instead of chalk.... 

Schools are no more than glorified drop-in centers,  

kindergatens for the elder kinder.... hell.... spell...  

They call us the 'T-Generation', the Techno 

kids, but what use is technology when you've got  

to scab food from welfare, money from casino   

junkies....  

                 The evening paper blows along the  

alley, chased by some waif in brotherhood clothes; eyes  

alight with possibilities.... newsprint makes a 

good blanket or a good fire in a Salvo bin.  

Pa watches the box. Junior gurgles from Pa's  

lap as another gangland murder explodes on 

'Real TV' in a squeal of tyres. Ma yells from the  

shower, shocked at Daphney's new clit ring. Bubba's gotta  

see some guy, something about moving some shit.... 

A daily paper blows down the street. No one wants  

to read the words that flow from page to page like some  

cry for help. The children hide in this world. 'Their' world.