(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. 

(1990. Whilst walking hungover? along St.Kilda Road at 9 am.)

The street gleams with its dirty coat of dust

and rubbish and exhaust fumes, like a fat

and sweaty bloke walking too fast. My

stomach turns as though to be sick: a moment

that passes swiftly, leaving me, trembling

and not quite sure of where I am ––– the street.

The Street! In all its grubby, greasy

glory...

            Am I on my way to work?

                                                     I

know again where iIam and why, why time

after time I re-live this same routine

as though trapped in some demented Groundhog

Day or X-File episode ––– Not even

Dr. Who's timeloops recursively compare

to this disasterous farce which some would

have me believe is Life! Daily Life!

[whispered] ...working life...

                              This Is No Life!

                                                      (did someone say, "tell it to your wife?") 

                                                     I trip on a

piece of tar warped by the roots of some

ancient elm dying from too much fuss, too much

attention from hoards of elm leaf bettles.

This street, its path, the cars, the fences, all 

herd me along the ––– street... this grey, abysmal

expanse that brings me together, day

by day, with a desk I care little for. 

(1999. Exploring perceived conflicts between city and country folk.)

There's something hidden under the

tranquility of a grazing

pasture. something not seen, in the

quiet battle between grass and

bovines nor in the slow reach of

pasture for the sky before it

becomes silage or hay. Can you

feel it in your towns and cities?

As you revel in idle

fantasies about the country, our

country! You, who would curb our

activities so as not to

disrupt some narrow view of a

fragmented vista ––– Yet, with the coming

of Spring you pour out of your

rat races and hurtle, like so many

locausts in plage, devouring snapshots

of the fruits of our labour...

And in your self-centered

arrogance you hope we'll stay, stay on

the land, to slave, to toil, and

to preserve, 'your' country ––– tidy ––– grazed. 

(1999. Computer Rage)

I rage and boil deep inside seething with

illiterate anger that no words can

sensibly express and why? Why am I

so torn and knotted and empty and

tormented ––– arms that don't move smoothly, hands

tremble and shake and abandon all

former dexterity, legs... like sagging

withered rygrass stalks... and kidneys that ache

with a dull roar that never ceases; 'cause

some piece of electronic trash won't

work the way I think it should, no matter how I try, re-stepping through the same operating process... it just won't work just right! 

(1988, Rainy Day, The Rose Garden, GIAE, Churchill, Vic. Aust.)

Icy sheets of foaming, windswept droplets

fall heavily from the sky onto a

sodden path.

A passer-by scurries in the drenching

breeze, along a covered cause-way into

a sheltered alcove... and begins a lone

vigil –––

               waiting out the storm.

Grey clouds part,

relinquishing their stranglehold on the

sun, and through the break stream rays of warmth, which

light upon a darkend hollow, from which

emerges a weary traveller, hungry,

and in want of quiet company.

Swirling shadows, bluster near filmy gaps

as storms strive to regin their darksome reign

over the land. A wanderer shudders,

and walks with brisk intent towards a stoney

door, opening upon a lively hall.

A wall of glass, stands buffeted by a

torrential burst of elemental rage;

'And gazing out in contemplative thought,

stands a solitary figure –––

Watching over the storm. 

(Wilsons Promentory, VIc. Australia, 1 March 1988)

A fire-lit night among scattered trees with

only the whisper of a gentle breeze

disturbing the crackling air;

A crisp freshness is biting at fingers

and toes toasting near a campfire which glows

beside a weather-worn tent;

A world-weary stockman inclines his head

towards the glowing bed of coals whilst

a breath sighs near winking embers;

A wandering spark, caught in the wind's gust, is

watched in silence as it lifts into the

morning above the fire-light. 

(1987, at the typewriter. In response to a challenge issued by R. Jepsen of Bairnsdale.)

 The first thing you see

even before that firm

and friendly shake

are those hands;

Large, slightly caloused,

softened by machine-cooled air

and the constant caress of a

silver stick of plastic and ink;

They seem ot of place and too clumsy

for normal use... they have grown quicker

that their owner and hang, knuckle heave,

as if to drag along the ground;

They are not unusual but their

square imenseness, their thin bony flesh

protruding from slender wirery arms,

silently communicate a potential:

for creative distraction...