(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. 

(June 1998 reflecting on events that transpired on one fateful Cristmas Eve)

In the dark small hours of Christmas night

when all is quite, no sound, no light

I still see that moment ––– when she cast

me aside... there is no where to go

on this eve, to hide, for her face still

haunts me through troubled slumber while the

world around me collapses, is broken,

brought undone ––– and in sweat-drenched sleep

at the end of night... I still dream of

her, I unable to wake, or fight. 

(April 1999. Another restless night, again.)

I saw a black rainbow

this morning it

shone on the shadow

of the sun and

everywhere I turned

or ran Armagedon

had begun ––– the

Horsemen fell from out

the sky (and raindrops

thick as blood) and where

they slashed and rode or

cried... people died... in

a human flood of

tears and pain and fear

and terror ––– And here!

the Clever casting

others and unfortunates

ahead... to stave

off the second

coming of the Dead. 

(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. 

(28 September 1999. This came out of my own internal war between the New Age and the Corporate community. My sinicism often left me stranded in the no mans land inbetween these two sides, taking flak from both.)

The winds blow cold tonight, this night, solstice

eve, and my heart beats heavy and loud for

there is rebirth in the scent of the air.

I, a child of flower power birth. I,

a todler that celebrated life in

the Age of Aquarius. I, a youth-

ful discoverer of chanting new age

phrases. I, in full manhood, after search-

ing my soul and tearing from it heart felt

primal screams, am on the cusp of being

born again ––– born into a new inhe-

ritance, born into a future of my own

making... and I am afraid, so darkly fearful and frightened of this pregnant mo-

ment, scared that all I've ever been is some

Conservative, Understated, Nineties,

Type... how the blow cold this night of nights, this

solstice night where all that is before is far

less than all that is to come, and the

moment waits... for me... for me to be... for

me to become... for a song to Ring Out 

and herald the coming of My, New, Age. 

(June 1999. The result of another sleepless night.)

The night grows cold

clouds fill the void between

the stars and this Earth this

land that birthed you and I

Hold me closer

for fires of distraction rain down on

these cities centuries old looking in

to the maw of a new millenium

Still touch my heart

that I might know tha somehow

you still need me and don't want

to be lonely in this dark

The lights still glow

in the black roof of this slowly

dying world and are no

longer a silent comfort

Slow these grey clouds 

that swallow the sky in

their shadow path ––– towns torn

apart ––– such flames! such stench!

Don't let me see!!

Touch my skin     hold me     for

an ill chill stalks my soul

in these visions tonight. 

(1998, Ellinbank, Vic. Aust.)

I no longer speak of her nor to

her my thought longingly stray yet

she is still here inside

of me ––– our parting more

like a death than the split of minds

unreconciled... still, I love her still. 

(Started in 1994, completed in 2003)

silence

cycles of a repertoir of

words, cutting quips, nothing original,

new.

silence

defying time, change, situations

remain the same, in this stagnant pool 

of

ideas

like convection currents the same

to and fro of echange recycled by old

voices cut down by the same tired replies.

silence

dull players strut like fools, awaiting

Godot beyond, all caring

knowing.

silence

trapped like a recursively

looping drama while the plot sickens... no,

end. 

(24 December 1988. Wrote this after tossing and turning all night lamenting my breakup with Rita A.)

Christmas night comes once a year 

and with its pass, this heartfelt tear

Turning against a cold, hard pillow 

and my soul this night bleeds, with sorrow;

'And should You sleep alone this night

clutching the blankets close and tight

May you toss, with unending restlessness

for naught can dull your searing bitterness

that drove a shattering wedge between us.

May you dream, Me...

                                Merry Bloody Christmas. 

(1995, a haunting dream at a time of spiritual crisis)

I am the Rock, on which a Church has

foundered, and I long once more for the

simplicity of fishing, for all that

I built, in the name of Jesus

has collapsed with corruption and guilt.

Oh Father forgive me this sad and

pitiful tragedy, I knew not

what I did.

I am the rock on which damnation

grows, leading my people, like lambs to

slaughter: I watch them sacrifice each

other through senssless conflict, bitter

war...

Oh wretched am I, my lord,

beholding such pointless pain, they know not

what the do...

Holding in vain your name, my God

holding your name in disdain. Oh

release me from this suffering

my beloved, my hope. Give them

a new Great Name.