I can’t remember which one is uni night.

They chant 20-year-old lyrics in unison

until 2pm

every Thursday night.

Seems unnecessary

– can’t they wait until the weekend?

 

There’s a line around the block

to get in to somewhere

that shouldn’t need a line to get in.

I guess most haven’t been in before

except for the week before.

 

At 2.10pm it’s closed down,

for now.

It’ll be busy again next week.

So they spill out into an alley that’s

filled with them and council-sponsored graffiti.

 

They chatter meaningless nothings

I can’t believe her she says.

Or him that he did that to her.

But sometimes they attempt to mean something,

That’s not the right path for you she says to him.

 

They all trail off into the night time,

absorbed by their youth. It’s

the freedom of no-experience necessary.

Their bliss is being able to get up at 12pm

on a Friday.

Best to piss on a tram stop

*** It’s more than 20-minutes late ***

There’s a Somali, looks half-Egyptian,

he’s leaning in the door.

Then a rich girl pushes on,

she’s holding two bags and a bag.

There’s a wog, leb or Greek,

or general-Arab.

He’s got a rat’s tail and a bumbag

and a seat.

 

*** Then the next stop ***

A dumpling shakes her Prada umbrella

as she rushes on, pushing past

the other rich girl,

the Somali,

the (I guess) Arab.

 

There’s a junkie,

homeless and helpless

trying to steady himself

in front of the dumpling.

 

A suit pushes on.

He tells the junkie to move,

ignores the rich girl,

winks at the Arab,

checks out the dumpling,

and has to stand up.

He quietly blames the Somali.

 

*** Now the next stop ***

It’s just outside the free-zone,

and a PSO (or ticket inspector?)

comes on.

 

He’s got a vest,

a note book,

a pen,

a card checker,

a badge,

and a gun (no joke).

 

The rich girls are okay,

and the Arab’s already alighted.

But the junkie’s getting checked out.

 

Oh well fuck,

he says

what do you want?

               I’ve been on for two stops

               and I’ll get off in two more.

He now owes another $238.

 

The suit taps the PSO’s checker,

checks out,

nods in unison with the screws,

sits back down and scoffs

at the junkie who was forced to get off.

 

*** This is the stop after ***

The PSOs get off.

 

The Somali was looking down the whole time,

he wasn’t approached,

he breathes relief

and goes home to his family.

Why doesn’t the poetry library (dot e.d.u dot a.u)
have a section on work?
It has war (check),
sad (check),
school, sweet, sympathy (check).
There’s bush (of course)
and death (check),
engagement, family and friendship (check, check, check).
War is work,
I’m sad at work,
school was work,
work isn’t sweet.
I’ve got no sympathy for my boss,
who once worked in the bush.
A man was crushed to death at work.
She got engaged to a bloke she worked with,
had a family with a bloke she worked with,
I was a friend to a bloke she worked with.
I couldn’t give a shit about poetry at work
& neither could the poetry library dot e.d.u dot a.u.

#Jesuisphil

There’s this war that’s been on my mind
All the time, S-S-Syria oh oh
And I can’t pronounce their names
Are they human just the same?
S-S-Syria oh oh

Ah, if I’m called up, I’ll be there
They’ll be saved because I care
It’s all I need to save their lives
I feel so good if I just say the word
S-S-Syria, just say the word
Oh S-S-Syria

Now I know that I’m too young
This war has just begun
S-S-Syria oh oh
Oh give me a chance, give me a sign
I’ll help them any time
S-S-Syria oh oh

Ah, I’ve just got to go there, go there now
I’ve got to get closer but I don’t know how
It makes me nervous and makes me scared
But I feel so good if I just say the word
S-S-Syria, just say the word
Oh S-S-Syria, oh

Ah, it’s all I need to save their lives
I feel so good if I just say the word
S-S-Syria oh oh, I’ll just say the word
Oh S-S-Syria oh oh

I’ll say the word S-S-Syria.

Cuntstable (how to face-fuck a cop with a knife)

Black fella in WA,
drunk and driving and couldn’t pay
the fine that was fine and lesser for
a pressed shirt suit dresser.

Pulled up with half a tinny in his hand,
southern cross his pectoral brand,
cop says “What? You been drinking?”
he says “Nah, I’ve been thinking,”

Call to base, checks out his licence
since the plates don’t match the state he’s in and
his brand doesn’t match the state we’re in.

So, cop goes
“Look mate, you’re drunk and I think
you’ve thunk that this badge gives me a reason
to lead legions and unleash tasers on
non-compliant liberty-chasers

and you’re black, and this car’s unregistered
and I need to make two more arrests today
to get my pay from government inc. WA”

Minang man arcs up
– tense fists –
thinks nah, fuck this.
Cops always take the piss and
insist that this land is their
fair land. Fuck right off, cop.

Door pops and pig lands
on Mabo’s red ochre
sand with his pistol disabled
and his radio unable
and his story a fable.

Minang man on his sand looks down
grips the Bowie in his hand
picks up the convict and sticks his tool
in the throat of Cunstable O’Toole.

Pissing blood out his mouth, bacon begs to stop,
Minang man says “Yeah? Say sorry.
Properly.”

Elise Archer has herpes and David Walsh is a hook-nosed Jew.

Residents of Hobart, go back to the plough,
faux-culture has invaded now.

Your pints have been replaced by schooners
 – the choice of useless baby boomers.
 
Places once containing pool 
have been replaced with twee drool.

Girls with painted brows birth future crims,
sired by roid-boys on a booze-fueled whims.

On each street tapas are available,
fresh from the Thai-slave table.

The open mics are on every night
to replace old bar fights.

An old gambler runs the southern Louvre,
don’t be fooled and think he’s doing it for you.

Wellington in summer is covered in snow,
it’s just a place for tourists to go.

Elise Archer, with her fake face and tits,
personifies a place that was never it.

Residents of Hobart, go back to the plough,
no one really wants you now.