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Poems (1992-1995)
Trees
Cold
Lizard
Regret
Jihad
The City
The Gift
The Grid
Next Week
Bigot
Trees
By day, the drowned trees
stand tired, grey,
amid the brown waters
under dull Autumn skies.
Skeletal, they remain,
the ghosts of green bushlands
that perished when they created
the lake we camp beside.
Tonight, in the moonlight,
from the mirror-still waters,
a frozen black phalanx
of corpse hands clutch the sky.
- January, 1992.
Cold
White light.
The air is full of knives.
Biting coldness
lends the wind solidity.
Razor-sharp, cruel,
it cuts us to the bone.
There is no shelter.
There is no relief.
My face is a mask, a frozen grimace.
The vice-grip tightens
at the base of my skull.
With each step, a cry
dies in my throat - a pitiful whimper,
stifled and blown away.
Whiteness.
Pain.
Feet drag.
Fingers ache.
We must go on,
step after tortured step.
We force our way forward
through invisible walls of hurt.
Hard edges scrape our skin.
The distance becomes
interminable.
- July, 1992.
Lizard
A man is dreaming. He sees a small, lizard-like figure running across the surface of a planet. He realises it is himself, running in pursuit of his goals and dreams. As it runs, it ages, and has proceeded only a few steps before collapsing in the dust, withered and helpless. He curses his God for the futility of life, crying: "Why have you afflicted us so? What ever did we do to you to deserve this, except to steal your precious Wristwatch, if that accursed thing ever really existed?" As he speaks, the ground before him begins to crack and break apart. Through the sun-baked mud and clay, something is pushing its way towards the surface. It is the Sacred Wristwatch, the Eye of Wisdom, the Great Jewel...
- September 1992
Regret
I thought it would be a good joke.
I’d read about it in a history of World War II.
It was only half way through Year Seven
and already he had a reputation
as a faggot.
Nobody would talk to him, except the girls.
We joked that it was because they knew
that they were safe with him.
I’d read about it in a history of World War II,
how the homosexuals, in the death camps,
were identified with the mark of a pink triangle.
I thought it would be a good joke.
I coloured it in before school
and stuck it to his locker.
I waited,
and finally,
he arrived.
He screwed it in a ball and threw it away
and somehow it didn’t seem
like such a good joke anymore.
And even now,
thirteen years later,
i still don’t think
that it was such a good joke.
- May, 1993
Jihad
The Revolution continues.
Behind fortress walls
of ideal and righteousness
we celebrate our resistance
to the injustice of the world beyond.
In armour of leather and metal
and the badges of rebellion,
we proudly paint our banners
with the devices of holy war.
Portraits of heroes and martyrs
adorn the chamber walls
and their triumphs and victories
we replay over and again.
Fists raised in defiance,
we chant the war-cry in unison.
From a sacred silver disc,
the newest in our arsenal,
a prophet’s voices preaches
on the evils of wealth and greed.
We proclaim our assent, fix our warpaint in the mirror,
and purchase another toast
to the ruin of all empires.
In our souls we know that we are right.
With burning indignation
and a love of our cause,
we continue our struggle
deep into the night
and are satisfied.
While outside,
choking in the dust of poverty and despair,
the legions of the damned
- hungry ghosts with swollen bellies and limbs of wire -
tap meekly on the window.
We do not hear them.
We never have.
- June, 1993.
The City
At high school, a teacher
put a question to my class:
Imagine you lived in a city
where every pleasure,
every luxury
was yours, on condition
that some other soul, in some other place,
must suffer miserably
for your every joy.
What would you do?
I considered the question,
and was confident of my choice:
I would leave that place,
put everything behind me,
and wander off in the wilderness,
so that no other
should suffer for me.
This is what i would do.
I didn’t understand back then
the meaning of the story.
For twenty-six years
i have lived in that city
and still i have not found
the courage to leave.
- October, 1994.
(No, i had never heard of the X Files when this was written..)
The Gift
The FBI have
in the back of their car
the body of a dead alien.
She is dead
and she is sleeping
and they must feed her
each twelfth hour when she wakes.
She is their prisoner,
as am i.
When we are alone,
away from the suited FBI men,
she, shining and beautiful,
speaks to me of secret things.
She gives to me her child,
born of herself, a baby boy.
He is tiny
and will fit in the palm of my hand.
He radiates light like his mother.
I will love and protect him.
And she is gone.
Later, there will be questions.
But i have no time for that now.
I have other things to think of:
I have to remember
a name for my son.
- October, 1994.
The Grid
The grid is exact,
perfectly formed,
perfectly ordered,
electric blue-green,
against the empty blackness.
Faultless precision.
Absolute order.
Extending indefinitely
in infinite space.
Complete in perfection,
silent and faultless,
it comprises its own universe,
sufficient to itself.
I am there.
A fuzzy, indistinct presence,
nestling awkwardly in the interstices,
painfully out of place.
It hurts!
Such pain!
I should not exist here.
I do not belong.
This place will not tolerate the imperfect.
I must find a way out,
must escape the agony.
I have to get away
but i don’t know how.
There must be some escape,
some way to break free.
I can’t stay here like this.
I must find a way out.
I must wake up.
I can’t stand the pain.
- July, 1995.
Next Week
Next week
the Revolution begins.
The time has passed for talk
and idle indignation.
Now is the time for action.
No more can i dwell
on well worn lists of crimes.
I must find a plan,
a strategy for change.
Next week,
it can wait no longer,
i must break free
of the chains i have made.
Far too long
have i nurtured complacency
wasted precious time
when there is much to be done.
A new direction is needed,
a completely new approach.
Next week
i will think of a scheme,
some way to make a difference,
effect a real change.
A calculated strategy.
A plan of attack.
A clever use of resources
for positive impact.
From next week
every hour i possess
will be put to good use.
Next week
i will give up television.
Next week
i will abandon futile pursuits.
Next week
i will set aside my worship
at the shrine of comfort.
Next week i will abstain
from the indulgence of self pity.
Next week
i will learn to refuse
my chosen slavery
in the service of the Pigs,
find a hammer
to strike at their walls,
some way
to make my mark.
Next week i make
the first incision
to at last excise
the cancer of apathy.
To fight back,
resist,
break out,
be free.
Do something.
Be something.
So it is decided.
The time has come.
From next week it will be different.
This much is certain:
Next week i will find a way.
But for now,
there is nothing to be done,
nothing for me to do
but sit back,
order another coffee
and try to decide
how to pass
the rest of the afternoon.
July 1995.
He climbed aboard the tram:
Nice suit.
Nice tie.
Not a hair out of place.
An immaculate soldier of the corporate world.
He scanned the aisle
for the empty seat not to be found.
His eyes rested on me for a moment.
I knew what he was thinking - just let him dare say it:
"Why should full fare passengers be forced to stand,
while dole-bludging freaks like you take a seat?"
Just let him say it aloud.
I would welcome the right of reply:
"What do you think you know about me,
and what gives you the right to judge?
It so happens i do have a job, if it’s any of your business.
I work my 40 hours a week,
pay my taxes, pull my weight.
- Perhaps you should think before you open your bigoted mouth.
And what would it matter if i was out of work?
Would that make me less worthwhile a human being?
Maybe you’d like to see all the unemployed rounded up and shot
or placed into camps for orderly disposal,
along with anybody who doesn’t look the same as you.
Why don’t you learn not to judge on appearance
and to keep your prejudiced opinions to yourself?"
Just let him say something - i was ready.
I relished the opportunity.
He moved in my direction.
His eyes met mine once again.
I saw the muscles of his face begin to move...
A smile?
"How’s it going?" as he passed by.
Lost for words,
i felt my face burn as the realisation hit:
I had made a terrible mistake.
I had it all wrong,
had it all back to front.
He was not the bigot after all.
It was me.
- August 1995.
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