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Poems (1996 -)
Gen-X Post-Teen Rebel Poser Anthem
I’ve got nothing to say,
so i’ll say it anyway.
It doesn’t matter much to me
as long as i’m paid.
I’ve got nothing to say,
but you can quote me anyway.
It doesn’t matter much to me
as long as i'm laid.
I don’t feel but i can pretend,
and i’ve got all the right friends.
Stress to impress but i couldn’t care less.
Revolution’s under way,
‘cause i took some drugs today.
Nothing matters much to me,
as long as i’m spaced.
I had to break away,
so i spiked my hair today.
It doesn’t matter what you think
if you’ve got the right face.
Punk Rock’s back again,
another fucked-up fashion trend.
Generation x? You know i couldn’t care less.
It’s all the same in the end.
Will somebody wake me then?
I couldn’t care less.
What do you expect?
- March, 1996.(apologies to the Misfits)
Devil’s Advocate
So i’ve given in again.
Once more i’ve betrayed my principles,
Let myself be persuaded, convinced
Deceived myself to believe,
Or just held my tongue and complied anyway.
Ultimately, it is the same.
Three times this week i have helped the cheat to prosper,
Against my conscience but not my will.
Gutless as ever. Just doing as i'm told.
An adept accomplice. Champion of the unjust. Defender of the indefensible.
It seems such a short time though, since last i swore
Never to let it happen again.
- May, 1996.
Wish List #1
I wish i was dangerous.
I wish there were laws i wanted to break.
I wish every weekend
was three days long.
I wish i only had one chin.
I wish i was seventeen.
I wish leather was a vegetable product.
I wish i was creative.
I wish it was the 80’s.
I wish i could invite anybody around
to crash at my place if they want.
I wish i had someone to invite around.
I wish i didn’t hear so many songs i like
on mouldy oldies radio.
I wish i didn’t care about
that stupid sort of thing.
I wish i was less gullible.
I wish humans were less inhuman.
I wish could learn to make do with less.
I wish i believed that.
I wish i didn’t have to work tomorrow.
I wish i was respected.
I wish i didn’t give a damn
about others’ opinion of me.
I wish we didn’t have to die.
I wish Jew and Arab could live in peace,
along with everyone else.
I wish i could come up with
a better poem than this.
I wish i had a deeper voice.
I wish i could get organised.
I wish i didn’t judge on appearances.
I wish i was better looking.
I wish i could go back
and do things differently
- not everything but some things.
I wish i had more hope for the future.
I wish i wasn’t racist.
I wish you could always depend
on the kindness of strangers.
I wish i hadn’t said that.
I wish my tattoo was bigger
- and other things as well.
I wish that size really didn’t count.
I wish i’d been to Europe.
I wish i had friends.
I wish kindness wasn’t weakness.
I wish i understood.
- February, 1997.
The Cure
For so long it has plagued me,
Realising the contradictions in my life.
Every night on the town,
Every beer, meal or movie,
Diminishes my cherished claim to care.
Only by forgetting,
May i indulge freely my need for fun.
For i know my little luxuries, my precious lifestyle,
Really do come at the expense
Of those millions who must suffer
More each year to keep my world rich.
Guilt is such a troublesome thing.
Ultimately, all that glitters is tarnished by its touch.
I manage to ignore it most of the time,
Like the man who covers his ears to steal a bell,
Though i can’t find excuses to free me for long.
And then, at last, from a television commercial,
The secret is finally revealed to me.
Like a sign from the gods above,
An answer to my problem is given:
Simply use this facial cleanser once a day, eat better, exercise more,
Then i too can be "completely guilt free".
- February, 1997.
Fuck you.
- March, 1997.
The Minus Touch
The
art
of
making
everything you do
turn
out
really
really
small.
- May 1997
At the start of this decade, a friend of mine was butchered by a serial killer. I'd only known her for four months, but it still cut me to pieces when they dug up her body four years later. I guess it was because, while we all believed she was dead, there was always the uncertainty, the chance that one day you could run into her on the street and say "hey, i thought you were dead!" Even before she disappeared, i'd always been somewhat prudish about things like glamourising serial killers. When they finally put away the bastard responsible, they released the full details of how it happened. It's ironic the timing of things sometimes..
Sweet Dreams
(Marilyn Manson screams in my head...)
Sometimes you need a change.
I’m sick of being Mr Nice Guy,
- sick to death of it -
but i don’t know how
to be anything else.
My fragile ego craves for something different,
something a little nastier,
to play the bad guy for once
- to be a bastard and get some respect.
Sweet dreams are made of this..
Who am i to disagree?
Perhaps i’ll imagine for myself
a hedonistic role,
- the one i was so fond of in my youth -
set aside for a while the endless moralising,
and dream of decadence and exquisite sin.
Some of them want to use you..
Some of them want to be abused..I can feel the load lighten already,
without the excess weight of prudish ballast.
I’m beginning to enjoy this state of mind.
It still fits after all these years.
I want to use you and abuse you..
I want to know what’s inside you..
But then i see her.
In someone’s newspaper in the seat ahead -
her face
and still more details
of the cruel way she died.
Sometimes i wonder
about this morbid interest.
Why must they make a celebrity
of the sick fuck that did that to her?Why do people delight in the twisted and depraved?
And why do i?
What do i think i'm doing anyway,
singing along happily with my
serial killer worshipping heroes?
What would she think of that?
What would she say?
Maybe she’d like it.
She was always the hedonist, moreso than i.
Isn't that what i liked about her?Wasn’t Deanna her favourite song?
What would she think of it now,
after what happened..
I don't know.
Why isn't anything ever simple?
Why don’t i ever understand?
- July 1996
Notice
Persons of low
self esteem and confidence
may be given
to episodes
of extreme violence,
uncontrolled hatred
and irrational vindictive behaviour,
when subjected to any
actual or perceived
insult,
slight
or humiliation of any kind.
You have been warned..
- August, 1997.
Wish List #2
I wish there were no such thing as honour,
no pride
or shame
or glory,
nothing to defend,
no reason to avenge,
to brutalise, hurt and kill
for the sake of something worth nothing.
I wish there were no such thing as loyalty,
no duty to place your own first,
regardless of what is right,
no patriotism
or nation,
no "us" or "them",
no community defined by those excluded.
I wish there was no such thing as tradition,
no rules that exist for the sake of themselves,
no cause to mutilate a little girl,
burn alive the widowed bride
or stone young lovers to death,
simply because it is so.
I wish we could erase all and start again
without things turning out just as bad.
I wish the seed of hate
was not inside us all.
I wish it didn’t find
such fertile soil in me.
I wish i didn’t need to kill
to feel like a man.
I wish i was less naïve,
that thinking the best of people
was not a mistake
and that they would fail to disappoint as often.
I wish i didn’t think the worst
of those who don’t deserve it.
I wish i could learn to know the difference.
I wish my self-respect
was not conditional
on the approval of those
unworthy of mine.
I wish all that was good in me
was not a sign of weakness,
that i had no need
to descend to their level of indifference,
just to avoid the label of loser.
I wish i believed the future
was not in the hands
of those with hearts of lead.
I wish the selfishness,
the callousness,
the devotion to greed,
the cold indifference,
where people are things to be used for gain
or cast aside on the scrap heap,
the old and helpless discarded and unwanted,
hospitals only for the rich,
user pays for the right to live,
self-interest the whole of the law
and compassion a needless luxury
was just a passing phase.
But i know that it is not.
I wish i believed what i want to believe
rather than what i know is true.
A Mercedes drives by a cardboard slum.
This is the face of the future.
- November, 1997.
I was in my sanctuary
when you told me how i needed you,
thought i had my own opinion,
until you told me what was true.
You have the answers and the plan.
I’m ready now, at your command.
Teach me how to think, then tell me what to buy.
When you’re
feeding me all of your lies,
feeding me all of your lies,
i will swallow..
The world looked complicated.
Now it all falls into place.
Who’s wrong, who’s right. Black and white.
In colour with a handsome face.
No need to try to understand.
Consume the facts straight from your hand.
An eyebrow cocked, a knowing smile, i'm yours.
When you’re
feeding me all of your lies,
feeding me all of your lies,
i will swallow..
Your words speak of reason.
I feed upon your image
and your lies,
more of your lies,
a wall of your lies,
a thrall of your lies..
- March, 1998.(apologies to U2)
Anarchy.
Now as ever the rallying cry.
Anger as energy, horns to level a conceited Jericho.
Rebellion against everything in one neat package.
Circle-A brand, inspiring style if not substance.
Holding promise of a new revolution.
Yet where do we go from there?
Chaos. Shiva as destroyer, laying waste to create anew.
How much promise can an idea hold?
All that is old and rotten overturned to make room for something new.
Only what can the new order be, when all is done,
Save a new face for old tyranny?
As the years pass, the answer becomes no clearer.
Now where is the struggle? Still wear the symbols and still serve the pigs.
Dissent seems pointless without a better plan.
Destruction, I guess, always was
Easier than creation.
Simpler by far than to forge an alternative.
That was when things seemed easy, when the face of the enemy was known.
Reality is seldom that straightforward.
Ultimately, the enemy is within, or so the saying goes.
Can you change the world, whether or not you change yourself?
This must be the question for tomorrow.
I know what I can't change, but not what I can. Or how.
Only one thing I know for certain, if anything is certain any more.
Now is not the time to admit defeat.
- November, 1999.
Yes, it's another cover version. i don't have time to be original these days.
This Is Melbourne
I see a huddled shape
With a sad plea scrawled on card
Is he trying it on, or really doing it hard?
In a cash point alley
Someone took me by surprise
Her voice droned so flat it matched
The dead look in her eyes
This is Melbourne
This needle full of AIDS
This is Melbourne
Give me cash or share my fate
On a Smith Street tram
Talking of pension day
Old diggers sharing tales
Of friends who've passed away
Three bitter youths
Confront them to atone:
White nation, black history
It's you who stole our home
This is Melbourne
What did so many die for?
This is Melbourne
Who do you blame to even scores?
Came to this country, seeking a safer life
Broken no laws, but still he's doing time
He tried to end it all, a failed and desperate plea
Locked in a psych ward now, when will he be free?
This is Melbourne
Don't ask for our protection
This is Melbourne
We will throw you in a prison
The men in suits will meet
To put their deals to bed
It's for our future, that's what the newspapers said
Protestors protest
Facing the thin blue line
Here comes the baton charge
And the media's one in crying:
This is Melbourne
We salute our boys in blue
This is Melbourne
Let them do what they have to do
This is Melbourne
No room for the unAustralian
This is Melbourne
We should throw them all in prison..
- June, 2001.
(apologies to the Clash)
home .. about me .. photo gallery .. drawings .. poetry(1990-1) .. poetry(1992-5) .. poetry(1996-2000) .. writing .. rants .. links .. rings .. mail me
