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I see the canyons, tracing each crevasse by finger line
So much silver all in one place makes me small
I stand in a tunnel without a roof, but, no rockfall
As hours pass we glimpse a little more, see a little less
Sounds from far away embrace me, feed me, Paul Kelly me
Sound floats in on a lazy wave of night chords, he is my gravy
I can hear the trees on either side of me whispering
Their strong trunks restraining the tunnel walls from falling in
I sit in a new space, my feet dangling in cool clear water
A reflection on the rivers surface shows another heavenly body
One of us now lays on their back, the other lies face down
We stare at the moons until they’ve gone, for me that’s all there is
You turn your head, smile and begin to slowly rise, like a silver ghost
You will follow the moon while I wait for its next waxing gibbous
That’s the difference between live people and dead people
They move on but we remain in this valley, unable to leave
The sun rises in leaps and bounds, by daylight the MCG has gone
It’s now just another winters day hovering around 43 degree
I will have to learn how to make gravy

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To Pope Francis, the 266th Pope

of the Roman Catholic Church,

(do you mind if I call you Frank,

I’m not much of a one for formality)

Dear Frank

I’d like to pass you a petition,

or edits if your please,

that are blatantly now needed

in that bible thing you preach

So it may have been a while

since you’ve done a full review

but as CEO of the catholic church,

the responsibility ends with you

There’s a few things now outdated,

though they’d never have been right,

like the way you designate women

as chattels without a life

And those words from old St Peter,

you know that annoying slavery thing,

I can’t say why a slave would revere

masters good or bad to please

Reading Genesis tell all daughters

that getting father drunk to lay

would do the world a Lot of good

can’t be preached this day and age

Then there is the stoning,

the murders and the rapes, if

you tell me you are good with this

I’ll call liar to your face

So come on now dear Frank

yell it out across the pews, that

the bible is to be rewritten, for

you are not the Murdoch news

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Winston Smith

2017, Orwellian times are here
This future from a past of fiction
Winston Smiths we all became
Our re-education now
Seems so utterly complete
Existing in this totalitarian state
A time of perpetual death
And unwinnable wars

We seek the Winston of old
He who was once in us all
He who would question the Minitrue
(Even if quietly)
Why do we believe the Newspeak?
Have I misspelled?
Is the truth really the truth?
Or is it only as the truth is written

Have we now become the Proles?
The uneducated, the working class
In new age terms we are the 99%
Of middle class, the Outer Party almost gone
Those thought police control the minds
The shock jocks on the airwaves
Where ruling elite behold only to their own
Have we become the unpersons of our time?

They watch us now, most every day
Every place, every way, every time,
Do we really love the big mutha
Or are we so saturated, our ideas so controlled
That we cannot think an original thought
Where we believe that black is white
Is really black is white
Doublethink the contradictory beliefs

The names may change yet the intoxication
Of the ideology still remains
Where the O’Brien’s of this new world lead
And everything’s right until they’re caught
Where the Hates are funded and contrived
Under the spreading chestnut trees
Who has betrayed the revolution?
By whose hand does this world now turn?

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Quietly,
just
say,
ooh!

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he doesn’t want a truth

he will not tell,

he knows

it has no worth,

that he would lose

what he already has,

he says

he avoids reality

by denying the truth,

he is intelligent,

he does not mean to insult

but the known is fearful,

even when the truth

will not be told,

it can be

a poor bedfellow

to a fool,

especially

an old one,

he knows

he knows better

than to tell,

assumptions,

a truth,

he fears loss,

it is confusing,

what will make him

cease

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Opening Lines

Someone once told me to
“write with impunity”
I didn’t know what they meant
so I just continued to write
whatever I damn well pleased

They told me
“pour your words onto the page”
but I drank too many of them instead
and ended up vomiting poems that
always had the word “carrot”

I heard the Eagles sing “listen to the music”
I tried to listen but in the end I was,
tone deaf, rhythm deaf and beat deaf
as a musician I would have made
a mediocre carrot farmer

I was told to try “art”, I said “which one”
my paintings were colourful, abstract and bad
I could not “get” faces,
and no matter what I painted
somewhere, there was always a carrot!

If a poem was just a title, or just one line
I could nail it, but I cannot keep to task
This poem was supposed to say
“something about love”
but it just feels like carrots

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once upon a time the world was sold an ass by the story telling of just 12 men whose
words were plagiarised by the powerful, to suit the few – we may never know their truth – today an
ass sells stories created in his own image and tells us it is news

once, a conclave of unrepentant sinners sat in judgement on better people – now ruby shoes
adorn the feet of a man elevated to power on a single puff of white smoke – as the blind
knelt and prayed, the sighted should have seen this coming.

everywhere, fanatical nations without lands rise & rage against someone’s idolatry,
based on nothing more than their own twisted ideology; who knew it would come to this.
I would ask Little Johnny, if he knew now what he knew then, what would he do

the ignorant chase Pokémon through the streets, an excuse for not having to look at the
poor and homeless as they walk by with their heads buried in metallic sand – you see,
the poor have no value in a game that has no value in a game that has no value within a game

feel the greed, where the greedy are too rich for the rich, yet the rich are still greedy for the
money of the poor who are still poor because the rich are too greedy and the greedy just
want more, too greedy

we now ignore where the wrong have wronged, where the few have wronged the true,
where the true can no longer speak the truth because the few can spew what they will say is
true, no fact check now, for the ABC is for them, not you

we awake in a bed, not a boat, hoping beyond hope that the words we will hear are a
solution not a joke – we are not Armani in a suit, or a budgie in a sack, our politics should
say, we are better than that