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Republic
The past won't know us now.
We're changing the locks
on motley desire. We are
among strangers. The villages
are wished away and the kingdom
of six o'clock closing.
Shall I invoke you as
an ultimatum?
Threat or promise? Secret republic
declared long ago. Oracular republic
of shillings and pence. Of bush week,
of whims assembled to towns, strung on tracks
till the tar melts in summer. Republic of the burning
bush. And the sand blows over us, crusts all our dreams.
Shark infested floater, sand ringed, bright in a fly blown
shielding the eyes sort of way. Republic of oldest curses,
latest luck. Of shopkeepers smug in wise saws,
free with advice but tight with their credit.
Postmasters weighing and measuring doom.
Profitless waste of quids to be made.
Survivor's republic. Lost causes. Found comforts.
Of great good fortune talked itself down to dust.
Of greater regrets. Republic of ought to be, smog,
grim defiance, of the empty gesture, the endless beach,
of the sun never setting, the clock runneth over,
jumping the queue and the waves break forever.
Republic of terrible skies higher than others.
Of the world's bluest ocean, of dragging
through court, all colours cancelled
by the office of jealousy, its new tax
on everyone's everyday spark.
Republic of the fair
go, empty republic thought up
by pisspots and murdering bastards. Of loud writing,
of scribbled bark smaller than hands. Of the roaring deaf
taunted to fists in the pub of the serious business.
Terra nullius and the borrowed jukebox.
Republic of the old truths hidden.
Of never bothering to say you're sorry.
Republic of
uncontrollable nights, thighs danced till dawn
without fear or favour or memory either. Of the world's weary
paws come to rest here at last. Of the happy-go-lucky sat up like
Jackie. Jungle republic of crocodiles waiting, sharks in the
shallows.
Stripped assets and
staff sent home. Republic of gullet,
of gulping it down. Of half-pissed regrets for same follies
repeated. Republic of not knowing how it got home
or forgetting to go or wherever it came from.
Republic of strangers
trying to please.
Of refugees sprayed on arrival, of burning the boats
and they still wash ashore. Banana republic, uranium glow.
Anorexic, bulimic, mumbling excuses. Beery republic
with its balls on the barbie. Of the borrowed aphorism, of we
told you so. Of having your own way. Us and them in the convict
republic. Of the past, of the few. Of doing to others what they've
done to you. Republic of redistribution. Of the lost agenda.
Of stumbling in mood swings. Monster republic and six heads
can't agree the wedge's thin edge and the floodgates of peril.
Of two Wongs and a horde of whites.
Of the class and of the
gender. Of the great forms fallen into
disuse. Of magazine royals, involuntary intrigue. Of service
disgruntled, of dreamy afflictions, of not yet, of not yet.
Till it's knighted itself for services rendered. Republic
of garments sewn up in abjection. Shoes heeled
there too, of nothing is mended.
Republic of Tories who
take the horizon having
their effortless way with all labour. Big baby republic
of lottery winners. Sniffs its own flesh in the fire it's still
building. Surly republic grudging the chore of choosing its stupor.
You beaut republic of having your cake, eating it too.
Boys' own packrape republic. Of the weak
applause, of the wild jeering, the frenzied bid.
Of diggers, of dim
regrets, lunch in the trenches, head in the sand,
hang dog mouth. Chips on both shoulders, lording the penguins.
In love with its clich=E9s of distance, of dullness. Shiny republic
of suits and ties trading the future forever for dinner today.
Of the union gone blue in its shivery underwear.
Disintegrated communists who won the big battle.
Of flash ideas condemned to slow death,
sold overseas for want of cash, for another cask
of our own Chardonnay.
Inimitable republic of
lost lines, hand-me-downs,
five fingered discounts from the horn of plenty.
Lakes of too little and lakes of too much.
Of lusts and grim appetites. Mongrels from anywhere.
Their last legs, the shortfall. Of the hand over fist and the fist
moist for fun. Inevitable republic of the little lie down, of the
needless
worry, of the needle exchange. All vices at once, pissing itself
with good honest fear. Ad-blackened lungs - asthmatic republic
forgetting to breathe. Till its allies remind it. What do
we care? Toil and ease all at once. Too many roos
in the top republic. Having a word with itself.
Having it off. Thumping
away at the coital cot.
Sweaty summer republic of love's one mosquito
seeking us out. Republic of the few intent at their tasks,
the many fixated with watches, tempering passion, regret.
Sad swellings, tumescence. Alighting at Redfern.
Maddening republic of the limits of the physical.
Of the two year old's tantrum of 'no' to suggestions,
of 'no' to its dinner of medicine meat. Republic
of me and of me and of me. Blind eye to the neighbours
all in atrocity. Blind eye to big bullies footing the bill.
Matey republic - all
best intentions.
Men off moving cattle for their solemn reasons.
Sworn secrets. Of their knowledge is a little thing
in the vastness of what will be. Flat, grey republic neither for nor
against. Republic of light falling for us, heaven's gifts, of the
sun
running towards us or running away. Of the shifting line through
the tree. And the tree goes on living, half its limbs either side.
Republic of fenceposts, where no one owns the boundary
or the line of thought that runs between
greed's kingdoms which are our
common wealth. |
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The Sociology of Paradise
First I came through a
hoop of flesh.
I didn't jump I swam.
There was an endless mud plain
and another storm coming.
Rain beat the rice shoots
green out of the soil.
Millions were huddled
round the still ether.
The century dragged on.
I missed the boat, swam out
to the island. And the air
was still in the sun's quarter
and the half a sky
where waves could have been.
The moon washed up
where the tide rusted into the sand.
Cars came out of the
twentieth century.
Coca Cola came ashore, washed
on the hard live shell of paradise.
A coconut fell out of nowhere
onto my child's head. I didn't stumble.
There were stars and bars everywhere.
I could hear the west crackling through
looming shadows of bliss.
Back-country hills were
dense with trees,
dissidence, notches for
climbing up.
And curled into a noose of straw
the disappeared hung, swaying
- invisible burden of paradise. I jumped
through a hoop of gold. I had
the ring of confidence then
and a flag the colour of mud.
Helicopters filled up
the sky.
At lunchtime and late in the afternoon
when the noise came
birds shifted forward in a straight line
black, palm to palm, fifty metres.
Then when they came back
there was nothing the wind could move.
Trees clung to a rock in the sea.
On dry land I had a
good steady job
in the flyspray factory. They paid me
in cigarettes so naturally I took up
smoking. The mist from the nozzle
formed up a halo
to martyr the very air.
You couldn't call it a leak.
It was more like missile testing.
Each day here proud of
the fallen -
brainless slaughters to glory in.
The earth makes up a place for each.
The new rice sings from the earth.
The colour of the mud in our veins
is a flag billowing over a hoop
of bright gunmetal: the welcome mat.
I didn't jump I swam. |
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Land of the Lottery Winners
In the street of the
newcomers bitumen
is dark with oars. You can hear the beating,
unbearable brightness. Solace of kitchens -
a dripping somewhere revenging contraption.
Mastering bedroom - a frenzy, for fears.
There's no work in this
play of acres, nothing but the flesh
won't have. This is the finished world. These are the winners.
Edges are trimmed and
the bindy-eyes harvest, mouth of a ghost
lies under that tap new washers won't fix. It's all new though.
Kerbs are in order, gutters all flow down there where the urchins
and each of us makes fair a beginning, begetting if the prime
should come before the knowledge. Hearth dark
of forbidding is pressure, all thumbs.
In the suburb of
lottery winners (hinterland golden
and green with its luck) losers have mortgaged their skins
to serve. They've left off ancestral much loathed resentment,
old days of curfew and eat more of this.
No one's from here. Nothing is made. All kept to a rhythm.
We lend. We're repaid. Howmanyfold? Howfarahead?
Consult us for an oracle.
Our lackeys are
ox-strong, hunt in wire paddocks.
Everyone does what you or I would. You start out
dirt scraping, you don't change your name.
In the home of the
lottery winners like this:
each has a magic pudding or pizza, a cake and eat it too I mean.
The bone breaks your way every time. A kind of bottomless
dole with no questions. Still there are whingers.
It's still not enough.
As luck would have by
the short and the curly
everyone knows what you want. Anonymity's as good
as your gold. They won't object, it's what they're here for,
unless you wish them to of course. The brief is not to disappoint.
Nothing does. No doubts
shape the body.
There's labs where life keeps at the odds. Miraculous skins
stretched agony thin but all their own. Still there are those
cashed up hereafter. You should see the big send-offs
on Pyramid Street. All statues and thanks for the memories,
cramming last calories in if they can.
As the young in their
prodigious strength and talent for abuse,
lift without labour, draw strength out of torments, so of a certain
shape and years a man comes to his lottery.
In this there are no causes, flags. A volume of air
we purchase our children, theirs. They will repay.
What can we bring them? The holograph tree?
We can watch the sky buries. Over the entering gate
the sign says:We the world's best.We fortunate few.
Self made Immortals!
Ours the last country!
Hard by the rainbow - yes! There is heaven
for lottery winners.
Believers we'll bus
you. Drought or some vengeance?
I have the pictures. There's only one language - winners'.
Statistics. Ours in the newsagent when we say
this one any good? or another, the same.
I too have a ticket - luck swells my pocket
I check the paper, know a day soon
my name among all the proscribed.
No saying when the lottery claims you.
Life is charmed just to be by the tale.
Here's postie's whistle
and dog after bike.
It's bob-a-job day
in the land of the sinners.
Egg in lard and bacon slabs,
bread as white, as bright
as hope, our highway
- all God given tomorrow
and here at the table
His beard is all eggy.
But you can't tell God, can you?
Besides He's got something there
for later.
There's something rubs
off.
There - that's a good privilege.
There's retribution
- that's gets them in.
Best thing
in the land of the winners,
God's whiskers caught in the light.
It warms the crutch to serve
and we're unending
in congratulations. |
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digging
in the backyard
under the mulberry tree
(imagine it hung over the line
staining all clothes like a curse on civility)
my brother and I were digging to China
digging and digging
you could tell people too
and they¡¦d just see two boys weary with determination
the puddle deeper or drier each day...
today here I am in a city of China
telling the tale ...
...on the way we had
sticks for swords
but down in the tunnel you can¡¦t turn or bend
there¡¦s no room to draw
no light to even glimpse the foe
by the deepening darkness
you know that you¡¦re always further
from any first intention
¡V
that means you¡¦re on the way
and in recess of memory still
the hole¡¦s next to a 44 gallon fire
smouldering, rusted through
with the battle of elements
and all the past turned ashes ¡V leaves
and clippings, words wasted
I
imagine that first empty ground¡¦s
still there too
...the steps down
carved like a Cappadocian hideout
worn with the paws of the cattle who¡¦ve followed ¡V
their caves and passages, donkeys¡¦ stalls,
winepresses and scent of offerings;
bent icons on the down sloping shelves,
they burnish the walls in mysterious signs
and somewhere down there
was air to climb to
later light and these words
none of us knew
down gets to be up
now that I¡¦m here
I
can only think of the first few steps
and whether they¡¦re tended
when I come up from this age in the catacomb
will I step out from under a loose palace tile?
will I play for the crowd, dance with the princess
through acres and acres ¡V the one printed circuit?
Or lift up a drain grate out in the street
just as the juggernaut comes home?
¡¥this lucky hero returned from the wall¡¦
in lieu of a headline
here is his journal
¡V all motheaten fragments,
the gaps are deliberate
however you take it, whatever you know
the instructions are briefly
pick up a shovel, dig
just where you are
the dirt out is out
you won¡¦t get it back
there¡¦s a crowd of onlookers
but no one comes after
no one sees you below
just pick up a shovel
and down you go
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