And these men that made the land
That wove their dreams with dust and dirt
That needed death to know the flower
Men of the corrugated country
Men of bones
Propped in the rusted windy ruins
Who watched the movements of the birds
Who bartered life with sky and earth
Men of the drought’s bare-cupboard cradle
Biblical in plague and famine
That struck the water in the stone
And fought with flesh to swell the soil
Time’s weathered toys
That sought a garden in the sand
Where withered streams of the dry season
Flowed with flooding summer rains
Men of the spectral desert spaces
That masked the ruined darkness with their drink
That fed the shadows with strange desires
And drowned the broken plough with tears
Rinsing The Blue
Go now and in my forest ramble
Amongst the thorns and hazelnuts
Search the edges, scour the shadows
And tell me if you find my love.
An old man in a hut of bones
He wears a cap all-colours blue
And he wastes away in the wilderness
Without a damn for me or you.
And if you find him whisper quiet
Into his cauliflowered ear
How beautiful his grey-green eyes
How beautiful his beard
Then take him by the knuckled hand
Lead him out into the sun
To where the river roughs its course
Where wild flowers bloom.
There on a stone above the stream
Dance his heart into a dream
Dance of kings and queens of old
And lovers’ stories still to follow.
Dance a fire in his mind
Dance desire into his eye
Dance until the tears of youth
Are flowing once more at his foot.
Now you have him – Quick – Take hold
(Forget the water’s fast and cold)
Toss his cap into the wind
And bathe him in that mountain stream.
Dunk him three times – down he goes
From his bald patch to his toes
Scrub the stubborn from his skin
And rinse the blue he’s wallowed in.
The queen with her guards has disappeared
And rain is falling in the flower garden
The king is dead
His sons grew fat in foreign lands
While the wild trees struck
Their roots inside
The castle walls.
The wind is howling in the valleys of our fathers
Where they worked the land between brae and burn
The rock doves flutter in leafless trees
And ivy greens the ancient stones.
The body – so beautiful in motion- catches
Caught by a bullet
Falls – and is gone
Mud comes and buries the dead of both armies
Trees grow
The woods are filled with sun.
Lovers come seeking shelter
Above the bones their limbs entwine
While round and ruffled to hold the warmth
A single bird sings out its song.
The birds of the fields come and go
The seasons like passing cars move on
As the hour of living fades
The hour of living is begun.
Driving Buses
I drive my bus
Full of grotty kids and lunatics
On the bitumen dream
Where middle-aged mothers with boxers’ eyes
Weep from the sidewalks
Of toy-trashed suburbs.
Driving my bus
Through the unfolding flower of dawn
And through the tangled tears of night
Where the boisterous poor
Wilt in their gardens of excess.
Driving them home
Driving lover to lover
To their acrobatic fields of fire
Driving the drunkard
Raging in his seat
And the girls with rainbows in their eyes.
Driving
Driving
Into the sorrow beyond the sky
And into the hollows of the lonely hearts
Who linger, speechless, at my ear
As we drive
And drive
Where the gutter ghosts rattle their dying coughs
Into the emptiness of night
And the half-cocked girls
Smoke toughness and cool
And the burning boys
Writhe in the funace of desire
Where we drive
And drive
The streets are crying in the pools of time
And the dogs are howling in the summers of their heat
And the ladies are waiting on the corners of our youth
With their handbag smiles
And the faces we
Will never see again
Go sliding by
Harbourside
Blown from busy parks he’s come -
sheathed in crumpled rags – in skin
seasoned by the salt and sun -
Come to sit,
mincing bread in those calloused hands,
to cast the crumbs
to a congregation of silver gulls
which parasitic and competitive
move in a constant emotional state
about his feet.
All is gone,
the faces, friends,
the long years,
out on the deep, on the dark sea
they dance in the fading evening light.
As the sun turns and the stars spin
he’s come to sit
in the roaring emptiness of space
face to face
with all that was,
with what will be,
with his bottle-full of memories
to drink the darkness,
to drink it down and deep.
The Cancer Cure
All that beauty in the beast
The chunk and chisel
And all that plate
Brought down in the plains
Laid low in the dust,
You may as well have murdered
A man for a button
Raped a woman for a kiss
As to kill the brute
Which eats the grass
For that dumb monkey magic.
Two steps to crazy
let the walls come down
and bury me in ruined kisses
the straight flying bird is dead
and the bruised heart weeps
in quiet gardens.
This Crooked Bed
Untitled artwork by MF Husain
Caught – Crucified
Your hands trembling
Extended
You clasp for these walls.
You have lost faith
In the night
In the tight embrace of love
Your back is broken.
Prepared – for this crooked bed.
Prepared – for the hounding face of time.
Thylacine
The very last, the endling
Native Tiger of Tasmania Shot by Weaver 1864
Caged in the sunlight at Beaumaris Zoo
Tired of the poking and the prodding
Paced out of existence into history
Into emblem and icon, legend and label
On to things protected by copyright
Footage and fable
The internet’s electric jungle
And into that great white emptiness
Of extinction
That giant ship which men are building
Stacking and storing
Fitting and filling
Recording into the grand voyage
Of oblivion
Hunting Buses
At night the boys go hunting buses,
tight-lipped eyes
loaded with anger
gun-barrel arms
tattooed at the shoulder
and quarry-stone cocked
in their hands.
Finger-high boys
of corner-store cool
snarling boys
drinking the dark and unloved spaces
the public places
where they have sucked
both grog and girl.
They’ve flogged the stolen cars for fun
in third gear
up Spit Hill
and disappeared
in the Wallaby Grass
as the sirens wail
and the cars burn.
Footpath foul
round cul-de-sacs
these branded boys
have made their names
on toilet walls
and window panes
have felt their bitter forceful curse.
And tonight the boys
are hunting buses
in tobacco black
suburban hollows
they’re taking aim and will sleep
smiling
once the kill is made.
Evening
the sun is setting – the pink sky
and the black earth
collide – bats crawl through
in lines
Autumn Leaves
Leaves of Autumn
gather at the door,
old friends are calling
down the avenue of years,
I can hear them calling
in the warm glow these turning trees
lend to a slow suburban scene,
in that river’s flowing,
in this wind which blows
down city streets. Old friends
gone with the ocean’s silent going,
gone beyond reach
of clear and vivid memory,
gone into the spirit world
of water, wind, and Autumn leaf.
The Timber Getters
at the deep pool
where no light is reflected
where small birds come
clinging to the vine
amongst fallen logs and silences
the crush of leaves
and the rot of years
at the dark edge
where now unassailable trees tower
in a brief clearing
at the still centre where the wreckage lies
of river’s breach and storm’s rage
here at the heart
where once the workings of long-ago men
the wild, roaring, toothless ones
desperate and dislocated
their fierce eyes blazing through dark
and bodies by day
burning through timber
cut sunlight in shadow
and nation in nature
Where I Need To Go
though the out be dark
the inner light is on
i walk
though all the way am blind
when the wind blows i bend my back
and i get to going
when the going’s fine
though the heart is deep
the shallow sea of hate
seems sometimes
all this world will know
to forget that there is loving still
is not to get
to where i need to go
though the word seeks truth
silence knows to find
an answer
is to find a lie
let others think they’ve found the road
the path is hidden
where i need to go
Fromelles
and that one man
blinded
distraught
stuck there in the middle
of that no man’s land
that abattoir
that circus
walking round in a ring
and falling down
stumbling round in a ring
and falling down
until somebody finally
put a bullet through his head
