On land that was not ceded
Fair dinkum,
since it was not seeded

Why import black from the red, white and blue
We’ve got our own brand,
stamped with the kangaroo

DD Junior’s - made in 20-15
They’ve even gone and used,
the same old scream

And now we know there’s at least four-hunded-and-thirty-three more
But who is it,
bothering to keep score?

Stop all this yellin’ - the hollerin’ - the hootin’
And no matter what,
don’t even think about lootin’

No need to rise up - to fight for change
Just stay on your knee,
where we can keep you in range

It’ll work itself out,
don’t you know she’ll be right?
Words easy to mutter, when it won’t be your son tonight.

I tell you -
RSVP is just another 4 letter word
I choose not to use

impotent leader
and a (political) ding ****

unable to eject ***
-mings

i just didn’t know what to put down
 what is it you want from life?
 the answer wasn’t all that obvious
i just didn’t know what to put down

i just didn’t know
 how long will this stay with me
 told to play safe - is that
what to put down

i just
 can’t work this out, not yet
 a career? ‌my passion? i really
didn’t know

what to
 do with endless days
 until i’m ready to be
put down

i just didn’t know what to put down
but i chose

and 20 years later
i still don’t know what to put down

Names can be misleading
the label says baby oil,
but the ingredients bear nothing of the sort

As for me?
my origin is not of emerald isles
nor can i claim to be kind, honest, handsome

they say i should be understanding, learned
a philosopher or scholar
i’ve never taught anything: of worth

and yes, i am quiet
introspective
introverted and solitary

but they only see this as the bad,
it shows me
to be aloof - melancholy

so much hoped for, expected
the five letters to which i was branded
the promise never fulfilled

Her pantry is starting to look bare
once full and abundant, back wall now visible

She rues what is missing
selection not yet bland, but it is becoming dire

Her weary eyes notice a jar
Not the largest by size, but it has a presensce

She checks the label
a ‘humanity-mix’, estimated 7 billion pieces

Her mind tries to focus
the dates can’t be made out, what do they say?

She realises it’s not that important
it may not have reached expiration,
but it is certainly past the best-before-date

bad days measured by empty mugs in the sink
equal parts sugar, coffee and routine
make for the perfect drink

the count can exceed the hours awake
adrenaline-amped listlessness
is it the physical or mental at stake?

not to worry though, as this too shall pass
bitter darkness will dissapear
like that in my empty glass

I finally have permission…

To write bad poetry this month
                        no extraneous commitments dictated

To grow a beard all week
                        no vain pretense required

To ring my mum to-night
                        no after-work drinks mandated

To sleep in an hour
                        no daily commute demanded

To contemplate a minute
                        no ‘time wasting’ reprimanded

To breathe just one second
                        no productivity quota commanded

You are the tonic to a bitter world
lemon, lime
unbearable
without your subtling sense

You are the tonic in a poison chalice
geese, turkey
grey and wild
without your taming touch

You are the tonic for a syrup glaze
rosy sweet
overwhelming
without your balanced reproach

You were my tonic
but now you’re flat.

subtitle: the night i was the idiot in the box

Glare the distorted face
hark the effusive vitriol.

Recoil into sofa
reach out for control.

Switch off glass-canvas
turn on realisation.

No Fox in the henhouse
Only a single lone wolf.

Reflection unrecognised
reflect on what you’ve become.

Darkness creeping in.

Submerged in silence.‌ Pin drop!

Peacefuleness shattered.

The loneliness of a lifeless pond
it is
so easily stirred

a single pebble, tossed irreverently
creates
for a brief moment
a violent rush of ripples

in time it will slow
it will return
stillness will beset it once again

It is 23:24.

I stand
stone​ ​faced

I see
cold tiles at my rear
fully aware of this moment and those of the past

I look
dishevelled
vein throbbing u​nder the cool minty foam
hand slightly trembling

I recall
every word, said and unsaid
eve​ry harm, direct and indirect
yet the rushing wave of memories cause no angst.

No.
It is the razors' edge.

Three.
Sharp.
Whispered.
Words.

I. AM. SORRY.

Wiping down myself and then the cloudy basin
white cotton towel with spots of​ crimson​ aside
I am anew
I am clean shaven.

But I am not

Unmarked.

I once was a vagabond
but now seem va
cant



I once was a vagabond
but now exude ga
ll



I once was a vagabond,
but now am bond
ed