The pale-yellow ocean stretches on for miles out here.
There are cattle speckled like freckles in the ocean here and there drowning.
Little bird necklaces and bits of coyote food line the freeway giving it a certain grotesque opulence.

Some people have not enough teeth from too much **** and not enough mints.
Some people think this is because there are too many brown people and not enough fence.

The orchards of money trees stretch for miles out here.
They’re irrigated with blood and sweat and tears and fears.
They’re picked with the dark hands of the Valley, both young and old, male and female, poor and poor, Adam and Eve.

All the teens are pregnant, all the drugs are hard, all the prisons are full, all the schools are empty.

Some people are empty.

Some people think there should be a wide selection of guns for even the most sophisticated palate.

leave to remain
stay to move on
tear down to build
some space to call home

make new reminders
keep a fresh store
full of faint memories
with room for much more

drink to old allies
drink to forget
laugh with new friends
shake off regret

this is tomorrow
a brand new today
this is fresh start
and you're welcome to stay

I used to hate your healthy avocados...until I had one
Not that your coffee tasted superior to my tea
But what's taste when you season mine with gun powder?
Yes. In case you did not detect, there is a lot of hate in this one.
Call me aggressive and spiteful, whilst holding your rifle.
They say hate bring about hate brings about hate brings about hate
so for you to understand, I put aside my ignorance and try to walk in your shoes.

OK, let's start:

A lot of trees, beautiful sky, delightful breeze.
A rich land where tenants are a many and they shun the proprietor.
I know I promised to be nice
but let's face it for that white picket fence
someone had to pay the price.

Start again:

Sunny coasts, bacon, eggs on toast.
Walk the dog in the park, life is not all that hectic here.
To make it clear, running out of coffee is my basic fear.

Flat stomachs.
In fact, six packs.
Cupboard full of knick-knacks
and plenty of time to kick back and relax.
Never-ending supply of niceties.

Calm waters, long walks along the harbor
and perhaps a tall pint of lager at the pub.

Throw some juicy ones on the barbie mate.
Who cares if 6.2 mil in Somalia are starving mate?
You say to me:
"survival of the fittest, Darwin mate"
"It's so difficult to fit in" I say; so tiring MATE
Did I say that right?
I'm Mohammad, as James in a play called "Aussie Catch Up"
and I don't know how to play that part.

What else can I say? they gave me a voice (although in English)
between the self deprecating migrant and the middle eastern rag head, the gave me a choice.

And by the way my boss tried to anglicize my name
she said 'Sebastian' had a nice ring to it.
Well go ahead, march to your colonial tune and have me sing to it.

Oh healthy avocados, you're too ripe for my liking.
Maybe I'm just used to a bit of rawness in my diet.
To be honest, I have a heavy heart, a dark one.
Maybe to reconcile, you should take a step
a very very very very very very long one.

One frosty day, the
beggar begged from home,online,
Help! Send migrant home.

Migrating from the heat
Trying to find his feet
Escaping from a war
Sacrificing more
Victory in defeat

This is not my land.
This waterlogged clay soil is not my rich loam.
I am the incomer, comeover, the offcomeden;
not from 'round these parts.
We do not share a history,
I do not know your tales,
and you are unprejudiced, but
I don't fit in.
And yet, I find, on returning
to the green-grey valleys of God's own county
this now too, is not my home.
Not my land.

salt stings wounds
salt stings eyes, entering, leaving...
healing, healing. The sea will take you away.
I tire of hearing abot these migrants
well they tire of the rick-shaw of an untested boat
of their homes becoming rubble & dust clouds,
of seeing blood in the dirt.
As long as there is war,
as long as there is famine
as long as there exists somewhere
called 'refuge'
then there will be refugees.
Oh child, rocked to sleep by the tide...
you should never have to answer for adult violence,
innocent & sleepy, sinless.
You have been written in blood in the old books
you have been decided for.
Your dice have been rolled by strange hands;
born amid angry eyes,
and so shall die,
washed ashore upon sand,
carried quietly away
to your final crib
to your refuge.

Nobody heard them, the 900,
But still they lay screaming.
We were much further out than they were,
And not waving but drowning.

Poor migrants, lured to a better life –
Now they’re dead.
It must have been too hot for them
In Gambia, Senegal, Syria, they said,

Oh no no no, it was too hot always,
Still, the stranded ones lay screaming.
We were much further out than they were,
And not waving but drowning.