Fanatics

I’m bored a little ditty for the ADL, a comment for the message that they tried to sell. Inspired to write a limerick not too heavy with intrigue, a note addressed, cod, Australian Defence League.

“A tale about my Muslim mate Barry. Born and bred in Dapto had a twin brother Harry. Barry had a Holden whilst Harry had a ford. Barry was a rich man whilst Harry was quite poor. Harry followed Parra, Barry followed Bunnies. Barry worked for Qantas whilst Harry cleaned up dunnies. Barrie sang with Harry & both liked to drink coke. In the end the both of them were ordinary folk.”

Therein ends my Limerick, a sly and subtle derision, I wish the ADL would think and re-view their positions.

Spring

Rising, perpetual glow heating life.

Floral tributes flowing, the fields alive.

Waters, renewed swiftly giving life.

Webs spun of gold, reclaiming the sun.

Nature, revelling in eternal life.

Birth, growth & death, confirming the circle.

Seasons, past and future life.

Waiting for time’s sand, the endless Rhythm.

Join the queue

Hello and welcome, take a seat, and come and meet the others. The other ones inside my head so there will be no bothers. You see I’ve spent a lot of time bringing them to heel. If you’re here to stay, as I expect you will, we’ll need to make a deal.

The hierarchy runs as such that self talk takes the post. For many years it wasn’t so with voices heard the most. The pecking order, now set in stone, all voices are controlled, that though the voices are still heard, they’re often told to hold.

So come and meet the Fellas, a motley all sorts crew. That terrorised my life for years and caused a flip or two. But just make sure you know your place & make sure that I’m happy. Cause if your not you’ll get the boot, so be a helpful Chappy.

Indigo prophesy

A whisper against a lion’s roar. The innocent before the believers. Feeling sky gods cower to the will of the devoted. Indigo blood washing over the faithful from those deemed worthless of cleansing inherent guilt.

Genocide of individualism, Moulds made by interpretations of deities desires formulated in the psychic. Hell and heaven lost in a void of the mind. The one true way, the black hole of mystical servitude.

Fanatical death to attain Valhalla. Dredged from antiquity, interpreted by would be kings for the mob. The written word gathering souls like a grim reaper. Tossing the unwilling to the endless depths, back to the maker.

Centuries erased as punishment by fundamentalist resurrection. Runes caste for confirmation cross referenced with scripture. Acolytes without vision recording history, quill on papyrus. Cities stagnant with study. Pausing only to ensure others devotions are observed.

Stepping back to the future of reason, falling into puddles of static thought. Odin battling Zeus for control of Camelot. Bloodied whips beating minions with loving indoctrination. One day the gods will die, one day.

Listening to doves

Doves don’t cry,
They caress the breeze,
Floating, dreaming, hoping.
Doves don’t lose hope,
They nurture domesticity,
Building, loving, sharing.
Doves don’t get lost,
They find their ways,
Searching, remembering, achieving.
Doves don’t go to war,
They just fly away,
Dancing, creating, living.
Doves don’t lie,
They walk the talk,
Teaching, adoring, forgiving.

Driving by the litre

Talking to a bloke named Pete. Who often parked across the street. Nice fellow, on hard times. Never contemplated crime. I have to admit he was not in his glory but prepared to listen he told me a story.

“Anticipation of an unscheduled stroll. It’s hard getting around on the dole. It’s not like the poor don’t drive, people get sick of friends bumming a ride.

Fuel gauge red light I see you lie, the distances you go under is quite high. Poor-dom led to earn this discovery. An unhelpful light for the K’s hoped in front of me.

So hello little fuel can light, shining brightly in the night. Just as yet you haven’t failed me, it’s not like petrol’s given free.

But if it was I’d drive all night hitting Brisbane at first light. Get a job and rent a house, and when I’m at my bloody pinnacle.. I’ll probably buy an electric vehicle.”

Sun Dog

When the sky is powder blue and the sun’s rays leave a stinging glow of pleasure. I see the dog has joined me in a lazy pause of leisure. Cause he’s my mate my faithful hound, he never leaves my side. I’m often told they’ll shoot the dog if ever that I died.

He’s his own man, he likes to greet the sometimes careless soul, with great distrust he never knows the visitor’s own goal. I love the dog he sleeps with me though some say he is vicious, but that’s ok, cause I’m ok, my bodyguard and precious.

On my island

On my island, slowly slipping between the cracks to emerge within, through unthought holes. All Anxious threats quietly dispatched.

On my island, with a shotgun pointed deliciously at terror perceived, not yet quelled. Starlit Southern Cross half veiled.

On my island, with tribes flying symbolic flags in air so still, they lay impotent. Uniting Nostradamus’s weeping mothers.

On my island, Holy souls committed to belief in faith, foe as worthless. Gods battling with hopeless pawns.

On my island, The world crashing in from without. Where burning bush is not a sign, of spiritual intention.

Bush Boy Jack

“A thousand pound of prawn” he cried when first the season started. From Cairns right through to Charlotte Bay the skipper was quite heartened.

The vessels sized from boat to ship the licences were heavy. The trawling fleet was in a race to see who’d catch the bevy.

Set crew was small the boat a middling, a double decker wheelhouse. The youngest deckie Jack was green, a bush boy with some nouse.

Just after March, the smaller ships slowed the big ones forged ahead. The little boats they turned for home with naught left on sea-bed.

One night on glass the sea so calm the gunnels skimmed the surface. The sudden wind belied the wrath that Neptune planned to furnish.

The boat dipped low the deck was washed the ocean turned to mountains. Below the crew had cleared the decks the main hatch was a fountain.

Desperate pleas over wireless sets mostly went unanswered, the rolling seas left a seasick crew no more the sea’s romancers.

All night the blow went on, until a dawn subside. The sea calmed down the nets were clean and not a soul had died.

And Jack the lad he thanked his luck and earthward he was bound. He packed his kit, just up and jumped ship. A boy for solid ground.

Doolighal

Crescent midnight on a wallaby track. Shanks pony fumbling, blind, twisted. Seeing sounds in the dappled shadow. Caressing monsters hidden in eucalypts.

Snapping twig beneath unseen feet.
Rebel noise in the silent cold.
Hominid, alien, macropod cross.
Internalised fact fuelling flight or fight.

Sweat straining against blackness
Following.. they don’t want to be seen. Antipodean, Gulliver’s Yahoo. You’ve met the hairy man, the yowie.