Transplanted Outsiders



The lost Jamaican

Singing happy songs on cue

Looking for love in the wrong face

The crazy Kurdish DJ

Drinking away his name

Fitting a new one for the west

The sad Chinese artist

Slide-showing his pain-filled life

Forcing out the journey once more

The lonely Welsh poet

Brimming with charm and dry wit

Searching for meaning and belief

Uncomfortable in the antipodes

Yet no way back home

Nothing back there

Unbelonging here

Speaking through their art

The pain of their bruised hearts

… the list goes on …

Architects from Delhi

Engineers from Kabul

Therapists from Amsterdam

Mothers from Bosnia

Sisters out of Nairobi

Cab drivers from Rabat

Footballers from Ghana

… the list goes on …

Transplanted outsiders resisting rejection by the host body


Longbeach bound



raindrops on the windscreen

teardrops in my eyes

highway driving blues

bring me back to remembering you

songs of love and sadness

make a grown man cry

unwilling and unstable

still unable to stop remembering you

across the sea between

over the years alone

love still lingers

like the smell of a house from childhood

that sets off a rush of emotional senses


Priceless



Priceless. Above value.

A diminishing concept

In this corporatist new century

Wisdom is not yet genetic

Old people forget and young ones don’t learn

So mistakes are made again and again

If the young bloke in the supermarket

Has never heard of Epsom Salts

How can he help you find them?

Stupid leaders constrained by suits

Fall back on the myopia of their fathers

Who were stunned and confused and frightened

By their experiences of War.

They wanted routine and picket fences

Illusions of order in the aftermath of chaos.

They found rock’n’roll rebellion and long hair

Men on the moon and assertive women

Television warfare in their lounge rooms

Kids with strange ways and music

Loose girls that didn’t get pregnant

Living in sin with students

From foreign neighbourhoods.

Against the natural order

Nothing’s what it oughta be

“Things were better after the war,

we had it tough, mind you,

but you knew where you were

then

when no-one else was different

in the way they spoke or looked,

except the Chinese restaurant mob

who just got on with their cooking.”

Shattered illusions

Mould growing faster on the myth

As the rural life of legend

Crumbles in the dustbowl of waste,

Intolerance, rigidity and greed.


The Legacy of Mad King George



Anglo-centric colonial thinking

Seeps through the convict/cop generations of this land.

The old cultural time warp of Empire.

The homeland advances, changes and redefines itself through action in the world.

The colony, desperately at first, then fading into habit, maintains the conservative paradigm of late 1780’s England.

A stagnant Empire ruled by a madman, at war with Napoleon,

Controlled by arrogant aristocrats of severely limited vision,

With no idea of the storm of resentment growing

Among the powerless and marginalised.

They’ve carried this baggage forward,

Our suburban Protestant fathers,

Our Catholic worker mothers,

Our sisters and our brothers,

In the delusional National cause

Hence Cronulla


Nightclubbing



Riding the night club juggernaut

In our smoky minds …

Spilling out of Cornucopia

We wandered the party nightscape

Before checking out Hysteria

Peering into Myopia

Then settling for Fantasia for a while

Moving on as the night grew hazier

We forgot about Amnesia

Something fishy about Miasma

Dystopia was too crowded

Landed in Nirvana above the cloudy clouds

Ending up smashed

At the new hot day club

Of the imagination

The one they call Dyslexia

Where you can dance all yad long