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. 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


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


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

My New Hat

I won’t go back to Nebraska

She said as she sold me a hat

There’s more of the world here in Newtown

And that, my man, is a fact

The hatband grabbed my attention

Rasta red, yellow and green

Then the shape, pattern, colour and pricing

Completed the hat of my dreams

Perfectly weighted for tossing

To catch on the head with one spin

Light, black and slight logoed by Dior

Graced with a snappy short brim

I’d rather pump gas in Alaska

She said as she rang up the sale

Than be seen as a whore or a servant

By white folk who should be in jail

The hat looks very becoming

It suits your twinkling blue eyes

Here’s a card with my name and number

If there’s anything you’d like to try

We smiled and hand-shook each other

As I jauntily bade her farewell

Bouncing and buzzing down King Street

Like a twenty-first century swell

When Dad had a stroke

Tidying up before you go OBE

(Over Bloody Eighty)

Tripping through your roots

Back home on family soil

Touching base with sisters and bro

Measure your survival in memories

England Scotland Ireland Wales

Your Four Nations tour

With your loved one by your side

O lucky man,

To have a second chance and get it right

Lucky man to be loved to bits

This time around

Then the bloody clots,

Fifth columnists in your veins

Ironic vindication of your brain

(Diagnosis must be in your cells by now

After forty years of daily waiting rooms)

How frustrating it must be

To know your body’s not right

But no specifics found

You’re a brave kind gentle man

I love you Dad

Come for a barbie at my place soon

You slack old bugger.

Bronte Midnight

Water darting in the rockpools

Quicksilvered by the moon

Rugged raggedy waves roar

         In the nooks and crannies

         of the stalwart stones

A crinkling luminescence

Pulses on the horizon

just off Bondi

As a darker poem struggles

Beneath my hurt and aloneness

for the breath of life