Old Clearing

Occasionally a bone would speck this clearing, relatively shiny white and new.
Everythings relatively new, this old cattle ground is only old because it once was a cattle ground.
It seems life and death is decided here quite often, it still is natures battleground.

This clearing is nature now too, as ants cover it and logs, dispossessed – and emus in the early morning.

Nature is monstrous, even on this dull cloudy grey day.
Nature has birds singing and trees rustling.
And a roo standing in the distance listening for its final threat…
Nobody wants to become a bone speckled on an old cattle ground.
What else but a monster can do all this?

Do you think an ant would see an ant bone and pervade a sense of terror among it’s ant comrades with its communicative glands… don’t they make a hormonal stench or something?
Nature is cutthroat,
Nature is a cut out old red jerry can on the side of the path.

Dried out dams spot the bottom of this clearing, the water’s path is clear for next time, when it rains heavily.

Colours out here invoke and gifts.
Green grants breath.
Red grants beauty and wonder.
White grants gratefulness, not bones yet!

The wind rushes past and through as if nothing could ever truly stop it.


The truck rumbles passed
I fumble the past.
Memories trickling into the present.

It’s time to keep walking.
A change of pace or
that my legs are sore.


A gumnut branch still full of life rests on a broken tree
A plastic bottle shines.
Bones of ancients rest like the shoulders of our giants.
A red roo the size of you stares me down the path.
He watches for a moment, jumps away, 
Thankful he let me pass.
Shadows of skeletons rest on the sundried stump showing the suns strength.
The blackened patterns on for the show,
Stretch and shrink in length. 
A pink seatless bicycle with shiny white tyres.
No grips on the handlebars except two zip-ties. 
A dragonfly swiftly passes by.
A barrier splitting the difference of here and there.
If that roo could speak English 
He would probably still stare.

Black strips of plastic lace this tyred road.
Red dirt turned to grey dust with the use of apathy weight and speed.

Sharing my log with bits of broken glass.
It’s spread all over like leaves.

Barbwire, 6 inches from my shin, I didn’t notice.
Camouflaged in the midst of white/grey sticks and brown and yellow refuse.

A sound shatters over the bush for a minute.
Pervading me with a small sense of terror.
The plane doesn’t realise how incredible it sounds out here.

I sit by the fig tree which shares its spot with two lime trees,
a log,
a cushion,
a rubber blackened cement slab about the width and length of a decent shed that really looks like another trademark of failed plans),
the rusted out & graffitied on ute tray full of bushes
and a beautiful pair of rocks with someone’s name all over them…
They still shine with natures radiance.
I don’t know what you would call them,
a hybrid.

It wouldn’t be a stretch to call this someones home.

Lush and vibrant, amazing colours invade my eyes.
Even with new items showing up every day.

The trees stand with their family, survivors, lucky that they weren’t in the way.

Inanimate objects of the bushes colour seem to fit in just as much.
An empty beer bottle’s red brown holing onto it’s spot.
it’s a survivor because it’s not smashed.
A rusted barrel on it’s side, holding onto a little bit of white paint as if it still had a purpose… as if it wasn’t dented irreparably.
The broken down fencing surrounding it, reminding nature that human’s make borders and none of it is safe.
A gas bottle standing ominously in a patch with it’s red warning signal and knowing full well it doesn’t fit in but wishing the contents were free or back where they came from.

Rope & wire & plastic & birds squawking, whistling, flying away from this new ecosystem created by speed weight and apathy.
The wire ends so abruptly as if it never has a purpose.
The rope is dropped carelessly in a pile.
The plastic is strewn all over the brown and grey bush shocking me like a hammer beaten thumb.
BRIGHT PINK, red, orange, green, black & soon an ode to us when we’re all gone.

But this wire was cut so abruptly.
As if it never had a purpose.

The walk continues as nature always has more to give.
Someone is shattering rocks with their massive machine

It goes on all day because nature had more to give and nature couldn’t say no.

Do not trespass signs encroach this land.

Piles of rubbish are a disgrace.
Empty CD cases, lawnmowers, broken down pajero with its parts all over the place, car seats, head rest.
I mean, It’s all here baby!
Let’s start a new society with the rubbish in the woods!
It’s gotta have more substance than the lot we got now.
We  can live off the figs in that decrepit clearing
Sleep on that slab of concrete as long as we fight off those pesky spinning tyres.
There’s a creek that’s not definitely dried up, or at least a dam somewhere and I’m sure they can give us a damn for once in their lives.
It’ll be the last damn they can give us.
Because we’re never gonna give a damn again.
And then we can all have our own damn and none of us have to give it out to anyone else… Unless they want a damn.
A damn for everyone, because everyone needs water.
What a plan! Whata plan water plan! dam man! it’s a water damn.


Beauty is Life

Beauty slaps it’s beating heart in my face.
Every day. Every day.
It’s blood splatters all over me and it falls into my hands.
I choose to put it on a pedestal
For worship.

Because what is life without its beauty?
It’s dreary and not worth it.
What is beauty without life?
I don’t think it exists.
How do we even distinguish them?

Yeah, right….

I try to clear my mind before I leave for my walk. The walk doesn’t clear it either.

I’m wearing a black shirt and the heat beats down on me insufferably, this must be what it’s like?

So I take it off. My white skin will pay it’s retribution to the sun later.

My black shirt was protecting my body from flies that begin to become a problem in the spring.

So I put it back on, thank god I’m allowed to choose whether to wear it or not.

That’s one of our greatest shames.

My black shirt doesn’t protect me from cynicism.

My black shirt doesn’t protect me from tribalistic generalisations.

My black shirt doesn’t stop harmful messages from creating harmful messages that beat down on my skin.

I’m racist because I’m white and I suppose it’s right for me to burn for it later.

Lucky I’m a thinker & not a stinker & literalism isn’t in my blood.

We all know where the problem stems from, how do we stop society from using that path?

It doesn’t stop the kookaburra taking the piss.

Is a concern, that generalisations are harmful really that awful?

Is the white man who was raped as a child, or a teen, or beaten or abused mentally and physically really not a victim?

Where is his space to be able to feel and talk?

Why do you say white men can’t be victims?

What about him?

It just makes it harder for white boys to speak out against misogyny.

Do we really want to fight this battle alone?

I can’t be responsible for the entirety of my gender or the entirety of my ethnicity and I don’t want to be and neither should you.

I can’t be responsible for the upbringings of monsters and I don’t want to be and I don’t want women to be either and it is awful that women are still bearing this heavy seemingly unyielding weight of this ongoing tragedy that is inherent in our culture.

I’m racist because I’m white and I suppose it’s right for me to burn for it later.

Big Jobs

The big jobs for the guys with big gobs.
Up there in their ivory towers with glass ceilings.
They glare up at the gods, envious.
Green with envy and greed.
Walking around with the tips of their flaccid penises hanging out of their flies.
Ready to fuck the world.
And there are flies everywhere! indicating the cesspit they reside in.
Big Jobs for the guys with big gobs.

Shower Poetry

So there they are!
My cards fall gracelessly on the table.
To be read by all.
I’m not worried, I’m just well fed.
If I was worried, I’d be crying or dead.

My eyes betray my secrets.
That I never had.
Or that I wish I believe I didn’t.
What’s the difference? Tell me quickly.
Believing you don’t have any secrets or…
knowing you don’t have any secrets.

But cards are more boring
and bloodsport’s exciting!
This heart has been open
Like an operating table with spectators like a sport.
Openness is the best policy for a boxer who can move.
But the ones who can’t dodge,
They tend to block.


The world is at my fingertips and they bleed frustration as I tap to the tap tap tap of the times.

I realise that opportunities are missed as I stare and stare stare stare into the void of too much information.

I move clumsily through this sphere that is saturated and I have no chance of being seen, I mean really seen. And life trickles on as the World around me shrinks and I stay the same, blowing into the wind nothingness because it doesn’t really matter anymore.

Hopelessness as you read out lists of useless knowledge that make you knowledgeable for no reason because Google has the answers anyway and it’s okay because who’s going to complain about the wealth wealth wealth of data and facts and acquaintances,

Imaginary or not, that you can personally mine out of something that weighs as much as a strawberry, bury me, under the weight of this new emancipatory world that weighs as much as a strawberry.