Rural Social Welfare Case No. 8.

Moses tried to tame the ocean.
Darkness washed over the seed.

The barman tried to tame the commotion.
The brawlers tamed the barman.

Twisted karma, that left scars.
Identification marks you earn.

Something to teach the son someday.
He’ll learn from my mistakes,
And pay for my mistakes.

Like a monkey at a typewriter.
Something good will come,
If you’re patient.

The drinker drinks away emotion.
Rural social welfare problem case No. 8.

Boots by the Door

He said he could feel darkness
and smell the colour of her hair.
It once smelt of wild strawberries, but now
the air never smelt so foul.
Each little bit of love he gave
she took, and buried in a shallow grave.

A man no more.
His headstone - boots by the door.

Over the flock he soars
to the place where his mind only knows.
Hands torn by earth, his core eroded,
and it’s the journey that makes the sew quicken.
Each time blinking bits of my soul
off into the distance.
One day a wish,
that dream to be far away,
Free to soar.

Take off the shackles
Jump through the window of opportunity
And you’ll see
That a man is born.

A woman scorns
Boots by the door.

The verandah

I’ve found a place where I can see
The closest thing we have to eternity.
I’ve found some space where curiosity
Can run free under the safety
Of a corrugated umbrella.
Beyond the river,
Past the trees,
A voice of an innocent calls out to me.
Throaty and hoarse she whispers faintly,
“cause-and-effect, cause-and-effect”.
On the verandah the world looks framed,
Confined
Displaced
Controlled
Tamed.
When in actual fact it has no name.
It can’t be spit polished
Or stay the same for too long,
Because things change over time,
Or become drained of everything
Good in them.

First published in Rabelais.

Empty

When the shadow hits the floor
I’m blinking.
Thinking of what’s in store
On the television.
It seems easier over there
Receiving everyone’s stares.
The mailbag is empty
And the lock has gone and broke.
When my cheque comes rolling in
I’m drinking.
Linking up with old habits
With wicked eyes.
It looks prettier inside the box,
Bright colours to hide behind.
When the clouds decide to part
Their separate ways,
I’ll get up and see today
Instead of waiting for tomorrow.
It drives better going downhill
Rolling straight into a tree.
The petrol tank is empty.
The man behind the wheel still walks away.
The batteries are empty.
The back has fallen off and disappeared.

First published in Rabelais.

Cloud Fodder

Blue sky

White clouds

White ground

No sounds
No silence

Imminent violence

Crushed violets

Crumpled daisies

Wits fraying

Grey sky

Lecture theatre blues

One hand propping my head up.
I need a pillow or a window
so I can look outside
and repress what is inside.
In a darkened room
the end couldn’t come sooner.
I wouldn’t have a clue
whether the sun or moon is up high.
One eye on the pulpit.
I need those things from
“A Clock-work Orange”
or just a stiff drink and a cigarette.
In a dim-lit theatre
the end couldn’t be nearer.
Who could guess what comes next.
Just hoping for the best
And to get some rest.

First published in Rabelais.

Dude! Where's my horror film?

I’m disillusioned. The recent developments and “blockbusters” to come out of Hollywood have left me in a state of limbo, paralysed with rage at the seemingly blatant disregard directors and producers of films have towards their audiences. One common element missing from the cinemas these days is that of the horror movie. No longer do couples venture into the darkness, just so she can get scared, and he can release some of the repressed misogyny inside him. Today, all films seem to come in the form of a halfeaten pizza with the topping missing: void of nutrients, taste and substance. The recent poor run of films may be because the horror genre, often referred to as “the trash of Hollywood”, lay raped and forgotten – a notable absentee.

The demise of popular horror: films that were simple but perverse, coincided with the demise and introduction of particular social institutions in the late 80s and early 90s. The metamorphisis of the horror genre began when the number of drive-in theatres decreased. In the late 70s we tearfully waved goodbye to uncomfortable procreation, and the “double
feature”. Often starring the most clichéd of horror films, the double feature managed to engage its audience in an isolated place (their car) and extract the most out of them. At its peak the drivein was the prime display vehicle for the horror film, providing an experience to accompany visual stimulation. When video arrived onto the scene the genre took a new direction. Video not only provided a new environment for horror to prosper, but also provided another element that could be utilised by filmmakers. Darkened lounge rooms became homes to groups of young teenagers eager to have the shit scared out of them. At the same time, the horror genre shifted from such films as “The Attack Ofs...” to stalker-slasher films like Halloween and Friday the 13th. Furthermore, films of this ilk not only represent a change in technology and viewing “rituals”, but a change in fears and anxieties present in society at that time. The 60s and 70s played on our fears of nuclear war, while the last of the great horror films in the late 80s expressed antipodean concepts of otherness, with specific
reference to suburbanoia. So what happened??? Well, one may suggest that films like Scream and I Know What You did Last Summer rehashed the raped and exploited horror genre. Films like this stand out amongst the numerous off-shoot films that came out at the same time, because they embody elements of great horror films. In fact, Scream owes its success to those films of the 80s. Making a point about representation, Scream defines itself as an important film in horror criticism as many of its references to the genre are integral in its narrative structure.

Today we are given horror in small dosages, and even then we are not given anything new. Most horror films that come out now are either remakes of past classics or slick sequels to films made a decade ago. Horror has lost its impact due to audience desensitisation and the inability of studios to think of creative new ways to explore the genre. Some film makers are benefiting from overseas horror like Ringu, but not to the extent one would like. As the stalwart of the film industry, it would be a shame to see the horror genre fade away
or become part of another genre. So kids, get your knives, guts and girls, and make me a fucking movie!

First published in Rabelais.

Is it better to try and remember?

This town looks empty at night.
The lonesome streetcar
should put on its lights.
But for some reason
This town is a treason
Against thoughts
And feeling alright.

Your efforts are worthless
In the morning.
My head is just torn at the seems.
Is it better
To try and remember?

Dreams out yonder, beyond the curtains
That keep out the cold,
And lock in the worrying.
No one glares no more.
No one stares no more.
My poor efforts end here for certain.

Your ideas are ignorant in the morning.
I’m feeling the brunt of confrontation.
Is patience
Another word for complaisance?

Sydney

Sydney: a place that couldn’t wait to get rid of me. Please chew me up and spit me out into the isles of a 747 and take me away to another city.

A town where the sites lay buried behind overpriced outlets, and equally overpriced
food; unworthy in quality for even the most avid Smorgy’s patron. The stench of the harbour must by why everyone in this city walks around with their noses in the air, for it definitely can’t be the view of the monorail or bland Sydney skyline.

I tried to reach out to the homeless with an open hand, but was met with closed fists.

A sprawling, unplanned centre that drags in the most vile of biomasses left me uneasy,
uncomfortable and a little bit queasy. Maybe I’m wrong and it was me all along. Sydney is perfect and I’m the one whose perspective has been tainted by the beautiful mistress that is Melbourne.

First published in Rabelais.

Party Tonight

There’s a party tonight.
Hey mister,
will you buy me a case of beer
For the party tonight?

Old house lit up like Christmas.
On Saddlers, off Philliace.
Left at the turnpike.
To the party tonight.

Touched back down in Texas.
Lived like it’s Vegas.
Then a bus ride to Memphis.
In the shadow of Elvis.
Party tonight.

We can break out the memories.
Charge down the cavalry.
There’s a light on in Memphis.
Party tonight.

It’s time to mend fences.
Party tonight.

Stockyards in the Morning

The mist rose to my ankles.
The cattle were restless as pigs.

Fumble ‘round for the car keys,
The hip flask: 2 nips,
And the cigs.

Drove stick through the blackness.
On side-band I heckled the moon.

All the drover’s kids went searching
For memories worth keeping.
They left nothing,
It’s over too soon.

I stand pillared by the petrified pulpit.
The herd murmurs, “prices look low.”

As I light up a fresh one,
A slight wind is a-coming.
Drop the hand and let go.

Damn hard to grow,
But harder to say goodbye.

This is what it's like living up here in the colour of fire

This is my skin under the television’s glow.
This is a lounge room at 6 degrees.
This is the steam from my mouth as I breathe.
It looks like I’m smoking a cigarette,
but I’m not and I should be.
That’s what’s wrong with this story.
That’s what’s wrong with my mind.
That’s what lies underneath me.
That’s what lies underneath.
This is my search for a station.
This is my search for a sleep remedy.
This is the window iced-up from the cold.
This looks like the fi nest spider’s silk,
spun for one, gone by sun.
That’s what lies underneath…
This is another religious program.
This is another prayer for another channel.
This is a gameshow slash reality program.
It fi lters out the real aspect
and you get distorted emotions, canned ham.
That’s why things just seem easier.
That’s why we pull at the sheets.
That’s what lies underneath me.
That’s what lies underneath.
This is more repetition.
This is how we’re taught to learn.
This is where I exit the freeway.
This looks like a good day to die.
The weather man said things look good.
That’s what lies underneath.

First published in Rabelais.

Out on the town

Approximately 100 kms from Melbourne, there lays a deep, dark crevasse that brought this Fox to his knees and nearly swallowed him whole. But the Fox survives… This is my horrific story.

Do not be thrown by it’s beautifully flat landscape, Ballarat sits on one big rock, famous
for bearing gold and bringing in people by the thousands seeking a quick fix to economic
hardship. At a glance one falls prey to the false assumption that all Ballarat’s sights and treasures begin and end at the gold-rush “tourist traps”. Sovereign Hill still maintains a
low standard of pantomimes and “old time” exhibitions; displaying the crème de la crème of starving student performers who will do just about anything for a candy bar.

Since the introduction of the semiinteractive light-pyro show, “Blood on the Southern Cross”, the Hill has managed to drag in surplus busloads of flashing cameras and “oohs and ahhs”.
If you have a spare $50 you can get into the Hill, the Gold Museum, see the light thingy and grab yourself some Brown’s Confectionary boiled lollies. However, to engage in the complete holistic Ballarat experience one must look past the Hill and all its glory to find the proverbial golden nugget that layeth within. One must dig deep under the smiling façade into the dirty “grit under your nails” world which they call le Ballarat, le Essence where instead of bonnets and parasols, we have beanies and pushers. The timeless courtship of a man and a lady brawling and screaming, hear the sound of ripped flannel? Those bystandees pondering the meaning of life out the front of Centerlink shudder not a single eyelid.

Sturt Street is the main drag (pardon the pun) where on weekends it transforms into a
tarmac - the home of the true Ballarat light show. This road bares the brunt of the most obnoxious neon projecting from the bellies of hotted-up Commodores and Bundaberg Rum sticker-laden utility vehicles, reeking of misappropriated testosterone and diesel distillate.
But unlike those at Tullamarine the people of Ballarat never take off, they abide by no directions from a non-existent control tower. Rather, they run like clockwork with the repetition of the mundane activities of idiots accompanied by Jim Beam T-shirts and Nickleback albums.

This is Ballarat.

First published in Rabelais.

Cloud Fodder Part 2

Moth or butterfly
On the wall.

Look backwards.

Move forwards.

Talk sideways.

I’m my way
And you’re that way.

We’re destined

To not mention

The names, the feelings.

Those good old days.

The weather has broken.

Things on the up.

Clouds dissipating.

Stockland

A cowboy hat and a blue heeler-cross.
A pair of boots my wife takes off.
A tray of sheep and a Mac prime mover.
You missed your last meal.
You were dealt a bum deal.
This life seems surreal - end it sooner.

5 o’clock shadow, big broken hands.
You look like the sheriff of Stockland.
Muster up the courage to tame this land.
You look like the sheriff of Stockland.

A big-wheeled ute and a coax line.
A CB crackle and the smell of pine.
Some dodgy brakes and a worn-out horn.
File into the local pub.
Beer makes the pain go numb.
To go or to come, the feelings torn.

5 o’clock shadow, big broken hands.
You look like the sheriff of Stockland.
Turned out, worn down by this land.
You look like the sheriff of Stockland.

You know you’ll be buried in Stockland.

Words of Wisdom

It stays foggy till sundown.
After then, you don’t know
Whether to stop or get started.
Whether to stay or to go.

It stays quiet till sun-up.
After then, things get misty
And clouded, memories shrouded.
You’re grounded, but hide in shadows.

It’s time to step off this train,
To make conversation again.
Stop pulling punches
And start pushing trolleys.
Under the guard of thick secrets
And under eyes that look deeper.

Fraught with shame.
Buy a name, then sell it.
Triple word score.

Retrospective

A ghost town playground:
Smaller than before,
I’m taller for sure.
A post-frown come down.

The last brick found:
Uglier in retrospect.
Cause and effect.
A clay-cast historic fowl up.

A bunch of old pictures:
That black & white smile.
Stay the same for while.
Take out the memories and shift ‘em.

Stop wishing, stop thinking.
Kill the pain by drinking.
Don’t look back,
Keep the timeline flat.
Retrospective perspectives
Will attack the core of your being.

Pre-frontal Meltdown

Peering as I pocket the eight.
Eye-ball strangers ‘till late,
or ‘till I get what I want:
My sociopathic tendencies need
fulfilling.

Start up an argument,
Just for argument’s sake.
The prefrontal cortex is resting,
while the rage waits.

The aggressive, anti-social behaviour
ain’t a way to explain
why you picked me out of the crowd?
Did I trigger past pain?

Go back to the grain and the kelpie.

Save your fists for your wife
and for fuck’s sake take a knife
then drive it through your
ignorant,
cold,
neuronal inhibited brain.
Wash it in the rain.

And hope to god that lightning strike you dead.

A Graveyard [to be named later]

Look past the farmer,
The melodrama paraded in front yards.
The bizarre occurrences offer assurances
That those people are just country folk.
“she’s alright”, “he’s a good bloke”.
Ha! It’s just one big fucking joke
after another.

Another street full of shopping trolleys.
Another treeless sunset.
This place is just a graveyard
To be named later.
Another house full of drunkards.
Another for sale sign.
This place is just slowly sinking down
To be found later.

Invite an angered look,
For some reason or another you walking
Is a metaphor for something more.
Fallen onto a rusty stake -
A deliberate mistake.
It stops you from breaking
And the burning orange stain
Burns deep, and oxidises.

Another frontyard-slash-junkyard.
Another treeless sunset.
This place is just a graveyard
To be named later.

The Last Marino

Green grass carpet,
Brown dirt floor.
Sold the last Marino,
Inflated, but impotent.
Like the toothless grin from a whore.

A home out on the range.
A home away from home.
Amid the dry, dust-bowl Spinifex
That floats and sticks to succulents.

Know this: it’s broke
And it’s never getting fixed.
It looks strange on the surface,
But even stranger on the inside.

Red knuckles, swollen
Bone inside stretched canvas.
Buried my last Marino,
Because the casinos have my lady
Poking and prodding
For a future foreboding.

It’s eroding to the core
And leaves you with nothing.

Well less than nothing.

Down by the shops

the smell of rain is coming
past this strip of shops
everyone is running
from something they can’t stop
old man by the tavern
mouth open like a cavern
looking so disparaged
coz he’s 5c short on pop
baby girl is tugging on her
mother’s breast
whilst she’s switching over price tags
on her next new sunday dress
from a desperate struggle
kids, a job to juggle
catching stars in a jar
wish for the best
holding onto a bag-full
play it cool whilst waiting for tea
teenager confused
i’m bemused
by what i can see
red bandana on his head
blue on his wrist
he runs the risk of ‘crib’ or ‘blood’
who is he trying to be?
the smell of rain has left
past this strip of shops
left sitting here bereft
entwined in real soap-ops
old man, woman, child & the disillusioned boy
reluctant for it to stop

First published in Rabelais.