Good Friday 1999

I’m not religious you understand

but I didn’t feel like calling anyone

or going to Darling Harbour to see

the Flying Fruit Fly Circus

under the freeway.

So I get on the bus

and go to the Museum of Sydney

in the rain.  I should have known.

Closed Good Friday.

Revenge of the Christians.

Showers, trickles of grey tourists

in Martin Place looking stupidly at poster ads.

I’m not the only fool.

Eight died on the roads today

trying to escape this watery, grey,

sad as a cinema queue in the rain

trapped in coffee shops

terminally dismal

Sydney day.

Flight out of Timor

How many Hercules will it take

to evacuate the promises we made,

the lies we told,

the hopes we gave

and then denied?

How many Hercules will it take

to lift the despair of a generation,

the dreams of a proud people,

to transport the bodies of the children

and the blood of the martyrs?

How many Hercules will it take

to rescue a single shred

of Australia’s honour?

Fire sale

A question not, as you may think,

of Shakespeare and show-ponies,

but more fundamental culinary matters

such as who eats whom, and at what price,

here in late industrial suburbs

threatened by longevity

and bored indifference.

People dream their way into tomorrow,

screened off from the institutions of yesterday -

church, family, decency-

consuming tackily glued emotions

on current affairs programs,

black or white it's all the same

between the ad breaks.

Don't you wonder sometimes, fit to burst,

by what algebraic journey we reached

this end of millennium fire sale,

how the disaster corps managed to avert

a show-stopper of smoky nightmares?

Aliens

They laugh at us

the dark ones,

our heavy dance and wobbly gait

treading on stones with tender feet

feeding kangaroos by hand

eating fish from cans

but we know poison

and real estate

the force of guns and laws.

Listen to their keening,

faint now,

for all the generations lost,

a pissed corroboree

outside an empty parliament.

Diana

Like instant noodles

our freeze-dried hearts melt

for the dead princess

(just add television)

Nurses throw teddybears;

teddyboys, more confused, just stare

at the cameras whirring,

whirlwinds of emotion

whipping up historical trifles

from re-enacted slow turnoffs,

runaway cars,

wrecked and flattened tinsel crown.

The stockmarket of souls

advertises our inadequacy

to deal with ordinary death.

"But the people want it", someone says.

I'm bamboozled too

by the pomp and circumstance,

the glue of glitterazzi

holding the set pieces together,

the stupid flags on the Edgecliff Centre

still at half-mast ten days later.

Primo Levi at Thredbo

-after the landslide in July 1997 that killed eighteen people

They’ve closed the Alpine Way.

The death site looks neat

as the museum at Auschwitz.

Why did I bring you here, Primo Levi?

When the Germans buried you alive

you weren’t handsome and strong

like the young Australian.

And when you walked out of the grave

you were wasted away

like some creeping Jesus.

Forty years later

you hurled yourself down the slope to death.

You’d written your evidence in blood

and now had to join

the only true witnesses.

Progress

Walking in the bush this morning

I did not come across

a single convenience store

or video game arcade.

No integrated alarm system

or current affairs programme

or high-security low-risk user-friendly multimedia freedom tellers.

There were no frozen stir-fried yogurt-dipped posturepedic bagels,

no fluorescent ergonomic integrated rollover kitchenettes

or single grandparent tupperware modems,

no KFC, BHP, FID, TAB or after-sales no-obligation deals,

or microwave snap-on set-and-forget condom dispensers.

Not one low-joule frost-free heat-seeking self-adhesive wrap-

around carbon-dated rust-proofed sandwich-maker

or infra-red poly-unsaturated take-away four-stroke closed-

circuit recycled tar-reduced deodorised seat-covers.

Just birdsong

and smells of eucalypt.