Using Police to Belittle Indigenous Rights

via Using Police to Belittle Indigenous Rights


Me, myself & Irene 😂

I said not to, but Me said it’s not fair that Myself nor Irene get left out, and that their opinion in the ‘virtuous value of generous goodwill’ should be taken into consideration: so I posted this.

Debating was hectic, things were only tentatively pencilled in, rubbed out by Me, then pencilled in by Myself again.

Diplomacy went out the window with Me being so autocratic, and I succumbing.

Of course no one really included Irene as she is clearly the odd one out, but fuck it cos it’s My decision anyway and I will do whatever the fuck I want – especially as it’s for Our benefit.

Not sure if it was a positive or negative outcome in the end, as I do like to fuck Myself on occasion; but honestly, there’s got to be an easier way than negotiating with nitwits, drug users and educated fools who talk in riddles, and to the group present nonsensical graphs based on illogical facts – that only I gets.

Anyways, we did all agree on the fact it was funny as fuck, albeit ridiculous, and Me Myself and Irene were ultimately glad I passed on the laugh. So my people say thank you to your people.

We should coordinate a meeting soon with you lot – we’ll get Myself to write up an agenda, I will get it out in advance, but fuck Irene – she can take notes 😂😂


‘Never again will you fly with the wind,’

– that’s what they said to me.


‘Never again will I fly with the wind,’

is what I put in my head,

and stayed in bed,

through the cold and the heat

listening to the beat –

not my heart


a drum that cheated it,


of crying lambs,


it wasn’t

but a constant


‘Never again will you see the sun,’

– that’s what they said to me.


‘Never again will I see the sun,’

is all that I could hear,


all the fears and tears engulfed me,

and all who were near and dear who loved me,

watched me


short of breath –

no puffer nor lover could save me,

all covers encased me,

all timers

tick tocked tick tocked

as they took my time away,

and I thought I would stay

never to play

but instead


in that darkness.

But now I’m back.

My wings aren’t pinned,

the sun shines through,

my lights aren’t dimmed but crimson in warm wisdom,

as all my sins

and those who sinned

are forgiven,


my time is here


inherited inter-generational alcoholism

why so worried dear child?
it’s only drinking, sipping,
a little tipping by the edge,
a little message to the fledging
that you’re wedged in tight.

what’s the confusion dear child?
it’s only common bruising
from the losing in the choosing of the drink…
it’s just your piece of mind
you know she’s kind,
so what’s all this fuss about?

why so sad dear child?
it’s only lessons that you’ve learnt
just playing in the dirt,
apron strings and her skirts,
tied you to her pain.
lots to gain in the draining,
and all joint suffering
of such cauterised torture.

why so quiet dear child?
has the bottle done its job –
joined your childhood in the
robbing of you, metaphoric flogging of you…
but your blue eyes knew
even way back… that this had left
a one man ship, no crew and bereft
of child and wife,
instead a life, somewhat crippled,
as the last drops dribbled
and another opening (to secure the closing)
was always on its way.

why so raging dear child?
you haven’t reconciled?
there’s no denial, just honest fear,
it’s just the steering of the wheel for a little control
dredging from the deep emotional turmoil,
unrest no peace,
and you hang on…
and want to keep more
than you need.

flee for fuck’s sake!
discard and dump
run for the hills,
cut out the lump
it’s rancid junk
– doesn’t want you unstuck
for fear IT will be dead
and rather YOU instead
with no smiles, nor happy face
maintaining its
fear base
to always be
the starting line.

but ask yourself –
this won race is a loss every time,
so how much longer
will you let it?

and not yourself be anyone’s,
not even yours,
not even mine…
as i sit here,
in fear that
this question shall remain,
hidden in this rhyme,
with all your pain
fighting to maintain
this pitiful train,
of sorrow,
and sorrowful

And cobbers were worth two cents.

Henry from the corner deli:

“Apparently we are all born individuals.”

Well, that’s what our fingerprints say.
But he meant it, and liked to hand over one liners with with a litre of milk.

Deli owners from the 70s & 80s were known…..for knowing a thing or two. For starters they always had their Delicatessen (as were called in the 50s & 60s) on the corner, so as to be exposed to more traffic and the array of customers it was carrying.

Coming off of the hype of respected status, as a friendly kind of pit stop where you were likely to have an actual decent conversation, the local deli owner could be, at times, revered; along with the ready to go hand picked lolly bags, White & twisted. Henry always smiled. He was always there. Reliable. Talkative. Informative. Trusted. Well-liked. Even envied by some in crisp morning suits.

Where are they?

Where are are they now?

These men and women who were part strangers, part family, part friend, part politician, part advocative, part leader, part informer, part watcher, part provider, part entertainer, part necessity, part of ‘the furniture’ of our neighbourhoods?


Gone hey.

Another victim, and in turn unleashing yet more of our vulnerabilities, destabilising our sureities, omitting our familiar smiling faces who would help us if we asked.

what for?

So our farmers could go bankrupt selling their milk to big business demands.

so that roads were more full, in the lines to massive high shelved warrens of soulless, needless capitalism.

So that I won’t know today’s weather and tomorrow’s predicted temperature.

so that adults everywhere have to watch the footy on Saturday themselves, cos there will be no verbal re-runs.

so the man in the creek won’t be caught, but will multiply through our venturing, our unlocked windows, our pulled down stockings.

I could walk to the deli and buy my dad a pouch of tobacco and tallyhos, cos back then they knew cigs didn’t necessarily equal cancer, anything can be the cause. He died of bloody kidney cancer anyways, lungs were fucking fine the X-ray showed, before he spoke his last full sentence to me…

“They shouldn’t have let me get this bad Mern.”

“No dad, I know.”

but I didn’t. I didn’t know a bloody thing anymore, except that my corner deli had gone, monsters multiplied and walked the streets more openly, and that my dad’s lungs were fine.

And i’d already watched my nana die, in my sleep, on the fold out portable bed, next to her on that disinfected Lino floor. Yet she had waited for me, to complete the rubbing of her weary blood, stuck misplaced in her newly darkened blue feet, unable to get back up the road to her heart. I gently massaged her feet back to the colour of creamy aged flesh, so smooth, and then adorned them with a treasure from her cupboard – my pink warm bunny suit pants she had once pulled over my nappy… now pulling over her feet.

she had given me that suit so so long ago that

it still felt like fucking yesterday.

and tomorrow.

And never.

and forever.

and my past.

and my future.

so much so that I wondered if the matrix wasn’t really the white rabbit

just out of reach of reality

deep in absurdity

and that none of it was mine or real or here

and that there was a chance that my dad’s kidneys were fine

And his lungs were fucked

and that X-ray never took place

and that they shouldn’t have let him get that bad.