Why is it that the utter wanker
casts opprobrium like an anchor,
weighing on unwary minds,
what makes the wanker so unkind?
Are they bitter, untimely ripped
from cold mother’s sullen tit,
or revisiting rage they often felt
with vicious father’s lashing belt?
Around the net they prance and rant
and none can trump their pious cant
or measure up to righteous gall
the world’s an ass, they know it all.
Backstabbers, zionists, liberals, preachers,
dictators, imperialists, loathsome creatures,
racists, conservatives, merchant bankers,
a howling horde of complete wankers.
The Three Rings of Hell Downunder
i wrote because it felt like singing
without music, even if only
i heard the unsung tune
yet Quadrant had CIA instructions
to keep their sacred staid tomes
cleansed of profane experiments,
these rebellions of mine –
still i versed, a contrary Australian.
i found no royalties were due to
the spoken word unless it had a tune
a musician I’d be to live by art alone
sneaking in poems like thieves
at the start of raucous sets
while composers of minimalist scrapings
would earn a decent crust –
still i versed, lest words rust.
the Grabbits cut through the ABC
and what do they dump first? it’s poetry
for Poetica has died upon the vine
what is left to placate my mind
all is accompaniment to this thirst
and all have forgotten what came first,
the subtle taste of language’s dream –
still i verse, and curse the regime.