The playground  sound of distant children’s laughter.

Brings nostalgic grins.

Providing  you are not to near to see who is being

Laughed at.

And see the cowering shaking shoulders.


Hear the bullies ego,

Hear the bullies spite

Scope the embryonic adults

And pity their future partners, children.


They called it Aspergers then –

Exceptional children with special needs.

Now the neurotypicals dismissive,

Call it – ‘On The Spectrum’.


The  children in our town drove

My boy to the edge of self destruction.

While his school looked away.

All those years ago.


He’s so tall now, broad shouldered.

From bearing so much.

Says he can’t really love anyone,

To many betrayals from when

He believed what he was told.




Why do you not fly?

Stop dragging your tail feathers

In the dust,

Taste the burning air

With the tip of your tongue –

Take wing, go.

The fiery thermals

Will take you far from here.


Fat blokes with big boats dig

Up your nature strip trying to

Reverse a boat into their drive

With out-boards as big as their egos

And fourteen fishing rod holders on the roof.


Fat Blokes with Big Boats

Get their rocks off

Pitting their intellect and physical prowess

Against small creatures

With brains the size of a pea.


Fat blokes with big boats

Always speed up on an over-taking lane

in case the shame of being passed makes

them impotent with their secretaries

who just want to keep their jobs.


Fat blokes with big boats

Park across three parking spots

Outside the local supermarket

So they can buy a packet of fags

And then pop in next door to the pub.


Fat blokes with big boats

Wash down their boats and cars

In the middle of a drought and run

The water off into the storm drains.

Poisoning the fish with carcinogen cocktails.


Fat Blokes with big boats

Invest their superannuation in coal fired

Nerve gas plants and automatic

Weapon manufactories’ because

They supply the best returns.


Fat Blokes with big boats

Like to holiday in the places

Where virgin children are not too expensive

And are delivered with the room service.

And cleared away in the morning.


Fat Blokes with big boats

Change their wives like socks

Buy their friends by the dozen

And drink themselves to sleep everynight.

Fat Blokes with Big Boats



I am of the Dragon Times

I wild ride high in my she oak

Jeweled Insects are my werefolk

Leven flashing in their eyes.


I am of the Dragon Times

From the thickets wild bulls bellow

Small birds flash: red, blue and yellow

Threaded on the curlews cries


Born of the wind: song exalted,

On the ridge the horseman halted

High in my tree I saw him stoop

Eye patch shadow, his ravens swoop

With his staff (carved narwhale spike)

Sharp as the tree thorn of the shrike

Scored our runes in the dust

Dark red as blood or crusted rust


I am of the Dragon Times

Seconds are a drumskin rattle

Hours are merely wineskin prattle

Dawns a horncall out of the light


I am of the Dragon Times

Ride with me on dreams forever

Rainbow  clad, gay and clever

Astride the fire drake burning bright.


Oh for a Government!

Hm election on
Crises Are –
Oceanic plastics.
Water management
Waste Management
Electricity Affordability
Homelessness /Affordable Housing
First Nation – Housing, Health, Education, Legal.
All of these crises can only be tackled at a national governmental level. The Coalition is out to lunch on all of them and Labour on most.
So the biggest existential crises that Australia faces is credible government with a will and human capacity to govern.


Having got the chocolate cake off the screen of my tablet it’s an opportunity to have a bit of a scriven. The cake, it was the last piece, was provided by Patric. He made it because I badgered him to contribute to a gig at the Muddie on Saturday. Andrew Clermont and his two buddies in Blu Guru gave us a terrific serve of strings and song with a laminate of keyboard. The usual Punjabi Celtic Bluegrass and some lovely singing made the endless hassle of continuous Muddie gigs briefly worthwhile.

‘The Island of Knowledge’ by Marcelo Gleiser has taken over from ‘Coming of Age in the Milkyway’ by Timothy Ferris as my cosmic comfort book.

It got me thinking, while I was eating the chocolate cake and fending off the dogs, about bubble universes. That got me, in the usual alchemical fashion, to think about us. Us in the broadest human sense. I normally would not want to be associated with Peter Dutton or Paul Keating when considering a more parochial version of ‘Us.

The. Notion of a bubble universe seems to be that they share a vacuum space but cannot interact in anyway. There is no experimental way to afirm or deny the existence of the multiverse or the nature of the individual bubbles.

Cosmic qualia.

We are separate from each other and can only crudely communicate through approximate senses. We create intelligence in the form of language and culture but cannot prove that our experiences are shared except through extelligental methods.

We are all bubble universes.

Afternoon Reading

Afternoon Reading


Frank, a short man,
With all that that implies;
In his annecdotage –
Garrulous as a cold caller.
Strutting like a terrier.
He controlled with charm.
He bullied.
They named a dinosaur in his honor
That he rescued from the stone
Clutches of a wrecking coast
with pulley, winch and wire.
Wilful as a spoilt collie,
Nipping and barking, worrying,
He got his way.
Children, wife: collateral damage
To a story starring him.
There was always The Stuff
To be recycled, hoarded –
Piles, stacks, bins, drums.
In search of gratitude, in search of praise,
The Stuff coopted into
Games of status.
In the mirror of his mind
He championed a war on waste.
Mountains of crap, shaming,
Shredding domestic dreams
and self-esteem.
Love left huddled under a doona,
With the curtains drawn,
Minds numb with
Drugs, God and denial.
Standing on the Darien Peak
of fondly reclaimed rubbish
He stared out over the wreckage
Of his family and saw
The vision of ‘Frank’
Burning bright with self-regard
Bringing order to the
Treasure hoarded,
rubbish tip of the world.