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i am the dissident poetician...i tear down fences with sardonic sardines and metaphysical cucumbers

Monday, September 30, 2013


drowsy as drowsy can be

vision blurred
unable to focus
temptations swinging
back and forth
like an angry pendulum
poppy seeds transmogrified
walking assiduously
waiting impatiently

return to the past
an ocean of regrets
and the choices
I have made
are killing free time
reinforcing folly

beholden to a perfect fit
the bane of my existence
history repeating
a ball deflated
unable to shake off
the monkey on my back
it stalks me unremittingly

Saturday, September 28, 2013


another grand final

done and dusted
in Fremantle

for the Dockers
as the masses
prepare to drown
their sorrows
not caring
or unaware
that 20 people
recently drowned
not caring
that the PM
has shunned
the media
but previously
to disclose
of any boat

back to the pub
for the heartbroken

Thursday, September 26, 2013


shoes $6

t shirt $2
jeans $20
jumper $15
socks negligible

when I went out in public today
I masked my nakedness
with $43 worth of attire

(not including
my $150 spectacles)
all purchased brand new
out of poverty
and lack of conscience
all made in some sweatshop
in some developing country

what would brand name adorning
yuppie wannabes think of me?

for all I care

180 Degrees

I should have seen it coming
the first time I did that u-turn
eschewing my intended destination
for an old familiar gravelly route

now that the funds have dried up
like a creek in the middle of summer
money is the least of my issues
think I bit off more than I can chew

like a horse with a broken foot
I can barely move to save my life
no longer moving purposefully forward
like I had been most of this year

now unable to carry a proper load
responsibility has gone out the window
barely in control of my own destiny
the stark realisation is upon me

the future is fast approaching
I don't want to be old and broke
bereft of hope, ambition and direction
beholden to the ghosts of yesterday

I should have seen it coming

Wednesday, September 25, 2013

I never thought
I'd go back there
not again, not this time
but she's got me
under her crooked spell

the curse of idle time
spun into a web of deceit
these escapist tendencies
enough to paralyse
is there no escape
from this escapism?

a deviant hammerhead
without a handle

my dirty hands
almost unwashable

a visit to the subway
to break the cycle
or rapid free fall
from dark clouds?
another dusty closet
full of dirty secrets

decision time
now pending


darkened leaves, a forest of triffids
man of the cloth in a former life:
his antiquated weltanschauung
based on fear, xenophobia,
intolerance, reductionism
and trickle down economics

he sees not desperate humans
but only people smugglers
and SIEV X after SIEV X
the work of vile people smugglers
out of sight, out of mind
gag placed on Santa's little helpers
forbidden to speak by the Führer
not even a cryto-fascist cretin
but faschistischen über alles

he knows women well, 
so well that he appointed himself
to oversee their affairs
while appointing half a woman
to sit in his front cabinet
Julie just may be a hermaphrodite
concupiscent incubus in the dead of night

in their comfortable, cloistered lives, 
they have learned much about the world
Bridget and Frances proclaiming:
daddy believes in the sanctity of love
between Adam and Eve, but not Steve
his own sister a deviant lesbian,
yet he still graciously speaks to her
oh what a paragon of tolerance he is,
devoid of prejudice and hate

his entourage of science talking folk
declare that climate change
is a fictitious phenomenon
concocted by a fringe lunatic left
to slap extra taxes upon the bourgeoisie
with mother nature nixed from the equation,
there is no need for a science minister

let us rejoice in his appointment to the lodge
for we can trust him to instill real change:
the annihilation of award wages,
the stopping and or buying back of boats,
the harassment of disability pensioners,
the destruction of the carbon tax, 
the lowering of company tax,
the scrapping of fiber to the house broadband
and the list of atrocities goes on and on
all such policies designed, of course
to aid his friends Rupert, Gina and Twiggy, etc.
enter: the corporate fellatio king

welcome to hell, my fellow 'strayans
now, who the fuck voted for Abbot?

Tuesday, September 24, 2013


I'm losing control yet again

unable to resist temptations
that I thought were dead and buried

the fool inside of me
has taken control the reigns
as I regurgitate more lies
beholden to a substance
that used to control my every move

but there's no substance
to the substance
a pool of follysome yearning
floating in the toilet bowl

I wonder to myself
why I have chosen to walk the path
of death, of pestilence
yet again, stupidity on repeat

now, it's out of my system
with floating chunks of shame
in the recesses of the toilet bowl
violently allergic to water

and I know all good things
must come to an end
just as bad things
come at a stupendously heavy cost

yet again, I am walking a fine line
on the verge of falling
off the tight rope, I have been
trying to cross, blindly
while convincing myself
that everything will be OK
when it's not alright
and definitely not acceptable

yes, all good things
must come to an end
may this warning be a lesson
on how not to walk

from now on, I will be sensible,
approach each day with joy
and restraint and positive intention

history does not have to repeat itself
I am the master of my own destiny
the sooner I come to terms with this
the quicker my path to healing

I shall give it a real shot
and I shall overcome,
or at least die trying

may I be kind to myself
and the future be kind to me
in return for my efforts

I shall be kind to myself

Monday, September 23, 2013


at the shops

I was on the lookout
for any signs
of boganism
from tribal tattoos
to a walking billboard
buying protein products
most people were “normal”

where were all the bogans?
still at work?
at home
beating up their partners?
I’m glad it was not yet past 5
otherwise they would
be out in droves
waiting for the opportune time
to glass some cunts or poofs
yes, I survived


the plastic we consume

ends up consuming us

as we blindly buy shit

made in China

living beyond our means

on this matter

much more can be said

but there are times

woven through the replication

of history's ills and mishaps

when words are superfluous


the same old tiresome themes

exhausted to the point of cliché
although I am fundamentally honest
in a naïve kind of way
I was forced to creatively lie
in order to preserve
my Chinese takeaway meals
I passed by the skin of my teeth
momentarily able to suppress my naïveté

there shall be another famine
as there shall be another feast
I would rather choose famine
for the feast is exorbitantly priced

where to from here?

restraint and unfetterd creativity
stealing time and killing boredom
(for boredom is counter-revolutionary)
and refusing to fall prey to depression
(for it is but the extension of boredom
in a consumerist capitalist society)

may the famine destroy the feast
the self-destructive tendencies
of a  meal, which dishes out apathy,
disillusionment and complacency


tall poppies transfigured
hands shaken
a done deal
now unbecoming
and pretentious
as may be the case
I am not the only one

the harsh reality
back to square one
but a fleeting dream
of brighter yesterdays
now dissolved
into a wash bag
of nothingness
every other wash bag
neatly tucked away
for times of desperation

this late night dalliance
with some words, rhetoric
are but a stone
in the grand scheme of things
a stone nonetheless
unfettered creativity
the enemy of boredom

an end to boredom
awaits me
on the other side
where wash bags
were once full

Friday, September 20, 2013


(originally created on a typewriter)

poetry is based on formula
poetry is base like peasants
poetry is based on words and words
poetry is the taste of wise men
poetry is a waste of energy
poetry is waste of my time
poetry is base like anarchy
the fear in me
the enemy
poetry is based on honesty
poetry is base like boat scum
poetry is based on (in)sanity
poetry, the place of freedom

i consider myself to be
i consider myself not to be
i consider myself to be
i consider myself not to be



(Dissident Poetician's anti-art manifesto)

a light radiates from the birth of nothing
and the murder of the status symbols you revere.
the pain and the anger of a youth of fascist constraints
manifests into the homicidal tendencies you do well to suppress.
this pain is the pain of the incapacitation
of the creative desire to destroy bourgeois culture.
by shedding the blood of imbecilic make-up queens you pass the rapist's test!

piss on the dreams of functional insanity
with a Molotov cocktail of Valium and heroin!
I am the dog you kicked with banal trendy cruelty.
kill you with a dash of truth and consume the cadaver.
this despot has had a gutful of Disneyfied scenes!
I've killed you all a million times in my wet dreams!



a fence to keep them in
a fence to keep who out?

there's a riot in the kitchen
man sews his lips together
there's a riot in the mess hall
man strikes out, fit of hunger

there's a fire on the roof top
man cuts his wrist in despair
there's children in the prison
child draws a picture of fences

a fence to jeep them in
a fence to keeps who out?
there's an outbreak of depression
man sews his lips together
there's a wave of desperation
man inflicts himself with self harm

there's a delay in the process
broken people left in limbo
there's no end to persecution
man flees only to be locked up

a fence to keep them in
a fence to keeps who out?

and they cannot stonewall the call of freedom
on the other side: much love and compassion

from Maribyrnong: AZADI
from Villawood: AZADI
from Port Hedland: AZADI
from Perth Airport: AZADI
from Coonawarra: AZADI
from Wickham Point: AZADI
from Curtin: AZADI
from Scherger: AZADI
from Yongah Hill: AZADI
from Manu Island: AZADI
from Christmas Island: AZADI
from Naru: AZADI
and they cannot stonewall the call of freedom
on the other side: much love and compassion
start the riot
no more silence

Wednesday, September 18, 2013


a disheveled room filled with junk

blunted needles in a hay stack

walking purposefully with promptitude
through rain, hail or shine
those were our halcyon days
a convivial period of unremitting adventure

nostalgia for yesteryear's pandemonium
fraught with danger at every junction
a debauched period of stultifying decisions
dire ramifications catch up with us all

this will be the final time
the last taste, she tells herself

despair temporarily assuaged
self-deceit now unveiled
a vicious circle reinforced
more than merely a waste of time

and we are in the same sinking boat
going nowhere and going there fast

this shall not be my future
the last time, I told myself

only the fortunate few come out unscathed
if only it were fools who reminisce
but she certainly is far from a fool
and I believe myself not to be a fool

the last time will be the final time
so we would like to tell ourselves

Monday, September 16, 2013


late night bout of insomnia
once shy, twice bitten by Sir Jeffrey

creature of the night flustered
cigarettes and English tea
rice cakes and water
the nauseating aftermath
of a rampaging war hammer
impromptu dinner emptied
bloodied spaghetti puddles
filtered water flowing freely

slumber gods still denying entry
a steaming slag pile of junk
battered, fighting a losing battle
scratching itches arising spontaneously
I feel like I am doing time
waiting for words to help me forget
a creative burst: the consolation
my weary head tilted downward

oh, how much I now regret waiting
waiting then for the man to come
waiting now for insomnia to concede
syringes long emptied and blunted

it's going to be a long night
you can bet your life, it is


a cacophony of shoes
shuffling in near synchronicity
a congregation of wage slaves
heading off for another day on repeat
to witness such scenes first hand
is a phenomenon alien to me nowadays
for I do not follow the same deadly rhythms
conversely, I was heading back home
I spent the night in an orgy of gutter excess
beer bottles, bongs and syringes
enough to make the aliens frown
no, I do not follow the same rhythms
I dance to the beat of disillusioned escapism

Sunday, September 15, 2013

it’s not the same

jilted joy

same old sensations


a resplendent con job

spare time nixed

sacrificial lamb

innocence defiled

lost mine long ago


presently not present

floating on nails

blunted syringes

darkness in the light

vanquished faculties

lost it long ago
palm leaves rustling

a whispered cacophony


sonic rebellion


waiting in the wings of desire

it’s only one phone call away


sunlight piercing through

a congregation of callous clouds

sky porn on display

for the perverse to notice


waiting in front of a screen

it’s only one phone call away
background television
white noise

blades of grass

in half shadow
half light

as I await
euphoric transformation
in the shadow
of self-deceit

I told myself no
never again

but if it were
that easy
then nobody
would get up
so early
on a Sunday morning

it's a recurrent
pattern of thought
you see
a circus monkey
on the back

these musings
are but a distraction
from the inevitable
a perfect fit
soon tarnished
by regret
and the ghosts
of disappointment
past and present

never the same
as days now buried
never the same
because Annie's
now in charge
of the free market
a stab in the dark
not knowing
what to expect

never the same
never again


I used to be one of the kool kats
traversing around town
experiencing what little culture
this backward city
had to offer

a diamond in the rough
a pretentious hipster
a dejected junkie
a sarcastic wanker

and it's my city
full of cashed up bogans
pretentious indie kids
and ignorant rednecks

a swell place to live in
if you are dead or dying
or into not creating anything
and just consuming spectacles

oh, how times have changed
my life is boredom personified

isolated now,
I write Haiku's to pass time

oh, how times have changed
perhaps for the better

I don't think so



is it not about
what one is feeling
at some point in time,
that differs
from a previous
attempt at creating
what is purported
to be art?


on a collision course
with triffids.
an offering to the gods.
our primitive desires
etched into symbols,
crying out
for peer critique.

the thesaurus
comes in handy,
when the words
are not working --
on display
for all and sundry
to witness.

a symptom of the times,

we attempt
to proliferate
stale ideas,
dressed up
as originality.

and if Babylon
should fall,
than may our temples
be consecrated,
discarded and contused
like a battered wife.

and my musings
are but futile
in a world
devoid of reason --
a carnival of excess,
full of hatred
and self emaciation.

may the PC gods
frown upon these words :
we are all
a pack of cunts,
for the scrap heap
of ubiquitous retardation.


we are going nowhere fast
headed in crooked fashion
to the dustbin
of obsolescence
as we pick up the pieces
of what used to be
a fashionable expression
of rebellion
and fire bullets
of hatred
into the mainframe
of a system
that maims and kills

rebellion is obsolete
refusal: the only sensible choice
as we scream zeros
into an ocean of ones


candles half burning
a half-hearted yearning
for a change in the weather

lightning strikes, not once
but twice

imagination now devoid of colour
a compromise
the cowardice of resignation

dirty tides
infinity now restricted


the edge of destruction
flowers scented with pollution
a sonic boom capitulation
the same new old sensations

the flexing of dog meat
in the shadow of death seeds
contusion of dirty feet
no valve to release

we wait for salvation
eschewing the joy of creation
it's simple arithmetic deduction
incomplete cranial construction

we are but empty shells
with tortured screams to sell
a cataclysmic broken spell
urban myths we cannot dispel


and he looks sexy
in his budgie smugglers

his sexy positions

his racist policies

his love of Rupert

and it was by no mistake
that the iron man
of  pure austerity
to the cream of the crop

and there will be no light
at the end of the tunnel

the bulldozer in standby

the termite king

the champion of "love"

sharpening scissors

inserting suppositories

protecting borders
stopping boats

engaging with glee
in corporate fellatio

it was by grand design

an age of stupid

rampant racism

memes of greed

yes, it was by grand design
a matter of simple biology


Tony is way toned
His suppository fetish
Maybe faeces too

Escargot broadband
With Margie at his bedside 
He does Rupe's bidding

Homos can go jump
Even though I'm Rupert's bitch
Fuck I hate myself

We will stop the boats
Determine who will come 'ere
Straya chose real change

Glitzy red carpet
Big shout out to Rick Muir
Payed for by News Corp

Three word slogans work 
He didn't even have one 
Scarlet Pimpernel 




It isn't in the mirror
It isn't on the page
It's a red-hearted vibration
Pushing through the walls
Of dark imagination
Finding no equation
There's a Red Road rage
But it's not road rage
It's asylum seekers engulfed by a grudge
Scottish friction
Scottish fiction

It isn't in the castle
It isn't in the mist
It's a calling of the waters
As they break to show
The new Black Death
With reactors aglow
Do you think your security
Can keep you in purity
You will not shake us off above or below
Scottish friction
Scottish fiction

Edwin Morgan