by Graeme Dixon
attempted a last stand
And if it seems
I don’t worry
let me tell you why
Because oppression is oppression
No matter the shape of the eye.
Pension day
The natives are restless
in their State Housing homes
Unmarried mothers
are no longer alone
Relations are arriving
from near and afar
Social Security pensioner
today you’re a star
Anxious glances
are cast up the street
Postie has a timetable
he never ever keeps
Dad swears one day
he’ll wring his white neck
Mum says don’t worry
he’ll lob in a sec
Young yorga’s15 dream
of new jeans and shoes
Yong men scheme
to cadge money for booze
Petrol for cars
more than two dollars worth
Then it’s off to the TAB
To invest in the turf
Even dogs and kids
are running amok
they know boya16 will fly
when the oldies are drunk
Cokes and lollies
and everything nice
Wishin’ wouldn’t it be moorditj17
if pension days fell twice
Postie has been
cheques have been changed
Food and drink
have been all arranged
Dad cracks a bottle
passes it around
Says let’s have a charge
then piss off to town
Town she jumps
on pension day nights
Girls looking for boys
boys looking for fights
Tomorrow they’ll be hungover
some sore—most quiet
But who gives a shit
coz tonight Noongahs RIOT!
15 yorgas—girls Back
16 boya—money Back
17 moorditj—good Back
Single Mum
She awakens every other morn
to cries of empty-bellied kids
tries feeding them with little
as they reckon Jesus Christ once did
She spends most the morning
getting them fed, clean and dressed
Holding back tears of frustration
for her is an emotional test.
The State rents her a concrete box
in an outer suburban slum
they promise her a house one day
she feels this will never come
for now she’s gotta try make do
meeting the rent and other bills
if the loneliness don’t get her
depression eventually will.
In winter it’s cold as ice
in summer as hot as hell
the plumbing’s always playing up
there’s a cockroach plague as well
There’s no carpet on hard floors
old sheets are used as curtains
but she has new locks on doors
around here women can’t be certain.
The suburb that she lives in
is rife with vandalism and crime
she’s virtually a prisoner in a cell
never venturing out night-time
If her kids wander out of sight
she’ll frantically shout their names out
Everyone says she’s a worrier
she knows there are deviates about.
She often dreams of the love
she gave in her youthful years
but tries blocking these memories
they only lead to tears
Still she’ll forever remember the day
she awoke to a cold empty bed
wondering eternally if it was her
was she the reason why he fled.
Trying to forget those painful times
has developed a valium habit
any pain killers coming her way
alcohol, drugs, she’ll grab it
She knows she must stop one day
but the wounds are far too raw
and it’s never knowing, that hurts
what the future holds in store.
The only sunshine in her life
is on fortnightly pension days
the whole block then seems to smile
and rellies come around to stay
Sometimes even long lost lovers
arrive to visit the deserted wives
but that’s the only sip of water
in the arid desert of their lives
So the struggle to survive
stumbles from one day to the next
She wishes they prepared her for this
in High School life skills text
She often contemplates suicide
as the only escape from this pit
But a kiss and cuddle from the kids
makes her think maybe it’ll be worth it.
Where?
Where have they gone
I often wonder
Those great Southern Tribes
Where is the culture
the lore
the legends
those haunting Didgeridoo vibes
Where are the grey old ones
to educate
to enlighten
the youth in the ways of old
Where has it all gone
the traditions
the land
has it all been stolen and sold
Surely they have left us a little
those invading Europeans
Just a place
to call sweet home
and fulfil our Noongah dreams
Or is it far too late
to worry
to wish
our lifestyle had remained unchanged
And do we have to learn
to live
to survive
in a world that’s been re-arranged?
Oldies
The far away looks
in their wrinkled faded eyes
No longer interested
in the world outside
They’d rather gaze inward
to the memory’s reminisence
of a long forgotten tribe
Though reality is dirty streets
they still see their land
picturing rolling hills
and red desert sand
Hunters and gatherers
stalking grey kangaroo
Making wild oat dampers
and wallaby stew
Sitting around fires
under the dreaming stars
Bush sounds in the night
uninterrupted by cars
Listening to the stories
of forty-thousand years
When they recollect them now
they fight back the tears
Waking in the morning
to an unpolluted dawn
Alive and beautiful
like a new baby born
With warriors departing
on an early day stalk
No rushing or bustling
just a leisurely bush walk
The women and children
gather through the day
while women toil
children happily play
Wise old grey ones
chatter and sing
Through well-earned respect
they’re treated like kings
But now they sadly realise
those innocent years have passed
Shattered and destroyed
when that first fleet anchor cast
Now the old ones
have no land to return to
They just waste slowly away
in a state owned ghetto
And on death they will take
the last links with
the Dreaming
While an uninterested youth
learn the white man’s scheming.
$2 a bottle dreams
When the world
that surrounds me
seems at its brutal worst
When my brain
throbbingly expands
ready to burst
When the Government man
threatens
to haul me away
When before my eyes
I see my hair
turning grey
That’s when I must go
to my local
Dream-maker
in the main street
near the butcher
and baker
To ask,
sick to death
of so-called normality,
for a potion
to distance me
from reality
He smiles at me
with greedy
glint of eye
Listens to my problems
with false
understanding sighs
Advises me
to slow down
ease off life’s throttle
then sells me
my dreams
two dollars a bottle
In my
induced dreams
it is an undivided nation
No bigotry,
prejudice
or racial discrimination
No looking down
noses
at gentle original tribes
Towards our
Asian neighbours
no antagonistic vibes
With politicians
truly united
for the benefit of all
Society
no longer classified
into the rich
and the poor
Greedy
multinationals
no longer environmentally
maim
Reconditioning
land and forests
to before the
Europeans came
And all of our children
laugh sing dance and play
assured
that tomorrow
will bear forth
a new day
But then I awake
feeling remorse and hungover
when the realisation sets in
that my dreamtime is over
Being blatantly
stared at
by the taxpayers who pass
When I catch their eyes
they look away
downcast
Because it’s my kind
lying sprawled in the park
that’s a reminder
of Australia’s history
so dark
With all
to look forward to
but my next pension day
I slowly arise
and stagger away
and no matter
how escapist
to all it may seem
it’s what
keeps me going
my $2 a bottle dreams
Hypocritic sponsorship
This TRULY MAGNIFICENT
SPORTING SPECTACULAR
is so PROUDLY
BOUGHT TO YOU BY
cirrhosis of the liver
BREWERIES,
THE LAGER
THAT REAL MEN BUY!
In conjunction with
the COMPANY
THAT GAVE YOU
lung cancer cigarettes
And JUST FOR YOU
gambling folk,
THE STATE HAS SUPPLIED
FACILITIES TO BET
We’d also PROUDLY
like to remind you
that the MANAGEMENT
of these
AUSTRALIAN COMPANIES
have DONATED
A BIG FAT CHEQUE!
to HELP stamp-out
MARIJUANA DEALERS
and JUNKIE WRECKS
Because, with
DEEP SYMPATHY,
they realise
that DRUGS RUIN LIVES
of INNOCENT KIDS!
And this country
WON’T BE SAFE
till ALL FORMS
OF ADDICTION
have been rid!
Also,
they are opening
a TRUST FUND
in the not too
distant future time
TO AID A CAUSE
THAT NEEDS
PUBLIC SUPPORT!
A FREE
suicidal assistance
telephone line
And you women
in the audience
don’t worry,
you’ve not been
left out,
as they’re starting
a CRISIS CENTRE
FOR THOSE LADIES
WHOSE DRUNK HUBBIES
knock them about
And also
YOU BEAUTIFUL KIDS
they have
A PROJECT
JUST FOR YOU’S
They will GIVE
two cents an empty,
so make sure
your folks
DRINK MORE BOOZE!
Lung cancer cigarettes
have a SCHOLARSHIP
AVAILABLE
FOR THE FUTURE
All you
have to do
IS SMOKE
their teenage label
And finally
the MINISTER reminds you
that these
companies
HELP fill
state coffers
and the money
IS NEEDED
BY THE PEOPLE
NO MATTER WHAT
is said
by the COMMUNIST scoffers.
A unfortunate life
Born in the country
well, not exactly in
more on the fringe
in a hession humpy
near a dry river
by decree of dominant law
no longer a nomadic liver
Innocent childhood years
flew too swiftly past
innocence replaced
by tears and fears
when realisation set in
that he differed
as did the rest of his kin
from the wajella18 kids
who played in town
at night he shamefully regretted
his skin was so brown
Attempted education
deserted it too soon
Understood English
except strange words
like coon
boongturd
black nigger
Seemed life was
black gun to temple
white finger squeezing trigger.
On becoming a man
mum said “go!”
“leave this cruel land
for you to live
to survive
you must desert our clan
as this white man’s town
full of prejudice and shame
will keep you down
as long as they can see
your skin is so brown”
He died a little
he cried a lot
the day they sent him away
He begged his father
“Let me stay
I’d much rather live
the Noongahs’ way”
But dad remained strict
“Your future is lost
in your home town
you’ll always be bossed
and pushed around
Go to the city
live with Aunty Vi,
there’s no guarantees
but give it a try”
Reluctantly he left
his family so sad
That land may not be his
but it was all he had
a fe
eling
an instinct
deep in his heart—
to that land
he was a vital part
City life
what a mistake!
Racism rife
worse than the bush
Tried to find work
without any success
so with other lost lads
around pubs he lurked
Aunty couldn’t afford
six kids and him
“I’ll move out”
he told her on whim
“Karne!19 My nephew”
She said angrily
“You’re my sister’s son
your blood flows through me”
But still he went
with a fragment of pride
a legacy of ancestors
now on the other side
to live in the parks
by city riverbanks
where after dark
he joined the homeless ranks
Harassed by police
like all parkies are
there was no peace
sleeping under neon stars
Life became a cycle
of crime, wine and jail time
He finally realised
there was no happy ends
he decided to abandon
his derelict friends
They found him one day
suspended from a tree
In a grave he now lays
Nodytch!20
but eternally free.
18 wajella—white person Back
19 karne (karn ya)—foolish, weak Back
20 nodytch—dead, the departed Back
To let
Nice flat to let
the rental notice said
that’s partly furnished
with large double bed
scenic ocean views
in a small quiet block
close to the port
near the south dock
I give it a ring
in the early morn
we needed a place
before baby was born
“come over and view”
the caretaker said
so I got the Mrs
out of mum’s bed
“A home of our own”
she blissfully sighed
“I dearly wish
no one else has applied”
“Don’t worry sweetheart”
I said confident
“I’ve got a good job
to settle the rent”
As soon as he saw us
it showed in his eyes
the critical look
the sarcastic sigh
“I’m sorry mate”
he said with a smirk
“we only rent
to those who work”
“I am employed!”
I answered frustrated
“and the finance companies
