poetry, death, fame, mining & amphibious automobiles

he’d done heaps for the cultural life of the state

never left the sprinkler on the lawn

tied himself to some trees 

only ate meat he killed himself;

he didn’t kill himself

maybe he wanted to a few times

sushi perhaps

but it was never quite the same after that

you had to go to japan to learn the right techniques

and no one was flying any more

and youtube tutes didn’t really cut it.

he puts a few of these things into a poem he reads at the moon

along with some other poems about rivers

or the mundanity of either being or not being famous.

he skippers an amphibious beetle to the city

where the miners bark at each other at esplanade bars

about fucken land rights and how trump’s got the right idea

scomo too

he drinks a macchiato 

looking over the passing traffic to where his beetle is moored on the river.

from his rucksack he takes out a monochrome saturated turquoise moleskine 

       and with a schaeffer fountain writes a poem 

about a giant 7-eyed serpent chewing up an old pilbara bauxite site.

everything roffled, razed, regurgitated

         just hot red sand then 

                distant silhouettes…

    baffled trackers…

they don’t realise how much gets put back 

into the community the fucken dumb cunts, 

     someone in a corrugated CAT cap says. 

no fucken community without the fucken mines mate.

nuther beer?

yeah fucken oath cunt.

he closes the moleskine

mouths ‘fellars’ to the men

moves along

2-finger whistling 

as the beetle alights

whinnies