I can answer critics With the query Where’s the Female Inside Certain Areas?
That’s what makes us stop Think, before taking inaction
The box stutters, sends Its signal across the ether Tweaking and jumping From hear to there Whilst we passively look on
The screen freezes Dropping lines and sounds From the pattern of plans Tidying the towns Where life is sustained
Taken to extremes Thoughts ebb Fade into oblivion Deep within
Roaches rock around the well Waiting for a sturdy hand To pass the pill of season
Life within the walls Is filled Sounds of night Snoring, wheezing and creaking chairs
Light flickers, dull When dimmed As memory passes
Voices call; the TV preaches Stories, deep, dark, soaring
Life within is without The normal patterns Of dust Waiting is forlorn Quaint. MR WHIPPY! The battery boots and kicks in Powering the Whippy Van Deep into the frigid night Steaming toward Gosford
Round and round it goes Wheezing and rolling On a coaster, in a coaster? Rocken & Rollin in the mist
Lights phase, amber, shrouded The van speeds, silently now Toward a destiny
Will he run, will he bite? The hand, that feeds and bleeds Furtive glances, watching, closely For signs of seizure, of lucidity?
Shaft after shaft, shift Throughout the night, and daytime Passing secret notes Eyes compassionate, with sorrow?
Leave it to us, we’re trained To handle situations Beware, on our terms only As long as you co-operate () LONE CONFERNMENT () Tossed and turned, nailed and drilled By kilted and kitted razor gang’s men On a bed of pillows, stark in the light Lying in wait for the mind to ignite
Grabbed from behind, tossed and tumbled On a bed of feathers laying quite low Arms twisted, legs pinned, neck yanked back All I can do is yell: FUCK!, FUCK!!, FUCK!!! Down with the pants, a needle jabbed in Then oblivion it seems, can’t kick in Dreaming and dozing for hours on end Of life beyond bars and the constraints of sin
Finally awake and it’s back to the ward To sit and brood on a stool near the door Waiting and waiting for lucidity to return Finally it’s morning but the days never end GLENDA’S STORIES Pubs, I’ll tell you pubs, best places in the world People treat barmaids, with respect, my word Not like blokes, blokes, damn blokes They lay and cheat, who’d believe A girl from the streets
Bloody Irishman, smooth, as a good Scots on Ice
Pubs, I’ll tell you pubs, Willoughby pubs Best pubs in Sydney like the Bridgeview What a pub it was, neat as a fig in jam Blokes at the bar, some you saw Up the RSL when ya got a gig
Lithgow, a place of dreams, broken dreams mind A place where men lived, beyond their means. Not mean men, not like some I’ve seen Men with guts, but without a dream Men like Dad hauled coal all over
I met and married when I was a lass Sam Marshall was one of the men Paddy we called him, a Mich Bloody brute of a man Pretty small dick
Should have known better
When Paddy left, he left a legacy Two kids, the best you’d see When he left he hurt me Wrenched my rings Served me right Bloody men
Since then it’s been a bloke here and there Just two you mind, I’m not a whore Kid with each one, four it was Only three of them left see Poor mite died young >>>>>>>>>>>>
Life, I’ll tell you life, it’s been bloody tough For a girl from Lithgow who rode in trucks To life in Naremburn working in pubs No star time it was, not for me
But a life of which I’m bloody proud
hen the crystals shimmer Stealing thoughts Tumbling them around Like sandshoes in a Hoover * The dawn of cognition comes To a conclusion ….. is afoot
Life follows Songlines 