John Bryan
	1. Don't think about all the years   Two photographs of Wilf Batty -   1930: the farm at Mawbanna will teach an animal to go poking around the hen house, down to the last, his own dog, barely standing at its master's side, petrified by the spooky oriental pup on his right in what appears to be the final moments before its death.   1989: with Dr. Elaine Murphy during the preparation of a documentary, arm in arm, respect as is accorded to an old man hand in hand with the annals, all archived in what appears to be the final moments before his history.   he wears the same smile in both     2. I look through diaries   that's why these narcisisstic novels are written, i've read all kinds of plots:   one girlfriend wanted to suck another's hairy coconut with a straw, another lost her virginity to a kitchen knife, unable to dwell on her spotty, wet dream of an adolescent suitor discovering, or cutting her with that thing   another who had a dildo shaped in the form of a Cryptoprocta ferox's penis, perhaps other animals thrown in for good measurement another who wrote i gave the best head, this one i remember well sitting on the window dresser, a buzzing neon sign: ALL YOU CAN EAT   if all these novelists dressed accordingly people would remark, ' well... they asked for it '   at the end of these relationships i discover these things, hidden behind a cupboard door, yet not really as it lies behind on an open shelf,   a deliberate private introspect for the attention of me i act accordingly, illustrate these penny dreadfuls, mute, they will be a horror to see     3. To catch up to the Min Min   We have two types of open space in Australia:   THE BUSH: where the school kids go for their licence In utility vehicles way too powerful, and all can fire a shotgun. While their dogs have killed at least one other's pedigree. Their late teens are for breeding, not those ripe old twenties like Every twenty kangaroos they've shot one of twenty shooters May wonder, is this the colour of a human brain, This spatula meat, take back to camp to eat, Scraped off a car crash tree. Don't say you come from Sydney.   THE OUTBACK: a confrontation with a city slicker Much more palatable than entering the pub with no beer, Full of a red desert man, Who can compare his great open spaces to violence, Where there aren't even any alienated witnessess Who don't know your name Yet could still view the only witness Is you and you have disappeared Simple like a Mick Dundee turned Yowie   Calling HELP will just keep away those who have heard it all before Calling RAPE will certainly bring more of the type Calling FIRE will scare everyone gone As oral tradition, call your name, so they will remember, surely Passing on, with their two bare hands, hands of the land, To the next throat gasping     4. Who am I ?   My solution is unprecedented in quality and quantity of any genocide before or since. I wanted to wipe out a race for reasons basically unknown, thus quite personal and selfish, if not narcissistic. Was that rare one in a million person who gets to act out their most cherished fantasy, whatever that may be. I didn't like these people simply because of how they looked, making me the ultimate racist, perhaps the reasons         for my solution are as simple as that, as selfish as that. Technically one can argue I knew nothing about my solution, all my orders were given orally to my henchmen. I get the last laugh knowing that the world suspects, and truly knows, yet cannot prove. My solution ushered in the modern world, like The Final Solution or The Atom Bomb, or am I one of these things, or both. I am political correctness at its grossest level. The political correctness of death, or better, murder. My solution is the fast food of murder. I started a war to merely satisfy my darkest desires: whatever they may be, because I gave my orders orally. My euphemisms the poetry of death. The negativity of an artist whose aesthetic is infernally grand.   Who was I ? Who am I ? Who could I BE ?     5. Homo diluvii testis   What about my hooking up scaly women Mermaids or sirens whose measurements Could ascertain from their insides as the Feeling of one's finger pressing lightly The tip of a nose. A bathroom shower to place them for a day or two So all their shit comes out before I eat as Blood runs down the drain They are those first fish to forsake their dreamy mass of solid water, Blue, For the sandy prosaic yellow fluids of sand, dry as a Nun's cunt: this no fish The acrid drought of my tongue's sediment: no fish can swim but their rock floating bones