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,
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