Repealing S.18(C) RDA

Brick Through The Window


Trevor Poulton lives in Melbourne. He was publisher

of the regional weekly newspaper, The Central

Victorian News & Review. He was admitted to the

Supreme Court of Victoria as a Barrister and Solicitor

in 2002 and practices as a generalist.

A collection of poems written by Trevor Poulton

during the 1990s. Several were published in Redoubt,

Verandah, On the Page, and the like. Several were

read on invitation to two Melbourne Writers Festivals.


                                        Through The Window


Trevor Poulton

Collection of poems from the 1990s

Other books by Trevor Poulton

 Defining, Identifying and Protecting Old-Growth Forest

 in Victoria (2006)

The Holocaust Denier (2012 Novel)

Trevor Poulton

Brick Through The Window

 Collection of poems from the 1990s

 First published in 2018

 This book is copyright and no part

of it may be reproduced, stored or introduced into a

retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any

means including electronic, photocopying or

otherwise, without permission of

the copyright owner.

Cover painting by Sholto Turner (1990)

Brick Through The Window

Copyright © 2018 Trevor Poulton

All rights reserved.



To my daughter Caitlin Poulton,

to Linda Heyworth who shared some first poems,

to Coral Hull for turning me into some poems of her own,

and to Fenton (d.1993).

The 1990s

If you can’t write a book write a book

If you can’t write poetry write poems

If you can’t sing drop it


  1. Coral and me
  2. Sculpture of Ideal
  3. Fenton dies  
  4. East Gippsland old-growth
  5. Newsworthy
  6. Getting you into my star system
  7. Wildlife rescue
  8. Pink heart of stone
  9. Fenton
  10. Letter to a counterfeiter
  11. Death stored in a handkerchief
  12. Rumour mongers/idiots
  13. Royal Park (1993)
  14. Nineteen ninety-one
  15. First gulp war
  16. Voyage
  17. The Mother, a little girl and a Father
  18. Ladies of the sand
  19. This side of the lake
  20. Silencing a hit man
  21. Wordward into night
  22. Brick through the window
  23. Sea of love
  24. A woman’s perspective
  25. Lack of confidence
  26. A relationship
  27. Turning points
  28. Female Circus Trainer
  29. Flesh off the bone
  30. Regrets of a misogynist
  31. A cop’s double life
  32. A Portrait
  33. Johnny Wheel
  34. An end (murdered)
  35. Police cells
  36. In the fruit box of summer
  37. Droppings of light
  38. Still-life of a god
  39. Telephone call
  40. The Intellectual
  41. Men’s only
  42. Love in the barn
  43. The Relationship
  44. Caitlin, I rebelled
  45. More than one way to BBQ a chop
  46. Driving
  47. Moving bits
  48. Mount Donna Buang
  49. A fairy tale
  50. Laying down to sleep
  51. Zilch
  52. The Passengers (Memory-Total)
  53. Wog taxi drivers
  54. Haunted flesh
  55. The home buyer
  56. Moving house
  57. Gestures of the block
  58. Leave, don’t go
  59. Dress code in Gold Street
  60. Body talk
  61. 1989 Production Room
  62. Just like to drink
  63. A neologism
  64. Rhythms of the ego
  65. Global yokel
  66. Into nothingness
  67. Police informer
  68. Song for Julie
  69. On her own
  70. Undressing for death
  71. Before Coral, there was you
  72. Lesbian wife
  73. Back to men
  74. Beast that walks on legs
  75. School classes
  76. A school kid’s wet dream
  77. The End

Bonus    Aphorisms of Trevor Poulton



Picture a white faced Celtic woman with a

scroll of black hair spilling onto shoulder

blades, a body stiff and eyes that are round like

that of a quadruped. Imagine her standing

next to the doorway of her lounge room. My

head, is placed on top of her shoulder, with her

back sticking to the red brick interior wall. She

swivels like a compass to her left, and then I

hold her against the door. ‘You prefer wood?’

‘Yes,’ she replies. I then put my lips to her

unexplored ear hole, and chew on a banana;

she likes the sound of blood rushing under the

roller of my tongue,

close to her tightening throat. We separate

and move downwards to the centre of the room

where we exchange vision and connect again

by touching feet and then fingers. ‘I want to show

you my bedroom,’ she says as she uses her legs

to elevate herself, and her poetry hands which

appear small and crooked, and are painted with

red varnish, elevate me to the level of one of her

floating hexagons. I submit to the mysteriousness:

a black and tan cattle dog with its acute face,

parked on the most expansive couch in the dim

lit room, its eyes tracking her bare feet; and, a

scant sheep dog with manic eyes attracting

anything that has life in it. I am inside its pupils.

She opens the door to the bedroom. There are

several lit candles all the same height; painted

photographs of elders sidled along the skirting

board and a double sleeping bag spread out on

the floor. Picture me, placing my hands, on top

of her shoulders, applying a little gravity and

we are down on our knees, with the candles

flickering about us, and she is just pivoting on

her bottom, rocking backwards and forwards

whilst I am trying to get her to straighten up,

or flatten out, and her body has lost all

elasticity and has become monosyllabic.

‘I think you should leave!’ she says.

So I walk out the front door out into the

Collingwood night where houses are just houses

and the streets don’t have much to say.

She is a breath behind me as I exit the

short square black wrought iron gate.

She says: ‘I’m just putting out the rubbish.’

I look back at her. Is she talking about me?

The Yarra River bends my rolls royce and me

home to Hawthorn. Picture me in my bed

penetrating white sheets, I am in love and

imagine her. Imagine now, a decade of love

and torment set to burst on the scene.


A sculptress deciphers white from true white

in a rough-hewn limestone block.

With fall of fragments, a bulbous woman

disrobes. Gauguin hips.

Surfeited on lime and stone. A rock eater,

healthy and brimming with whiteness,


voluptuously between Blue Gums,

within hands reach of tools

to smooth her hair. Contrasts

with her maker -

petite, vulnerable.

This other side of art

has absorbed the grief of stone, rises

under the weight of falling men.


Life is an accumulation of deaths.

Bodies enter and leave this untimely world.

The dog’s body is covered by sea,

he wiggles towards the bottom

hardened by salt.

My hands break the water

to retrieve his breath, and the sun

educates his skin, for him

to shake off his death

and chase his tail.

The suicidal dog leaps through

the damaged window of home,

a jagged ring of broken glass

that comes with another whiff of after-life,

following his concentrated dream

to a ring of green pellets

glittering beneath the neighbourhood rose

and its carapaces of snails.

He eats the poison

and flings himself back through the glass,

into this last house

that protects him from stars, his face

flinching on one side,

a throat given to tiny vowels -

running out of living 

northern walls telling Fenton to straighten up,

the body unleashing itself

until the snails and the garden

and the stars shut down on us.


Time timbers down on

these philosophers of ranges.

Trunks lie stacked in sawmill yards

bark sheared from their backs.

Leaves download light in coupes

where money grows on trees.

In the canopy country

crowns turn grey and forlorn.

These are no longer kingdoms

that renovate and furnish gullies

or reshape horizons.

This is the fallen country.


Land without heirloom

lies listless and god-lost,

void of real life,

drained of essence.

Days of conglomerate deceit, of

electronic new age lies, smiles

of crashed Vishnu and falling seas,

spools of men and women dying

on polished factory floors,

commission flats posted to the skies.

Those end-looks, harsh endings

of imagination, nerve touchy.

Least thoughts on an expanding concourse.

Life’s mixture dulled to spume.

Insuperable engineering of emptiness.


Blackberry hair branching out

across the lands,

she’s falling from a star

with only a compass of bones

to determine which way.

She lands at my feet.

‘I want to make physical contact with you,’ she

says, touching my forearm.

She documents her discovery

rising like water about my waist,

rocking gently at my sides

till darkness comes.

Black rings inexplicably withhold light.

I walk with her

through blocks of buildings and books

before the sun sets on Brunswick Street,

stalking her doorway to doorway

to clarify the dimensions of her world,

strange to me.

She is anointed princess of the poetry scene.

Her sycophantic new earthling friends

tell her to be wary of bastard men.

She looks at me with her eyes turned on.

She speaks of flower essences and of karma,

and the passage of birds whose names exist in

intergalactic books, and of pages of the day

turning over, and of her star dogs

diving at airborne Big Bang sticks.

Critics creep the atmosphere outside, looking

to jam her star, me, us.

She’s from a galaxy called STOP!

On the beach at Somers the sky light cracks

the waves. We run for cover as it starts to spit.

I confess. ‘I want to love you forever.’

She offers me affinity instead of infinity.

Sea-birds disembark the sea

leaving an impression of our absence

as she determines to take me on a voyage

into deep space

vacating Earth for the winter.


Great log of a rock,

furry bulging bloated football,

feet of stops,

moving bush of an animal,

damn the day

we became mates,

I can’t shut you

out of doors.

Tom bowler, party crasher

ramming my door.

Hold on, wombat, hold on,

I’m letting you in,

your dinner’s on its plate.

Friend for life.

Gum tree eyes that smile

like cracks of light,

I’m still repairing

the trellis you broke.

Good old wombat

with a distaste for the bush,


rock of a log,

hold on!

I’m coming to your rescue.


The stone is pink,

its interior is crystal.

Made of matter different from our own.

I was introduced to the pink heart-shaped stone

through my car door window,

being gifted it by the other.

She asked me to touch the stone.

My face was reddened by her sight.

My mind flat as a punctured tyre.

I was a non-believer,

but I relented and did as the woman said,

and felt the stone.

I returned to inside her house.


A little rectangle

wanders about

in a black and tan coat.

Suddenly its sides unlock

to reveal speed.

The rectangle comes to a stop,

parks its muzzle on my shoulder,

it eyes knowing

the expense of emotion

that kennels human kind.


(Long Bay Prison)

The light would be unbearable

forfeiting a generation of skin,

sandstone corridors

with peeled paint

steering your convoluted mind.

So far to the sea

that bangs the eardrums.

Eventually you’ll overtake the corridors,

to once again pedal the rocky seas

beyond the sandstone walls;

out into the years of light


manic over lost projections,

more bitter.

I remember you arched on the edge

of a river mirror,

your wet hair chanting to Vishnu,

joking with the refracted sunlight

that higher powers are really bent,

and that India is the cock of the world.

You returned home

rejoicing in theories of the Big Bang.

Such was your artifice,

to make psychic shifts:

stolen bicycles manifesting in hallways

of your several addresses.

The prison walls

tunneled with little squares of light

shape the air.

When you get out we’ll have a drink -

even if it’s no longer

to pedal along the edge of society

veering towards vast truths.


He had made his choice.

The trees are a dark blue.

The moon full of views,

its light stares through

sealed windows of flats.

I compare different walls,

knowing I must confront

a single window with

an unfriendly view.

Leaves glint metallically.

I am holding a hammer in my hand

to break the view.

The window has always been locked,

he never let in air;

now I must shatter it

in one gulp.

I approach his bloated body

lying naked on a sheet of moonlight.

The body is restless;

it is riddled with maggots

kept warm by his electric blanket

foolishly left on.

I pull out my handkerchief

but already

the stench of death is stored in it.


‘He tried to rape her!’

she said to him, who said to her,

who said to him.

‘Fucks his children,’

he said to her, who said to him,

who said to her,

talking in shafted tones,

eyes photographing bedroom walls,

documenting the intimacies

of others.

The lovers

suck on strawberry nipples

while sipping champagne.

‘Did you hear that!

He’s into pornography, abuse

of women, misogyny,’

she said to him, who said to her,

who said to him,

whispering in the gallery.

Phony new agers

offering comfort

to victims of abuse,

or twisted shadows

groping along walls,

spying and despising

the balance in others.

And then she said to him, who said to her,

who said to him.

While the lovers

suck on strawberry nipples,

sipping champagne.

Who’s that peeping through the windows?

It’s Johnny and Jess,

Susan, Louisa and Pam,

Lyn and Bill,

whispering in the gallery.

The lovers

strike back with baseball bats,

blackening necks.


We enter Royal Park

with otherworldly dogs

Binda, Kindi, Fenton,

chasing away

stalkers, misogynists, psychos

and (my) superficial truths.

Stars give birth to the night.

The giant park to ourselves,

we interweave our aloneness,

wrestle over a spread of grass.

Whenever too much space intervenes,

your brown eyes with rings of green

topple on me.


Out of the oil slicks

of Texas talk

a world policeman

takes his first steps.

Orphaned of imagination,

braced with towering iron bones

that rust when the oil shuts down,

a long head above

the curved millions who queue

the rim of his marathon,

soporific beneath the moon.

Out of the swamp

he has come, with wife

carrying his cow-hide

satchel of American dreams.

He had studied Brave New World

essayed on it at school

with thirty other pupils.

He proclaims a New World Order.

His vision kills worlds.


My neck’s just shot out of my shirt

without permission,

didn’t even wait

for my top button to undo

popped out for no reason.

The lower body


with sanctions,

no food for my mouth,

no shaving blades and cream.

My feet wriggle impatiently,

long nails set sail

out of my toes

and anchor in the harbour

of my shoes.

But my rebel neck holds court,

nodding my oily head

to the left and to the right;

the bulk of my body

is repulsed.

My heart shrieks,

‘Shoot the assassin in the head!’

Sanctions begin to gnaw.

Thousands of black haired warriors

pour ferociously out of my neck.

The dome in my throat


my forehead sweats,

but my neck refuses to concede.

It likes being two metres tall.

After much coagulation,

a coalition of my body


surgical intervention

is the only remedy.

My foot passes my hand

a long silver fish-shaped


My left hand

takes it from my right

and raises it to my neck.

The blade travels

across the jugular vein.

A thousand ribbons of blood

rain enough to fill a bath.


Sails, streamers, men overboard,

ships passing and sinking,

fish flourishing,

clouds knocking together

like varieties of hats,

lanterns holding fire,

waves compressing together

like accordions

playing shanties to fists of the crew

knuckling in small breaths,

the sea surfacing,

fish eyes colliding and winking,

coins rolling on timber

splashed with jacks.

My eyes reside in their sockets.

I will not be distracted.

I will not alter course.

Birds flaunting their wings overhead,

balloons rafting the sky,

waves falling like sea-horses,

lips shuddering on a red horizon,

voices anchored amongst rocks.

My head thunders

in the opposite direction.

I resist all waves.

My ears point east and west.

My nose faces north.

I am sailing home,

following the tense curve of my nose.

(Inspired by John Perceval’s painting –

‘Ships at Williamstown’)



Hills bend the earth about her

in this garden of restraint, furrowing a path

to her National Trust protected

house, and behind the four panel door

she keeps their little girl in heraldry

of motherhood.

She smokes through a black rose

smothering the trinket heart and days

twist through her garden beds, water draining

away into sky.

Canterbury Bells peal on their stems

as she runs beneath the arch of their child,

pulling the door shut;

bells ringing in her head.

Windows close like thickening glass

on a little girl’s vanishing

into a chest of drawers.

The house is

a fortress; hate

bulges from its parental verticals.

The Father waits outside

the gate

for his daughter,

until police come.

A straight breeze blows down the country street;

blue and red domes sit on top of a divisional van

without the glow.

Its tyres half on the footpath, half on the road.

The Father is told to get out of the car/to show

ID/to give a reason for being in Castlemaine/to

get out of town/he gets booked for not notifying

change of address on his licence.

His girlfriend is sitting in her EH Holden

Station Wagon with SA number plates; Coral gives

a false address behind her dark sunglasses.

‘Maybe you should leave town,’ he tells the

cops. ‘I’ll be back when the sun sets.’

Around dinner time the Father cruises past the house.

It is sealed like a mausoleum.

The divy van is crawling up the hill,

coming at him from the opposite direction,

the sun on its tail.


Where the ladies roll

down by the pier

messed in arrayed displays

of wanton gear,

laughing at the tilt

of bearded skies,

becoming the breasts of waves -

Where the ladies climb

up on the coral of flesh

drip on the sand,

roll dreams into beds

of fishermen’s needs

who thread their bodies

around the stems of waves -

Where the ladies waste,

and age makes waves


lines weaken the anchors of men

and lessen the pitch of love

till the ladies leave

and newer ladies roll in.


The lake smoothes in

on the shore, the lip of water

polishing a man who now lies

beside me dead,

his crinkled black

hair rocking over

the blood spot to his brain.

A rifle lies beside him

pointing outwardly

away from his corpse,

the edge of the lake kisses its butt.

There is death

on this side of the lake.

I see this man one more time,

his body being hosed down

on a trolley in the mortuary.

I have been asked to identify him.

Bullet shells of my eyes

glare at the vacancy before me.


You are a factory of nerves

peering over your shoulder

between street lamps and the moon.

Hit from behind,

your head is a picket fence.

You stagger to your room.

Memories flush red on the pillow.

Your number is up.

Pain stops the clock.

The time has come

for you to stand in a lineup

before the murdered dead.


Nearing his full stop,

Ezra Pound whimpers a truth -

"You’d have to be insane

to be a book

in a place like America."


Well hello baby,

I didn’t expect that red brick

to arrive like it did

straight through the eye of my house

and as I blinked

I saw an aqua tail gate

speed off down the leafy street.

Darling, it couldn’t have been you,

you were at your place

and in about the time it would take

for you to return home

my telephone rings,

a reminder call to say

you love me passionately.

I tell you not to worry,

I’ll catch the prick.

“They’re all out to get me,

but don’t worry baby

that’s their world.

It could have been a past lover

or some vindictive policeman.”

The second time is different.

She is standing outside the window

in the upturned garden where we

had laid trails of arguments,

her black skull screaming of poison,

her small fists rattling the glass.

Behind the smudged square transparent pane

I contemplate

the speckle of red under her eye.

I am standing in the emotional landscape

of my own glass interior,

transparent and fallible.

Out of the darkness

I cannot avoid the shuddering of her spirit

blackening down on me

in the wetness of our chimney shape

dying friendship.

I follow her outside

as I have so often done during our cycles

of grief,

but she keeps coming at the window

with all her emotion.


I grapple with you

in the questioning sea,

your eyes an illumination

of love, loops of  purity

pressing me to hold on.

The coastline of your body

shimmers that I should come

to rest between your thighs.

Questions rise and fall again

to toss you back into the sea.


How decisive of you

to move between sheets

of an after-glow,

your face like a photograph

developed by my body

in the dark.

‘Tremulous features!’

Then up you get

and bounce across the room

to bring me more wine.

‘Recidivist destined to spoil!’

I know you’ll just fall

back into my broken arms

with more tendons than ever

and rub the sheets

on my toes.

‘Till they turn brilliant white!’

How silly of you

to think that you could extract

yourself from my

breathless leash

that walks the stars.

I am your woman,

the reason you now stand

so erect and florid.

‘I like your nice smile!’


I stop thinking

and then start again;

this is a mistake.

I start thinking

and then stop again;

this is a mistake.

Thoughts line up

against me,

dressed for battle.

I change my mind.



worked on me


I had nothing

to change.

She changed

so I had


to work on.

We both

went off

to work.


You do and you don’t

you don’t and you do

walk between the trees,

part plates from greasy water,

stroke the lines on my face.

You will and you won’t

you won’t and you will

stay at my place,

walk with me on water

as we fall like plates.

Turning a blind eye to fate

where truth hesitates to go,

reaching out

we finger the dark

but we do and we don’t.

Before you departed

to scratch the sky

i lingered about you

a heartbeat to your heart

but i would and i wouldn’t.

And here you are again,

in my arms and out, and

cruelly i push you against

the wall, but you won’t.

We are full of will.


It’s you (again)

ringing like a telephone

your voice hurtling along the tightrope.

How do you say it? ‘Hello. It’s me.’

How do you manage all those phone calls

Triple 0 in vegan wear?

It’s you (again)

denouncing other women as slags

your crooked fingers molesting

the rings of their cunts.

But not that unusual.

For your next feat you say,

you’re gonna ram

a broken beer bottle up my arse.

You’ve organised for your male tenant

to migrate to a big tent in the lounge room,

sleep with the obedience dogs for reduced rent,

and shift another sad male clown

into his bedroom to get more rent.

You are the circus trainer.

It’s you (again)

burning your sisters at the stakes

nipping off their nipples

their floppy flaps and their fat bums

or bony cheeks.

It’s you (again)

ringing like a doorbell

your black bra beating against my door

your own cunt ready to slide mammal-wise

right across my body.

It’s that voice (again)

spiritual and reflective of pain.


I have learned

to live alone

feel nakedness

of the bone.

No worm

to tend my affairs

no roof of ice

no despair.

Feel a little rain

slither on a leaf.

The bones step out.

There are no lovers

only the wind

between my ribs.

The way home

is long and tedious.

Hard for bones

that live alone

like fragments

on a sheet.


When you said good-bye

you gave me your photograph.

Shot at, pushed down, punched up,

pointed, squeezed and slotted, brought

down, lifted up, locked down.

When you kissed me good-bye

your lips stopped trembling.

Beaten up, lassoed, breasts whipped,

face slapped, head washed, nose pinched,

spaded, buried like-a-bone.

The days now live without you

as I dig up my errors and mistakes.

Eyes withdrawn, stomach stuffed,

house shut, closed off, moved along,

criss-crossed, crossed out.


He manages to cross thresholds

as if people

are made of plasticine.

He thinks he’s clever.

It’s an art to be simultaneously

accurate and inaccurate.

On one side of the sliding door

a decadent darkness pervades:

a collection of haunted unkempt men,

& women who will dive for their drugs.

The dim light nourishes lyrical illusions.

Through the hotel’s sliding door

he enters Coppers Corner speeches,

censors his words.

Light illuminates from a whiteness overhead,

wiping reality with an intoxicating police


He boasts a double life at Stewarts Hotel.

The trick becomes impossible

after too much to drink;

a broken glass, smashing a hole in a door.

Another night off his head and again

two conflicting realities unite,

neither room welcoming him.


I am made up of many layers.

There are these four walls

about me that form a fortress

for my intelligence.

The walls

could be constructed of light.

If you move a little closer

you will notice my apparel,

hues of blue. Buried in uniform,

I am a walking sky

in which my body broods.

Undo some buttons.

You have arrived at a dead-end,

the wall of my flesh

where the sea, the sweat and the sky


I shall give you access.

Beneath the first layer

is a little bit of

ego, sadness and felicity


several shopping lists.

Let us go

straight to the core,

a whole lot of ideas


awaiting some violent resolution

that will enhance my powers.

I am the opposite

of my own self,

layer after layer

of unresolved attitudes.

Now gently

fold the strips back,

tuck the sky

of my police shirt

back underneath my chin

so that I appear decent,

and let’s restart the interview.

State your full name, address and date of birth.


johnny wheel was beyond the rigid grid of

police life/ bit psychic/ took you right into his

head where it’s hard to plan your escape/ but it

appeared he’d lost his nerve like cops do/

whose glory days are waning and find solace

lifting barbells

in the gym/ with children peering on/ one day

they say he just pulled the pin/ some say he’s

locked up in hills Bairnsdale way/ and that

everyone’s out of his mind/ watches native

birds’ flashing wings light up the bush around

him at dusk

their speeding is self-preservation nothing else/

and that the spent shells of gum trees means

re-growth/ a crim reckoned once that wheels

sat on his double bed/ shared a joint/ tried to

talk him out of death but he also wanted

information/ tim

would say nothing/ but somehow he felt

touched/ wheels never painted the crim into

the wall but could have/ you could trust him if

there was something going on/ when you could

find him/ but he wasn’t like most cops/ writing

up tickets or out of the divy van

pissing on with licensees at the back of hotels/

or screwing single mums/ and separated dads/

in the housing commission flats/ we all knew

what was going on/ carlton cops could never

keep secrets/ there was a senior constable/

always drunk/ every week tell

you how he manslaughtered someone during

an interview/ but never got charged/ once

I read wheels name on the front page of the

sun/ asked what was the breakthrough/ just

said meticulously it was intuition/ probably

thought he was having a

joke/ sergeant john wheel the loner/ tracked

down/ the young constable with the broken

heart driving north non-stop/ across the border

to brewarrina/ chasin’ this poet coral when he

was supposed to be on watch-house/ wheels

brought him back for his own good/that one

amused us/ I used to drink with him a bit/ talk

in general terms/ at stewarts hotel/ across from

the cop shop/ where cops used to mix back

then/ seeking solace from criminals, disbarred

solicitors, junkies, civil libertarians and other

lowlife/ some the cops had personally charged

you could catch wheels in the slide lounge with

johnny autopsies/ hisinformers/ the points of

his eyes would tell you not to walk in/ one day

he said to me he was transferring/ said ‘it’s a

promotion & premonition’/ he said/ ‘you’ve got

to have more than one reason for doing things

more than one motive otherwise you go down’/

chewing his cigarette end/ wired up in stripes

and government supplied shoes/ ended up on

one of those/ victoria police protection schemes/

doing time/ he hadn’t turned crooked/ there

was a contract

out on him/ even the hat felt pity/ ‘one of the

few cops not frightened to overstep the mark’/

he said/ ‘but that put an end to him’/ some

reckon it was the sunny dancer took him down/

talking about johnny wheel with an old crony

the other night/ he reminisced/ ‘you don’t call it

burning out/ you call it fuckin’ history’/ then he

told me/ with those words it was my fuckin’

shout/ you still appreciate/ colourful language

in carlton.


‘Do you have a brother?

Do you have a brother Tim?’

I didn’t want to give Tim up.

I asked the Homicide Squad, ‘Why?’

‘He’s dead. Dead. Killed last night.’

I felt the edges of my being

shot at and stabbed in the chest,

give way after so many years

of impotent observations and lies.

An illusion spanned through time,

from black haired follies in the yard

to the whip

of your Father’s suit and tie.

You could not resist

the soft caress of smack,

wheeling in money and lies.

A harness for your new suit and tie.

Money on the table,

fluorescent powder on the floor,

the haughty laugh of success,

wasted youth in a darkened recess.