Viva la revolution!
the politicians are in blocks of ice
at our local museum
no need to vote
in our local election,
we had the strength to overthrow
the waste baskets of society
and now no HECS or taxes,
as we loot our dreams
from the ground they were burnt in
anarchy sings a special song
as bread runs out
and fires turn cold
the kettle's scarred metal is dry
'good riddance' we say
the posters loom larger every day
that comrade with the thick moustache
and Mona Lisa smile?
we call him comrade, not leader
the factories give my mother bow legs,
a crooked back and arthritis
half of our neighbourhood's missing
I visit the ice museums one night,
wiping clean the frozen tombs
they've cranked up the cold
and there's frost in my heart
their suits are preserved with the suave of death
the media smile of our old PM,
thumbs up for a better Australia, Clive
Stopping at all their resting blocks
I raise my hand up in salute,
The Greens and Independents frozen as one
Pauline and Fraser fused back to back
Who knew I'd ever miss them all.
YOU ARE READING
Lives Collide
PoetryDo I contradict myself? Very well then I contradict myself, (I am large, I contain multitudes). - 'Song of Myself,' Walt Whitman It's hard to know sometimes who you're meant to be. And that's kind of okay. One day I feel like a witch, another like...
