Thursday, November 10, 2016

John Bennett #13 'Shoot the bastards'

                                                                 3pm Thurs Nov 10

So this is democracy - eleven of us holding banners on a furred
verge of the Pacific Highway – appalled by our treatment of refugees,
especially the most vulnerable, the children, the children.
So we stand there for a couple of hours, keeping in a sliver
of shade though a breeze is blowing off the Nambucca River
other side of the road. A few people honk, a few swear,
‘They can fucking well go back home.’ One white-van driver
red with rage, yells out, ‘Shoot the bastards’. Disturbing.
Open the door I thought, talk, until I notice a Whistling Kite
flexing fingers on a thermal overhead and pair of Dollar Birds
followed by Black-faced Cuckoo Shrikes crossing the road.

Trying to imagine how those children feel, a Brown Honeyeater
is calling, imagine no home, no future, perhaps no family,
read their palms, look for the lifeline beginning from between
the thumb and forefinger, or briefly describe the shit-hist-story
of the Gumbaynggirr people, a Mangrove Gerygone whistles
from the thin green edge and a porous instance of moon
is leaping the trees, oh yes, a picnic with friends on the beach
Supermoon Monday. It’s tiring, I use the horse stance, try to
relax everything, toes, anus, shoulders, eyes. Police cruise by,
two murders here in the last month - history overflows.

How to balance here and there, now and then and if? Plato
doesn’t help, there’s no soul inside the body longing for
a higher form of ideas. Metaphysics! I have been ignoring
the noise of engines, finally look round, we are standing
beside a McDonald's drive-thru! I admire Jason Bourne:
‘I can tell you the license plate numbers of all six cars outside.
I can tell you that our waitress is left-handed and the guy
sitting up at the counter weighs two hundred fifteen pounds
and knows how to handle himself . . . Now why would I know that?’

No-one driving a sports car or a ritzy Land Rover Discovery
honks (or shouts) – we are corrupted, but those with the most
luxuriate free of simmering resentment. A Pied Cormorant
beats up the green river. Denial. As we leave, Peter gives us
all a bag of carrots he dug up earlier this afternoon.

And even as I begin to upload this, I am distracted by

Eastern Rosellas chewing Dogwood seeds outside my window. 


  1. More power to you all. Especially love the first two verses.

  2. Particularly like 'those with the most luxuriate free of simmering resentment'. powerful stuff


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