Monday, 8 November 2010


Over the red earth,
you can hear the low moan
of didgeridoo,
of Australia -
now the madness sound
of aboriginal life.

Official policy has been
segregation -
even up to this century;
in the sixties
it was sterlisation
and breeding out.

They are sand niggers;
'they are stupid,'
says a garbled voice.

The naivete of expecting
endless alcohol,
hot weather,
bikini-clad girls,
surfing on the Gold Coast,
idiotic, redskinned,
friendly bush-fucks
doesn't surprise me:

it's a white man's land;
a white man's paradise.
It's a white man's foot.
A white man's fist.
A white man's voice.
A white man's unremorse.

'They had a
'Say Sorry' day,'
he told me.
'And I cared; I knew.'


'Wow!' she said.
'I'd really like to go.'
She'd been to Nepal
and didn't blink twice at
the tyranny of Tibetan Buddhism -
she merely saw
poor, orphaned children -

much like the
aboriginal children of Australia
whom continue to famish
and go blind
slowly, painfully,
to this day
of trachoma.

If only John Pilger
could shout from Uluru
to the world....

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