Little things

There are days
When nothing goes right,
Little things,
Missing the bus,
Spilling my coffee,
Late for work,
Flustered by phone calls,
Struggle through the day,
Skip dinner,
Fall into bed.
It’s three a.m.,
I wake suddenly,
Blinding panic,
Hot dread making me sick,
Rising from my chest,
Suffocating in the stale air,
Walls closing in,
Swallowed by darkness,
Fighting the urge to run,
Sitting up in bed,
Wave after wave
Rolling over me,
‘Help’ I cry,

Another day

My name is David Smith,
But my mates call me ‘Smudge’,
I work in a city office
Shuffling papers all day,
Sitting behind a desk
And tapping at a computer.

Night after night
Words scream at me
From the television,
Revealing secrets
About who I am,
As I laugh on cue
While sipping a beer
During the channel nine news,
Glazed eyes watching
Another bombing,
More refugees,
Clowns in parliament,
Some kids trying to save
A whale on a beach.
Nothing ever ends,
Until an ad break
Gives me a chance
To grab another beer
Before settling down
To watch the footy,
Hurl abuse at the referee,
Curse the running figures
For not trying harder,
I blame the younger generation
For having no work ethic.

Tomorrow is Saturday,
Time to take it easy
Then head down to the pub,
Catch up with some mates,
Argue about the footy,
Check out the women,
Then stumble home late,
Sleep in before
Reading the Sunday papers,
Resting my mind
Because Monday is
Another day.

Searching for soul

Always hungry,
Consuming more,
Never satisfied,
Restlessly searching
For the next big thing,
While the voters
Sit in their lounge rooms
Watching faceless men
Call the shots,
Plotting the next scandal,
Playing the numbers,
Too busy to care
For those left behind.
But what does it matter?
As long as there is
Another gold medal
On the television,
While you plan
Your winter escape
To the drumming
Of your heartbeat,
Searching your soul
For signs of life
As the clock
Ticks away the hours.

Sticks and stones

It was the chance to have your say,
Showing democracy in action,
Technology at your fingertips,
Reaching out to every person
On the planet,
Connecting with strangers
In faraway places,
Bringing your heroes closer,
Beside you in a cafe,
Into your office,
Into your bedroom,
Sharing your innermost thoughts,
Revealing your anger,
Venting your frustrations
With ill-considered words.
Did you think it wouldn’t matter?
Did you really believe the rhyme?
At least the broken bones will heal,
But those other scars
Will never go away.


I wonder where you are now,
I wonder where you’ve gone to now,
There’s some things I’d like to tell you,
But I guess it doesn’t matter, anyhow.

Who’s gonna pick you up when you’re down?
Who’s gonna be there when you’re down?
There’s some things that you should know,
But I guess it doesn’t matter, anyhow.

I’m still working on my books,
I’m still writing for you in my books,
I’ve tried to change the ending,
But I guess it doesn’t matter, anyhow.

I see the sun is sinking down,
The sun is slowly sinking down,
I’ll leave a light on in my window,
But I guess it doesn’t matter, anyhow.

The nights are long and time moves slow,
The nights are long and time passes slow,
My bed is getting colder,
But I guess it doesn’t matter, anyhow.

I’ve changed my clothes and cut my hair,
I’ve changed my clothes and brushed my hair,
I really need to find you,
I’ve been looking everywhere.

La crisis

Graceful old buildings
and broad boulevardes
speak of majestic confidence,
of rivers of gold
flowing past
the brick bubbles,
irrigating the seeds
of dystopia,
where the lost generation
is devoid of hope,
life is full of hardship,
where the laws
are not for the weak
and university graduates
can look forward to
a lifetime of unemployment
or serving coffee,
when tears won’t
put food on the table,
but at least you can
gather at night in the park,
partying and drinking
from the botellones
until you are oblivious
of the pain.
Meanwhile, across town
in the graceful old buildings,
more plans are being made
to bailout the friends
of the politicians.