As I walked busily down Barrack Street
Talking on my phone, vital things to do
Thinking of what to say and who to meet
I noticed a man who’s legs were askew.
People surged, looked away, and stepped around
Four blokes were pushing and shoving, swearing
No-one was fussed by this man on the ground
His jeans were down; there was only staring.
I couldn’t feel a pulse, his skin was cold
I called an ambo and hoped for the best
Others joined in and started being bold
Then a paramedic looked at his chest.
He was bundled up and taken away
I could resume with my important day.
Portrait of a Young ‘Clubber’ as an Old Man.
Homelessness is a human cost of urban ‘ vibrancy ‘ .
Paradoxically urban and inner suburban ‘ consolidation ‘ with the stated policy intent of accommodating an increasing urban population actually is linked with putting more people out in the streets .
In the overdeveloping eastern cities of Melbourne and Sydney the incidence of urban homeless has doubled in past two years .
Let’s hope the phone call in the poem was not about a JDAP review of a nonconforming DA for a residential mixed use redevelopment project .
Looks like Troy has lost a few kilos.
Just another day in WA.
Worst. Cannibalising worst.
A fine, some might say ‘Wintonesque’ sonnet on the paradox of being alone, yet in the midst of hordes of people.
At first I thought the text here to be a riff on Auden’s ‘As I Walked Out One Evening” (As I walked out one evening / Walking down Bristol Street / The crowds upon the pavement / Were fields of harvest wheat), just as DC often employs William Carlos William’s ‘The Red Wheelbarrow’ to similar effect. Then I went, huh? Crap scansion aside, it’s clearly a sonnet, unlike Auden’s poem, and quite naturally has an almost completely different structure and sense. Moreover, it has very little to do with Winton. That’s not to say I don’t like it. Anyhow, DC, your secret is safe with me.
One day I’ll win an award for poor scansion! I started playing with Blake’s London, but then thought ‘Bugger that’, and dashed off a poor but original work.
There are those that through no fault of their own, end up in this position. The mentally ill, the victims of abuse, the genuinely disadvantaged. They deserve nothing but care and respect. I am happy to attend to those patients all day ( and night ) long.
HOWEVER. I am deeply, deeply tired of the lazy, the professional victim, the partied too and too long(oh, heroin is addictive, I didn’t know that), the bored housewife, the gee my dad hit me once, and all the other dopey fuckers who made bad choices and now expect me to scoop their shit covered, maggot ridden bodies up over and over again.
You know, if there are good people in the world, (and there’s plenty) and there are also bad people.
Not every homeless person is just unlucky. Some are just reaping it. Perhaps if we treated each one on their merits, half of them would have to get a job instead of a handout.
I spend half my “important day” looking after illnesses and injuries that are the easily predictable result of the actions of the patient themselves.
That feels better.
What really shits me, is the hard working father of three small kids who has a random heart attack and drops dead. I never seem to get them back. Opiate overdoses, must have saved 30 or 40.
God shits me.
I’ve been watching the ABC TV doco on the “Dunedin Longitudinal Study” which is being replicated world wide.
Quite revealing, especially the bit about domestic violence which society seems to continually ignore – the aggression by the female side of the debate which has some “feminists” outraged.
“God” is a construct of those who desire personal power and wealth: “He” is an artifice evolved to confuse and control the ‘laity’.
One of the most successful and longest running “con jobs” in the history of mankind.
It’s the perpertrators and perpetuators of this seemingly endless evil who shit me.
Thanks for drawing my attention to this post Rolly. Female domestic violence , well, it’s a bit like the feminazis having their wicked way with your bottie isn’t it Rolly.
The issue was, in particular, about the female partner bashing the bloke, not sexually abusing in the ‘bottie’ sense.
When the chap retaliates, she calls the cops who, in true absolutist and politically correct fashion, take the man in to custody and charge him with assault; assuming, incarrectly, that the ‘lady’ is the innocent party.
The large contusion on his head where the frypan connected is not considered an admissable defence.
I hope we’re not going “not all men” here.
Not all wall murals.
Not all gerbalists?
It is possible to over generalize , it is preferable to stick to the facts./lesson
Not all wall murals are tree beards, just most
Not all wall murals are the easiest alternative to nothing, just most
Yes some wall murals have quiffs with wood nymphs popping out of them, but let us move the topic to about how I saw a blank wall and got a grant
Not all wall murals are technique without substance – no wait that isn’t true.
Perpetrators and perpetuators yes. I also have a general distain for the believers. How about a little healthy scepticism people. Open your cosy little minds to the full bastardry and beauty of existence. Live.
Hey atheist ……………………. I like your style. Give up on the bandages and the potions and the fixing up of what is draining your very soul and take to the keyboard and write full time.
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It’s all good ewfire11. Delivered a baby pulled over on the top of the Narrows bridge a couple of weeks back. Plenty of ying to my yang.
If only I had a soul.
You probably have an “R” soul, though not necessarily being one.
Ah, bum jokes. It’s like six degrees of separation. All male conversation ends with a fart.
One does feel the need to air a well defined opinion.
And Rolly…….. I’m sure you is the man? We need to hear far more from you about that dreadful blot on the landscape that sits there like a contorted turd down by the Esplanade rail station. That ‘knock em up’ concrete box with not a window facing the river. You were once such a joy to read with your opinions and I’ve kept some of them to read over and to savour. You and the Doc should both be writers.
Bemused, it is that I am.
My utterences worth recording?
Hardly of historical importance, surely.