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W.I.M.P.

 

W.I.M.P.

 

There’s parts of me that are weak

Watching videos about dissidents in authoritarian countries

Who spend years in prison & live in poverty

Because they believe one day the day will come

They’re proud & driven

They are giants

What of Australia

This wild west whose standard of living

Is enmeshed with mining & agriculture

Destroying the ecology

Short term planning & fucking up the world

& the sordid culture wars chattering about symbols

The worst thing that can happen to a poet

The ex con tells me

Is to have no audience

Because no one cares

No one is really addressing basic matters, as I see them

Food security, water, healthcare, education, jobs, housing, infrastructure

But I risk little

Other than being ignored

It is a kind of soft torture

& it makes you care less

Strive less

Because you know

No one cares whether you write or not

What is accepted is discourse

Within accepted terms of reference

But these are reference terms that for mine threaten very little

We saw what a hash Labor made of the Indigenous voice referendum

They explained nothing of the details

How it was gonna work

Sold nothing

& I believe it was deliberate

The chardonnay socialist’s gesture towards “see we tried”

How hard did you?

Is more to the point

I’ve taught year ten students’ marketing crickets as food better than that

So is it all a game

Man all they achieved was to embolden the far right

The illusion of democracy

The illusion of choice?

& so what good are we

We live with the lie

& don’t really care

Coz we see no hope

& I see that our barometer’s off

Still we drink our wine

& everything is fine

This poem ends abruptly

Because I don’t really stand for anything

But getting the bills paid

 

 

Published & Copyright Malachi Doyle 2025.

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