my Dad straightened out the crooked men
in the old laundry shed
above the fishing gear and jars of nuts and bolts
where on a rack
...
you'd never forget the pelicans
because it was their home too
and that occasional one who'd try and swallow your baited hook
while we cast out into an endless mould of brown and blue skin
...
the pyromaniacs of the gods were kicking it
into that desert sunset
upon a fire pink, burner-blue horizon line
blossoms cherry red
...
I remember construction cranes like herds of frozen praying-mantis, high on the steamy Bjelke-Petersen plateau above a brown snake-coiled river. It was from this view, at the age of 4, that I learnt to read the columns of Brisbane city.
...
Sprinkled in the happy dark of my mind
Is early childhood and black humour
White stucco dreaming
...
"the journey IS the destination"
a quote from a great traveller
Brisbane is a small city, but that's OK . . . 'cause I don't need much room to move . .
...
My brothers once showed me the bounty that could be had in bait nets / we were able to catch garfish / bills like half-baked marlin / the rounded quill with a fluorescent orange head; pencil fish, that's what the old diggers called them,
...
Midnight's boxer He has become
That the ghosts from the ‘tents' of long-ago pay homage
Memories that fill a boarding-house room,
Busted knuckles soothed endlessly with goanna oil
...
For Rhan . . . wherever you are, Brother, I pray your path is a good one and without crossroads . . .
It was a dark and stormy night of clichés! The rain coming down, drowning the shadows, and my motley crew, well, that hotel room just couldn't hold us.
...
He had L O V E tattooed across his clenched right fist, followed by P O E M, etched in a vagabond's quill, across the other LOVE POEM. And with these fists coming at you in unison, you copped a taste of his, LOVE POEM. He stalked the crooked lines of this world,
...
It's the Lucky Country's closet; a dark interior with frontier skeletons. Whirly-winds run rampant, spawning red-sand mandalas of chaos. These frenetic twisters find easy prey on ochre-kissed Dorothys, carrying them off to Parallel Oz. In Parallel Oz,
...
I can't sleep here, on this Wiradjuri land; upon this hill of learning. Awake until the sun comes up and the morose voices subside; the dawn light blades whispers back into the creases of scarred country. I can't sleep here, in the writers centre;
...
Fire-engine flash of fox pelt
And a plume of tail
Fluffy . . . like some oil-well ablaze on a Gulf War postcard
And from the body
...
"The call of the strange bird is heard
on the pipe of the breathing floor;
so high will become the bushels of wheat
that man will cannibalise his fellow man . . ."
...
I can't speak my grandmother's tongue and I've never been on my grandfather's land,
I've travelled here and I've travelled there,
my culture replicated in government-funded laboratories;
...
Today, I am the caretaker for one of Brisbane's oldest evils; the retired gaol of Boggo Road. There are still a few walls, towers and buildings,
...
Stand back . . . Keep your body and hands away from the bars . . . The bars, the frets; of the instruments that played with the dark . . . Stand back . . .
...
Our Elders are well-acquainted with the Unlucky,
And they acknowledge Death by his sign,
Don't cross a knife and fork on the kitchen table
'Cause you're just inviting the Devil to dine,
...
Samuel Wagan Watson was born in Brisbane in 1972, of Irish, German and Aboriginal (Bundjalung and Birri Gubba) ancestory. He has been a salesman, public relations officer, fraud investigator, graphic artist, labourer, law clerk, film industry technician and an actor. He is currently a project officer in the Strategic Policy and Research Unit of Arts Queensland. Watson’s first collection, Of muse, meandering and midnight (1999) won the David Unaipon Award for Emerging Indigenous Writers. His subsequent collections are Itinerant Blues (2001) and Hotel Bone (2001). He is also co-author of the award-winning website blackfellas, whitefellas, wetlands, commissioned by the Brisbane City Council.)
The crooked men
my Dad straightened out the crooked men
in the old laundry shed
above the fishing gear and jars of nuts and bolts
where on a rack
their naked, twisted forms did hang
from the neck
body hair like pine-needles
restrained by welded g-clamps
and steel-trap teeth
hydraulic arms and pullies
and a shiny drip-tray on the floor
to catch the expelled, blackened hate
sometimes eight sometimes ten
the crooked men
with faces like prunes
tattoos and scars
and tongues that could no longer work
but engulfed by obscenities
as they leaked night and day
in that old laundry shed
and they were not grateful
or ungrateful
the crooked men
nor were they in debt to my father
and his amazing rack
in these days when their hate
would trickle through my backyard haven
drowning the smells of Saturday afternoon
and freshly cut grass
and the yap of the labrador
and innocence lost
to the crooked men
ALI-A IS THE BEST YOUTUBER EVER AND FORTNITE IS THE BEST GAME EVER
this comment section is a chronicle of schoolchildren over time.
Anyone know when Samuel Wagan Watson published the poem 'Monster'
Stop ruining my comment section im literally shaking and crying