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The Nightbreed

There's a place right underneath us
Where the dead dwell hidden from the living
They've got a force you just can't beat
Out in the shadows they call out
To warn you away
They're add you to their collection
Cos they know
You just can't resist
Gonna give in every time
They know you will
Dressed to kill
Eager to thrill
They're the nightbreed

Move on if you wanna escape
There's a howl of the Nightbreed calling
To belong
They're crying for you in the night
Be strong, beware the heart of the Nightbreed following
Stay up till dawn

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poem by Ramona Thompson
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I'm The One Your Mother Warned Against

I'm the one your mother warned against
'Beware she said 'of slow-moving intimacy
and a handsome, intense look
something a young girl longs for.'

'Beware, ' she said 'of a man's talking about his dreams
cause you find yourself buying a ticket to the moon
on a space ship that don't exist.
Beware of dark handsome eyes
because they hypnotize
and make you go all melty inside.

'I didn't listen' she said 'and married my Johnny Dangerous
but your father and I are the exception to all this.

'I'm the one your mother warns against' said Dad
'but you see she doesn't know what she is talking about.'
But you won't listen just like she didn't will you? '

I hop the back fence just below your bedroom window

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poem by Lonnie Hicks
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Morgan

When Morgan crossed the Murray to Peechelba and doom
A sombre silent shadow rode with him through the gloom.
The wild things of the forest slunk from the outlaw's track,
The boobook croaked a warning, "Go back, go back, go back!"
It woke no answering echo in Morgan's blackened soul,
As onward through the darkness he rode towards his goal.

An evil man was Morgan, a price was on his head;
The simple bush-folk whispered his very name with dread;
Before the fierce Dan Morgan the bravest man might quake-
A cold and callous killer, he killed for killing's sake. .
Past swamp and creek and gully, and settler's lone abode,
Towards the station homestead the grim Dan Morgan rode.

And still that hooded horseman that Morgan could not see,
Watched by the wild bush-creatures, rode close beside his knee.
Before them in a clearing a drover's campfire burned:
The phantom rode with Morgan, and turned when Morgan turned.
And loud the boobook's warning came on the cold night air,
"Go back, go back, Dan Morgan. Beware, beware, beware!"

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poem by Edward Harrington
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China's Lost Libyan Oil Contract

after Gaddafi partially
atoned for Lockerbie
new generation world

leaders sought
Gaddafi's help
in War on Terror

to secure energy security

after all this son
of an illiterate
Bedouin herder

had already hatched plans
to topple Libyan monarchy
when still at study in college

after military
training in

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poem by Terence George Craddock
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0181 Mr and Mrs Andrews Seated In Their Estate

Beware, if you’re a portrait painter,
of being born in England. And if
you’re skilled at background –
the rolling landscape which they're
so proud to own – or painting highlights
upon a silk or satin gown…be doubly hesitant –
we ruined Holbein and we ruined Van Dyck,
with our demands to make us victorious,
happy and glorious, long to reign over others
in our stately home, later in
the auction house, in
the ‘collection’ of the recent millionaire, in
the public gallery; though while you live, Sir Portrait Painter
we'll enrol you in our club as temporary gent…

Beware - if you’re a potential patron -
of being painted by the great:
in the corners of their flattery
whose price you resent but need in greed to have,
lurks truth. You, sir, looking so judicious,

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poem by Michael Shepherd
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Will anybody care? 2010 Version

Hurt heart thumps through stark torrent's spew, pain's veins pump vain despair,
why wishing-well what world would do when one's no longer there?
Why worry who will bed or woo, misled wed base affair,
each age sends stage page scene anew, pent rage vents spleen, sad snare.

Once wraith what faith may comfort, who contentment finds? Aware
are all their fall supplies no true rise paradise, skies fair.
Dank dark last leaves grieve hung with dew, shaved, stumpy trees stripped bare,
gibbering ghosts, grey-greenish hue shade shiver in sharp air.

Options, once so bright and blue, too soon turn tarnish, wear
down most who must survive on crust, while some pad out lust's lair
beyond the dreams and rhyming schemes of blushing Baudelaire;
whored guilty conscience safely stored, bribes poured for greased palm tare.

Burnt bridge of sighs quite cuts in two split city's spirit spare,
and therefore, by extension, too, links life to - God knows where.
Wan lie acquaintanceships one knew, affection two should share,
while once exciting avenue of life seems impasse where
old vaunted haunts time's rimed review now daunts. For void prepare.

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poem by Jonathan Robin
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Power paves from cave to grave

Man has paddled to the powerful and strong,
Worshipping what would not to his wish wield,
Commanding weak-kneed, committing all wrong,
E'er since the days of caves and battlefield,
Power from the days of cave, power to the grave,
Power in the name of principles to save.

He that rises to heights of stratosphere,
He that holds power to heart's near and dear,
Afraid of honest peer, always in fear
Of losing power, scared that law may interfere,
Afraid, flow of power may interrupt,
To him does power conspire to corrupt.

And today stray caps in sarkari house,
Looking holy in chair, or harmless cows,
The polling polls once return them to rule,
Turn in to bull as crown's precious jewel,
The powerhouse ready power to disburse,
To nurse cronies from people's tax-paid purse.

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poem by Aniruddha Pathak
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The Minglers

A sight that gives me much distress
Is George without his trousers,
Garbed, scantily, in bathing dress
Proscribed by saintly Wowsers,
And Gerty, gay and forward flirt,
Without the regulation shirt.

Though 'tis a fearsome sight, I ween,
When jam tins strew the shingle,
It is a far more shocking scene
When Bert and Benjy mingle
With Maude and Winnie in the wave;
It hurts to see them so behave.

The melancholy dead marine
Sown thick along the beaches,
The can that held the late sardine,
Or potted prawn, or peaches,
Are things of innocence beside
Gay Tom and Topsy in the tide.

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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Will anybody care? - April 2012 Version

Hurt heart thumps through stark torrent's spew, pain's veins pump vain despair,
why wishing-well what world would do when one's no longer there?
Why worry who will bed or woo, misled wed base affair,
each age sends stage page scene anew, pent rage vents spleen, sad snare.

Once wraith what faith may comfort, who contentment finds? Aware
are all their nightmare fall supplies no paradise, skies fair.
Dank dark doom leaves grieve hung with dew, shaved, stumpy trees stripped bare,
gibbering ghosts, grey-greenish hue shade shiver in sharp air.

Life's dream team options, once bright blue, tarnish too soon, to wear
down most, ghost host, who must crust rust, while few pad out lust's lair
beyond the seemy rhyming schemes of blushing Baudelaire -
whored guilty conscience safely stored, bribes poured for greased palm tare.

Burnt bridge of sighs quite cuts in two split city's spirit spare,
and therefore, by extension, too, links life to - God knows where.
Wan lie acquaintanceships one knew, affection two should share,
while once exciting avenue of life seems impasse where
old vaunted haunts time's rimed review now daunts. For void prepare.

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poem by Jonathan Robin
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The Firemen's Ball

SECTION ONE

"Give the engines room,
Give the engines room."
Louder, faster
The little band-master
Whips up the fluting,
Hurries up the tooting.
He thinks that he stands,
[*] The reins in his hands,
In the fire-chief's place
In the night alarm chase.
The cymbals whang,
The kettledrums bang: —
"Clear the street,
Clear the street,
Clear the street — Boom, boom.
In the evening gloom,
In the evening gloom,
Give the engines room,

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poem by Vachel Lindsay
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