sisyphus in the not for profit sector

by paul harrison

this poem is for
all the broke down
hurting people
i meet at work
trying to help with words
and the irony of it all does not escape me
it's partly why i drink alone in crowds
of young, dumb successful types
who couldn't give a shit
while the State and speakers boom
of course i was a gutter drunk
long before i stumbled into this
that's why i'm here
all burnt out
and relatively speaking
you'd think exposure
to all that pain and suffering
would help me
count my blessings
but it don't
and in this poem
you won't be hearing any of that
'empowering', small l, liberal PC bullshit
born of a Stockholm syndrome
validating a vicious system
cause and effect of it all
and in case you didn't know
it's never going away, none of it
not today
not tomorrow
not in my life-time
or yours either
so enjoy your blindness
your raucous silence
your comfort
while another child
gets thrown to the wolves

get it together

by paul harrison

when you piss the bed
for the second time
in twice as many days
and your hands shake
and the beers don’t work
and you call in sick
and the neighbours across
from the lodging house
you ain’t getting out of
install a swimming pool
and you're sick and overhung
dehydrated, dry as soup mix
scattered as the jacaranda bloom
already falling down
when your kids live in different towns
and their mothers hate you
when the last time you came
you came alone
when the phone never rings
but the bills keep on coming
and your head hurts
and your kidneys don’t work
and your gut's getting ready to spill
when the pretty girls
behind the windscreens
smile then disappear
when you're kicked to the curb
and the black dog's licking your hand
wants walking to the bar
when the day's more humid
than any cunt you ever sucked
so long ago
and there's a storm brewing
and everyone else looks better
seems to live better
writes better
it's nice if even for a moment
to think how maybe, just maybe
you'll get your shit together
or published in a cyber-zine
walking out the door
for more misadventure

my folks

if they could see or hear me now
would probably ask are you okay son?
are you depressed again?
drinking again?
are you talking to someone about it?
why don’t you call that nice man frank
did you ever thank that nice lady bev?
she was so good to you. you should. etc.
& i'd probably get angry, lose my temper
& shout down the phone
stop talking at me like i'm a child
i'm a man for christ’s sake. jesus.
but i wouldn't tell them about this gig
& how i need to write it out
get to the truth of something, mine
like a dog sniffing its shit
in the park or the streets
& really
if i have any relationship
with these good people
it's a strained & distant one
with lots of pain & grief
ahead
concerning stuff i never said

by paul harrison

against forgetting

by paul harrison

i read their verse and weep
the ones who loved and fought
and struggled on
the ones who were disappeared
often, forever
who suffocated
in the cattle train corners
licking parchment tears
from splintered planks
who wrote poems
in their own blood and feces
on torture cell walls
or if they were lucky
tobacco leaves
smuggled out to dawn
who wrote completed works
in the libraries of their soul
to recite in camps and gulags
for blackest dread and ghosts
who even wrote for future's hope
on paper scraps
hidden in the pocket of a corpse
unearthed on judgement day
from massive graves of insane death
who wrote against forgetting
and the dying of the light
who wrote for life
as napalm and ordinance
scorched and shook the screaming earth
who declaimed behind the barricades
the check points and walls
who were arrested at gunpoint
in monstrous swoops
interned, beaten senseless
then dangled by their heels
from colonial roofs
words falling like pennies
from their silent screams
who still sang their poems
of home and freedom
in the desert camps
lips stitched and torn and mute
who witnessed then resisted
with all their words and soul
who were expelled and exiled
for expressing conscience
and critical faculty in the blinding light
who wrote by candlelight
in the ghettos and cellars
of Palestine and Poland, emaciated
the barrios, the townships and slums
who sang from the rooftops
the tunnels and trails
of death by Capital and fascist lies-
indomitable poets all
of life, revolt and love
uncensored and unrepentant
and not forgotten now.