Monday, February 25, 2008

The Astralnaut Who Crash Landed.

I dreamt last night that I was with an old rockstar friend who got famous and left me far behind,
we were trying to get a blue fiber-glass glider off the ground by throwing it into the sky
but we could'nt get it air-born, no strength and not a puff of wind to lift it, such is my life
now that I've crash-landed in Auz after my adventures in the wilds of India, being a pauper
I can only run away from mundane reality for so long, the cyberpunk tiger chained and tamed.

Back to Northcott Housing Ghetto where Eric the beserk viking howls all night providing
the perfect soundtrack to the Bedlam milieu; and Cursula the saccharine sloth sits by my door
moo-mooing like a brainless cow 24/7 eaves-dropping on my life because she does'nt have one
and I grimace when her sloth-mate Bawl shouts about the ice-cubes she put in his hot coffee;
and I hear dear ancient Dolly cry as the anal gay guys down the other end scrawl graffiti
on Eric's dirty door :"welcome to the piggery", it makes our whole facade look bad, and it's bad
enough with the nearby burnt-out flat and Cursula's pile of rescued junk littered about
and the gangs of cadaverous junkies loitering and moaning about the end of the world
like zombies who can't find any more human flesh to eat, except for the army of fags
with shorn heads invading Sydney for the Mardis Gras dildo parade = welcome home, poofter!

And I forgive my mother for having me and abandoning me to a harsh history, glad I'm gay
and don't have kids to pass the horror onto; we all have our limitations, we all want a life:
my mother did'nt have her dreams come true, I understand her stupidity, she's only human,
she wanted love and fun, life flashes by, one has to grab a handful of whatever, poor bitch,
the 1950's, '60s not so groovy for working-class women, she should've dropped out like me,
and as a responsible son I make sure she's taken care of in her dotage while I'm cut loose
to float free, to dream, to roam, to fuck, to bliss out on irresponsiblity, the transient flake
who never really belonged to a cruel/sweet humanity.

(When I complained my family said to me, "You chose your deviant lifestyle, now stew in it!"
ignoring the cigarette smoke blown in my baby face, the money wasted on gambling and booze,
the violence of jealousy and domestic slaves till my child's soul got disordered and I went mad
so long ago and all I've done, this writing too, a product of my deranged personality.)

Back to the Piccolo Bar where Vitto levitates the unweildy masses like Yoda yodelling the Force,
and you can meet your favourite Star Whores as if caged in a freak-show alley glass tank:
schitzo Richard yelling belligerantly about vitamins that can double the length of your dick
and Ratty the one-legged human potato crisp gabbing on about her bullshit ballerina gig,
her voice like claws scratching down a slate, useless, she applies lipstick to her broom-stick maw, smacked off her face she'd passed out upon an electric-bar heater many years ago
and has lately hocked her scorched box in Thailand where amputees are popular
with the jaded, hungry punters, now she's back to torture us with tales of artless conquests.
Ayesha the two-headed drag(on) lady nods and flashes her new tit job, scarred up like Ratty,
she's mollified in her madness, the catty hissing, spitting subdued, resigned to the freak's club,
she commiserates with me as a long-suffering member, we're too old to give a shit or a fuck.

Like a supplicant I wait for hours at St. Vincent's Hospital to beg the tin-god surgeon
to operate upon my purulent leg, I cry and tell the sister that I'm dying and lost in the system.
I'm asked to return in a few months for my pauper's free medical treatment, after I'm dead.
I'd run away to India to die only to find a new lease on life and now must pay for my dereliction
as if Hop Along Ratty has cursed my antipathy, I join her amputee soiree and get my leg cut off!

But I'm glad to return to my country, a 7th generation Auzzie, in time to sincerely say "sorry"
to native Australians so badly wronged, like Margaret Haze, the only black kid in my class
at primary school in the '50s, who everybody treated like shit, as if she'd spread leprosy,
no one sat next to her or played with her at recess, except me, for we were rebels up in arms,
the sissy poof and the Abbo bitch forever being tossed out into the corridor for giving cheek, alienated by the goody-two-shoes white trash, I even turned black in summer sun
as if some great great great grandmother was Aboriginal and had crept into my genes I pray
for I would love to have a 60,000 year dreamtime ancestry and be a true dinkum Auzzie blue,
maybe that's why I empathised with Margaret Haze, the world against us two.
Being proto poof was handicap enough, I'm happy to say "sorry" to my black brothers, yet who
will say "sorry" to me for all the bashing, the prejudices, the exclusions, the twists and turns
of the screw upon my potential, I could've been a contender instead of the broken-arsed bum
I've become, crash-landed from my dreams to face the desert of my Australian reality.

If you enjoyed this story please go to the WEB address above and consider buying my book of tales about growing up anarcho-queer, rock and roll punter and mystic adventurer in Australia and India of the 1950s, ‘60s and ‘70s.