Anny, It was good that you linked an all australian boy to an all
american boy and were embarrassed by the poem, in evaluating the fragment.

some more.......



Fiction fragments for a work in progress.

WARNING: WARNING: WARNING:
CONTAINS SCENES WHICH SOME READERS WILL FIND DEEPLY DISTRESSING.
I cannot apologise for this.



an australian childhood



I was a twelve year old child when the young students of Kent State lay
dead on the campus. The blood flowing from the dead bodies on the black
and white television screen is the blood of our childhood. Is it not
enough that our childhood be stolen and it was assassinated. The war
unending, conscripts rounded up and sent off, burning draft cards and
riots in the streets, what future to die in Vietnam for a war we could
not support or die a traitor in an Australian prison and government
proclaiming all the way with LBJ and the US of A. When the last American
helicopter fled from the roof of a building in Saigon we become the
living dead.


(Vietnamese people victory gave us life)


We cannot belong to generations past that did things in a different way.
We cannot be a master's apprentice.

We mob together. Politico mobs, artist mobs, roving packs of living
dead. Any one remember the Tin Sheds, Fine Arts department at the
University of Sydney? We did not belong here either but we borrowed the
facilities on stolen sundays so long as the University did not
officially discover our theft of their resources. We were not master
artists, we had no degrees, no MFAs between us, just some technical
skills gathered from here and there, various stints in art schools
always unfinished.

Long unruly hair an anarchist's lair, teenagers dope smoking acid
dropping. The romantic stereotype provided an adequate disguise. We hand
cut paper and lacron stencils with a knife and screen print posters.
Crude awkward looking, not the swerve lines of a master printer. We need
no apprenticeship. We got enough.

Posters for dances in run down halls in the slummy parts of town taken
over by real estate prices flying through the roof.




Another attempt is made on my life.
At least once everyday this is tried
until death becomes the easy way out
and i plot my demise and turn in rage
to naked hate on pages of decay
exhausted cliches stored until orange
thick newsprint flame ignites sprightly pine
spitting hot coal chips glow red in gray ash




Australian nationalism all the way with the US of A. Jingoism. Evil.
Australian imperialism, United States imperialism, English imperialism,
French imperialism; must I make a list on this event horizon of a large
and terrible black hole, evil in-itself? Child rapists. Child murderers.



(Becoming refusenik.)



Bohemian Grove, 1984.

diary of a child sex worker

I was paid by men... for sex. ...  flew me out in a private plane from
(Eplick) airfield in Omaha to Denver where we picked up Nicholas. A boy
who was about 12 or 13 then...driven to an area that had big, big trees.
... There was a cage with a boy in it who was not wearing anything. ...
They told me to, I won't use the word, blank the boy and stuff. ... At
first I said No and they held a gun to my genitals I'll use the word and
said do it or else... And Nicholas had anal sex with him and stuff. ...
and they filmed it. ... a man came in and kicked us and stuff and in the
genitals. ... He grabbed the boy and started blanking him and stuff. The
man was about, I'm not sure how to say, the man was about so many inches
long and the boy screamed and stuff. The man was forcing his blank into
the boy all the way. The boy was bleeding from his rectum and the men
tossed me and him and stuff and put the boy right next to me and grabbed
a gun and blew the boy's head off... They put the boy on top of Nicholas
who was crying and they were putting Nicholas's hands on the boys blank.
... They put a gun to our heads to make us do it. His blood was all over
us. ... They had the film and they played it. As the men watched it they
passed Nicholas and I around as if we were toys
[from: The Franklin Coverup]




black spots burn deep in carpet to leave scars from a country with no
use for us now clear flames burn a heatwave's mirage and we know its not
really there an illusion living out a dream of a little man with a
toothbrush mustache and the glint of aryan youth in his evil eye




our last few visits marred by the snigger of guards disbelieving we play
a high tune in that square interview room don't waste roses on my grave
we done no wrong


[to be continued]


listen to the silence, it is every word we will ever need

Chris Jones.