anyway lets have a poem / i care not for copyright if such a thing exists out here
I walked down the highway after a while
a truck stopped and by morning
I’d save only the paintings and the Como House.
The suburbs could be dumped into the Yarra
either to gloomy Launceston to visit
Hofmannsthal’s friend, my publisher,
Or west to wildflowers and the nickel hills.
The driver wonders what I’m writing
but with the superb manners of an Australian
merely asks, ‘Got enough light there, mate?’
We stop for beers at the Surveyor General,
night fills the wheelruts left by Cobb and Co,
the people in the bar have foreign voices.
Progress erodes tradition. When that’s gone
nothing is left but fashionable landmarks
marooned by emptiness, and carved into
a vandal’s library of huge intials.