Olympics silver whining

Olympics 2012

Our species believes it progresses without limitation
Offer coaches more money
We shout when a swimmer wins silver     that's no inspiration

Our consumption of carbon turns climate to high agitation
It's too hot and sunny
We complain as we gobble more fuel     without limitation

We want it all faster we scream at computerisation
This program's not funny
We shout as we wait    modem struggling without inspiration

Long essays aren't worthy of effort in their compilation
Twitter leaps like a bunny
We'll get there before we can start    without limitation

We'll leave this poor planet    too messy for our habitation
Our toast needs more honey
New fields are required for our plunder and fresh inspiration

Our species might pause but    no worries    there'll be good mutation
Waste goes down the dunny
As humans pound forward    no burden of care limitation
We deserve only winners    our species    the sole inspiration

Jill Sutton

 

At the Olympics

At the Sydney Olympics we sat and watched the crowd.
At one final down thirty rows in front and to the right of us there was
a young woman, who was dressed as a cheerleader
with two great big green and gold pom poms,
and whenever the music started
she would stand up and do some
elaborately rehearsed routine, waving the pom poms about
in front of the people in front of her.
She would look up at the big video screen
and if she wasn't on it she would stop dancing and sit down.
Now, of course, I know what she went to the Olympics to see,
and what we saw at the Olympics.

Mark Carkeet

 

Sun rituals

Surging, thudding,
blood-in-head alchemy;
dreams are thoughts.
Stale, yellowing actions?
Best intended evasions?
Half-life memories.
Pounding, rolling waves
of foam lubricate skin,
blades sever follicles.
Streaming, pulsing on skin,
bone, sudsoaps
cleanse the shell;
distant kettles sound.
China, tectonic, shifts.
Hydrogenated oxygen spills
cascading, revelling in
caffeinated sludge.
Kind cups guard the
sleepdrivers' odyssey.
Cards flash, portals acquiese,
machines print, copy,
hold us, baying,
fingers claw at words
passed, past and recalled.
Electrons dance. Flee.
Communing with nature's
bastard children; faces
of long ago, spaces claimed.
Cyberdunked into connections
lacking soul. Light. Touch
bereft of human ichor.
Medea's enchanting revenge
gains fresh blood. Poisoned gifts
intimate satiation's lure:
fulfillment, hope, unity.
We're left grasping. 

Barry Gittins


Jill SuttonJill Sutton is a Canberra writer. 



Mark CarkeetMark Carkeet is a Brisbane Solicitor. He missed seeing Australia winning the Water Polo at the Sydney Olympics because he was abusing an American spectator at the time. 


Barry GittinsBarry Gittins is a Melbourne writer. 

Topic tags: New Australian poems, Jill Sutton, Mark Carkeet, Barry Gittins, Olympics, London 2012

 

 

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