Ivan Donn Carswell Poems

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It is amazing, while I lay in bed, I had the lines
roaring through my head like locusts on the wing,
the unabashed extravagance of such a flock
of stunning words shocked me out of brittle sleep;
and sleep avoids me now like something way too out of vogue,
so I rise and try to write, reflecting that I might at least
confine a rogue idea or two. It was a desperate hope.
My thoughts were caught in politics and patronymic
polymeric jingoistic shit concerning what it means to be
Australian. I’ve had the thoughts before and drowned
the bastards with the coldest draught of beer a man can stand,
and followed that with gallons more. I mean the thought
need not occur unless you’re not an Aussie. Or given over
to depressing thoughts. What brought this on?
Crikey, I don’t know – the beer was cold enough.
© I.D. Carswell

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