How can you buy
what the addictions sell?
Selling the body
Into the nite.
Selling the soul
into the darkness.
Selling themselves
to those who will pay
How much will you pay
For the spirit, for the soul?
How much do you want
to own.. to control?
How can you pay
for the spirit, for the soul?
Paul Wright
Ask a Knife
Do you know what it’s like?
To sit at the table
in the middle of the night
and ask a knife
‘Will you be a friend?’
Can you take away the pain?
Can you take away the loneliness?
Can you fill the emptiness?
Can you truly be a friend?
Do you know what it’s like?
Paul Wright
Glistening with death
It lay in the lane
A little piece of plastic
With a stainless steel tip.
Paul Wright

The sun is shining bright
Not a cloud in the blue sky
As I awake from a peaceful night
To give the day another try
Her eyes they are smiling at me
Her eyes show that she really cares
The happiness in her eyes I see
As she’d promised she would always be there
Her hair is a shining red
blowing softly in the air
flowing evenly across her forehead
Going nowhere
Her smile is a mile long
grinning ear to ear
Like there is nothing wrong
Thinking only of those who care
She is the lady of my life
The only one to ever be there
Someday she would be my wife
The only one who truly cared
One of a kind like her
She was so kind
Just looking at a picture
A vision in my mind
Anthony Dunne

(Grinding Numbing Poverty)
Caught in the boxed canyons of cancerous commercialism, the poor and the homeless
and the crazed, are just symptoms of a system that refuses
to be human.. refuses to deal in human terms
It’s a cold grinding machine
It’s a harvester of money and a cultivator of sorrow, as cold blooded as the U.S.
It’s a lottery where the rich have always been
given the winning numbers
“Even you could become a Millionaire!” is the sorry excuse used to ignore the unfairness of
it all and to entrench the wealthy and advantaged class, to protect their “Bill of Rights” and
screw everyone else!
Kenny Hawley

The Big Empty
Walking around this big empty town
there’s no warmth in its sound
locks on the windows bars on the doors
its lifeblood is only dispensed
and sold in stores
Some cutting people may get along
but something here tastes so wrong
and I can’t sing so sad a song
Kenny Hawley
Welfare-itis got its
down and out death grip on me
Sally soup liners
paint no colour fantasy
Something from nothing?
is it possible to escape or invent
You beg steal and borrow
and only end up bent
Heaven or Hell
Life is dirty sometimes obscene
once you’ve waded in
you can never be clean
Life is hopeless that’s a fact!
a fairytale that’s totally cracked
But live it up, live it well!
‘cause maybe heaven is just like hell
judging from earth who can tell?

The Wasteland Shuffle
Do the wasteland shuffle
and don’t get muffled or ruffled
Grab a partner don’t be square
wastelands awaitin’ go grab your share
wastelands awastin’ and awaitin’ you there wasteland soon be streakin’ through
your skin and hair
So do the one step, two step, three step, four!
on this wonderful wasteland dancing floor
Round and round as it all falls down
it’s over and under, inside and out
step lively partners
as you twist and shout
‘Cause it’s the wasteland boogie woogie!
it’s the wasteland jamboree!
come on y’all and dance
(you know its impossible to flee!)
Kenney Hawley

I am
I am here
I am aware of today
I can plan for the future
I am a child of eternity forever
I am alive today, in love
I am centred right now
I am alive now
I am here
I am

Feedback & Response to the poems by
Anthony Dunne

I felt that the one piece in particular was very touching, a very deep & heart-wrenching
poem. It really makes you wake up & take notice of the reality of discrimination, not about
race & all that, but even for someone’s outer appearance! It is sad to know that these
happenings are such a real & large part of society as a whole.
I am left with the knowledge & the belief that Anthony Dunne’s poetry can be & is a very
powerful & loud voice - that needs to be heard by a lot more people in all areas. He has
proven his ability to express & share his innermost thoughts & concerns about issues that
affect us all.
Thank-you for hearing my voice, I too am a writer & contributor to the newsletter.
I believe that we all appreciate acknowledgement
Alisha Dyke

I am writing this letter in response to the poems by Anthony Dunne. I just want him to
know that he, too, is a beautiful person.
At times people can be so judgmental, but you often wonder -who are they to judge? True
beauty comes from within!
Your poem without a title is beautiful. It touched me very deeply, and I only hope that it
touches those who judge people on appearances or pass judgment. I am sitting here doing
my time. I often wonder if these people who classify others have ever been on the
receiving end of it? Everyone has at one time or another, but do they forget how it feels?
Reading your poem helped me a lot.
You seem to know a lot, and I’m hoping that you keep using your skill – your beauty is
rare because you do care about what other people think. If all people were the same, what
would this place be like? Happy? I don’t think so.
Thanks for sharing your expression with me; I have seen what’s within you.
Michelle Martin

Sun shining through the glass
It’s amazing how the time has passed
She wonders where things went wrong
As the alarm plays her favourite song
She used to have a sis, Mum and Dad
She remembers all the things she had
Toys, friends and a happy home
She remembers never being alone
It was a terrible thing that he did
She ran off, cried and hid
He touched areas that were not right
She remembers mum being there
till it was brought to the light
Dad not knowing what was going on
Dad working dusk to dawn
When dad found out crap hit the fan
He was furious with Mommy and the other man
He found out that mum was seeing the other man
While he was working doing the best he can
Dad said that things would work out
But I could see that he had a doubt
The police and C.A.S. came and took us away
I saw my dad cry that day
They took my sis and I was alone
As I sat in a foster home
Then my mum and dad got a divorce
That made my life even worse
Mommy only comes once or twice a year
Daddy comes when he is near
My world has been broken apart
And I am stuck with a new start
This is the way the story is told
By a little girl who’s ten years old
Anthony Dunne
this poem is dedicated to my lovely daughter.
.. .Alicia Marlene

By the way, Thanks for Saving Me
My name is Jack and I am a crow, lucky to be alive
Flew right into a Toyota Landcruiser.. damn near killed me
the next morning the witch touched me with her stick,
said “he’ll do”; I thought I was doomed.
The Witch picked me up out of the gutter
took her months to thaw the veneer of toughness
all us tough old crows have to have somehow
one day I straightened out on the porch
I got used to her pampering so I stayed sick
I sit crooked-legged just to be near her
months as she constructed spider webs with her needles
Imagine.. a crow in love with a human
But soon I’d steal popcorn from her table
and demand to be noticed, crooked on my perch
Soon she thought ‘if that crow’s that vocal
he ought go back to being a crow, you know
I think of her as I fly, a crow again
Nice when people fix you up and don’t expect
sacks of gold for the service, and you know
a crow must be a crow.. a witch the same..
(crows can’t talk but I hope you know what I’m saying


I’m a seamstress’ daughter, but I sew no fine seam;
There’s blood on the shirt where I sewed the button.
Embroidery to me is medieval torture: crochet an arcane mystery,
And isn’t a broken zipper just the devil’s work.
I failed Home Economics; we called it Domestic Science
In that bright and shiny, newer-than new world of the fifties
Giving credibility and validity to all those homey chores
I’m not sure that we succeeded.
I especially despised Dusting 101
And "after four years you can t tell the difference"*
I know Mother you could have.
Mother, to you the greatest shame was an ill-kept house;
a poorly cooked meal.
The authentic shames were well-kept family secrets-
a conspiracy of silence
But the skeletons came tumbling out when I gained the courage
to bear the answers to my questions.
Memories of your busy sewing machine Mother
The time it’s needle impaled my childish finger -
I had to wait so long, so long for you to remove it.
Memories always kept me fearful of the pain.
Memories kept me fearful of the dark.
For swearing like my father I endured the closet prison
For at three I knew all that sailor’s lingo, but not the meaning -
It sure got results though
Mother, did I partake in your shame
Or did you ban me from you kitchen and your confidence
For some reason I still have not the courage to ask.
Much later you taught my son to cook and sew
Using patience that came with age and distance;
He became adept at these handy skills.
My fingers still bleed in the sewing - in the sewing.
Wilhelmina Miles,
"The Naked Civil Servant" - Quentin Crisp

Back to Archive