Some Poetry Offerings From Sunny Redfern.

At The Woolpack Hotel:

People sit hot and blistered
by tables
perched high
on astro-turf.

A rude young lady
with a certain sense
of entitlement
cuts in front of me
at the bar
and orders two beers.

I sit, staring blankly at the world.

A young mother yanks
a crying toddler
up and out of his pram
by the arm
and pops him in to her lap.

‘Don’t look at us, slut!’
The girl, with a certain sense of

They’re Aboriginal
that’s irrelevant.


While waiting in the same blistering heat

for my sister

to arrive

a tattooed man,

chewing gum

with his mouth open

approaches my table

and takes my sisters


without asking.

It’s ok.

I’d already decided he was a fuckwit.


Shortly there after

a man

comes running towards me


‘Oi, give me back my fucking girlfriends bag!’

He bounds past me


another man

with a bag

bolts down Chalmers St.

Hurling abuse.

Which leads me to consider

the first mans


of the word ‘fucking’

in his sentence.

Because technically it’s the

‘fucking bag’

unless the second man

is actually fucking the first mans girlfriend,

in which case

I will dismiss the sentence

as being entirely

grammatically correct,

excepting the use of the word ‘oi’

which in and of itself

means absolutely nothing

devoid of a ‘u’

which would

render the word ‘oui’

in which case

I’d be in Paris or Montreal

where I doubt

such occurances

would ever be observed.


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