In Australia, a lone woman
is being crucified by the Press
at any given moment.
With no unedited right
of reply, she is cast out
into Aboriginal space.
It’s always for a defect in weeping:
she hasn’t wept on cue
or she won’t weep correctly.
There’s a moment when the sharks are
still butting her, testing her protection,
when the Labor Party, or influence,
can still save her. Not the Church,
not other parties. Even at that stage
few men can rescue her.
Then she goes down, overwhelmed
in the feasting grins of pressmen,
and Press women who’ve moved
from being owned by men
to being owned by fashion,
these are more deeply merciless.
She is rogue property,
she must be taught her weeping.
It is done for the millions.
Sometimes the millions join in
with jokes: how to get a baby
in the Northern Territory? Just stick
your fingers down a dingo’s throat.
Most times, though, the millions
stay money, and the jokes
are snobbish media jokes:
Chemidenko. The Oxleymoron.
Spittle, like the flies on Black Mary.
After the feeding frenzy
sometimes a ruefully balanced last lick
precedes the next selection.
Why is this poem of special significance to me? Because, like the Aboriginal woman, a boy on the game – indeed anyone on the game, but especially a rent-boy – is rogue property. A little of their blood will always provoke a feeding frenzy.