Abbey on Anarchy

Anarchism is founded on the observation that since few men are wise enough to rule themselves, even fewer are wise enough to rule others...
Anarchy is democracy in action!
- Edward Abbey

Wet hair & underwear


An horrific sight. One to be remembered (not cherished, but recounted in horror). Unlike any I’ve seen before (and unlike any I may see again).

A flash of cheek, a schoolgirl giggle that should never be heard from those lips.

That boyish, joyful laugh you’ve heard so many times before. Camping. Chasing waves. Out in the bush proving your manhood. But here. Never here – this is just bloody wrong.

Quick about face. Get away from that doorway. Must escape. Jump through window if necessary. Restrain urge to vomit.

Holy crap. They're getting worse. What is wrong with them? Fricking animals.

Return to bedroom.

Can still hear thumping. Run downstairs. Worse. Don’t they know that I’m home? I’ve got to leave my uni schedule around more conspicuously.

Kochie’s on Sunrise. Volume up. Relief! Shit, this is boring. Who watches this crap anyway?

TV off. Fuck! What the hell is their problem???

Finally the thumping stops. Then a god awful moan that would make even the sturdiest of stomachs turn.

This is ridiculous. Surely this will be over soon. Getting seriously close to repression.

Breath out, and in, and out and in, and out. Wait three minutes. Feels like 3 hrs. Return to bedroom to retrieve belongings and leave.

Holy shit. Put some clothes on Mum. And dry your hair Dad you disgusting beast.

Retreat. Must not return for a least 2 days.


Blinding Light

“I’ve seen you naked,” smirked some random kid brushing passed Mick, probably on his way to maths or stick his tongue down his year 9 girlfriends throat in too public a place.

“Bullshit. You’re a friggin liar.”

“I’m serious man. It’s everywhere; Jack emailed it to everyone,” he smiled back.

Mick’s gut twisted at least seven hundred and twenty degrees. He was sure it had just split and fallen out the arse of his pants. Blood drained from his face and the corridor walls sped past him as he stood still.
Half of him was petrified – the leering dagger eyes of kids that passed him in the hall, sharp with that mocking intensity only felt in schools.

The other half was racing along the hall - just keeping up with the walls that were threatening to outpace him and drag him to his death like in one of those old Ben Hur movies with the chariots and horses, all gnashing teeth and saliva.
Mick just managed to dodge the daggers and break free of the chariot towing him along in time to duck into an adjoining corridor.

Breathless, he slumped against the cold plastered wall. Fricking Jack. I hate that bastard. I swear he’ll wish he hadn’t done that, the piece of shit.
Continuing down the stairs and kicking open the doors to the quadrangle he was hit square in the face by the blinding light of the 10.30am summer sun.

He cursed the blinding rays.

Just as his eyes were recovering, Mick, through his squinty daze, turned toward his left to see Jack sitting under a tree tapping away on his laptop, giving him the smuggest wave he’d seen in a long time.

Frickin Jack, you dirtbag.

He turned and walked towards the dunnies to plan his next move.

T S Eliot

What life have you if you have not life together?
There is not life that is not in community,
And no community not lived in praise of God.

- T S Eliot, from Choruses from The Rock

but for that swinging hand of chance

But for the deaf'ning roar
of that thund'ring, clouded scream.
But for his circumstance,
he could have been a good man.

But for that swinging hand of chance.

Between a muddy field of blackened corn rows
that whistled long in the night,
and lean-to sheds all battered and torn,
dissonantly humming the maize's sorry tune;
did he ever stand a chance?

But for the surging rush
of his fathers angry hand.
But for his mother's tears,
his temper may have been placated.

But for those twisting, brutal years.

Out back, behind the dunny block
where Daz had lost his teeth,
and Jenny pressed her warm thigh hard
against his bulging jeans, where hands were hurried;
could he sense the serpents leer?

But for the rough green smoke
that slid 'cross his youthful tongue.
But for the beck'ning deep
he may have had a sane mind.

But for the peace that left him in his sleep.

Out front, above the red brick wall
that boasted his towns population,
he held his fist to the sky and screamed
aloud, his salt filled tears dropped metres to the dirt;
"Screw the helpless, I want my pound of meat!"

But for the knife blade, cold
and pressed against his back.
But for the women's cries
it would have been a calm night,
but they never stood a chance.

D J Berlach, 22.03.10

all at sea

all at sea
on a cresting wave
alone in the crumbling night

the lighted
beacon, shining brave
throws hope of a land in sight

D J Berlach 16.03.10
-for emily


Fallen, once fear├ęd folk,
Lie fallow
Beneath fetid fables.

Here now, from futures vantage
Unfettered by history,

We never learn.

D J Berlach, 18.01.10