Young men
Tribes of them
Are getting pissed on Anzac day.
Their soft white flesh
Remains unscarred
[Except for all those designer tattoos]
Yet their bleary eyes
Betray some kind of ennui.
Do they drink all day to forget?
Does the century old digger
And his dank earth smell
Mean anything
To these buffed underbelly boys
With their straight teeth
And pouting smiles
Their aggression always unleashed?
“Happy Anzac Day” they cry aloud
Wearing their knowledge lightly
For here commodification
Requires no ambiguity
But the cracker jack tug
Of the marketing ploy
Their slinky Aussieness
Draped in a brand new flag.
No mud
No rats
No bones jutting from the earth
With an ache
That will not rest:
We died
We lost
We left.
Ah the pity and the horror
Of the unsprung past.
Of the blood splattered standard
And the grace of survival.
Let there be but quiet remembrance
As young men
Tribes of them
Were gassed on Anzac day.
Dona nobis pacem
Gar Jones: June 2012/June 2017
Tribes of them
Are getting pissed on Anzac day.
Their soft white flesh
Remains unscarred
[Except for all those designer tattoos]
Yet their bleary eyes
Betray some kind of ennui.
Do they drink all day to forget?
Does the century old digger
And his dank earth smell
Mean anything
To these buffed underbelly boys
With their straight teeth
And pouting smiles
Their aggression always unleashed?
“Happy Anzac Day” they cry aloud
Wearing their knowledge lightly
For here commodification
Requires no ambiguity
But the cracker jack tug
Of the marketing ploy
Their slinky Aussieness
Draped in a brand new flag.
No mud
No rats
No bones jutting from the earth
With an ache
That will not rest:
We died
We lost
We left.
Ah the pity and the horror
Of the unsprung past.
Of the blood splattered standard
And the grace of survival.
Let there be but quiet remembrance
As young men
Tribes of them
Were gassed on Anzac day.
Dona nobis pacem
Gar Jones: June 2012/June 2017