PERHAPS
ALM No.93, September 2026
POETRY
Karl Marx was a thief
(a conversation)
In the Northern Territory of Australia,
the aboriginal ranger told me that
his mob had socialism first:
My family is a big mob.
Some of us work,
so some of us don’t have to.
We give them money and clothes
so they can live the old way,
out on country,
keeping the old way alive.
It is important to us
that they do. Before it’s lost.
Anyhow, native food tastes like s--t.
Animals taste like what they’ve eaten.
If a croc eats chicken, he tastes like chicken.
If a croc eats croc, buffalo and dog,
our mob’s welcome to him.
(“Mob” is the word used by indigenous Australians
when referring to their friends and family.)
perhaps
(a dada poem)
affirmable postulates
what is that to the white child
a match lit on a crumbling wall
the bark of a small-stumped tree
reflexions on suicide vertical to the horizon
the shadowy sky played and stamped his tune
the stuff is not amenable to fire
the crow was no sleeper
from head to foot his true Penelope
devoured by wind and sea
a fire is passing through
the soles of my feet ran into manhood
bringing light to life
perhaps
Eight billion
Blood flows through
eight billion bodies
to eight billion brains.
Eight billion brains
seek love.
Eight billion brains
seek survival.
Eight billion brains
seek money.
If only
eight billion brains
sought wisdom.
(The world’s population has passed eight billion.)
James Aitchison is an Australian author and poet whose work has appeared in the Adelaide Literary Magazine, Australian Poetry Anthology, Aesthetica, Quadrant, Poetry for Mental Health, Poppy Road Review, Horror Writers Association Poetry Showcase, and many more.
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