From Mother Football’s womb untimely ripped – forced release of football gripped From free and fractious uterine kicking to aborted delivery Execration; detestation; revulsion and loathing Selectively hated, crowd baited, fated: terminated! Viciously victimised by callous tongues, which lash like nine-tails, from behind the relative safety of previously-pinched, picket-fence security Rip strips of flesh from his hide, as they cower behind Queen’s skirts Ridicule and word vomit spews, as they joust to protect their swollen honour Their loathing opposition, mocking-character poison eventually kills him He, who dares challenge their legality by throwing down a war dance gauntlet. Their odium compels his removal from ovals of poached propriety – because his presence is an ever-present, potent reminder of their crimes These modern-day ‘goodie cowboy gunslingers’ get upset when this ‘baddie’ refuses to fall down dead on the oval lawn – like all good little Ichy bums should do These coward punchers, media lunchers, number crunchers crouch behind the dark of day Morph into vengeful paranoids when asked to share their appropriated turf with ‘inappropriate’ others Or when having to explain why they have – blood on their hands; skeletons in their closets; and the pocketed possessions of those from whom they stole. These quasi secret-service assassins fix him firmly in their cross hairs: turn both corporate boxes and the outer into the grassy knoll –Numerous second shooters take aim They enact the customary, Systematic, identity slaughter And then call upon divine intervention from the shock jocks in order to put the right spin on it They celebrate the afternoon manhunt with a plastic glass of sugared-froth and a catcall. At game’s end, high on moral impunity – but subconsciously fearing they have played most foul, the bloodthirsty stream to wash their hands clean, in hotels like The Duke of Brunswick or The Earl of Leicester Elbows up, Crown lager down Out! Damn Spot! Out! Twist and shout, turn pub urinals into carnadine seas. Then, with a few under their belt, these bloated second-nation squatters hurry home Cautiously, they hide behind their well-lit Dunsinane forests, and ensconce themselves, in their security-patrolled dwellings After having done a quick inventory of their stolen goods, any reflexive display of guilt simply disappears and they, partner and wine in hand, put their feet up and casually download another zombie movie from Netflix.
Chris was inspired to this poem after “the paranoid, nationalist behaviour of racist AFL spectators towards [Aboriginal player] Adam Goodes, and their fear of Indigenous challenge of their appropriated possessions.”