B. R. Dionysius
Visy Recycling Memorandum, 2003. - Poem by B. R. Dionysius
This unwanted cornucopia - nickel-plated pears, bananas, grapes, apples,
kitsch relic from some neo-classical age, saved from Terminator meltdown
its metallic semiotics stalled on the conveyor belts’ rubber-suited fascism.
Universal bowerbird plucked from sexual obscurity - what a piece of work!
All labour history is corrupt. Some American Vietnam War text claimed
that no foreign journalist recorded the fall of Saigon; ditto Neil Davis’
footage of the NVA’s T-72 smashing Palace gates was doco-illusionary.
Neil loved the East, Asian women & died in some shitty Thai coup.
Next was coughed up a crouching brass cat. Sexless? Time-neutered.
Sleek in its full metal jacket fur. Did someone switch over to dogs?
“Bob” (“Gollum”) a famous cricket cat, farm-surrendered, now lives
in the ginger generations doorstop mewling around my mother’s feet.
Why try to marry sex & Nazism? Partisans assassinated blond poster
crew-cut boy Heydrich (the original Tommy Finland?) almost botched
it, grenades destroyed his motorcades’ armoured genitals, Third Reich’s
proto-Eminem. How many times can you say ‘motherfucker’ textually?
The head of a Roman centurion rolled out next. Plaster, nose-smashed
by visygothic policies; modern archaeology’s Liverpool kiss. Transference
of sexual magnetism – Roman army defeats Macedonians at the “Dog’s
Heads”, Thessaly 197 B.C. & the rise of Russell Crowe’s rough trade.
Then a statue of Dionysus, one horn snapped off, poetry books under arm
mop head beard sadhu fixed to a hard face, sunburn plaster peeling white skin.
His own dishevelled Dionysian nature got him expelled from his gnomeland,
ostracized forever from some Heidelberg courtyard, the tyranny of fallen chic.
Murr ay quoted, “I came from a hard culture”, looking a bit like the jolly
Buddha sculpture that humped down the waste stream, Eastern & Western
burning want - striped woollen jumpers unpicking themselves: get knotted
his thin red line of religion spake: the closer you are to Caesar the greater the fear.
Tyring to explain my personal ontology, the great man tranced through me,
two brothers jumped ship South Brisbane wharves 1886, Baltic, Isle of Reugen.
Dinnies used to be our name but it changed six generations ago, no one knew
why but Fredy Murray had been there; more literary Proteus than genealogist.
The casualisation of Australia & 2.5 million workers suspicious rockabilly minds.
Strong magnetic fields pull artists into poverty, a labour hire shuffle & sucking
up to team leaders, Herr gruppenfuhrer gave needle-stuck Stacey her marching orders,
refused to climb down into a pit waist deep in glass; group signatures against porn.
On the phone the Manager said to her, “I can picture what you look like naked.”
This, after she’d signed his declaration; harassment is any unwelcome, uninvited behaviour,
whether verbal, written or physical, against another person. Harassment offends, humiliates or
intimidates your workmates & colleagues. All faces are the same man, one big self.
Then it was my turn down the pit & I knew why Stacey had rebuked her job
satisfaction – part tunnel rat, part miner we dug out wine bottle shrapnel from
sewerage water, Hien, Alfred, Hussan; Vietnamese, German, Turk & Australian
all in the same trench, huddling from wage concussion; post-war economic boom.
Makes one think of Fredy Murray’s artistic dilemma. How he only worked the land
in his head, his hands ploughing with a pen after he’d famously chucked in his public
service job with the revolutionary decree – I’m going home forever! Who could blame him?
Canberra in the 70’s - a political climate polluted by staffers dancing on bits of paper!
< br>In 8 Mile, Eminem or ‘Rabbit’ as he’s monikered faces his own art versus employment
indecision. Garbled American obscenities mask his attempts to break dance on stubs
of bus tickets, slammin’ at the Shelter, the Nuremberg Rally in his mind enhanced by
the Detroit car plant’s ubermensch ethos; all rap lyrics are the same song, one big opera.
Noti ce to all staff. The Manager called everyone in for a rasp over the knuckles, man
of few words off the telephone pissed that someone had left a porno mag on top of a
needle bin, blocking access to the final come down of addiction; casuals poring over Jill
Kelly’s physical assets than VISY’s on paper profit; imagination lost in the waste stream.
That’s why I collected trophies; cornucopias, statues, sculptures, columns - my finger on
the end game of guilt, lust, greed, consumerism. Someone else’s abject reality bound for
China’s paper tigers, apathy’s landfill. Davis, Murray, Heydrich & Eminem so screwed up
by jobs & sex, history’s artery hardening; outside my factory gate work will set you free.
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