In 1971 the Yungngora people walked off of Noonkanbah Station. In 1976 the government bought out Noonkanbah, and gave it back to the Yungngora people. Premier Charles Court, he must have been a-tremblin', outraged and offended at this threat to industry. He grit his teeth and fought for the good of his State electorate, as he proclaimed it to be. “No use for tradition, no time for unproductive Dreaming in this skyrocketing two-speed economy; and if the owners of this land might be sleighted by the hand of business, it's just the way it's got to be. For the public interest, it's the way it's going to be.” In 1979 an American oil company, they called AMAX, sought rights for exploration on Yungngora land. The people there said "No, our land is sacred. It must stay intact; you can go and dig your holes up somewhere else." Sir Charles Court said that this could not be accepted, "There's no wealth in that, and boys, there's wealth up there to dig" 45 police protected trucks and drilling rigs rolled in through Noonkanbah, smashed the fences down and raped the sacred ground. And no oil was found.

He was tall, dark and handsome. And she packed her bag, and left him and she shacked it in with me. My lonesome bed was hers to lie on. She said words are only usual and nerves are only natural, and nothing speaks as loud as action when the curtain comes descending. So strangely did it happen, after a night of passion - that, breathing softly, after kissing. She whispered, to me, “Thank you.” I held her closely, briefly. Then she drove away, and left me. And I watched the big moon blooming and felt a restless kind of peace.

Worst of me - let me hurl these burdens from my fevered chest. Hurting me as I hurt the ones that I cherish best. Doublegees pricking poison, the deeper they dig. The worst of me is the saltpetre that sweats and strangles the holy fig. I'd like to think I mean well but the truth is I can't rightly tell, or know, when the chips collapse to Hell and I’m wheeling as worthless as rain upon the snow. I'd like to think you'll be alright, but the truth is I can’t bear to know. Your sorrow hurts my pride and stoops my mind down so low that I don’t know if I will come up again not test your love's limits no more, my precious friend. Like an old man crumpling a tin ca No one knows which will fold first, nor when. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry - that's all. I want to be a good man – nothing more, nothing more. Scrape these split lips from the floor, get the ants from the cuts and the sores. Tomorrow, I might see the sun or howl in the ruins - it will be one or the other. From your brother, and son. I'm sorry, for the bitter draughts we’ve drunk. I love you very much. I’m sorry for the bitter wells I dug. I love you very much.

Come out and join this fight, workers one, workers all. Come out and organise Workers all. Come out for recognition of the worth of our positions and come out, musicians and rattle up the drum. Come out and sing for change workers one, workers all. Come and sing for your wage workers all. Come out and tell them you are a human being too, and their pettiness, they will rue and rattle up the drum. Come out and make a noise workers one, workers all. A noise they can’t avoid, workers all. Come out and shake the walls when ten thousand voices call “You shall not do this anymore.” Beat the drum. Come out and make them squirm, workers one, workers all. Come out and starve the worms, workers all. Come out and don’t back down until they’ve given ground and make them fear the sound of our drum.

He was the son of a market gardener. She was the child of a maid and a cook - and they fought like feral cats in the schoolyard, and they married by Wokarena Brook. In 19 and 13, the crops were fertile, and in 1914, they had a babe. In 19 and 15, they had another, and in 1916, he went away. Say farewell to old Mr Criddle, and wave away the Moonyoonooka scarp. For they’ve sent you off to France, to battle. Good luck, good bye – au revoir. Trenches are no place for a gardener. The only seeds are bone, washed with blood - and a rifle is a cruel bed companion when a married man lies, freezing in the mud. Surviving was an endless game of numbers, and laying low, when shrapnel flies - and closing your eyes as friends are butchered, and seeing their faces every night. Say goodbye to the weeping River Somme. Fare-thee-well, red fields of Picardy. For you are leaving, my comrade, for your garden - hooroo, old mate, mes amie.. A friend said something last week that gave me cause to pause. She said, “There’s a lotta shows on TV about soldiers, and their wars. But none show what happens when the lucky ones come home, and the memories that haunt them when their enemies are gone. Those memories that don’t leave, for soldiers, and brave nurses. There are faces, voices, gnawing grief that follows them to sleep. Those curses of the battleground that kill without a single shell. Yeah, there’s not enough shows around that show their living hell.” Trenches are no place for a gardener when muddy soil fills a man with dread - and a garden is no paradise for family when a man drinks to kill the shaking in his head. This man will go to fight for his family This man will fight for his patch of dirt - and w war will take them both from him. A war is never-ending hurt. Say goodbye to the Moonyoonooka gullies. Say farewell, to your tangled, withered vines - for your sadness is cut too deep to summit. Thanks for your service, old mate – goodbye.

Rippling, swelling, Foaming, sliding, Trickles splitting, water widening, Lapping, tapping, sapping saplings, bending eddies, waters rising. The fury of the flotsam soon will be arriving. Tangling trees with bark and leaves, ‘till the Chapman’s flow is subsiding. Yabbies, guppies, tadpoles, trapping eggs in jars for homeward raising. Children googling, giggling, fishing for mozzie larvae for their tadpoles, grazing. Muddy thongs soaking dogs, on the carpet that I’d spent hours razing with shampoo and scrubbing too, ‘till it was soft and new as the baby blue horizon. Surging seaward purging driftwood from dry banks, to the ocean The sand resists, for a little bit, then two waters kiss where the dunes had closed in. An ancient fight, two snakes collide, then peace subsumes their commotion. And all is well, as the waters swell, down at my beloved River Chapman.

There’s no sound so loud as the soaking wind, flying. No silence so profound as the hope within you dying. My fears compound, with ten thousand voices, lying - and leave me with the sound of one man crying. Do you know that sound? How could you hear it? If no one’s around does it disappear? Or does it rebound through your mind? The lonesome sound of one man crying. The crows crack and creak and scatter with the lightning. Thunder gathers ‘round my mind, black and biting. My dry throat tangles ‘round my tongue, taut and tightening and strangles out the sound of one man crying. Do you know that sound? How could you hear it? If no one’s around does it disappear? Or does it rebound through your mind? The lonesome sound of one man crying.

Six dollars and eight cents is what they feed us each day with. Powdered egg, and crumbed fish all the way from the Mekong. I’ve been alive such a long time. Ninety years, and nine - now I’m waiting ‘round to die, far from the hills where I belong. My husband worked down in the coal mine. We lived in Collie all our lifetimes. So strange, how eighty years flies - like bubbles, bundling into foam. When Arthur died, I had nobody to help me care for my old body, so they took me to the city, to die alone, in a crowded home. I used to love cooking the Sunday lamb. I took such pride in my two hands. Now, they won’t let me near a kitchen, because my legs are prone to fall. Life here is reading one newspaper every day, and you hate it because the stories are all the same, but it’s better than nothing at all. I left a grandson in the valley. He said he’d love to come and see me - but it gets so cold in Collie, when you’re sleeping in the alley. One night, he lay down in his soaked clothes, and in the gales, his drunken blood froze - and he died alone, but I suppose at least Arthur didn’t leave to see him go. There are 300 people here. I recognise less of them every year - and I am so alone here, but it doesn’t hurt like it did before. For I believe I’ll be gone before long. I’ve got no reason to hold on, and I’ll be so relieved when my time is done, and these cruel blue days end

Thought I heard the chattering patter of your feet outside my doorway, today. I hear dogs barking down the street, I see the empty couch where you used to lay - and I keep thinking, you’re coming home. I’ll wake one morning, and find the nightmare’s flown - but I wake up, every morning, alone. It’s quiet without you. It’s cold at night, without you by my side – and it hurts to let sleeping dogs lie. We both drift, like ghosts through this house, through this town that we used to own. I see you around, and hear your sounds in the shadows where the melaleuca and wax trees grow. Falling apart. Staying strong. Heaving heart. Steady song. What’s the difference when either way, you’re gone? It’s quiet without you. It’s cold at night without you, by my side. It’s quiet without you. I miss you, little Child In The Sky - and it hurts, so much, to let sleeping dogs lie.

Are you living charming? Are you living nice? Are you living pleasant? Are you living nice? Are you without a house, man? Is your bed in your car? Are you living homeless? Is your bed in the park? How many hands did your father shake to get you in the circles you choose to grace and how many interviews ‘till Billy loses heart because no one’s hires a fella who’s living in their car. and there’s a bloody, vicious circle A bloody, vicious circle stretching out. The snake has pink skin, dear. his teeth are milky white. Your blood will turn black, dear should you receive his bite. Walk careful, my friend around every bend, friend ‘cause lying in the sand, man could be the landlord’s fangs, man. A bloody vicious circle ‘round Mr White and Mrs Brown. A bloody vicious circle that wraps around this town. A bloody vicious circle turns the mind, blinds the eyes to how a bloody, vicious childhood makes a bloody, vicious life. and I’m bloody sick of seeing it sick from these blood-sucking parasites.

I’m Texas Dann, but just call me Tick. I didn’t grow up in the town I didn’t grow up in the sticks I grew up out around Boundary Road. We grew up fast, and a little bit tough We had enough to eat, but it was only ever enough A lot of hunting to keep us fed when the dough was low. It’s a mile and a half to get down to the sea But that never used to stop me Getting down there pretty well every day after school Rod, handline, trap or net I’ll take anything I can get Because fishing is what I was born to do. I asked my mother, “Why did you give this name to me?” She said, "Your father And I used to watch those old cowboy movies. And that lonesome Texas country Made us feel so free. Texas made us free". I had a hard time understanding why All the old folks would do is sigh When I told them I wanted to be a crayfisherman, They’d say “Son, blackfellas don’t own boats It’s been like that since God only knows I suppose they don’t like it when we get too equal to them.” But the crayfishermen were so rich It made my blood race around and itch To get a boat of my own, and drop down a a whole army of pots. But the deckies at the docks, they laughed in my face And said “Not here brother. Go to Shark Bay Work with the Malays, and that’s the best damn deal you’ll cop.” So with my cousin, And his Mum, and grannies too. We hit the road northward in 1962. Yes, I was thinking as I was drinking in the view This was just like Texas. I’m gonna be a cowboy too. Getting a job didn’t take long, As you can see, I’m a little bloke, but I got myself strong And my hands got tougher than a dead old ironbark. I even found love at the Denham camp She was 21, and her name was Dianne And we loved like lovers do when there’s a spark. You know when things are going so well, and you don’t know why, but you go and sabotage yourself? Well I did, and I lost Dianne and my kids. I think back on the man I’d become And it hurts to say, but I’m glad they run They didn’t deserve the pain I caused, from the shameful things I did. And my brother Took me back to Rangeway. It was so bigger now, and tired-er, and wilder every way. But I cleaned myself up And I escaped from Texas. I crawled, half alive, out of Texas. and freedom has it’s price to pay. I don’t live bad now, though I don’t have much I love my brother to bits. I guess I see my kids often enough. Dianne’s married again, she’s living in Perth. I’ve got a dog, and a caravan I have a smoke and a drink every now and again But I give back to my people, as good as I can serve. If my life was something I could choose I would have been born in a pair of shiny boots With a silver spoon, in a big crayfishing clan. My deckies would be blackfellas like us Dianne and I would sit on the Chamber of Commerce Yes, I’d be 'Texas Dann: Crayfisherman'. When I’m alone, now Fishing Page’s Beach. I wonder how different life might have been if, as a child, I could have reached out and grabbed my dream and had the biggest fleet in Texas - I'd the sail the desert seas of Texas. I smile. I smile because my dreams are free. I’m dreaming of Texas. I'm dreaming of Texas I'm dreaming of Texas I'm dreaming of being free.

You always liked to tell me the Genie can't be tamed. Like a horde of thirsty locusts in the rain, in the rain. You taught me how to suffer; to keep the bottle on the shelf. Man, I hate to see you suffer within yourself, within yourself. You never liked your father, and he felt much the same. Expelled from Wainuiomata to the rain; from the rain. And you bought tools and equipment to make a gyprock castle. You found a wife from the Abrolhos and bought a quarter acre parcel. And you never liked to talk too loud, and told your wife to the same. And you taught her how to suffer, to share your pain. How come you learned to suffer the way that you do? I feel your anger when you suffer, and it hurts me too. I feel your anger when you suffer; it hurts me too. I hope you find happiness. I hope it's far away from me. I hope you find redemption, in your thoughts, and in your deeds. I hope you grow all of the oranges that you could ever need. I hope that we may talk again, wounded, but not aggrieved. How come you learned to suffer the way that you do? I feel your anger when you suffer; Lord, it hurts me too. How come you make me suffer the way that you do? I feel such shame in how I suffer, and I know it hurts you too. I feel such such in how I suffer. I know it hurts you too.

This is a song for the rich and ruling class, who cast their die upon a table that we all must stand around with palms stretched out as far as the law will allow. We are the ones, soaked with chatter and scattered tongues from which true thought is never sprung. We are the servants who are free to serve whom we please, though we all must serve the same beast. This is a song for the landlord and the ones who own nothing who live to give to rich and ruling men - who are rich and ruling men through the suffering they bring. Raise the rent upon your door, evict the poor onto couches and car seats, and it's an angry, fiery sleep and it's a cold storm that creeps and it's a drumbeat from the deep that chills your bed. This is a song for the oil companies, the fracking gas facilities, and the rape of Yeelirrie and the flares that we torch roiling seas that we scorch and the skies that we've dried and the trees we have pried and the coal we have gnawed from the Earth. This is a song for the employer. We work for your purpose, before you pay us that we may serve our own. Your greed makes this world work your paycheque marks the difference between sleeping on a bed, or lying down on dirt. We are the wrinkles in your morning frown. We are the mules that pull your cart around and we tread the paths you set us down.

The runaway boys are roaming round, rain is ripping down. Lock your doors - the runaway boys are creeping into town. Copper chopper, pierce the clouds. Fly low, like a slingshot stone. Runaway boys, keep your cool 'cause the heat is building on the stove. Bootenal. Loot it all. Walkaway, from the Regional. Runaway boys, you know the rules - it's win, or lose it all. 18 and 22 years old is too young for triple time. Get yourselves to the cop shop, boys - get a plea bargain on the line. Chopper's throbbing in the air. The last man's hiding out somewhere. Gero, your entertainment's here - get your Facebook chatter blaring. Bootenal. Loot it all - and Walkaway, from the Regional. Runaway boys, you know the rules - it's win, or lose it all. You say they get five meals a day, and Foxtel, and the works. I heard it was mattresses on the floor - them Beds Were Burning first. Now, I'm not precisely sympathetic but I tell you, with respect. Understaffed and overfilled - what the living hell did we expect? Bootenal. Loot it all. Walkaway from the Regional. Runaway boys, you know the rules it's win, or lose it all.

I’d love to be lying with ya in a tent, watching Star Trek on Netflix, on a phone screen, laughing at the camp and the kitchness; painted faces, paper predictions - and how it relates to the culture and the market, and the history and the politics of the 60’s - and we’re imagining ourselves being hippies. And in the morning, you might catch me snoring - and if I muck up your sleep, you can go ahead and kick me out. I’ll go exploring by the creek, with the trees and the frogs in the reeds - and the dawning, of the sunrise, and the daylight in your eyes, and the ash on the campfire is kindled when the winds take the smoke to the sky, uh huh. Wake up sleepy love, and kiss me and hold me, and see me and I see you, and I feel alright, uh huh. And the billy is a-boilin’ and the toast is a-warmin’ and we’re fighting, over Sisko and your eyes are so lovely when they’re on fire, my darling, let us fight like this always and I’ll love you more each day and Star Trek on the TV tells me every stupid little thing is gonna be okay.

Watch the dancing strands of foam throwing strings of nylon rope upon the sands. Bottles, butts nappies, bones and Fanta cans bashing on the rocks and blowing through the land. They say Old Man Pelican can fit more fish in his bill than his belly can. I saw one dead. His guts were puffed with plastic bags. Miaboolya turtles hollowed by the sun. Mullet and tailor lying dead, as one, in a grave that is gnawing into everyone. Who is profiting when the bitter tide is raked trawled? Time and tide spare nobody at all. They wait for none at all. They said our ways would change my whole life. Our ways remain the same. They say when the body over-sates, the spirit starves and pines away. boil the roiling seas away take out the salt that remains, and salt the fields our children scrape time and tide, trickle away. Trickle, roll, lap and sap away. And who is profiting when the rivers are glowing with ore? Time and tide have mercy upon us all. Please have mercy on us all.

I could not sleep last night. My mind was cold, like a wave that rolled in my head. Words I have read of the dead, and the diggers of graves. There are Wicked Kings in this world. They own oil and minerals and gold. They are wicked men, who buy all they can and steal what will not be sold. There’s a war rushing on, my friend - and it’s waged against unarmed civilians. We shop in our stores, and we fund hidden wars that sponsor the murder of millions. I see you shift in your skin and say, “I never killed anyone.” Our economy rapes resources-rich states - it is we who are holding the gun. I watched all the big ships come in and my eyes bore through every hull - and oil debris, punched holes in the sea and the cargo was flooded with skulls. The wealth of the cargo, it falls through the holes in the pockets of men. At the top of the lot is the rich, greedy boss - that’s the nature of the beast, my friend. It’s a beast that hungers for oil, and is fed on the finest of flesh. From the factory’s yield, to the farmer of the field in China, Sudan and Bangladesh. I heard you were restless last night, with dreams of the dying and hurt. As you let your mind stray, somewhere far away another body rots in the dirt.

I tried to pay my speeding fine - the website said my card was declined. So I tried to pay my credit card; somehow, the money went through just fine. I tried to see some happy day when the debts I owe are out of mind, but I failed. Like a rusted letterbox clogged with rotten mail, I failed. I tried to plant a garden of tomato and silverbeet. But what the cold front didn’t flatten, the snails eradicated, piece by piece. I tried to think of planting - of joyful new life, tender and green, but I could not. Like a dying bird, in a shoebox, getting colder, as hope is lost. I’ve tried to be a lover. I’ve tried to be a fighting man. I’ve tried to satisfy old friends, I’ve learned to survive without them. I’ve tried to be a saint when my cup was flowing full of sin, but all things end. Like a page boy struck by lightning before this note could send - “All things end.”

This worn out feeling, A raven drenched in bleach. A streetlight, snatching sleep. A scarecrow, shepherding wheat. Lightning in the ocean's deep. The clock stops wheeling, like a boy with his toys on the roof. A dead lamb with a wobbling tooth. A spasm in a soundproof both. A beggar, with a shirt left to lose. The night swoops in, stealing honeyeater songs from the sky. The blue hues that drawn from my eyes, as the spider hollows the fly, and the dew on the garlic runs dry. Healing. Sweet healing, come dancing across the morn. A wet-eared, prancing fawn, frogs delicately sculpting their spawn. Dolphins, meeting the dawn.

For friends who are gone and for friends, who remain - and precious ones, who are one, and the same. Who carried me through my sorrows, and strain. and gave me the sweetest warmth of my days. Who showed me that kindness is the purest of prides - that love is a river, that tears are her tides. Thankyou for warming my coldest of nights. Thankyou for walking your life by my side. Where once was fear of dying, I now have none. For nothing is new beneath this old sun - and from dust are we sprung, and to dust, we become - and love is the bedrock that anchors the grass. Oh, I come from a long line of soldiers and currs - slaughter-house men, nurses workers, trailing their bloodied hands through the Earth; and love is the bone that firms their frail grasp. Who showed me no mountain of money can buy one single star more, to string in the sky. Thankyou for warming my coldest of nights. Thankyou for walking your life by my side. The crickets are louder than black thunder claps. Their songs are swirling, to spite dizzy bats - and the sky whirls, burned like an old treasure map, and this desert is quiet, and cold as blue steel. Your presence comes back like de ja vu's spark in Joker's Tunnel, little feet in the dark - and I am without you, but we are not apart, and I cannot explain the sadness I feel. Who showed me that good little boys never die. You who showed me the tears that hills cry. The ranges are wet where we'd romp and we'd stride. My child, I love you. My little one - goodbye.