“I went to the worst of bars hoping to get killed but all I could do was to get drunk again.” ― Charles Bukowski

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The Bailey Barracks

Tall and bright the flowers stand:

defiant of the smoke clouds,
drowning in an ocean of liquor.
As I borrow from the lungs of my companions
My drunk mind figures,
Maybe the flowers  deserve better.

The bar is an island
surrounded by endless suits;

Brown—no, Johnson—talks sales.
“Another brew, sweetheart.”

She stands tall and bright
her eyes watering

as she provides salvation from a tap;
a mother, a shepherd, her gaunt face weathers.

And as I borrow smoke from the lungs of my companions,
my drunk mind figures,

maybe she deserves better.

Freddie Young – Melbourne Boys Grammar School

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She tries to remain still, to focus, / but it won’t stop rocking, / the carriage, this world.” Lachlan Brown.

Let the rain kiss you. Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops. Let the rain sing you a lullaby.”

– Langston Hughes –

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Queensland Times (Ipswich) (Qld. : 1909 – 1954), Monday 23 February 1948,

1 1 1 1 1 Queensland Times (Ipswich) (Qld. - 1909 - 1954), Monday 23 February 1948,

“When a man gives his opinion, he’s a man. When a woman gives her opinion, she’s a bitch.” ― Bette Davis



Chagrah v’oz motneiha vat’ametz zro’oteiha

She girds her loins in strength, and makes her arms strong.
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The Women of the West

by George Essex Evans

They left the vine-wreathed cottage and the mansion on the hill,
The houses in the busy streets where life is never still,
The pleasures of the city, and the friends they cherished best:
For love, they faced the wilderness – the Women of the West.

The roar, the rush, and fever of the city died away,
And the old-time joys and faces – they were gone for many a day;
In their place the lurching coach-wheel, or the creaking bullock chains,
O’er the everlasting sameness of the everlasting plains.

In the slab-built, zinc-roofed homestead of some lately taken run,
In the tent beside the bankment of the railway just begun,
In the huts on new selections, in the camps of man’s unrest,
On the frontiers of the Nation, live the Women of the West.

The red sun robs their beauty, and, in weariness and pain,
The slow years steal the nameless grace that never comes again;
And there are hours men cannot soothe, and words men cannot say-
The nearest woman’s face may be a hundred miles away

The wide Bush holds the secrets of their longings and desires,
When the white stars in reverence light their holy altar-fires,
And silence, like the touch of God, sinks deep into the breast-
Perchance He hears and understands, the Women of the West.

For them no trumpet sounds the call, no poet plies his arts-
They only hear the beating of their gallant, loving hearts.
But they have sung with silent lives the song all songs above-
The holiness of sacrifice, the dignity of love.

Well have we held our father’s creed. No call has passed us by.
We faced and fought the wilderness, we sent our sons to die.
And we have hearts to do and dare, and yet, o’er all the rest,
The hearts that made the Nation were the Women of the West.


The end of the end was the best place to begin.





The Elephant’s Nostalgia

This is the door.


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The Argus (Melbourne, Vic. : 1848 – 1957), Friday 10 February 1956,

1 1 1 1 1 The Argus (Melbourne, Vic. - 1848 - 1957), Friday 10 February 1956,

1 1 1 1 1 ho7wtoputonamateu00hack_002R6

John Godfrey Saxe’s ( 1816-1887) version of the famous Indian legend,

It was six men of Indostan
To learning much inclined,
Who went to see the Elephant
(Though all of them were blind),
That each by observation
Might satisfy his mind.

The First approach’d the Elephant,
And happening to fall
Against his broad and sturdy side,
At once began to bawl:
“God bless me! but the Elephant
Is very like a wall!”

The Second, feeling of the tusk,
Cried, -“Ho! what have we here
So very round and smooth and sharp?
To me ’tis mighty clear
This wonder of an Elephant
Is very like a spear!”

The Third approached the animal,
And happening to take
The squirming trunk within his hands,
Thus boldly up and spake:
“I see,” quoth he, “the Elephant
Is very like a snake!”

The Fourth reached out his eager hand,
And felt about the knee.
“What most this wondrous beast is like
Is mighty plain,” quoth he,
“‘Tis clear enough the Elephant
Is very like a tree!”

The Fifth, who chanced to touch the ear,
Said: “E’en the blindest man
Can tell what this resembles most;
Deny the fact who can,
This marvel of an Elephant
Is very like a fan!”

The Sixth no sooner had begun
About the beast to grope,
Then, seizing on the swinging tail
That fell within his scope,
“I see,” quoth he, “the Elephant
Is very like a rope!”

And so these men of Indostan
Disputed loud and long,
Each in his own opinion
Exceeding stiff and strong,
Though each was partly in the right,
And all were in the wrong!


So oft in theologic wars,
The disputants, I ween,
Rail on in utter ignorance
Of what each other mean,
And prate about an Elephant
Not one of them has seen!


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“The whole thing’s illusion, [Jacob], and there’s nothing wrong with that. It’s what people want from us. It’s what they expect.”
― Sara Gruen, Water for Elephants

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“Terror made me cruel ” Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights

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“Ghosts don’t haunt us. That’s not how it works. They’re present among us because we won’t let go of them.”

“I don’t believe in ghosts,” I said, faintly.

“Some people can’t see the colour red. That doesn’t mean it isn’t there,” she replied.”

― Sue Grafton, M Is for Malice

“If you see the lion’s teeth Do not think the lion is smiling” – Arabian



“إذا رأيت نيوب الليث بارزة       فلا تظن أن الليث يبتسم”.

1 1 1 1 1 C2hronicle (Adelaide, SA 1895 - 1954), Thursday 3 April 1930

Brisbane at Nightfall

As dusk approaches, gulls have gathered here
behind a fishing boat, their bodies white
and shining as they glide before the sheer
metallic-coloured river banks. Tonight
they’ll rest upon the quiet waters, drift
in silence like the Lady of Shallot.
The city holds its breath. Now there’s a shift
of light: the sky is palest apricot…
and there against the backdrop of the sky
the flying foxes lift upon the air.
The pulsing of their wings as they go by
has quickened every heart-beat. Everywhere
above us sooty shapes whirl ever higher,
like bits of blackened paper from a fire.

© Copyright Kathy Earsman 


1 1 1 1 1 C3hronicle (Adelaide, SA 1895 - 1954), Thursday 3 April 1930

“Anyone who has a continuous smile on his face conceals a toughness that is almost frightening.”
― Greta Garbo

1 1 1 1 1 Ch5ronicle (Adelaide, SA 1895 - 1954), Thursday 3 April 1930

The Sydney Morning Herald (NSW : 1842 – 1954), Saturday 20 June 1942

1 1 1 1 1 The Sydney Morning Herald (NSW - 1842 - 1954), Saturday 20 June 1942

1 1 1 1 1 Chronicle (Adelaide, SA 1895 - 1954), Thursday 3 April 1930

the dog barks, but the caravan passes on

For every intellectual a lapse, for every horse a stumble, and for every sword (bearer) a disaster.


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Weekend markets, Broome: The gypsy’s story


This town takes people like me:

people who must have a greater distance…

The night Grandfather told me he could not go on,
could not work the night train to Budapest, I took off
my coat and placed it over the old man’s shoulders.

Grandfather came for me
when I was twenty. He meant to see if I would work
to keep him    but it grew into love    a hard love.
From him I learned my letters    numbers    and the cards.

In Hungary where I was born
they never gave us education. They could find us mad
if we did not read or write    so being mad
we could be shut away again    and cities looked better
with us off the streets.

The coat would be of some use:
a trade for a pack of cigarettes perhaps.
My people lived on nothing, always moving on
and when a man could not move on, he made a quick death.

We were at the back of the yards,
hands under armpits for the warmth.
Grandfather’s head was silvered by drizzle, a faint moon

making him saint-like, and this so far from truth
as to be laughable, saving me from tears.

I promised him
I would remake our cards in some safer country;
bring back their honour by working them again,

hearing the dance of symbols and colours speak,

seeing their wisdom come.

Yes, this town takes people like me

and the cards call only those who wish to hear.

But the nights burn: dark returns me
to Buda or some other city where police pull down

our shanties, gangs are paid to hunt us out
and if sleep comes, it is in fragments.

The rattle of palm fronds on my roof

sounds like distant gunfire…

Flora Smith


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A man’s true character comes out when he’s drunk. Charles Chaplin

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Please Stop, Mom.

© Kayla S. Birdno
I smell the whiskey on your breath.
And you beg for me to put your temper to the test.
You slap me around, and call me names.
Mom, I’m sick of playing these games.

Source: Please Stop Drinking, Mom, Addiction Poem about Family http://www.familyfriendpoems.com/poem/please-stop-drinking-mom#ixzz2uPNTXqOz
Family Friend Poems

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Alcohol is perfectly consistent in its effects upon man. Drunkenness is merely an exaggeration. A foolish man drunk becomes maudlin; a bloody man, vicious; a coarse man, vulgar.

WILLA CATHER, “On the Divide,” The Troll Garden

Read more at http://www.notable-quotes.com/a/alcoholism_quotes.html#K71wx3yMtQWE4xcO.99

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Illustrated Sydney News (NSW : 1853 – 1872), Saturday 13 May 1893

1 1 1 1 1  Illustrated Sydney News (NSW - 1853 - 1872), Saturday 13 May 18933


1 1 1 1 1 Illustrated Sydney News (NSW - 1853 - 1872), Saturday 13 May 189325


1 1 1 1 1 Illustrated Sydney News (NSW - 1853 - 1872), Saturday 13 May 1893

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