We Are The Boghemians
For Greg, Mel, Randall, the Syntoxicants and anyone who feels an affinity…

We are the world
weary whirlwind children
of the counter-evolution,
the out of working-class,
passed up and passing out
on the floors of lounge rooms
where cushions serve as couches
–‘scalled minimalism, mate.

That’s right!
We are the Boghemians,
the Bogan Bohemians,
the health-care card carrying,
Rimbaud quoting scum too dumb to know
it’s meant to be Rimbaud
‘cause when it comes to cultural capital
we’re in debt
and yet
we’ve actually read the crap
– not like some academics…

But what would we know?
We’re just pissed dicks,
Boghemians who buy our groceries
in ugh boots, unshowered and unshaven,
muttering about craven for some of the sweet gear,
meaning King Lear, Hamlet, Macbeth
or even a few sonnets.
We are tenants in the tumbledown house called culture,
passing through, never owning one piece
– not even the cracks – 
too scared to even blu tack up our thoughts
lest they leave some ugly stain.

We are the drain that sucks the silt
from this country’s economy,
the dumpster divers and bicycle riders,
life models and medical test pigs.
We are the ones who scrawl
our dissertations on toilet walls
– messages in bottles we know will smash
and turn to sand.
But when it comes to existential crisis
we just open up our little red handbags
and so handle
getting up, getting on, getting through
another day dressed in last night’s face
and tomorrow’s dishrags…

because we are the Boghemians
and our revolution is that of goldfish
swimming round the same small bowls
past the same plastic skulls,
plastic treasure.
We are the Boghemians,
but at least we bloody know it.
Yes, we are the Boghemians
and we are nothing
– which is all
we’ll ever need
to prove.

©Amelia Walker

Peter Macrow,
Tasmanian Times Poetry Editor.
Tasmanian poets or those with a Tasmanian link are invited to send up to 5 poems which have not appeared previously in print or electronic media to:
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For the complete collection, click here: Poetry, Peter Macrow