To The Future
Here’s to our eighteenth birthday. Here’s to the minute the digits dance over to the AM and I AM eighteen. Here’s to the end of childcould and the start of adultshould. Here’s to the census, the vote, the speech, picking at invisible lines under our dresses, laced with insecurity, beaded insincerity, stained with immaturity. Here’s to an age of growing up. Here’s to next new year’s dismay. Here’s to the recreational poison, to the haze of blessed oblivion. Here’s to dancing with friends, lovers and strangers, to dancing alone just to prove there’s a beat in our souls. Here’s to the silent veins of fire, revive the still universe, remind the infinity of the impossibility of light, on a suicidal midnight. Here’s to the brittle shards of electric hope that dissolve in the harbour below. Here’s to Xmas eve, Xmas morning, xmas dinner, xmas sales. Here’s to feeding the machine with your own blood and bone. Here’s to circumcising your soul and selling it on the silk road, for a pop of nan, of Auntie Jan, of a tireless joke and a generation’s lie. Merrily on high. Here’s to next Straya day. Here’s to patriotism, nationalism, racism, sexism, alcoholism and good old-fashioned bloody Australianism. Here’s to the union claw- claiming our sky, our children, our girlfriends’ titties- floating in the fermenting ensign. Here’s to this year’s daffodil day, to bandana day, to bandaged bears and badges and noses red from the crying, ask me how I beg for coins for cancer and expect an answer, I don’t know. How do you save a life through advertising? You parade death like a new born, boast poverty like bravery and bare tragedy like ecstasy, because pity never paid for treatment, miracles aren’t bought with prayers, they’re bought with determined stares, you give me money and I’ll take your guilt, and turn it into smiles and beaurocracy. Here’s to the metaxy between sympathy and empathy. Here’s to International Earth Day, Earth Hour, here’s to every minute we get on this sphitzing sphere of doom, our tomb. Here’s to sunlight, here’s to rain, here’s to joy, here’s to pain. Here’s to standing drenched in the tears of the Earth when the next bus doesn’t arrive for fourteen shivers, for three flash rivers, for zero lift-givers. For the passing of a Mr Whippy in the rain. Here’s to the day that rain becomes a wave, that river becomes a glacier, that sun becomes a pendulum hypnotising us into extinction. Here’s to the scientists who read their data like scripture, who hypothesise the rapture, here’s to the day we regret doing nothing...or the day we regret all the worrying. Here’s to Mater Natura, Mother Nature, you mother fucker. Here's to the future. May she rest in peace. Here's to the future. May she be forever young.











