The symbols that we use are T shirts of
the dead thoughts of corpses without
heads, a rictus without sound – open-
mouthed, empty, unbound. And if you
ever write those clichés which incite my
disapproval, fuck you, I am not amused.
And if I ever do, then fuck me too.
I battle with the icons of our time, not so
much the images as those who overuse
the gushing phrases, rabid writers praising
vapid lies, journalistic worms still at the
maggot stage of feeding on the headless
corpses, thieving symbols off their shirts,
descending into dismal depths of gutter
meaningless and desperate doggerel.
My sympathy was strained within a breath
of balanced reason, drained of all compassion
by the scene arising from Steve Irwin’s death.
When networks went beyond the pale of
deference and showed the clichéd shots of
Steve and baby Bob and croc repeatedly as
counterpoint the afternoon he died I was
incensed. And there they were, already
feeding on a corpse with vile controversy.
But further yet, the eunuch bitch with no
veneer, I mean of course her holiness Ms
Germaine Greer, thundered into print to
plant her boot as firmly as she could into
a legend she maintains is self-delusion.
For Germaine its not unusual. The Doctor
has delusions too, believes with vagrant
honesty that she eclipses Steve in every
form of tragi-comedy.
Forgive Germaine diffusing post-menopausal
delusion, back in her menses and her prime
she was a tart of class. But if I died would it
ignite reporter anchovies? I call them nasty
names and damn their plight – could it claim
a right to cause a feeding frenzy vast? If not
may irukandji blight their clichéd arse…
© 5 September 2006, I.D. Carswell