Luciana Croci
Cronulla
Is it rude to stare
when you’re on a beach?
Skimpy costumes and rippling, sun-tanned torsos,
fists clutching tinnies, manicured fingers
smoothing suntan lotion,
what’s there to stare at?
- Eyes can look, fuck off,
get off our beach,
- Hey, I come here in my spare time
to save you cunts from drowning,
Then a punch and a push and a fight
- Fuck off lebs, fuck off wogs,
we grew here, you flew here,
- We came in planes, yous came in chains
u convict dogs.
Graffiti war declared on city walls.
Car-convoys, burnouts,
bars-bats-knives-machetes,
firebombs, broken windows,
revenge and aussie pride.
Police in riot gear and alan jones
high on a pedestal
baiting bikie gangs to join the fray.
Melees in punchbowl parks,
kicks in the head,
fractured nose and eye-socket.
Not good days to be out
if you’re slightly black or tanned
or wear a headscarf
or tall and blonde
or you’re an aussie slut.
Arrests, trials, punishments,
even a kind of anzac day
marking ten years of the event:
a freedom-party halal-free
bbq on wanda beach.
