The Refuse of Modernity

we are the refuse of modernity

who leave you waiting at the door
while washing piles on the floor,
who bend to pick up ten cents
and know how to wait in a line

we are the refuse of modernity

whose houses rot around us
and kids run riot around you,
who know how to share a space
and the meaning of loyalty

we are the refuse of modernity

for whom art is another planet
and reading comes in weekly's,
who never have a dollar spare
but always have an open beer

we are the refuse of modernity

whose rent will be paid next week
after the tick is sorted,
who know how to play the angles
and tell the right lies.

We live in airless spaces
and the in-between places
you fear to tread.

We do not live in computers
but we are numbers just the same.

we are the refuse of modernity

whose food grows stale
in between old dishes
piled in the kitchen sink.

we don't know where the future is
because the past still clings,

inter-generational and cultural,
socio-economic and historic,
our grievances are many

we are the refuse of modernity

of no particular race or creed,
whose belief systems
centre around nothing
but the immediacy of survival.

We do not play golf or bowls,
drink chardonnay or bubbly,
our empties are ornamental collections,
we celebrate quantity, not quality.

we are the refuse of modernity

who've been left behind.

we don't have a face for books
or know a twit or blog.
we use cash, not plastic,
play guitars, not keyboards.

We are the people you label
to fit outside your world better.

we are the dispossessed,
disenfranchised, urban fringe,
who fill the burbs with old hulks.

we collect what you have thrown away,
buy food past use-by-dates.

We are the refuse of modernity

who cry from the gutter
but laugh from the gut.

We do not want your pity
and your empathy is misplaced.

We look after our own.