Poem for the Men on Manus Island (original)

I want my anger to be true
And my reading manifest in solid predictions:
Our corrupt, inhumane leaders will topple.
But my leaders are killing innocent men on Manus.

Our leaders inform our anger,
And lead us by the hand, they whisper at the gravel:
“Let me have one of your hot chips,
Let me turn the gray nurses body upside-down.”

Distracted, I think the four hundred and four men
Are different from me; I waste whole days
Writing poetry, I walk Northbridge streets
Listening to cafe owners complain of an eery

Quietude that has entered the hollow
London Plain tree, where a pink and gray galah
Nests outside the Vietnamese restaurant
And the mens’ sentence is cauterised, altered:

Very superstitious, writings on the wall.