I found him hiding in the desert, in Camp 200X
Where you can tell how quickly everyone shot through
Food still in the cupboards, keys still in the trucks
Four years of eerie dust in every room

Some secrets never let you go Absent Without Leave
We were told, with him, to use whatever means
He said, I am Bluey Williams, they can stick their 20 shillings
I’m renouncing all allegiance to the Queen

Rule Britannia, Britannia rules the sand
Rule Britannia, down to every last man

He said, I knew a sailor who saw the first bomb
So hot it turned the beaches into glass
Fields of fish with eyes imploring were floating on the water
The crew that day had such an easy catch

Then they shipped me inland and I saw my first one too
A light just like the coming of the Lord
The Brits were over-dressed, of course, like spacemen for the show
And we were just in singlets and our shorts

Rule Britannia, Britannia rules the cloud
Fists in your eyes, men, and turn to face about

Now everyone in country knows of the black mist
That killed the trees and made the children sick
Bluey said we used to trade with fellas camped out in the craters
That sure as hell made all our counters tick

But the officers would tell you there’s nothing here of value
Just empty miles of nowhere else to go
And warn, you never saw those blacks, we’re trying to fight the Reds
For the Empire of the white man, Blue

Rule Britannia, Britannia rules the dirt
Rule Britannia, and everyone must serve

Bluey said he wasn’t coming back to base with me
Let my prison be to walk this poison land
So I said I never saw him, but I see him every night
Fallen teeth and weeping sores upon his skin

And I wonder about my daughter, still-born and whisked away
And son, who’ll never walk nor ever speak
You know, for all their testing, the doctors never let me
Know the single, simple answer that I seek

Rule Britannia, Britannia rules the world
Rule Britannia, down to every boy and girl
Rule Britannia, Britannia rules us all
Rule Britannia, we can’t ever let her fall.


Maralinga Blue (demo)

Accidental Bedfellows live recording.

FLANNELETTE PRINCESS

My head 
Fuzzy like a peach 
Body a narrowed nude 

At the window 
Tugging at tangled strings 
Of the knotted shades 

I must look to you 
Like a crash test dummy 
Unveiling the view 
Of our wall 
You, a framed Botticelli, 
Reclined in flowing flannelette 
And the wistful glare of a princess bared 
Down to her last cigarette 

My face 
Swept like a beach 
A canvas denuded 

And the window 
Color devoured by sea's 
Voracious wind 

I must look to you 
Like a crash test dummy 
Unveiling the view 
Of our wall 
You, a framed Morelli, 
Reclined in flowing flannelette 
And the wistful glare of a princess bared 
Down to her last cigarette 

My hands 
Scaled like a creature 
Taller once and revered 

At the window 
A posy of birds 
Offering song 

I must look to you 
Like a crash test dummy 
Unveiling the view 
Of our wall 
You, a framed Modigliani, 
Reclined in flowing flannelette 
And the wistful glare of a princess bared 
Down to her last cigarette

Flannelette Princess (live)

Accidental Bedfellows live recording:

GROWS ON TREES

There were these trees of poems 
That all the women knew 
And they took their sailors to them 
'neath a blue and dusty moon 

And remembering that magic 
Passed from a mother to her girl 
They deftly palmed their wedding bands 
And straightened out their curls 

They would say: 
Speak to me, sailor 
Here are the words - 
They're growing all over the trees - 
My heart is a cravin' someone who will shake 'em 
And shower us will all of its leaves 

Some sailors got lost in the jungle 
Their ears still ringing from the storm 
Of the smoke and the noise 
As the captain's fine boys 
Tossed them o'erboard 

They found these strange trees in the jungle 
Each leaf bore a regal visage 
And that is the day that money was born 
And they could tell this was gonna be large 

And they said: 
Speak to me Money 
Cut me a road and a rail 
Through the trees - 
My heart is laden with violence 
And cravin' a castle on the cliffs by the sea 

There were these trees of poems 
That all the women knew 
And they'd trek with their sailors into this place 
And kick off their dusty shoes 

But this time the sailors had got there first 
With their pouches of fiscal seeds 
And their saws and chains 
And efficient little trains 
And a new definition of weeds 

Now, I hear it said from the sea to the city 
If you want to bed a sailor 
You will not get it for free 
No - you've gotta shake his tree 

It'll shower you with money 
The meter will be running 
And of words he will have no need - 
Of words he has no more need 
Not from that ol' poet tree 
Not from that ol' poetry 

Grows on Trees (live)

It must have been strange when you were young
We've seen the pictures and we've read about it
For the sake of some sludge in the ground
All the bombs and the guns
And the clouds rained with blood
Were you scared, Grandma?

What was it like in those days?
We try and try to comprehend
For the sake of the color of someone's skin
The walls and the wire and the churches on fire
Were you there, Grandma?

Children of my children
I am the lucky one
To have found you in a better world
Than I have come from
But, children, keep asking questions
For there never was a day
When history wasn't trying to make
The same mistakes

We've read about The Great Decline
Where you saw forests fall and oceans rise
And angry old men in their towers high
Buy and burn, and burn and buy all a man could buy
Till he ran out of time

It must have been sad in his time
For the sake of a face pressed into coins
For the sake of some imaginary lines in the sea
There washed onto shores all those lost girls and boys
Not much younger than we

Children of my children
I never felt so strong
Than to know you ask this of me
Of a world we've not passed on
But, children, keep asking questions
For I never knew a day
When history wasn't trying to make
The same mistakes

A Letter from my Grandchildren

Take a seat, half a seat, Mrs. Married
Mr. Multiply, divide
This information in between you
Like a gift, a lost and found, burgeoning
Wallet full of spiders

Your child has the heart
The heart of a poet
But we have ways
Of correcting that now

Have a light, not that kind
Of a light – you can’t smoke
This kind of fire
The lizard clothes: you must dispose,
Leave collapsed, silver foil by the basin
An egg a day will slowly make the morning birds
All sing the same

Your child has the heart
The heart of a poet
But we have ways
Of correcting that now

You’re not alone, Mrs. Stone, Mr. Stone,
You’re only stones in deed and in thinking
And you’ll confuse the light ascending
For all of your sinking

So have a word, half a word
You’re half of him, he’s half of her
And form one collision
This is where the love is made
And it will feel
Like a surgeon's incision

Your child has the heart
The heart of a poet
But we have ways
Of correcting that now
Yes, we have ways
Of correcting that now


Your Child has the Heart of a Poet

that time I folded
you asked me why
I measured my lines
and the blue of the sky

that time I folded
my old poker face
into a paper-made seabird
flown out of the game

well, we both know time in creases
and broken little pieces
and most of all our words have come out wrong
there's a dance for the unspoken and
love-walking unwoken
and for everything else there is song

it’s in your back
and it’s in my hips
a thing we have folded
between the lines in our lips

it burns like a stone
Spread beneath a lizard’s grasp 
and it breaks like a bone
that I never knew I had

well, we both know time in folds and
things all filled with holes and
to get a little peace took far too long
there's a dance for the unspoken and
love-walking unwoken
and for everything else there is song


Written By Angie LaPaglia & Brendan Bonsack

For Everything Else There is Song

Confessions of a Time Traveller

The king has died, the king is dead
They’re minting special coins
They’re firing rifles in the air
Birds are scattering everywhere

The king has died, the king is dead
It’s all over the news
The writers right and the writers left
Are rifling through the things he said

What is a king, what is a king?
But dirt surrounded by a ring
Of men in suits, of men with guns
Some pointed out, some pointed in

Who built the roads, who built the rail
Not the king with the silky hands
Never knew the soil nor splinter
He flew abroad for every winter

Who fired the shots, who dug the holes?
Who drove the trucks and trains?
Who put their wages in the banks
To furnish him with bombs and tanks?

What is a king, what is a king?
But dirt surrounded by a ring
Of men in suits, of men with guns
Some pointed out, some pointed in

The king has died, the king is dead
There’s children waving flags
Look how well the children sing
How well the song fit for a king

Oh boy, oh girl, oh let this be
A footnote to his fugue
They may shoot you down for not digging
But the earth remains unmoved

What is a king, what is a king?
But dirt surrounded by a ring
Of men in suits, of men with guns
Some pointed out, some pointed in

What is a King? (demo)

Unsettling meditation music, for cello and piano

Hothouse

The LVB tune played on Pianobook piano, Sol's Piano (Steinway B, 1910).

https://www.pianobook.co.uk/library/sols-piano/

Fur Elise Variation - Sol's Piano 1910

Brendan is a Melbourne-based poet and songwriter. 

Brendan Bonsack

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