the black stump rides the gravy train

let me talk ------------ i’m not white, but i’ve got things to say

my people are the BARDI JAWI
protecting the land ocean islands and sky blung goolarri
where read earth meets blue sea

my spirit descends from my ancestor
the great leader of my people ------------ NYAMWA


i was given the name NYALKARDI
the ancient warrior whose title is kept for those who are worthy
and that is what i am:



ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ:: BLAK :: worthy :: a warrior ::


what does this mean to you?
what does the cultural identity of a BLAKFULLA matter to the people of a different race,
who can’t seem to place right from wrong, or dance to the song of this country’s sovereign face?


let me share with you a few thoughts from others who are strangers too


^paul said i’m not ABORIGINAL or INDIGENOUS
i’m of ^{mixed race}
disowning my full heritage to claim just one


^craig thinks there’s more benefit in being 10% INDIGENOUS
than 90% english/scottish/irish

while ^kelly said i'm colonial ㅤd

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤe

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤs


ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤc


ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ e


ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤn



ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤt


ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤNAH!! I AM BARDI JAWI!!


i will claim my BLAKNESS and all its superiority before i ever claim the white pride
of INDIGENOUS genocide you race to push into my face and down my throat


^sylvia found it funny -------- i'm supposed to be well known but she’s never heard of me


another ‘you owe us’ black loser getting handouts from the government is all i am

my favourite was ^stan
clearly, a true fan who thinks I'm another bullshit artist jumping on the gravy train


ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ!!!NO MORE ABO THAN THE BLACK STUMP!!!!


maybe i am another bullshit artist?
writing words and speaking truth against dawgs like you, who remove the hope of
some kind of equal world

with every crock of shit you spit, you dig that hole you’re in



ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤdeeper









ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤand deeper

to the point you won’t be seen or heard

like the BLAK people you hate ------------ like me
he wanted to know
how i can relay INDIGENOUS true stories
when i'm not a ^{full blooded} one myself

he said, “my view is the gravy train is his aim”

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤi couldn’t help it





i pausedㅤㅤㅤ





















ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤand i wondered






















hey ^stan, are you a poet too? cos that pathetic attempt to describe me rhymed,
and it makes me think you should ride this gravy train too

and to answer your question, random white man named ^stan
i can tell true INDIGENOUS stories cos i share of my experiences with racists like you
and question the reality we’re somehow in…but what’s your story?

apparently, this country belongs to

• old white men and their wives

• men who drink beers out the back

• women who call the cops for the blak people walking down a path

a path that could’ve led to opportunity (or even their home?)
but instead, they found themselves locked up, gagging for air, cuffed to a cold metal chair

where does someone like me go?
why should my direction be different to my cousins because we’re not the same colour?

call my grandmother and she’ll tell you who i am!
oh wait, you can’t! why? she died in her prime ------------ a whole fifteen years before
her white equivalents’ time
why? cos she was a BLAK victim of the system that robs mobs of health
[and] education [and] a full life [and] a belief that:

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ:: they :: we :: are equal ::

endless differences set white and BLAK apart, but the colour of our skin is the last

we don’t wish to rule the world like you.
nah, we only want to live in it, not die by the hands of a colonial crown and its poisonous children

the truth is, truth hurts, truth is vital
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤbut i’m tired

*******************************************************************************************

i’m tired of my cousins and uncles and aunties dying young
one---by---one /// year---after---year

i’m tired of not being able to say goodbye with a toss of red dirt,
cos my career won’t allow me to be there

i’m tired of marching for the same thing every invasion day and nothing changing
cos you think your system to be stronger than my people (lol)

i’m tired of reading the news and not seeing reports of

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤthe BLAKFULLA who died in custody

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤthe mothers crying for their babies to come home

the child who was murdered in the street, walking home from school
the pool of blood never being enough to make people see not one BLAK person is free
just scrub the concrete, wash it away!

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤthey did it then || they do it today

australia, hey?

the invented country that erased the shape of our home,
forgetting the thousands of feet that have danced through its soil

*******************************************************************************************

our rivers are borders of a different kind, and they don’t flood like they used to
but i guess that makes them easier to cross

the sky waits for clouds but only ever meets smoke from burning forests of
foreign trees it doesn’t know

birds still fly home each evening
their eyes like mine ------------ filled with reflections of death they’ve seen

you could kill itㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤi can’t erase it

i dreamed of this place, of a day when it was raining heavily, and i was lying in bed
watching my countryㅤㅤㅤ not this one ㅤㅤㅤnot yours ㅤㅤ but mine

i saw my saltwater river for the very first time
my tracks were leading /// i was getting closer, then it curved
out of sight
but i had my people and an entire journey living behind me

this ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤis the land we never left

i stood on country, beside my elder tree, the old man

whose limbs are knotted and tell of centuries of life
whose deep roots drink from the memory of the earth itself
whose stories bleed through the cracks and ruptures of his weather-beaten skin
whose sap heals the voice of the wind
whose leaves sang you and me into a ceremony

one where all of us bare skinned children were brought to him as
wild, untamed, and unformed humans. he shaped us into rebels of honour, raining his flowers
and dust upon us, reminders of the grace which gives us life

our hearts, wounded by marbarn’s power, became unbound
we learned to weep like first time mothers for the joy and pain that is life

that was a dream, and it shames me to say your men remain boys

*******************************************************************************************

your entitlement [and] greed [and] swollen bodies grow
steal from this earth [and] assault my country [and] rape my aunties
hang my brothers [and] steal my nieces
let me remind you

you say my blood is only 10%
you say i hold the colony’s ㅤd

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤe

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤs


ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤc


ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ e


ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤn



ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤt


i fill myself up on shit, and my highest aim is the gravy train

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ!!!NO MORE ABO THAN THE BLACK STUMP!!!

so tell me, what do you expect?
i will not be kind to the cruel, for one, or bite my tongue to avoid the hard hit of
a BLAKFULLA’S truth

yes, we’re tired of walking beside you, fighting our way through the thousands walking against us

but we’ll continue to walk cos we’re not the savages you say we are

there’s no shame

in our existence ------------ in the way we are ------------ in the homes we build

the shame can only be found when you deny us a life of sovereignty

*******************************************************************************************

how do i finish this poem? what does the end look like?

not too different to our journey in this country, i'd say
with a hope for leaving after having learned, having understood the shape of kindness
and the sound of something bigger than what we can see

having heard those voices every day:

ㅤㅤㅤ:: let us talk ------------ we’re not white, but we’ve got things to say ::