Poetry – Learning to Live

Two years ago I got married. I always hear the first year of marriage is supposed to be amazing. After all, it’s referred to as the “honeymoon” period. Unfortunately, our circumstances created a bit of chaos in our first year. I had to find a job outside of my career field as the schools I’d apply for all said they needed someone who had more experience under their belt. Once I even attended an interview that I later discovered they never intended to give to me, they wanted a woman to job share with a current employee.  Needless to say, it wasn’t an easy year for the newest Ravs. I ended out working in a steel factory to support our little family, two adults and one cat, for rent was so steep and the need for work so dire. The beginning of the poem speaks about my difficulties in that time and how I felt my agency and hope drain out of me. Then, lo and behold, my wife finished her uni degree and I was able to look for work outside of our city region. I got a job in Alice Springs teaching ESL at a wholly indigenous boarding school. At times I feel myself slipping back into the same disdain for life that I had during my factory years. This poem depicts my struggle against the odd circumstances that arise from educating an ancient civilisation. 

Guild Wars 2 - Sylvari Necromancer by Sefokusu

(art by sefokusu on deviantart, link below)


Learning to Live


I was avidly awed

At the axiom of my ascertain ascendance

But bewildered I became,

Baffled by the banal benevolence of my barren benefactor

Confine me, confiscate my confidant

Clarity couldn’t consolidate our concussed conjugal circuit

Damned if I didn’t,

I doggedly deadlocked into a debacle,

Debris of my delirious dreams daunted my desired defunct degeneracy

Eradicated I asked, “Enact my euthanasia.”

Enclaved within an evanescent economy, I espoused my effigies

Fanatically I faltered into fallible feudalism,

My figment lost it’s fickle

Gaiety galloped into my galaxy, gallantly garbling my ghastly grievances

Grappling with gumption,

I grew in  glut,

Glorious glimmers of gladdening

Hustled into an inhospitable honorarium hoarse of hydraulics

Humanized hordes humbugged into my heart. Headline:

 “Indigenous indoctrinator of innovated incarceration.”

Imagine my ineffable instantaneously incited irritancy

Such impassioned idioms

Jaded journalism jests as judge and jury

Jugular jeering justified by the jurisdiction of the social justice

Keep this kleptomaniac killer close

Communal knavery may kindle comradeship,

but the kinetic knelling continually knocks

Lease me the lunacy, lacerate our lives to “liberate” the Leviathan

I lament the landlord that legislates a legion of lucrative logistics

Many manifested mandates now maliciously malign malfeasance

Under the muse of matriarchal marxism, a mausoleum has been made

“You shall never negate this necropolis.”

Never again shall I nurture the novel




This narrative is nuanced

Original sin objects to objective oppression

Optimism opaques the onslaught. The onus is on me




Art gallery link: https://www.deviantart.com/sefokusu

Poetry – A Beautiful Mind

In my opinion, free speech is the most important human right. Why? Well, throughout history, or at least since it became a constitutional right in the western world, free speech has been the most powerful weapon that minorities have had at their disposal. It was a vital element that brought about the end of the slave trade and, later, Martin Luther King’s fight for African American rights. When laws are unjust free speech can be used to proclaim one’s distress and desire to see improvements. Hand in hand with free speech is the freedom to listen to ideas. For without the freedom to listen to ideas those who speak freely will not have an audience to help influence.

This poem is about an agonising situation I find myself in at times. As a teacher of students from an ancient culture, I see many beautiful minds that are ready to be sculpted. I see one for each of my students! At times I also see how their personal situations can hinder their true potential to extract the benefits of education. I would consider these to be ‘issues’ that society needs to resolve. Unfortunately, due to the delicate and political nature of these issues, they are deemed inappropriate for public discussion, not just by me but by anyone, politicians included. As criticisms of historically oppressed cultures are ostracised I feel that censorship is hindering my students from having equality of opportunity in life. Still, I soldier on and give them the best possible learning experience I can muster. 


Image result for thought police


The Name of the Game: Censorship  / A Beautiful Mind

Beautiful! What a mind!


I am obligated to remind

Wasted progress and deflated purpose CENSORED

“Is this neurotic self-sabotage?”

My cognisance shuffles and discards

There is no warrior within

These robes cover my distinct differences

An abashed abbot of the fashionable stagnant future

“What does the truth even mean to her?”

This is her destined torrent, it is not so abhorrent


I dutifully conceal sectors of my sordid sophistry

Lower your eyes and mobilise

These streets speak of noxious negligence total tolerance CENSORED

Harakiri, the thought police, honour above reason,

Now here, forever within the bars of this prison

In the cell next to mine, the magsman moans

Eyes to the side,

execrated homes

“You are free to go…” The reformist feigns

Eyes wide,

the magsman’s greed glints,

Virtue glares egregiously,

averting any informed prints

But, the disillusioned didn’t disjoint the damaged door

Instead, he squeezed between the bars

“Isn’t this so much better? Look at how free we are!”

Shame constricts thought,

Angered at grievances, progress goes untaught


I long to give you the gift of opportunity

But this operetta of obloquy and obsequies has inflicted obstinacy CENSORED

“Tell the truth.”

It is impossible for me to stand for you for I cannot even stand for myself


“Preconceived opinion that is not based on reason or actual experience.”

Poetry – The Loss of Innocence

I wrote this when I was 14. I was a pretty down little dude at times but I guess that comes with the desire to be creative and the capacity to spend time absorbed in words and one’s own mind. One final point, I have also noticed that this poem has even more relevance to me now than it did back then, despite it being a narrative poem at the time.

Poetry is amazing.

Image result for david ho art shedding
(art owned by David Ho)


The loss of innocence; the shedding of once beautiful skin

What’s left is tender, what’s left is thin

Individuality has died; flesh has been torn from bone

The darkness inside, has been embraced and called home

The vast


of mists


And beneath, the abyss is revealed; horror and truth

I now see the destruction that entrails our youth


Free spirit is on trial, our worthiness has been maimed

“This is the world you say you know?”

Indeed, it is the same but no longer glows,

“It’s now twisted, turned and twirled, of all colour drained”


The fiery sunset melted; bled of its red

Where the lipstick fled, under the river bed

The endless lake leaked; resolved to dissolve,

The mystery of youthfulness sought

“It’s a bed for the almost dead,” the saleswoman said

The bait, the line, the sinker

We paid in full


A nearby hillside festered a mascaraed of façade

Where the harpy of society cries out its demise

It nestled in its nest with its birthed on breast

A testament to all, of how even the best can fall

By her side, I, a toothless brute, an untamable fighter,

I am the new and bruised Pied Piper

Slung across my back, a lute, more deceptive than a magic flute

With it I led the innocent to engulf lies of lead,

I did strum a new tune, to find home in a bottomless lagoon,

We all fell into the damned bed where the saleswoman had said


“Truth be told, it would be better to be dead”


Her glass mask shatters, unveiled are her sinful larks

She is first sister of illusion, uncongealed

She has my lust for trust but our bond is now bust


Tip and tip, I sip the bourbon bottles lip

Sip and sip, I am Broken Sanity, the bottled ship

My heart clips the edge of this bottomless pit

I start to spin

Down to hell where my dear tainted saint fell

Whored to the horde of hoarded billboards

There she advertises the harpy slave master

From whom she learned the lessons of disaster,

a mirror found behind stripped plaster

The torn seam of beauty,

only seemed

to have been dreamed


The last of innocence is past

Now the mask is shattered and our tattered ties lie shed

In black and white I see her clearly in my head

Now a tainted saint harpy

She is no kin of mine

No, she is no kin of mine.

Poetry – Tom’s Shitty Head

Because words are for fun. This was a two-minute poem. Do not judge me.

Image result for guilty bird poop

Perching. Breathe.

Three people below,

Two attractive, one has a beard.

It is glorious.

Perching. Breathe.

Cool air. Flutter feathers.


Sudden realisation.

A feeling of over containment.


Complete capitulation.

Descending glory.


The target didn’t hit

Either of the pretty ones would have been fine

But alas the shit

Did fall upon the thing with the impressive hairy jawline.

Poetry – Take My Hand


It doesn’t work, he was erroneous

Is it such an inequivalent assertation?

In this disastrous dogmatic landscape

To claim

We have permitted the ragged prophet to rape

To postulate

and perpetrate

his perverse peace

The lion of this concrete kingdom

Has cleared his throat too many times

Hoarse are the sentiments that remain

Fickle, the ears of infants became

The Zion of our wooden heart

Has swiped our tenacious portcullis shut

But still, the insolent cubs cry into the blackest night

Do you not see?

Egregious dominance has spat out the dispossessed blood of thee

Upon the streets once owned by agents of destiny

Who could have suspected that enacted, virtuous ideals, had such brevity?

He reaped the crops his storms created

                                 and he called them good

The minstrel’s enterprise is flourishing

And the prophet fulfilled his calling

                                  as he knew he would

I consult my callous compulsion

The commission

of the anti-cross concedes our reality into an abstract expression

How can we circumvent the inevitable conflagration?

Let me divulge,

I am an individual,

not a representative of all

                    “Your speech assails my soul”

Would you like to trade

this pain for a massif of tirade?

Surely, we should vie to become ravenous pundits

These candid constitutions are not as abstruse as (is in) your perception

This is not a benevolent truth, unintended to belie conception

We lived on this rock, but are still slipping into the sands

Prolific in the past,

currently estranged,

this will be abhorred into nonattendance

You have been deceived into consternation

Afraid of a faith-filled nation

You had a void occupied with deleterious degradation

Now you feel entitled to some victim fuelled obligation

“You are worth more than this!”

The seed falls upon dormant fields

For the weeds are ready to excavate the expedient eulogy

The escalation of






“You are worth nothing like this!”

My epiphany convoluted into mortified yielding

Tolerate my guile, I am intrepid albeit vacillating

“Come back to the cross!” The pious people proclaim

“The legs abate me” Our arms exclaim

“You have beaten and bruised us”

The legs are pained

Do we not see the path the arm laid before us?

Do we not see how long the leg has carried us?

How can we progress when our body is so maimed?

Our trajectory has been halted
Our path forward eludes our sight

These legs have proven to be servile. Yet we call them tenuous

Bewilderment fills me,

“Our body has been broken!”

Such swaying has left me dizzy

My mind is no longer attuned to the turning of time

Within my heart, my home, my country, my world

I am trapped within a desert wasteland, baron of thought

“Take my body.” A stranger says. “I will show you the way.”


A New Blog


I’m Nathan. This is me.


A picture from a few years ago. (left:nathan, right:suzanne)

This is my blog. I’ll write here when I should be writing somewhere else.  Expect expert procrastination, poor taste reviews, amateur poetry,  politically incorrect commentary, bad humour and long-winded rants.


I probably have opinions that you don’t like. It is likely that I hate your ideas too. However, with that in mind, here is a quote I live by.

I disapprove of what you say, but I will defend to the death your right to say it.

Evelyn Beatrice Hall, 1906


Thanks for checking it out.