Howl for Australian Political Culture

29th June 2016

“I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked, dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix”

The plaintive opening cry of American poet Allen Ginsberg’s long poem “Howl’ comes strangely to mind as I reflect on the suffocating conformity of modern Australian politics. Ginsberg’s poem reflects the anguish of a bebop jazz inspired hipster sub-culture, the so called best minds of his generation, suffering in what the poet believed to be an oppressively conformist and materialistic era in post-war USA.

Excuse my anguish, but the political generation parading their credentials in this national election are destroying my mind.

I lament the waste of a generation of economic opportunity dragged down by political aspirants too mired in the fog of their own narcissism to understand the time for action is now, Who are too timid to lead, Who are too scared to risk offence. I lament a culture of victimhood elevated over self-reliance and resilience, Who retreat to protectionism and the nanny state. Moloch!

Main chancers looking for any angle to tap the ever increasing tax fuelled largesse. Who elevate identity over individuality. Who engage in oppressive group think. Who denigrate those that dare to desire a better standard of living for their families. Moloch!

Left wing millionaire seizes power of conservative political machine. Ministry of Truth issues poems of love and adoration. Union corruption triggers election but barely mentioned, let alone debated. Moloch!

Former right wing union leader doing his best impersonation of Britain’s Michael Foot. Centrepiece of oppositional medicare fantasy emblazoned on a bus driving aimlessly through Western Sydney streets at dawn in search of an angry vote. Moloch!

Antony Green struggling to make sense of it all.

As for me this Saturday (with humble apologies to the late Allen Ginsberg), I will be “… dreaming with the angel headed North Fitzroy hipster traders burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night, who in my small business poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high (on another Carlton victory over Collingwood) sit up drinking Peroni beer in the supernatural darkness of my overcrowded overpriced inner-city apartment, floating across the top of Melbourne, contemplating jazz.”

I can recommend Keyon Harrold and Marcus Strickand. I’ll see you all in Rockland!