That old bugger on SBS who comments on football games appears to get grants from the Feds to write poetry.
So I'm giving it a go to supplement my meagre pension from the Gough Whitlam Fund for the Terminally Bewildered.

Here's what I have so far:

I. The Muriel of the Deaf

September is the cruelest month, bleeding
Kangaroo paws out of the red dirt. Mick sings:
"Mammaries are my desire", stirring
As usual. Tit man. How vain?
Minties kept us calm, covering
Tongues, forgotten now, weeding
A little garden with wet glyphosate.
Summer fields surprised me, coming over the Serpentine
With a shower of rain; we stopped inside the op shop,
And went on in fake fur, into the asphalt,
And drank black tea, and walked for an hour.
Ich habe meinen Russisch Regenschirm vergessen.
And when we were like kids, staying at your dead father's,
His wife's crap was all around us, including a sledge,
And I shat my pants. You said, Sledge,
Sledge, hold on tight. And down you went.
In the sandhills, there you get lots of sand.
I read, all of the night, can't sleep.

Where is there a decent root? What bra left by my bed
Out of this stoned brain? Daughter of woman,
You cannot say, just fess up, for you show only
A facebook of pix, where the goat bleats,
And the cricket is always on the telly. No relief.
And the dry-stone walls of Lancashire await us still. Only
The Shadows still twang away,
(Come in Hank, you rock),
And I will play you something different from hip hop
Doosh, doosh, doosh, doosh, doosh, doosh, doosh
Or the Shadows in the evening, rising in chorus;
I will play you a glandful of Wagnerian moosh.
Wehe, wehe, du Wind! –
Weh, ach wehe, mein Kind! –
Irische Maid,
du wilde, minnige-up Maid!
‘You gave me jonquils first a week ago;
‘They called me the jonquil girl’.
— Yet when we came back, late, from the pub garden,
Your arse full, and your tits round, I could not
Think, and my member failed, I was neither
Up nor down, and I didn’t know you,
Looking into the kidneys of the dark, the noise.
Er setzt die Schalmei an den Mund...

Madame Sotira, famous cruciverbalist
Had a wog, but, hey shit,
Is known to be seriously wicked in Minjup
With 17 down and 28 across. Here, said she,
Is your puzzle, the drowsy Phonetic alphabet.
(Those Pearl Drops cleaned his teeth. Look!)
Here is Maradona, the Lord of the Hand,
The lord of handy situations.
Here is the boot with three stripes, and here the Wheel,
And here is the one-armed bandit, and this card,
Which is black, is something he votes for,
Which I am over-bid in every contract. I do not find
The Shaggèd Pussy. Fear breath in your toothbrush.
I see clouds of pebbles, and think about The Ring,
Thank you. If you see dear Mr Biddlecome,
Tell him I bring the lobotomy instruments myself:
Sic.

Unreal village
Under the brown fox jumped over the lazy fawn,
A cloud blown up by London Transport, so Manny,
Fucked up my career. I do not care.
USW....