Someone is Listening

Someone is Listening

A Poem by Brett Hernan

An extract from a body of writing 1991-1997.




the gurgle

he muttered how

he’d put a line through

your name and put

mine there

at the State Reference Library

asking all the right questions

read the fax

five miles below

jammed the CB channels

using S.S.S. (Super Sensory Sensors)

one day with the whole world

and four cops showed up

two weeks to the day of the report

out looking for a front door

with thumb poised

she picked up the phone

and drawled to him

to get there quick we can

get there any time turned up

the radio in the car cut

the cupped egg with

a butter knife.

It’s only fifteen

or twenty minutes


anchored to a mint


his hand to his face


the apple shadows


about the blue chair.

You never

say what you

mean any more

at lunch time

in the mall

it was

a dream

he had

every night

and forgot

each day.

Last night

we watched

a movie

financed by the drug cartels

which featured

the wives of the syndicate heads,

written and devised

over a series

of progressive restaurant

suppers. That is not natural light

it’s a studio lamp

her face is

glistening like that

because of the moisturiser

which can only be obtained

from snails at the extraction

rate of two milliliters

per tonne shot

on the most expensive

film stock

in history.

Break out

the pattern catalogues.


the green snail.

I can’t understand

where they’re getting

all the money from

when the story tellers of danger arrived

to spread confusion shouldn’t that be

an integral part of the story if

it’s going to deal with society?

By that time

every one was doing it

every time

the rain drops


the silence

on the tape loop


It was so loud

the anxious larva

listened to the radio

every time

I’m lying in bed

and the change comes

the wind grabs it.

I’ll see you



the road

I knew you’d get


some how.

Take me

with you?

The channel had a reputation for gun running and piracy.

To exit

the cocoon,

foot steps treading,

looks just like him,

it’s raining

piles of coins.

Made a circular


with his finger


to the frosty


There was

a man,

he was

an addict,

he made

a decision

one day, what is reality?

The black hand



every third word.

There was

a woman one

day she made

a decision,

it took

a long time,

it’s only

a memory

now, reality

equals life. Chorus cage,

bravely reaching

into the bin,

resolutely, never

asked it again.

Tools of the insurgency

part one,

your eye

has been made

a weapon

which has



against you.

© 2017 Brett Hernan

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Added on September 1, 2016
Last Updated on January 6, 2017
Tags: australian writers, australian, tasmanian, tasmanian writers


Brett Hernan
Brett Hernan

Hobart, Tasmania, Australia

Low-resolution sample only. Born 1968. All of the images accompanying each of these written works are my own. (Except that one of the guy putting a flower into a soldier's rifle barrel!) more..