The men of Darwin have all taken their rottweilers 
out for a walk at the same time. 
For our protection. Like Pine Gap: 
all those big white eyes that scan 
the darkening horizon. 
The eyes stay woke, so that we may sleep. 
Or so they say. 
They – who send signals to the heavy, buoyant ones 
loitering off the coastline. In the top end 
the marines stationed there are not.
They merely rotate through. 
A carousel of deterrence keeping the peace. 
So why not enjoy a Sri Lankan fish curry 
while the F35s scramble the air 
above Darwin CBD? 
Operation Pitch Black. 

Owl eyes consuming the dregs of light 
before a lethal leap. A shriek 
flies across the continent and fills 
the mouth of a civilian
on a different latitude. 
Bushmasters and Humvees skidding 
around the streets of Nightcliff
as the sun distils into a fine, light rosé   
and a marine rapes a backpacker. 
Any action taken will need the full knowledge 
and concurrence of the government. 
Now a tilt-rotor crash kills three marines. 
So the ospreys must be retired early. 
Outside the casino: piles of spent bungers, 
nasty hangover after Territory Day. 
Evidence of the gung-ho party poppers 
just blowing off some steam. 
Geezers need excitement. 

It has nothing to do 
with the missile factory planned in [words redacted]. 
Feel free to do an information request.
Zachary Rolfe is free to order a latte 
at the foreshore cafe. No questions asked.
Meanwhile the CLP is twirling the law 
in its right hand, dispersing the mob 
from the town camp 
and Bob Katter is crying about croc deaths. 
Let a thousand blossoming crocodiles 
cut short the Katter lineage. 
We live in an oligarchy, 
but with this humidity
it feels like a dictatorship.

Image: Wikimedia Commons