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Putin’s prison, in spite of his orders,
Still struggles to widen its borders;
Since arming the gaoled
Appears to have failed,
Perhaps he’ll try drafting the warders.🇺🇦
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How bravely they froth and they foam,
The Russian elite, when they roam;
See news from the desk of
Young Nikolai Peskov,
Who served while he partied at home.🇺🇦
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King Street Facade of the Forbes Hotel, Sydney

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The world is suddenly full of triple decker baby movers.
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A man in his 60s, neatly turned out, walks briskly past in Aldi. There’s no one with him but he says “Oh!” in loud surprise, and follows up with two more of the same.
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A young man’s lumbering run, shoulders dropping one way and rolling back the other, like a jerky metronome.
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A young guy pedals dreamily past Collaroy Beach with a piano accordion in his basket.
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A serious jogger burns past the wetlands on Pittwater Road, until his big, serious dogs run either side of a light pole.
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Strange Tower at Railway Square, Sydney

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Ukraine blah blah the West - let him bleat.
It’s the people he’ll never defeat;
They’ll adapt, they’ll invent,
Innovate and pre-empt,
Till the Russians go home in defeat.🇺🇦 #Ukraine
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The Russians’ attempts to be great
Find them paused in a troubling state;
No success in attack,
So their cleverer hack
Is to go dig a hole and just wait.🇺🇦
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Politicians grow weak with their heady
Illusions of peace, and unsteady;
Their glib panacea,
Give Russia Crimea …
Is Bucha forgotten already?🇺🇦
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A Wall of History

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To hell with the wavering cluster
Of leaders who quake at the bluster
Of one little scrote
Killing kids by remote,
Which is all the success he can muster.🇺🇦
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Four children in Uman are slaughtered.
Still counting. And Russia reported
A strike with precision.
I long for the vision
When Putin is hanged, drawn and quartered.🇺🇦
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It’s a cowardly kind of disease,
Letting tyrants behave as they please;
Escalation’s a fear
That we constantly hear,
But the word we observe is ‘appease’.🇺🇦
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Warm Light and Comfort Colours on York Street, Sydney

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In the far distance, a colossal pole leans over at the top, weighed down, it seems, by banks of mounted objects. I know the dreary truth of it, but choose to imagine the pole engaged in studying the ground, or that someone very tall has tripped there, knocking everything askew.
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Lyons Road, Drummoyne. A little dick in a big truck blows his horn.
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A blokey bloke crosses the road in shorts, t-shirt, bare feet, beard and baseball cap. And backpack. With faded pink crocs hanging from a strap.
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A man’s dress-shoe stands empty in the road, its pointy toe still aiming for the footpath.
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The Forbes Hotel, 1836
On the Corner of York and King Streets, Sydney

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In the gulag he’s ruled by oppression,
Putin sinks into fear and depression;
Isolated, alone,
On his paranoid throne,
With the courts of his rivals in session.🇺🇦
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The Dedicated Work of Sydney City Council Game Designers
Druitt Street, Sydney

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The jungle has conquered a tall brick building from within, and lush green leaves are rioting at the windows.