The Last Free Generation

we were the last ones to run feral,
to play in the cracks between order and chaos.
our parents didn’t track us with apps;
they tracked us with instinct,
maybe a glance at the clock,
and a half-hearted yell from the front door.
“be home by dark!”
dark was the only deadline,
and even that was flexible.

we lit the world on fire,
literally sometimes.
Cracker Night wasn’t just a holiday—
it was war.
redback spiders in tarps, hidden in the frames of new homes,
waiting to drop on your mate’s head,
firing ball shooters at the weird kid down the street—
the one who cried for his mum when you got him good.
copper bombs in letterboxes,
bags of dog shit flaming on doorsteps,
and gunpowder bought straight from the newsagency.
they sold us explosives at twelve years old
and didn’t bat an eye.
imagine that now.

our education was hands-on.
slingshot fights,
dart wars,
rock fights where the only rule was:
“don’t aim for the face”
(not that anyone listened).
we survived.
hell, we thrived.
we learned by doing,
by failing,
by bleeding a little.

we dodged cars,
dogs,
and pedos.
not the ones you have hiding behind computer screens —
we had them in full HD,
stalking the streets.
and then there was Bogpay,
the guy who’d hand you a fiver if you’d pinch one off in the bush.
and we knew about the priests and the brothers too,
the ones whose hands lingered too long.
we didn’t need awareness campaigns;
we knew how to run.

the girls back then?
they coated themselves with baby oil to tan,
turning their skin into sizzling sheets of bronze.
they squeezed lemon into their hair,
desperate for a streak of blonde
that looked like the sun kissed it.
they didn’t wear the skimpy outfits
you see on TikTok today,
but damn, they were sexy as hell for us.
the way they laughed,
the way they flipped their hair,
it didn’t take much
to set our teenage hearts on fire.

we walked into Army disposal stores
and bought knives like they were candy.
“what do you need this for, kid?”
“Tarzan’s got one, so I need one too.”
no questions asked.
we carried them down the street,
just in case we found a vine
or had to fight a crocodile.
it made sense to us.
we were invincible.

our bikes were freedom.
no helmets, no GPS,
just us and the road.
we rode to the milk bar for 1-cent lollies,
a hundred for a dollar.
the shopkeeper would curse under his breath
as he counted them out,
but we didn’t care.
we rode through schools,
parks,
and sometimes right through danger,
laughing all the way.

we built skateboard ramps
from stolen wood,
played God with insects—
spiders versus cockroaches,
lizards versus ants.
who the hell needs video games?
we had battles right there on the pavement.

and then there was the BOP,
Sutherland’s disco for underage teens.
we’d show up jacked on cheap whiskey,
looking to kiss as many girls as we could.
if you got lucky,
you’d take them ‘up the back’
and maybe, just maybe,
get into her pants.
at that age, love was an afterthought.
we wanted thrills,
and the cemetery was our refuge,
hiding from the cops who’d  our grog.
when it was all over,
you’d try to act sober,
getting dropped off by a mate’s mum
or walking home under the stars,
drunk on everything life had to offer.

and oh, the smoking.
smoking on trains,
smoking on planes,
smoking in pubs,
restaurants,
hell, anywhere you wanted.
the air was thick with it—
a haze of rebellion.
we didn’t know it’d kill us;
we didn’t care.

we had shows like Hey Hey It’s Saturday
and Agro,
that foul-mouthed puppet who’d never survive now.
TV was chaotic,
ridiculous,
perfect.
and the music? oh the music!
we made mixtapes off the radio,
praying the DJ wouldn’t ruin the song
with his cheesy sign-off.
we were our own DJs,
our own filmmakers,
our own storytellers.

kids today?
they’ll never know.
their worlds are filtered,
wrapped in cotton wool,
safe but suffocating.
they’ve got screens for everything,
but no scars.
no stories.
no memories of falling,
failing,
or figuring it out.

they’ll never know the thrill
of VB throwdowns under a train bridge,
or the smell of burning hair
when you got too close to a backyard bonfire.
they’ll never sneak into drive-in,
hidden in car boots,
or feel the adrenaline of riding between train carriages.
they’ll never have to dodge a fist,
or a dart,
or a brother’s tennis ball
aimed squarely at their back.

we were wild because no one stopped us.
we were free because the world wasn’t afraid.
now, the world is afraid of everything,
and it’s the kids who will pay.
wrapped in safety nets,
shielded from the bruises
that teach you how to live.

I miss it.
I miss the chaos,
the danger,
the stupidity.
I miss the days
when we were gods of our own little worlds,
riding bikes through the veins of suburbia,
lighting up the night with fireworks and rebellion.
I miss the freedom,
and I mourn its passing.
because now, as the streetlights flicker on,
I know we’ll never get it back.
the kids will never get it.
and all we’re left with
are the scars
and the stories.
but damn, what stories we have