Thursday, September 29, 2011

Pobjie Poetry Month Day 30 - FINAL POEM - Title Courtesy Of @johncarneyau

Is It Too Late?

The sight of your back receding to the horizon
I never saw the opportunity go begging
I was somewhere
Thinking your face would be there still
Because there's just no way you could go
Before I had the chance to say
Before I had the chance to do
Before I had the chance to give you
There was no way you could go

Now my hand hangs
Like a frayed rope dangling from the cliff, wondering how it broke
And if lying on the rocks below
Flapping in the wind
Another is wishing to return
And wrap itself around its Other

That hand will keep hanging till it falls
And is scattered to the winds
And forgets why it was there
Till the white-hot blaze of your slow-swaying shoulders
The sad exhaustion of your diasporic heart
Is not even a memory
Just a lingering heat-haze at the back of my eyes
Not worth noticing

For now I'll watch your back
Blurring far away
And pray you won't turn around to speak again
This silence is my friend
And grinding uncertainty my comfort
And I'll only hold together
As long as I don't know

And the question I need to ask
Can fade
In a year
In a decade
In a lifetime
And I won't need to ask it
And it will die with its own answer buried alongside
And I won't care
Maybe in a year

I won't care
I won't

Please Do Not Read This If You Are Not A Blog Forward Reader

A community service announcement from Ben Pobjie, recent graduate of the GASP College of Public Relations-itude and Customer Service Trainingness.

I understand there have been certain complaints from readers of this blog whom have found the bloggingness of the blog to be not to their tasting. Having now had the privilege of learning the factibility of the situations which led to the circumstances of these complainants, I am now in a position to respond.

Firstly, this blog is especially designed to appeal to a very blog forward consumer. Always at the forefront of my mind when writing this blog is the need to not appeal to those whom are not in the position of being in front of themselves when it comes to consuming blogs and other things. This blog is read by A List celebrities such as Patti Newton, Tom Oliver and Mike Whitney to name only a few, and these are not the sort of personages who would read a "run of the mill" blog. In fact, when people read this blog and say they are "frightened" or "confused" or "nauseated", I give myself a big pat on the back as it means I am succeeding in my targets of making a blog full of attractivenessitude to people whom are the kind of people whom I wish to be attractive to. I know I am doing my job right and my modus operandi is being affirmed in a typically solidistic fashion.

Insofar as the aforesaid blog posts in a manner of specificity, blog posts are selected with the same approach in mind - I am a qualified blogger who has a sixth sense for words, and my only problem is that I am too good at what I do, and being a person whom am talented I cannot tolerate having my time wasted, which is the reason you may be provoked to refer to me as a "dickhead". This is your prerogatorivity.

Inasmuch as you say you are also capable of literacy, this does not mean we are of a sameness. Much of what I am writing here probably does not make sense to you or you are not in agreeance with the generalised thrustings of what I am conveying to your brain right now. You would probably never write a blog post like this, would you? This is because you are a person whom does not understand elite bloggery like I do and so it is of an inappropriate nature that you would say "we both know how to write" as it is almost as if we are in different industries: you in an industry whom is for stupidities and me in a forward-thinking industry for blog superstars.

So if you would like do me any favours or kindnessings, please do not waste my time because as you have seen I am not someone whom tolerates it from people whom are you. I am sure there are plenty of blogs that appease your taste which is stupid, so I retrospectfully request that you side-step this blog during future eyeball-directioning computer operativity engagements.

Thank you for your inquisitions

Ben Pobjie, Blog Manager

Below: a picture of a person appreciating the sensual and evocative lifestyle that an exceedingly directional blog like this one can bring about.

Wednesday, September 28, 2011

Pobjie Poetry Month Day 29 Title Courtesy Of @sexenheimer


Who is me?
Is me the man who stalks proudly through the crowds winking at the tank tops
Ducking the Squirrel Nutkin hairdo to everyone he meets?
Is me the man who goes to sleep at night dreaming of fuzz-bass donuts
And electronic nachos?
Is me the man who hovers above that man
Astral travelling in his spare time
While his physical body jerks and spasms on the slab
In a lab
Owned by a mad crypto-menshevik futurist?

Is me any of these men?
Or is me none?
Is me the dream of a better tomorrow?
Or is me the nightmare that creeps upon you while waiting for your Boost Juice?

What is me?
If I knew the answer to that question I could rule the world
Yet I would not
For I respect democracy
Does me respect democracy?
Or is me a fascist?
An anarchist?
A feudal neo-primogeniturist?
Why is me so coy about his motivations?

If me were a fireman
He'd put out your fire
If me were a baker
He'd make you a Boston bun
If me were a race-car driver
He'd pass you on the inside
Yet what does me really have to offer?

I don't know
I don't know
Three little words
Say them with me
"I don't know"
Whisper them as if murmuring in the ear of your lover
Sob them as if crying in a gutter
Bellow them!
As if shouting
In the ear of your lover
Deafening her

Is me deaf?
Deaf to injustice perhaps
Is me blind?
Blind to hatred, yes
Is me dumb?
Dumb as a bear with foetal alcohol syndrome, maybe
Is me one of those guys with no sense of smell?
One of those guys with no sense of smell for prejudice I would wager
I guess there's no doubt
Me is a jerk
And you should punch him in the thighs

So who is me?
A Cossack dancer?
An Israeli hitman?
A deformed Welshman?
A buxom Utah madam?
Pop sensation Tiffany?
All this and more?
None of this and less?
More than this and partially?
And undecided

Who is me?
I don't know
You tell me
Who is me?

Pobjie Poetry Month Day 28 Title Courtesy of @Jo_MacD

Bunnies. It Must Be Bunnies

I do not want to write about bunnies
I'd rather write about bacon sandwiches
Bacon sandwiches that gain sentience through a freak electrical storm
And rise up against their human oppressors and take over the world
But see their new bacon-based civilisation brought low by their own hubris
I'd like to write about that
But no, it must be bunnies

Even though I'd really rather write about tigers
Enormous tigers with enormous teeth
That stalk the jungle and pounce on unwary travellers
But long for something more than this savage existence
Tigers that secretly yearn for a career in musical theatre
But whose dreams are dashed because they can't dance on their hind legs
Or hit a high F
I'd like to write about tigers
But no, it must be bunnies

If I had my way it wouldn't be bunnies, it'd be pirates
Rollicking, roguish pirates
With a glint in their eyes and cutlass at the ready
You may plead for mercy from these pirates
But it will be no good
They will strike you down without remorse
Because these pirates aren't in it for the money
They just like hitting people with swords
I'd like to write many words about the joys of hitting people with swords
But dammit, it must be bunnies

I don't even care about bunnies - I care about spaceships
Big shiny spaceships full of adventurous spacemen
Who meet bizarre aliens, seduce their women, and then fly off with a jaunty wave
And a mocking laugh
At the stupid aliens who trusted them so stupidly
The spacemen I'd write about would be real dicks
But their ships would be gorgeous
And I'd love writing about how shiny and futuristicky they are
But I can't because it must be bunnies

So I'll write about bunnies

What the fuck is up with that?
Am I right?

The End

Monday, September 26, 2011

Pobjie Poetry Month Day 27 Title Courtesy Of Emilie Collyer

Brownlows and Bosoms

Brownlows are better than bosoms are better than brooches are better than bison are better than baccalaureates are better than bills are better than bullhorns are better than buns are better than beetles are better than bugs are better than bacteria are better than bastions.

But if Brownlows are better than bosoms are better than bangles why do bosoms seem better than banter is better than broccoli is better than biotechnology is better than Bavaria?

I'd rather have a Brownlow than a bosom but I'd rather have a bosom than botulism. But botulism is as botulism does and I'd rather have botulism than not have a Brownlow. But I don't have a Brownlow, a bosom or botulism, so what's a boy to do?

If bosoms are better than Brownlows are better than bracelets are better than bloodstains are better than buffalo wings are better than Bose stereos are better than books are better than Bulgarians are better than Brussels sprouts are better than blackbirds are better than blueberries are better than beef cheeks are better than bongs are better than bongos are better than banjos are better than Brazilians are better than butchers are better than bakers are better than bankers are better than builders are better than baffled reactions to bewildering badinage...where are the bosoms that are better?

A Brownlow in bronze may be better than the brassy bosoms that bountiful benefactors bestow upon the benighted bastards below, but if beauty is in the bosom of the beholder, who's beholding the Brownlows?

And if beauty is better than benevolence is better than baseball is better than basketball is better than Beethoven is better than Bach is better than Bradman is better than Brando is better than Bristow is better than Branwell Bronte is better than British India is better than Brother Andrew is better than Brendan Behan is better than Billy Bunter...

I'll take bosoms any day.

Pobjie Poetry Month Day 26 Title Courtesy Of @alliewonder


What is a sister?
Is it simply a woman with whom you share some DNA?
Is it just a girl you grow up with?
Is it a small amphibian dwelling in temperate zones throughout Europe and Asia?
It is all of these things and more, but not the last one

A sister is possibly the most precious thing you can have in life
Especially a sister made from diamonds and uranium
Just think about that for a moment
Think about your shiny radioactive robot sister
Imagine the fun you could have
Imagine the dreadful atrocities she would visit upon the local citizenry, at your command

Is this not what a sister is for, in the end?
Should not a sister be not only a friend and confidant, but also a public menace?
What's the point of a sister who cannot commit murder on a grand scale?
As useless, as my grandfather used to say, as tits on a marmoset
What was wrong with grandfather anyway?
Why did he drink so much paint?
Was it my sister's fault?

I have three sisters
And I have never felt so close to them as I do today
We don't see each other as much as we should
And we don't talk to each other as much as we should
And we don't know each other's names as much as we should
And we frequently tell each other we hate each other and want each other to die
But we have a bond that can't be broken
A bond of blood
Even though they are all adopted
Or at least that's what I tell them

A sister is a wonderful thing to have
So useful, so helpful in times of trouble
Not a sister
A trailer
A trailer is a wonderful thing to have
More useful than a sister anyway
You can barely fit anything into a sister
If you want my advice, get a trailer

I think the best kind of sister
Is the young, attractive, sexually liberated kind
Who is not your sister, but someone else's
Another good kind of sister
Is the kind who shoots chocolate out of her eye sockets
But let's face it

That's pretty rare

What have we learned about sisters?
Nothing - and isn't that just typical?
We never learn, we never progress, we never advance ourselves as a species
And hence we die, unenlightened and alone
Especially if we pissed off our sisters
So be nice to your sister
She may be all you have left after your wife leaves you and your parents die and you are excommunicated from your church because you sexually violated a porcupine during Mass
Be nice to your sister
And she will be nice to you
Or not - she might be a right bitch

But hey, what can you do

Saturday, September 24, 2011

Pobjie Poetry Month Day 25 Title Courtesy Of @jeremysear


It was in a theatre, dank and dusky
That I found him, sitting, sighing
A cigarette dangling from his dry, sad lips
Chuckling in the dark, blinking away tears
His smile sad and lonely, like a gunfighter remembering the last man he killed

And I sat next to him and I tried to talk
But he was in no mood
He looked at me with tired eyes
And shook his head, and shook the desert dust from his boots, and stood
And he walked away, but before he did, he handed me a rolled-up scroll, and shook my hand, and said three words

"I. Shot. First."

And he was gone
And I unrolled that scroll
And in that dank and dusky theatre, by the flickering light of the projector
I read what was written there
And tears sprang to mine as they had sprung to his
And what time was passing...I had no idea
And the scroll read like this:


We see the farm of Owen Lars, in the early morning. Aunt BERU (Scarlett Johannson) steps out into the sunlight and begins doing her aerobics practice, while all around her run the beautiful bright green desert-elk of Tatooine.

ENTER LUKE SKYWALKER, the four-armed super-hulk of Tatooine.

Hey Aunt Beru, what's shakin'?

Darth Vader is coming! I read it in my crystal ball!

She holds up her crystal ball, which speaks in a funky Negro voice.

Sho' 'nuff!

Oh yeah? We'll see what me and my faithful companion Dogbert von Woofilus have to say about that!

ENTER DOGBERT, a large cowardly dalmatian with a rocketpack


I was bawling, hardly able to see
But I had to keep going
I had to know just how the atrocity would end
I turned to a later page


ENTER DARTH VADER, dancing to "I Got You (I Feel Good)" as it blares from the Death Star stereo system. He approaches GRAND MOFF TARKIN, a distinguished elderly man with an enormous parrot on one shoulder.

So we captured the princess, Lord Vader?



Sorry, I mean, yes, we did.

Well we better get her to talk then.

Yes I will use the Force on her.

LOL! The Force! Epic fail! You can't use the Force, roflcopter!


Maybe I can explain it like this...

ENTER the MAX REBO BAND to accompany Tarkin's musical number.

When you're fighting against all those nasty rebels

(nasty rebels!

And you just can't decide the correct course
Take a tip from Grand Moff Tarkin
You may say I'm simply barkin'
But you must never ever ever use the Force!

(use the Force!)

If you're wondering just how to kill a Wookiee
That ugly beast as strong as a wild horse...

Gasping, sick at heart, I read on
Page after page, all the same
All horrors unimagined, nightmares springing from the paper
I wanted to hurl it away, to run outside, to scream, to have a chemical shower, to vomit on a passer-by
But I could not - I had to see this through to the bitter end
I turned the page


VADER, JAR JAR BINKS and DANNY OCEAN lounge by the pool

Yousa give meesa one millions dollarees for just-a one night with meesa Sith Lord?


OK maybe I didn't have to finish.

Friday, September 23, 2011

SPECIAL Pobjie Poetry Month Day 24 Title Courtesy Of @becpobjie

The Fresh Beat Band
(OR, a poem that people without children won't understand at all)

We've had a great day
It was a super way
To spend some time together
Particularly with Marina and run my fingers through her silky red hair and breathe shudderingly in her ear

We've had a great day
The very best day
And nothing could be better
Unless it was Marina, kissing my lips and running her fingers slowly down my spine

All the music we'll play
It's always a great day
And nothing could be better
Every time we get together
Every time WE get together Marina, tell those other losers to fuck off, I want you to myself oh Marina please God PLEASE

We'll sing and we'll play
We'll kick it our way
We'll hip-hop and pop
The music party won't stop
It won't stop, Marina, till you and I are together, writhing sweatily on top of your drum kit, Marina, show me your rhythm section!

We had a great day...

No. It was not a great day. For it was another day without Marina in my arms. It was another day without my ginger temptress singing sinful suggestions to me. It was another day feeling slightly guilty at how arousing children's television makes me...

We could have a great day, Marina. Take off those shorts.
Throw aside your drumsticks.
Tell Kiki, Twist and Shout to go shove their heads up their dickholes.
We could have a great day, Marina, me and you, it'll be a super way...To spend some time together...
We could make such beautiful music together...especially if we're miming to backing tracks...
We could have a great day...but you're so far away...and so ignorant of my existence...and my kids would probably freak out if they found you naked in my bed in the morning...but still...we could have a great day...

Failing that, Josie Jump from Balamory looks well up for it.

Thursday, September 22, 2011

Pobjie Poetry Month Day 23 Title Courtesy Of @creativemercury

Rugby World Cup

It's been so long
Let's walk
Down the street where I used to live
And back to the house that was mine
The World Cup's on
But let's not watch that
It'll only break our hearts

We can eat in the park where we had lunch that day
Chips from the cafe
Next to the video shop where we rented that movie
That day
We can go back to my house, and watch that movie again
But let's not watch the World Cup
It'll only break our hearts

Let's take a trip to the city
Over the bridge to the art gallery
Walking close as we can without touching
And laughing at the rushing crowds
And the senseless paintings that fashion has plucked
And I won't even check the scores
It'll only break our hearts

Let's get a drink before we go
And then we'll promise to do this again
We'll promise that as hard as we can
And we'll hug for just long enough
And you'll turn around, and so will I
And I'll go home and turn on my TV
Like the last time I said goodbye
And I'll watch whatever's on
But I won't
I won't
I won't watch the World Cup
It'll only break my heart

Pobjie Poetry Month Day 22 Title Courtesy Of @harrisonthefan

The Joys Of Writing Employment

Writing is better than digging a ditch
Cos you don't need a shovel and you can just sit in your chair to do it
And digging ditches hurts your back

Writing is better than plumbing
Cos you don't need to know how to use a spanner to do it
And you don't need to do an apprenticeship

Writing is better than being in the army
Cos when you write you can just make up cool army stories without having to leave the house
And you don't have to get blown up by IEDs

Writing is better than motherhood
Because you get more sleep because books don't wake up and cry in the night
And you don't get sore nipples

Writing is better than being the Queen
Because you can check Facebook while you're doing it
And also the Queen is very very old

Writing is better than Nazism
Because people aren't so scared of you when they find out you're a writer
And most Nazis are dead now

Writing is better than being a barista
Because if you're a barista you're probably a complete wanker
Why don't you fuck off, baristas?

Writing is better than working at Hungry Jack's
Especially this total bitch I know at the Hungry Jack's near my place
Fuck her

Writing is better than selling Foxtel door to door
Fuck off you idiots I'm trying to have dinner for Christ's sake
Just fuck right off

Writing is better than being a complete knob
Like that guy
What a knob

Glad I'm a writer and not a fucking knob like him
Am I right?

Wednesday, September 21, 2011

Why Not Have A Night Out?

At, for example, this

Everybody's Talkin' at the Fringe Club, 25th September, with me, First Dog on the Moon, Clementine Ford, Sophie Black, Geoff Lemon and Ben Eltham.

Or perhaps at this?

"Sad" at the Wheeler Centre, 26th September, with me, Andrew Robb, Nicole Highet and Noni Hazlehurst.


So those two are coming up, and both of them are absolutely FREE! Come along Sunday night and see me shooting the breeze with noted wits, and/or on Monday see me discussing things in perhaps a more serious vein. Both should be fun. Keep checking this blog for news on upcoming performances, there's more looming next month!

Tuesday, September 20, 2011

Pobjie Poetry Month Day 21 Title Courtesy Of @bethanykeats

Platform 5

It was on Platform 5 that I first saw him
Just a bedraggled old man, standing alone
On Platform 5
I said to him, what are you doing here, old man?
And he said, I've been expecting you
I said really?
He said yes
I said how did you know I'd be here on Platform 5?
He said, I have a little robot in my head that can tell the future
I said WOW
He said I can give you what you're looking for
I said, chips?
He said're looking for something deeper
And so I sat at his feet, and waited
He said, why are you sitting at my feet?
I said, so I can learn from you
He said well get up, people are looking at us
And so I got up, in awe at his powers of reason

And he said, what would you say, if I told you that of all the animals, the human is the stupidest, the most dull and useless?
I said I would say that sounds unlikely
And he said, really? Consider the chimpanzee. It does not need clothes to be happy, or a house, or a job, or food, or water
And suddenly, like a bolt of lightning, it hit me: he was RIGHT. And I resolved that from that day forward I would stop feeding my pet chimpanzee
I said tell me more

He said there is so MUCH I could tell you. Do you know the secret of the sands?
I said no
He said good, it's rubbish
And with that he waved his hand
And suddenly all around me, the sky and the ground and Platform 5
All seemed to disappear
I was struck with wonder and terror at the old man's powers
Until I realised I had my eyes shut
Opening them I saw that he was still waving his hand
Why are you doing that, I asked
He laughed a mocking laugh like this: ha ha!
And said, do not meddle in things beyond your understanding, foolish boy
And without warning, he hurled a golf ball high into the air
And it fell down
And hit me in the face
I warned you, he said

I thirst for wisdom, I rasped, I need you give me wisdom
And he bellowed, well then let me tell you this!
In all your life, no matter how low you sink and where the travails of modern life may guide you,
Remember ONE THING!
Yes, I said eagerly
REMEMBER, he shouted, the man is mother to himself
I exhaled slowly, and asked, what does that mean?
He laughed. What does it? Are you retarded, he said.
I nodded. I saw his point.

Will you be my guru, I said
He said, Is that a gay thing?
I said, not necessarily, but let's see where it takes us
He said, I'm not gay
I said OK
He said seriously I'm not
I said OK
He said if you SOMETIMES like making out with boys it doesn't make you gay
I said OK
He said anyway, would you like some more wisdom?

He said far away over the horizon lies a mountain
And on that mountain lives an eagle.
And from this eagle an egg was laid.
And in this egg were contained all the woes of the world
And when that egg was poached, they were released
And it was delicious
He stared into the distance for several hours, then sighed

Bravo! I cried, applauding frantically
You have opened my eyes, I said, demonstrating with toothpicks
I won't go blundering through life anymore, blind as a bat, deaf as a snake, lactose-intolerant as a tree kangaroo. From now on, I am an Enlightened Man
And at that the old man laughed
And he laughed
And he laughed
And then he stopped

And it was then I felt warm hands reaching inside my waistband
And I said no, no, not here
Not like this
And so we went to dinner at a small noodle bar
And we made love like gods bringing thunder down upon the earth from inside a disabled toilet cubicle
And I never saw him again

Later that week I found out
That that station HAS NO PLATFORM FIVE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I mean...dude.

Pobjie Poetry Month Day 20 Title Courtesy Of @Dom_Innate


Please come and we can meet between the rotundas where the grass is green and the sky is blue except when it's not and let's talk about our feelings I have some and you have some too I didn't quite catch what they are but as long as you have some and I have some too that's what's important and maybe between the rotundas we can play a game something with words or maybe with our hands and it won't matter who wins but I will but it won't matter and maybe between the rotundas we can kiss and cuddle and maybe between the rotundas my hand will climb up your back inside your shirt and I'll feel your skin and you won't mind because that's what people do between the rotundas and maybe the sun will be shining or maybe it will be night-time between the rotundas and maybe the sun will shine like a ball of fire or maybe the moon will smile like Moonface from the Faraway Tree I don't know what he was some kind of moon-man or something but maybe the rotundas are a world at the top of the tree that will pass away quickly so we have to be quick to meet between the rotundas and be very quiet so nobody comes to look for us nobody sees and nobody hears and the world moves on and we can stay here forever between the rotundas and I'll kiss you again and maybe you'll like it or at least you'll pretend to and between the rotundas we'll lay down on the grass and it'll be wet and our pants will get dirty but it won't matter because your fingers will be running behind my ear and then we will close our eyes but not for long because we'd rather see each other and maybe between the rotundas we'll be able to pretend for just a minute or two that we're not between the rotundas but we're in space spinning between comets and glancing off stars and we'll be very very cold but that's the way we'll like it that's the way we'll like it kissing that's the way we'll like it between the rotundas my hand your fingers my ear kissing like it fire moon between the rotundas at the top of the tree we'll kiss and between you and me will be


Monday, September 19, 2011

Pobjie Poetry Month Day 19 Title Courtesy Of @rachmw

Unutterable Words

All these things
I can't say
What I was thinking when you
How I felt when you
What I wanted you to
But let's have another drink
I'll tell you about my job and you can look interested
And we'll be OK

All these things
You don't know
The times I almost called you
The words I almost wrote
The truths I almost told
So let's have another drink
And you can tell me about your mother and I'll smile
And we'll be OK

These things
That hover over our heads
The look that meant
The sigh that said
The touch that was...accidental
But let's have another drink
And we can talk about the weather and the paintings on the wall
And we'll be OK

We'll be OK
The things
That we can't say
Those things
That we can't hear
Will still be here
But right now I need another drink
Right now I just can't say
But we'll be OK

Sunday, September 18, 2011

Pobjie Poetry Month Day 18 Title Courtesy of @quac_quao

Giant Celery

You told me a story
About a celery stalk that wanted to grow up
I told you a story
About a puppet who wished he was a real boy
And you told me a story
About a bottle of water who regretted not being orange juice
So I told you a story
About a lion who couldn't roar
And you told me a story
About a guitar with no strings
And we told each other a story
About a house with nobody in it
And a room without a bed
And a kitchen, that no one ever cooked in

And we looked at each other
And we looked at ourselves
And I kissed you
But I don't remember what it felt like
And you kissed me
But I don't remember what you looked like
And you told me the story about the celery
And I said stop
I've heard this one before
And I looked at myself

But when I looked up again
You weren't

Friday, September 16, 2011

Pobjie Poetry Month Day 17 Title Courtesy Of @goodalltwoshoes

(OR The Food That Fought Back)

Slice me up and sizzle me and serve me to your friends
I won't let you get me down
I won't let you break me down
Cos you can eat me
But you can't beat me
I'm the bacon that's takin' no shit from anyone

I can still remember sitting on that pig's back
Minding my own business
Tending to my own affairs
Till someone whacked me
Someone hacked me
I was hacked from the back I'd always called home

And that's the day I decided things had to change
No more Mr Nice Rasher
No more meek meat from me
No matter how you fry me
No matter how you try me
I'll stick it to the man and I'll stick to the pan and I'll show you what I've got

(guitar solo)

And you might say
Bacon why?
And all I say
Is hey
If you'd been through what I'd been through you wouldn't ask that question man I've seen things you can't even imagine I've been to hell and back and you think you can break my spirit just by wrapping me around a chicken breast and sticking a toothpick in me and then eating and digesting me?
And you might say
Never thought of it that way

So slice me up and sizzle me and stick me on your burger
I won't let you rule my life
I won't let you be the boss of me
No more time for talk
I'm no common loin of pork
I'm bacon, and I'm takin' the high road, and nobody'll stand in my way

(guitar solo fade-out)

Pobjie Poetry Month Day 16 Title Courtesy Of @caddalina

The Insecurities Of Ben Never Choosing Your Topic For His Daily Poem

If by chance today
I should fail to choose you
To select the theme for my next poem

Don't despair
It doesn't mean you'll always be a failure
It just means you're a failure today

If you did your best
To think of a great topic
That would make for a poem of rare beauty and insight

Don't get upset
Just because I completely ignored you
I'm sure there's someone who'd like to pay attention to whatever you're talking about

If you've been trying
To catch my eye and win my approval
So that perhaps I will deign to speak to you, and who knows? One day maybe become your friend

I want you to promise me
You won't cry yourself to sleep at night
Because of the powerful signals I'm sending that I don't like you

Believe me
I don't mean anything by it
I'm not ignoring you because I hate you - there is no causal connection

If you're worrying
That I might find you uninteresting
And that you're a sad excuse for a human being

Don't worry
It's entirely within the realm of possibility
That I don't think that at all and there's some other reason

Just because I don't talk to you
Doesn't mean I think you're a moron
Or that I think you have a stupid voice, or you're ugly, or really really fat

I can't deny
All these things MIGHT be true
But don't leap to conclusions, that'd just PROVE you're stupid

I can't choose
Everyone's subjects to write a poem about
I can only choose one a day, and it's agonising

And if I choose
The smarter, prettier, more interesting people every day
Maybe that's just a coincidence, or maybe it's just my good taste

But don't let it get you down
There's always tomorrow, and you can try again
And maybe then all the good people will be used up and the only others trying will be even worse than you

So cheer up
I don't want you to feel insecure
About your complete and utter failure to cause me to take the slighest bit of interest in anything you have to say or do

If anything
You should be feeling insecure
About that butt-ugly shirt you're wearing

So chin up

Wednesday, September 14, 2011

Pobjie Poetry Month Day 15 Title Courtesy of @shellity


The sparks from your fingers
Crackling blue, fizz-full of you
Short-fuse the gloom and light up this room
For a moment we spark together
And if we then pull apart
And go down our own roads
We know we'll come back in the soft velvet black
And light up the room
Cos it's never goodbye
Just a break to recharge
Till you bring back the sparks
The lightning that shimmies when your hands reach for mine

The flow and the charge
Current sticking hairs on end
A heart-starting jolt and a blazing field of electromagnetic attraction
And defiance of science is getting us nowhere
We've got to give in to this voltage within
That mundane magic of switches
That lights up the houses and lights up our faces
When we turn each other on

I'll keep myself earthed
Though it's hard to keep feet on the ground
When I hear that crackling sound
When I see those sparks flying
From your fingers in the night, the exploding white-bright
The lightning that shimmies when your hands reach for mine

The Seduction of Sadness.

I was reading this by Helen Razer because Helen Razer's work is always worth reading - it's intelligent, often insightful, often funny, and she has the admirable quality of not venturing to pass comment on things she doesn't know something about. And on this subject she says a lot that's worth pondering. This post isn't really about her post though - it just got me thinking.

I've often thought, am I really sick? Am I maybe just "sad"? I don't think so - my sadness seems too...out of the blue, the lows too terrifying and random. But who knows? Maybe I'm just wallowing. All I know is I'm sad a lot, that therapy and medication seem to help, and that so, on occasion, does a bit of tea and sympathy from nice people.

But whatever label can be placed upon my demons, what I'm always fiercely trying to avoid is the temptation to use it as an excuse. For the simple reason that I've been depressed, I've been in the blackest of holes, but I've never lost control of my ability to decide how to treat other people. I've never been a jerk "because of depression". Sometimes depression can make it a little harder to behave the way your better angels tell you to, but when I'm a jerk, it's because...well it's because sometimes I'm a jerk. I hate that. I wish I wasn't. It kills me, but I can't deny it, sometimes I'm just not a good guy, as much as I aspire to be.

Recently I lost a friend. Not in the fatal sense - in the sense that I was a jerk, and my friend decided she didn't want to be my friend anymore. I wasn't a deliberate jerk: I was just thoughtless and self-absorbed; but I hurt her, and she exercised her prerogative to cut me out of her life.

I don't even know if I can convey how much that hurt. It still hurts. It's ripping through me, leaving great gaping wounds in me every day, that she's not my friend, that I let her down, that I've lost her. I don't want to lose any of the people I love. And most of all I don't want to let the people I love down - it hurts all the more to lose a friend through your own stupidity, to know it's your fault. It's horrific. It is, let us say it, DEPRESSING. I'm shattered.

I've gone close to losing other people I love recently. I've acted terribly, I've let those demons get the best of me, I've lashed out and fought and fled and given people ample reason to kick me to the kerb. I'm lucky they haven't.

And yeah, it's been tied in to my mental state, the fight I'm having with my own psyche, my own brain chemistry. It makes it hard sometimes. But it's still me who's done it, me who's disregarded friends, lashed out at family, mistreated my loved ones. It's me who's fallen prey to the seduction of sadness, the self-absorption that beckons when you're depressed, or even just sad. I let that happen, and on occasion I found myself too weak to resist.

In the end, sometimes I'm a jerk. It's nobody's fault but mine. And I know that. And I'm sorry. I'm always trying to be a better man. Trying and failing, but hopefully failing a little less each time. I am sorry if you're reading this, and I've been a jerk to you. I don't ever mean to be, but fact is sometimes I am, and I've got to wear my mistakes. I'll keep trying.

Fighting against depression is also fighting against your lesser nature. I'm tired, and I would like to stop fighting. But I won't.

Tuesday, September 13, 2011

Pobjie Poetry Month Day 14 Title Courtesy Of @kedgie

Smurf Love

Let me show you smurf love
Let's do it till our faces turn blue
Let me find your secret village
And smurf your smurf till you smurf
And, you know, etc.

Let me show you smurf love
The kind of love that is small, but industrious
The kind of love that you get
When there's 99 men for every woman

Let me show you smurf love
It's a love that's best expressed after-school
It's a love that makes you laugh
It's a love that 20 years later makes you wonder what the hell you were thinking

The love that wears a jaunty hat
The love that works together for the common good
Let me show you the love that is clearly a metaphor for communism

Let me show you
A sort of high-pitched, aggravating love
It smells like mushrooms
And is fairly poorly animated

Let me show your smurf love smurf love smurf love
The love with that Belgian twist
The love that runs free in the forest
The love that ends when one of us is kidnapped and eaten by a giant wizard
If you know what I mean

Let me show you smurf love
The love that speaks across...

OK look I guess what I'm saying is let's fuck in my van

Monday, September 12, 2011

Pobjie Poetry Month Day 13 Title Courtesy of @AlexinaRose

Tony Abbott's Amazing Technicolour Dreamcoat
(OR, A Trip Through The Tunnel Of Love)
(OR, A Psychedelic Manifesto)
(OR, The Adventures of Andrew, Ultra-Deacon)

I just can't stop myself singing
As I stand here before you, my beloved people
Your upturned faces shining like stars in the night sky
With hope, freedom and competence writ large across each one
I can't stop myself singing at the thought
Of the beautiful future I've come here to show you
Of the shimmering, glistening world we will live in
Now I am here

Let me now spread my arms wide and fold you in my loving Liberal embrace
Let me envelop you in the coruscating creases
Of my coat of many colours
With sleeves woven from democracy
Lapels crafted from truth
Pockets deep, the better to hold all your dreams
And throughout it is stitched together with finest economic discipline
Because folks, coats of many colours do not come cheap

As I look down upon you all, decent, hard-working creatures that you are
I am filled with love and affection
And I can't stop myself singing
Of the wonders I will show you
Of the happiness you will know
Of the security you will experience
I can't stop myself singing
About my coat and the magic it contains in every seam

And know, my people, my children, my beloved fluffy little electorate-bunnies
That no matter what happens, I will never, ever lie to you about how much I love this coat
No matter what happens, I will never abandon this coat
Whatever tragedies come to pass, me and this coat are in it for the long haul
That's why I sing to you today
Of this coat, and the boon it will be to our manufacturing industry
The advantages the coat will bring to our steel sector
The ability of the coat to reduce asylum seekers to a fine powder on sight
I cannot stop singing, my people, because now I am wearing this coat
Everything will be All Right

Once life was bleak
And cold
And involved no coats of many colours
My predecessor
She wore
A coat of one colour
And that colour was Evil
And that's why
I came to you
All those months ago
And said
Let me don my coat of many colours!
And I promise
You will feel
Like sunshine on your backs
And burgers in your bellies
And a skilled tongue between your thighs

And now I am wearing this coat I shall be that tongue
And I shall skilfully bring this nation to climax
And the lubrication I bring to our fiscal position
Will allow for penetration into markets as yet undreamed of!
Did you know a man in a coat could be so sexy?
He can
I am naked under this coat
And I am tumescent for your vote
Look closer
I've been working out

And I can't stop singing
And I can't stop cutting taxes
And I can't stop holding the government accountable
And I can't stop riding my bike
And I can't stop oiling my toned, muscular thighs
And I can't stop singing
And I can't stop wearing this coat
This coat of many colours
That is my gift to you
"Gift" in the sense of "thing I am keeping for myself"
And I can't stop singing
And I can't stop listening to mums and dads
And I can't stop easing cost of living pressures
And I can't stop getting tough on things




Pobjie Poetry Month Day 12 Title Courtesy of @CeadaoinsChild (on her birthday)

Porn Goblins

While I slept and kept my dreaming
To the bliss-kissed realm of seeming
Toss'd and lost beneath the gleaming
Moon beyond the window's eye

Down night's chimney came a-creeping
Under doorways came a-seeping
To annoy my joyous sleeping
Porn Goblins from the sky!

"Wake up!" And shaking rudely
My tired shoulders they did crudely
Whoop and hoop and caper nudely
And bring me magazines

Aged and sticky pages fluttered
In the candlelight that guttered
And I read "Hot schoolgirls - buttered"
And beheld repellent scenes

I screamed and screamed at goblins thrusting
Pics of loose-juiced ladies lusting
My pants filling near to busting
And my virtue under threat

"Please no more!" I panted weakly
In a haze and gazing meekly
At the latest "Fringed Minge Weekly"
And "Aliens From Planet Wet"

The goblins grinned and cackled slyly
And with looks both mad and wily
Ignored my pleas as I begged shyly
And produced the DVDs

I knew their plan, began despairing
And by now almost past caring
I could do nothing but start staring
At girls wrestling in cheese

All night I sat, horror abounding
At the grunts and moans resounding
And the ceaseless sweaty pounding
Till the sun rose in the sky

And with dawn streaming in brightly
The goblins, their dark nightly
Business done, leapt quick and spritely
Window-wards with no goodbye

And I lay there, spent and weary
And looked around me at the dreary
Walls, with eyeballs sad and bleary
And wished I had never been born

For I realised, now I'd seen them
And so secret, wished I'd been them
On the screen, I'd not un-screen them
Up until my dying breath

The porn goblins had my soul now
Took my soul in every hole now
And it could only be my goal now
To molest myself to death

Saturday, September 10, 2011

Pobjie Poetry Month Day 11 Title Courtesy of @Ultrahedonist

The Night

Lately it seems
I can't stop thinking about exit wounds
Running fingers around the ragged edges of flesh in my mind
Looking out in the dark
To see who fired that shot
Lately it seems

When the stars are so close
You can hear them breathe and draw blood from your fingertips
Reaching out to touch them
When the air weighs on your chest
Like Salem's stones
And your thoughts cast jealous glares
In your direction
Demanding you spend some time

I thought of you as I slept
Though I didn't know who you were
But I saw you and I touched you and you turned and melted to the floor
And I knelt in you
And I thought of you
And I marched to slay wakefulness
And I failed

Lately it seems
I can't stop wondering whose dream I'm in
And if they'll remember me in the morning
Will I catch on the cobwebs of their brain
Or drift into the night with the dust the mind expels

Tomorrow I'll be dull and weary
Head drooping to my chest as buzzing conversation ruffles my hair
For I'll have just come 
From eight hours of ceiling-stares
And body-rolls
Running through each romantic gesture
That I'll regret not making on the day I die
Kicking over each powdery trace
Of what I didn't do yesterday
And tomorrow I'll be dull and snap and growl 
And throttle myself to stay alive
And tomorrow I'll lie down again
To stare and blink and feel the breath of the stars
And search again for who fired the shot

There's a grey sky outside
And a song on the tides
And lately it seems
I can't stop thinking about myself

Friday, September 9, 2011

Pobjie Poetry Month Day 10 Title Courtesy of @geofflemon

Nikki Webster

It's hard to write a poem about Nikki Webster
So hard to know what tone to strike
While redheaded visions dance and stream in my head
And I ponder the meaning of beauty, of love, of magic

How do I write about this girl who was famous for a bit and then wasn't?
And then was for a bit more I think?
How do I capture the essence of Nikki?
Assuming she has one?

Do I consider the fleeting nature
Of childhood when caught in a spotlight?
Of an innocence robbed by flashbulbs
Youth corrupted by fame and destroyed by the cruel focus
Of that ever-ravening eye called Celebrity?
Do I mourn for the girl who once was
Who we loved even as we tore to shreds
And whose sad eyes would later gaze
From magazine stands
A smile on the lips, but a desperate plea
Reaching out to cry
"Remember who I was"
Do I do this?


Do I slyly eviscerate the girl
Who represented all that is tacky and twee
About the road our modern culture remorselessly drives us down?
Should I sarcastically document the grating voice
The imbecilic gestures
The repellent faux wholesomeness?
Should I pen a poem entitled, "Nikki Webster, Particle Physicist"
In order to highlight the comical juxtaposition
Between the brain-numbing symptom of societal malaise
That her rise to fame embodies
And the idea that she could ever achieve anything
That required an adult-level intelligence?
Should I?


Should I be wistful and yearning and write
Where are you now, Nikki Webster?
Where is the infectious smile that allowed us
For a brief while
To shrug off our cynicism and rejoice in the good the world has to offer?
Where are the freckles that sprinkled our TV screens
Like stars in a clearer night sky?
Where are you Nikki?
Your people need you more than ever
Should I write this?


Should I be absolutely disgusting and write a poem
About what I would do to Nikki Webster
In a sexual manner?
Should I make references crude to a nude decathlon
And explain how ceremonial her opening would be?
Should I write of how I've been missin' her Strawberry Kisses
From those lips that remind me of a Dyson Bagless?
Should my poem be entitled, "Nikki Webster, Human Nosebag"?
Should it?


Could I write a poem about things that rhyme with Nikki, like
Nikki you are tricky when you're sticky it's kinda dicky how you take the mickey out of Kenickie?
Could I?


I cannot with clear conscience do any of these things
With honesty and integrity intact I cannot
So what do I do?

Do I write a poem about how Nikki Webster was rebuilt by scientists after being mauled by a bear and now fights moon-pirates in the 28th century?

I think I do

Run. Don't look back.

Remember this post?

Felix Scerri, Patriot, does. For over a year he's been stewing on the subject, and finally he could no longer restrain himself, so he emailed me an update on the situation:

G'day mate, if you ever listen to the news services, now do you think that there really isn't a deliberate Islamic invasion of Australia taking place? Yes there is. Welcome to the Islamic Republic of Australia! That's the plan! Any Muslim jokes? Regards, Felix Scerri in Ingham.

As I flee my burning home, scimitars slashing at my throat, I am haunted by the regret: WHY DIDN'T I LISTEN TO THE NEWS SERVICES????

The below photo is now the official logo for this blog.

Thursday, September 8, 2011

Pobjie Poetry Month Day 9 Title Courtesy of Catherine Manning

A Wedding In Pak

How to navigate the choppy seas
Of a modern relationship
How to process the incongruous sight
Of a bride all in white
Yet wearing a 16th century Venetian plague mask and holding a crossbow

We ask ourselves why?

There are no easy answers
People may SAY there are easy answers
Answers like, "Yes" or "No" or "Well obviously" or "In the bottom drawer" or "As long as you thrust gently"
But in fact there are no easy answers
Answers are always difficult
And whether they are difficult because of religion, because of culture, or because of a cleft palate
Makes no difference
Not a skerrick

Why is the bride wearing a plague mask?
Perhaps it is the groom's fetish
Perhaps she is a time traveller
Perhaps she not wearing a plague mask and you merely have a tiny plague mask-shaped speck of dust in your eye blocking your view of her face
All of these are possible, but is it not more likely that the mask represents ambiguity?

After all, whoever you marry, your relationship will never be clear-cut
There are complications associated with marriage as surely as there are lice associated with your children's revolting little heads
How many women have married the man of their dreams, only to find out on their wedding night
That he is not the man they thought he was, but is instead a large swarm of bees
Forming themselves into humanoid shape?
I have no official statistics, but I bet this happens a LOT

You may be married in Pakenham, under the watchful eye of Brown Eric, the wise elder of the local cow tribe
Or you may be married in Pakistan, swearing your oath of fidelity on the sacred erection of Imran Khan
But either way it is true what Stalin said:
Marriage is hard work

Take that as you will
It is open to interpretation
It could mean, "Marriage is full of back-breaking physical labour and carrying bags of cement and things"
It could mean, "Marriage will give you a hernia"
It could mean, "Marriage is like riding a donkey up a sand dune"
There is no right or wrong, except for that last one

Marriage is nothing like that

Marriage is about love
Not the love of a man for a fine gram of high-grade heroin
Nor the love of a woman for racist violence
More like the love of a man for his pet ferret
Or the love of a woman for a book about mushrooms
Those are closer approximations to what marriage is all about

And so, when you stand before the world, and before God, and scream to the heavens, "I LOVE THIS MAN, OK? BACK THE FUCK OFF?"
In a somewhat idiosyncratic adaptation of the traditional wedding vows
Just remember: love; hard work; complexity; thick, delicious creamed honey
Keep these things in mind, and no doubt your marriage shall be a happy one

And the crossbow was probably for, like, foxes or something

Wednesday, September 7, 2011

Pobjie Poetry Month Day 8 Title Courtesy Of @spacekidette

The Beauty of Truth

I never saw a truth I liked the look of
Driving through midnight orange fog pocket-change rattling
To find a way to pass the time that threatened to bring reality with it
Sitting on kerbs we avoided each other's eyes
Laughed as loud as we could to drown out whatever we knew about ourselves
And kept driving in circles
Like we thought the truth would give up if it got dizzy enough
Dropping in to wink at graveyard shift checkout chicks
As if we had a plan for the night that would end anywhere
But heavy eyes and loneliness
Lounging on pillars in dirty white malls
Smirking at the bad hair days slithering past and the skirts that promised more than they delivered
And snapping lips to show
Our higher form of being
That didn't need their blissful ignorance
Our jokes told us we were going somewhere
So we happily believed them
And beneath the bulldog clouds heaving quiet breath in the airless night
We turned our eyes from truth
Because its stare will turn you to stone
And when Saturday night's an echo and freedom falls to the winds
We'll know truth
As it squats, fat and deformed, before us, and demands entry to our hearts
And we'll welcome it at last
When we see we're out of options
When we reach out for the thousandth time in throat-stopped hope
And for the thousandth time clutch at thin air
Then truth we'll face, and truth we'll seek
As the last thing on earth we wanted
And the last thing on earth we have left

Tuesday, September 6, 2011

Pobjie Poetry Month Day 7 Title Courtesy Of @mrgrumpystephen

Reverse Puberty

If I may propose
A fun new game
To pass the time a little
While you grow up
I will grow down
And meet you in the middle

As you assume
The trappings of
Mature and sober living
I shall debauch
And trust to your
Talent for forgiving

While I devolve
Into the boy
I Never got to be
The girl I knew
Will fade away
And not remember me

You'll learn to live
With all the pain
That comes with getting older
While I shrug off
The heavy cares
Now weighing on my shoulder

You'll grow and learn
Of life and love
And how to handle sorrow
And I will smile
As I forget
Those things I'd rather not know

We'll have some fun
For a brief time
The joy of intersections
Then happily
We'll say goodbye
And head in our own directions

For you can't keep
These childish ways
Your heart is made for flying
And I can't face
Another day
Drawing closer to dying

So let's diverge
On time's wide track
All we need is some persistence
You growing up
Me growing down
Unto sweet non-existence

Monday, September 5, 2011

Pobjie Poetry Month Day 6 Title Courtesy of @definatalie

My Dog

Sitting under the pillows
Keeping an eye out
The perplexity of the silent watcher
Wells in her eyes

There's nothing comprehensible
About the giants in her midst
Nothing can be deduced
From two-legged scurries

As the long legs stalk by
On their way to meaningless activity
Changing colours and shapes to greet each day
As faces stoop to stare at silent eyes

The blur of existence threatens to resolve
But falls again into chaos
And huddled beneath the pillows
She tries once more, and once more

But giants clatter and giants shout
And light and dark duel
With disregard for time
And soft hands and tight embraces rise and fall

And what she knows will stay locked
And what we know will flow as an un-catchable stream
And she sees us and we see her
And how we know each other

We will never tell

Sunday, September 4, 2011

Pobjie Poetry Month Day Five Title Courtesy of @yellekau

The Character Of Australian Cities

Sydney, you glitzy dame, the sequins dripping from your millionaire's dress
Too expensive for the downtrodden likes of me
But perhaps, I can beg a minute of your time?
To pass a moment in the sheen of your glamour

Melbourne, you intense, dark-eyed beauty, hair over one eye
Arguing with me just for fun, defensive and haughty
Yet with a fire that I cannot turn away from
I need to drink one more coffee and play footsie with you under the table

Brisbane, you sunny fresh-faced nature-child, daisies in your hair
A waterfall in your voice, music in your head
I'll dance with you but never could I hope
To hold you to myself, especially with this humidity

Perth, you...nice...lady. On the west coast
You have iron ore mines or something maybe?
So I guess you're a bit like...a woman...who works in a mine
Oh and lives by the sea, so you know, salt and sand and things

Canberra, you government official
You drive round and round in circles
Cos that's what Canberra's like, am I right?
Maybe we could go to the War Memorial

Hobart, you Tasmanian city
You're in Tasmania, and I can't resist the charms
Of your Tasmanian-ness
You're so Tasmanian and you're in Tasmania

Darwin, you suntanned Amazon
You stand proud in a sweltering land
Strong and brave and self-sufficient and wearing a bikini probably
And with only one arm because a crocodile bit the other one off

Wagga Wagga
Huh, funny name
Yeah. You're out in the country

Also there's Adelaide

Pobjie Poetry Month Day 4 Title Courtesy Of @jothornely

How To Get Rid Of Cheezel Finer-Residue

Lately I've been thinking
Of the way you get the orange
Off your fingers

I've been thinking of your mouth
Sucking the residue off
Leaving fingers lip-sticky

I've been thinking of your tongue
Cleaning your fingers
Smacking your lips

I've been thinking of you
Rubbing your hands on your thighs
And the fine golden powder left on your jeans

Lately I've been thinking
About your fingers rubbing themselves
Together, slick and smooth

I've been thinking about you
Wiping your hands on my shirt
Leaving your cheezy mark

I've been thinking about your fingers
Gathering the broken rings
At the bottom of the bag

I've been thinking of the way
You wear them on your hand
Five golden rings

Lately I've been thinking about you
Drawing each brittle circle
Off each finger, into your mouth

I've been thinking of a bowl
On a coffee table
And reaching for it at the same time

Lately I've been thinking
Of the way you get the orange
Off your fingers

Friday, September 2, 2011

Pobjie Poetry Month Day 3 Title Courtesy Of @b454n7

Our New PM

Our new PM will be a man's man
Or a woman's woman
Or a woman's man
Or a man's woman
But whichever our way our new PM swings, our new PM will bring lots of the greatest things

Like freedom, justice, truth, and freedom again
Like wonder, joy, and absence of pain
Like peace and love and a rhyming quatrain
Cheaper groceries and a high-speed train

Our new PM may come from anywhere at all
North, South, East, West, or an as-yet undiscovered direction I call "hampwards"
And when he or she or it wanders out of the hampwards mists, hat tilted rakishly over one eyes, six-guns blazing
We will know that now
We have found our new PM

For our new PM will be strong
And brave
And honest
And loving
And decisive without losing the softness of femininity

Our new PM will turn this ship around
In a figurative sense
And also in a literal sense in that if you have a ship
Our new PM will turn it around
And thus climate change will be slain

Our new PM will have arms of wrought-iron
Eyes of steel
Teeth of diamond
Huge, curved claws ideal for disembowelling large mammals and reptiles that form its core diet
Let us see the bloated bureaucracy combat THAT

Our new PM could be a military man
Preaching the way of the gun
Bayoneting corruption and shelling injustice

Our new PM could be a businessman
Reducing our problems to cold hard figures
Balancing our books and invigorating our production pipelines

Our new PM could be a really fat guy
Eating cake and stuff
And like, not getting much exercise

Our new PM could be a stripper
Which'd be awesome
Because boobs

But I think our new PM will be a rock star
And not just any rock star
I think our new PM will be Peter Cetera
Yeah, you say it's a longshot now
But who's looking like an idiot when The Glory Of love booms over parliament's lawns?
Almost everybody but especially YOU

Or perhaps our new PM will be an astronaut
Taking our nation beyond the moon and past the stars
Where we will all eat a bland fish paste forever

But the important thing is
Whoever our new PM turns out to be
Our country will finally have a leader to be proud of

A man's man
A woman's woman
A woman's man
Or a baby's dachsund

May their reign be long
Their will be strong
Their opinions not wrong
Unlike Penny bloody Wong

Pobjie Poetry Month Day Two Title Courtesy Of @simonnix


If I told you I wanted to take you away
And see you run with the jackalopes
Would you think I was mad?
Would you throw back your pretty head and cry, "Goodness what a suggestion!" with the sort of mocking laugh that has always cut me to the core like a flensing knife scything through a minke whale?

Or would you think that it was the most romantic thing you'd ever heard?
Would you take me in your dimpled arms and cry, "YES! Let us go, my love, you and I, to the place where the jackalopes roam, and let us realise our true natures"?


Where the jackalopes run there is no pain, there is no grief, there are no complex financial instruments
Because jackalopes long ago discovered the truth about life:
That life is love, and love is life, and together they form a sort of agglomerated concept known as life-love, or lofe for short
We too can known lofe
If we only go to the land of the jackalopes, and run

Just run, naked and free, happy and wild, face to the wind, bellies to the skies, buttocks to the sun
No longer restrained by bourgeois society
Now made free by jackalope society
We shall finally LIVE!

Can you picture it?
Sitting by the jackalope fire
Singing jackalope songs
Eating jackalope biscuits
Engaging in traditional jackalope erotic tea ceremonies
Playing jackalope scrabble
It could be us, my lofe
It could be us

If you will just say yes
If you will drop what you're doing and join me on this jackalope odyssey
Do not call me mad
Simply because I wish to find a better mode of existence
Do not call me insane
Merely due to my longing for a higher state of being
Do not call me bat-fucking crazy
Just because I once bit off a nun's lips
Just call me your man
And take my hand
And put my hand in your shirt
And move it around a bit

And then we shall truly be jackalope-folk
And happiness may begin

It will all become clear, my lofe
When we run with the jackalopes
It will all become clear

Or if it is more convenient
We could duck into the handicapped toilets and do it in there.