I understand there has been a bit of a brouhaha over the Prime Minister of Australia's failure to curtsy to the Queen of England on the occasion of their recent meeting.
Let me begin my remarks on this affair with a brief comment to "etiquetteand protocol expert" William Hanson:
You are a moron.
Let me follow with a brief comment to anyone on this planet who cares even the slightest bit about whether the prime minister curtsied or not to the Queen:
You are a moron.
And when I say you are a moron, don't take it the wrong way: I simply mean you are of extremely low intelligence. I mean your brain doesn't work the way it should. I mean you need to wear heavy-duty protective clothing to shield you from the inevitable injuries caused by constantly falling over and walking into things. I mean you need to be institutionalised and isolated from society so as not to infect functional adult human beings with your virulent stupidity. I mean your stupidity is so vast as to actually constitute immorality. I mean that if you ever try to strike up a conversation with another person you should be arrested for committing a hate crime, because nothing could be more horrific to endure than to have to talk to you, you irredeemably and nauseatingly idiotic imbecilic moronic stupid cretinous fool.
Now let me tell you what SHOULD have happened when the Prime Minister met the Queen.
The Queen should have curtsied. The Queen should have grovelled. The Queen should have fallen to her knees, kissed Gillard's hand, and bathed her feet in finest perfume. The Queen should have subjugated herself entirely in the most humble gratitude that she has actually been allowed to go on this publicy-funded holiday and meet genuinely important people.
The Queen should have spent the entire meeting with the prime minister crying out, "Thank you, thank you, thank you!". The Queen should have made it clear just how grateful she was that she, as an elderly bejewelled parasite whose position in life is owed entirely to an accident of birth and who has never been required to either assume any genuine responsibility, or record any actual achievement to get where she is, should be allowed to hob-nob with people who've actually risen to their place in the world via hard work and talent. That she should be permitted to engage with the elected prime minister of Australia, a woman who attained that position via her own personal qualities and the democratic processes of a democratic nation, and whose job entails actual power, and actual responsibility, should have caused the Queen to be overwhelmed with gratitude, and humiliated with the thought of just what a small, insignificant wastrel she is by comparison not only with the PM herself, but pretty much all the other people surrounding her.
And the Queen shuold have gone to bed that night with a smile on her face, counting her blessings and wondering at her good fortune, that anyone in a position of genuine authority, when encountering her, should actually have been so preternaturally polite and astoundingly gracious as to shake her hand and bow their head, rather than passing her by with a witheringly scornful glance and going off to do something more useful, important, and enjoyable than poncing about going through the motions of a pointless ritual greeting with someone who is only recognisable by anyone on earth due to the failure of a good portion of humanity to escape from the hidebound medieval mindset that keeps them convinced that the behaviour of a fawning slave to an undeserving master remains worthwhile.
And now, if I may be a trifle direct, the Queen can fuck right off.
Thursday, October 20, 2011
Monday, October 17, 2011
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Where Can You Find Me?
Goodness, there are so many places!
You can find me at New Matilda calling decent Australians to arms against the tyranny which threatens our freedom.
You can find me in the excellent King's Tribune, either by subscribing or picking it up at the newsagent - the current issue has my piece on atheism!
You can find me at the stylish and attractive Kill Your Darlings, where I've written about hating Julia Gillard.
Or there's The Roar, where I've been writing about rugby!
And if THAT's not enough, prepare to be EXCITED beyond all BELIEF!
Because Meanjin is running their thrilling Tournament of Books, and if you go there and check out the head-to-head battles of some classics of Australian literature, you'll not only read some cracking reviews of some cracking books, but also see the highly-esteemed Jess McGuire and myself providing no-holds-barred COMMENTARY on each match. Such as this one, to take but one example. The tournament's still going, so head there, catch up, and get on-board.
Now, is that enough for you, you slavering dogs?
You can find me at New Matilda calling decent Australians to arms against the tyranny which threatens our freedom.
You can find me in the excellent King's Tribune, either by subscribing or picking it up at the newsagent - the current issue has my piece on atheism!
You can find me at the stylish and attractive Kill Your Darlings, where I've written about hating Julia Gillard.
Or there's The Roar, where I've been writing about rugby!
And if THAT's not enough, prepare to be EXCITED beyond all BELIEF!
Because Meanjin is running their thrilling Tournament of Books, and if you go there and check out the head-to-head battles of some classics of Australian literature, you'll not only read some cracking reviews of some cracking books, but also see the highly-esteemed Jess McGuire and myself providing no-holds-barred COMMENTARY on each match. Such as this one, to take but one example. The tournament's still going, so head there, catch up, and get on-board.
Now, is that enough for you, you slavering dogs?
Sunday, October 9, 2011
How Not To Rape People Part 2: How Not To Be Raped
Hello there. Many of you in the me-reading community may remember this post, in which I enumerated a few simple, easy-to-follow tips on how to avoid raping people, for the benefit of those many millions of young men who were finding it difficult to not rape anyone for any significant length of time. It was a great success: many readers wrote to me to let me know that they had greatly reduced their raping-people rate, and in some cases, incredibly, stopped raping altogether.
This was very gratifying, of course, but I have recently come to the realisation that my job was only half-finished. I had addressed one side of the equation - men - but what of the other side? What of women? I guess it was the commonsense, firm-yet-fair, down-to-earth, nitty-gritty, wise advice provided to young women by NSW Police Commissioner Andrew Scipione that brought this home to me. His sage council to young women to tell their friends if they plan to have sex, so their friends can stop them having sex if they don't want to, or help them have sex if they do want to, or join in if a passing video producer pays them to, really drove home to me how neglectful I've been.
Sure, I thought to myself, I've provided useful advice to men on how to stop being rapists, but what about women? Don't they need useful advice too? After all, as Paul Mercurio tells us, it takes two to tango, and likewise doesn't it also take two to rape? I'm pretty sure it does - you never see the headline "Man rapes nobody" in the papers - and so I feel I should apologise for my oversight. But nobody can ever accuse me of being a man who doesn't correct his oversights, and so I hereby present:
HOW NOT TO BE RAPED: A HANDY GUIDE FOR MODERN WOMEN AND ALSO THEIR FRIENDS
1. When you meet a rapist, try to stay away from him.
2. Learn to idenfity rapists. You can do this through some canny questioning. Like for example you could ask, "Are you a rapist?" If the rapist is clever he'll see through that though, so you might have to ask more subtle questions, like, "Would you like me to have some Milo?" or "Are you a professional football team?"
3. Avoid men in general. Most women are raped by men, so it's important that a woman who doesn't want to be raped stays well away from men. It's a bit like cats and meat: if a piece of meat walked into a cat's mouth, would you blame the cat for eating it? Like in The Empire Strikes Back, when they fly into that alien thing's mouth. Do you blame the alien for swallowing the Millennium Falcon? No, it is Princess Leia's fault for wearing that bikini. That's an important lesson to remember. If you, as a woman, choose to conduct your activites in the same location as men, you must accept the consequences. If you're going to hang around penises, don't be surprised when penises do what penises do. Men in general have poor impulse control and will under most circumstances have sex three or four times a day whether they want to or not. If you HAVE to associate with a man, for business reasons or because he is your father, wear a wetsuit.
4. Don't be unconscious.
5. Keep an eye on your drink. Research shows a lot of women are raped after leaving their drink unguarded, or as this is known in legal terms, "consenting to sexual intercourse". If YOU don't want to be raped, make sure you have an eye on your drink at ALL times, and avoid flirtatiously allowing strangers to drop pills in it. Even better, drink from a bottle. Or don't drink at all - koalas gain all their hydration from eucalyptus leaves, and koalas are rarely considered slutty. Except that one who died of chlamydia. Point is, if you avoid drinking fluids of any kind, you can avoid that awkward situation where a reasonable person might interpret your unknowingly ingesting a foreign substance which renders you incapable of resistance to violent sexual acts as something of a "come-on".
6. Dress appropriately. Studies show that over 90% of rape victims were raped when wearing some kind of "clothing", which strongly suggests that clothing plays a massive part in rapists' selection of their victims, or "partners", as they are called when wearing midriff tops. It is important that any woman who doesn't want to be raped avoids wearing any type of clothing that sends the message that she is "up for it". This is difficult, obviously, because as noted above, if a woman wasn't up for it why would she be hanging around near men anyway, knowing full well that men like to have sex? But as long as a woman avoids wearing low-cut tops, short skirts, short shorts, tight jeans, figure-hugging sweaters, loose sweaters, long skirts, skivvies, baggy pants, neck-to-knee swimming costumes, policewoman uniforms, or any item of clothing that provides any clue as to the woman's general shape, she can be fairly certain that her behaviour will be considered only conditional consent by the legal system. Which ties nicely into the next point.
7. Do not draw attention to your femininity. Most people who raped women admit that before raping the woman, they wanted to rape a woman. It is therefore vital when out in public that women don't make a big deal about being a woman. Try not to act too much like a woman - don't go around washing dishes or shopping. It can be a good idea to strap your breasts down and cut your hair short in an attempt to pass as a petite teenage boy. But some people consider that extreme - it's more important just to direct conversation away from the fact you are a woman. If you see a man lurking nearby, try to ward him off by casually remarking, "Goodness, I'm having a nice time out today - it's probably my lack of oestrogen making me feel so good"; or, "I wonder what having a vagina is like, because I certainly don't know!" In fact it is always VITAL to prevent people's focus being directed toward your vagina - reputable opinion polls indicate over 60% of people consider a rape victim was "asking for it" if she was found to be in deliberate possession of a vagina.
8. Don't go out alone. I mean this is pretty self-evident unless you're a prostitute, but I thought I'd throw it in.
9. Don't be a prostitute.
10. Make your intentions clear. If you don't want a man to have sex with you, say, "I would not like to have sex with you, thank you." If he still wants to have sex with you, say, "No, really, I do not want to." If he persists, shout "NO!" and knee him in the testicles. If he doesn't get the message, scream for help and try to run away. If, after all, this, he still ends up having sex with you - well you obviously weren't clear enough, try harder next time.
If young women take these tips on board and follow them closely, then I feel confident that with a little bit of commonsense and community spirit, we can move towards a future where young women don't feel unsafe when they leave the house, young men don't feel guilty for their perfectly normal biological urges/crimes, and the heinous act of rape is eliminated from our society except for those times when really what else would you expect?
Happy not being raped!
This was very gratifying, of course, but I have recently come to the realisation that my job was only half-finished. I had addressed one side of the equation - men - but what of the other side? What of women? I guess it was the commonsense, firm-yet-fair, down-to-earth, nitty-gritty, wise advice provided to young women by NSW Police Commissioner Andrew Scipione that brought this home to me. His sage council to young women to tell their friends if they plan to have sex, so their friends can stop them having sex if they don't want to, or help them have sex if they do want to, or join in if a passing video producer pays them to, really drove home to me how neglectful I've been.
Sure, I thought to myself, I've provided useful advice to men on how to stop being rapists, but what about women? Don't they need useful advice too? After all, as Paul Mercurio tells us, it takes two to tango, and likewise doesn't it also take two to rape? I'm pretty sure it does - you never see the headline "Man rapes nobody" in the papers - and so I feel I should apologise for my oversight. But nobody can ever accuse me of being a man who doesn't correct his oversights, and so I hereby present:
HOW NOT TO BE RAPED: A HANDY GUIDE FOR MODERN WOMEN AND ALSO THEIR FRIENDS
1. When you meet a rapist, try to stay away from him.
2. Learn to idenfity rapists. You can do this through some canny questioning. Like for example you could ask, "Are you a rapist?" If the rapist is clever he'll see through that though, so you might have to ask more subtle questions, like, "Would you like me to have some Milo?" or "Are you a professional football team?"
3. Avoid men in general. Most women are raped by men, so it's important that a woman who doesn't want to be raped stays well away from men. It's a bit like cats and meat: if a piece of meat walked into a cat's mouth, would you blame the cat for eating it? Like in The Empire Strikes Back, when they fly into that alien thing's mouth. Do you blame the alien for swallowing the Millennium Falcon? No, it is Princess Leia's fault for wearing that bikini. That's an important lesson to remember. If you, as a woman, choose to conduct your activites in the same location as men, you must accept the consequences. If you're going to hang around penises, don't be surprised when penises do what penises do. Men in general have poor impulse control and will under most circumstances have sex three or four times a day whether they want to or not. If you HAVE to associate with a man, for business reasons or because he is your father, wear a wetsuit.
4. Don't be unconscious.
5. Keep an eye on your drink. Research shows a lot of women are raped after leaving their drink unguarded, or as this is known in legal terms, "consenting to sexual intercourse". If YOU don't want to be raped, make sure you have an eye on your drink at ALL times, and avoid flirtatiously allowing strangers to drop pills in it. Even better, drink from a bottle. Or don't drink at all - koalas gain all their hydration from eucalyptus leaves, and koalas are rarely considered slutty. Except that one who died of chlamydia. Point is, if you avoid drinking fluids of any kind, you can avoid that awkward situation where a reasonable person might interpret your unknowingly ingesting a foreign substance which renders you incapable of resistance to violent sexual acts as something of a "come-on".
6. Dress appropriately. Studies show that over 90% of rape victims were raped when wearing some kind of "clothing", which strongly suggests that clothing plays a massive part in rapists' selection of their victims, or "partners", as they are called when wearing midriff tops. It is important that any woman who doesn't want to be raped avoids wearing any type of clothing that sends the message that she is "up for it". This is difficult, obviously, because as noted above, if a woman wasn't up for it why would she be hanging around near men anyway, knowing full well that men like to have sex? But as long as a woman avoids wearing low-cut tops, short skirts, short shorts, tight jeans, figure-hugging sweaters, loose sweaters, long skirts, skivvies, baggy pants, neck-to-knee swimming costumes, policewoman uniforms, or any item of clothing that provides any clue as to the woman's general shape, she can be fairly certain that her behaviour will be considered only conditional consent by the legal system. Which ties nicely into the next point.
7. Do not draw attention to your femininity. Most people who raped women admit that before raping the woman, they wanted to rape a woman. It is therefore vital when out in public that women don't make a big deal about being a woman. Try not to act too much like a woman - don't go around washing dishes or shopping. It can be a good idea to strap your breasts down and cut your hair short in an attempt to pass as a petite teenage boy. But some people consider that extreme - it's more important just to direct conversation away from the fact you are a woman. If you see a man lurking nearby, try to ward him off by casually remarking, "Goodness, I'm having a nice time out today - it's probably my lack of oestrogen making me feel so good"; or, "I wonder what having a vagina is like, because I certainly don't know!" In fact it is always VITAL to prevent people's focus being directed toward your vagina - reputable opinion polls indicate over 60% of people consider a rape victim was "asking for it" if she was found to be in deliberate possession of a vagina.
8. Don't go out alone. I mean this is pretty self-evident unless you're a prostitute, but I thought I'd throw it in.
9. Don't be a prostitute.
10. Make your intentions clear. If you don't want a man to have sex with you, say, "I would not like to have sex with you, thank you." If he still wants to have sex with you, say, "No, really, I do not want to." If he persists, shout "NO!" and knee him in the testicles. If he doesn't get the message, scream for help and try to run away. If, after all, this, he still ends up having sex with you - well you obviously weren't clear enough, try harder next time.
If young women take these tips on board and follow them closely, then I feel confident that with a little bit of commonsense and community spirit, we can move towards a future where young women don't feel unsafe when they leave the house, young men don't feel guilty for their perfectly normal biological urges/crimes, and the heinous act of rape is eliminated from our society except for those times when really what else would you expect?
Happy not being raped!
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
IT'S TOMORROW! WILL I SEE YOU THERE? I HOPE SO THAT'D BE LOVELY!!!!
Dog’s Bar Arts Hub In conjunction with Australian Poetry
Proudly Present
Australia’s First Ever
Climate Change Poetry Slam
Friday 7th October 7pm@St Kilda MeMo Theatre
Proudly Present
Australia’s First Ever
Climate Change Poetry Slam
Friday 7th October 7pm@St Kilda MeMo Theatre
MC’ed by The Age’s TV apostle, Superchef author and twitter-philosopher BEN POBJIE, with Guests Crikey cartoonist FIRST DOG ON THE MOON, HELEN RAZER, SHANE MALONEY, LOU SANZ, RRR'S BEN BIRCHALL, Queen of the Spoken Word, EMILIE ZOEY BAKER, professional wrestling superstar KRACKERJAK THE MADBASTARD with special guests , Q&A guest poet and hip hop legend OMAR MUSA, MIGHTY JOE and many more including a surprise guest AUSTRALIAN GREENS SENATOR SCOTT LUDLUM who will be reading the poetry of Bob Brown!
Yes the poetry will be fast, funny, sexy, sad, slow, scintillating, even possibly dreadful, but it will never be boring. Brace yourself for surprise cartoons, magic tricks, juggling and potential nudity.
The Slam will take place at the historic St Kilda MeMo theatre, a glorious throwback to the 1920’s with a rumoured resident ghost and two fully stocked bars.
When: Friday 7th October @7 pm
Where: St Kilda MeMo Theatre, 88 Acland St Kilda
Tickets: $15 Concession/Online Booking, $20 at the door
All net proceeds will go to the Sacred Heart Mission who work closely with our homeless community.
Thursday, September 29, 2011
Pobjie Poetry Month Day 30 - FINAL POEM - Title Courtesy Of @johncarneyau
Is It Too Late?
Unexpected
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
Unexpected
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.
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
Me
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?
Yes
No
And undecided
Who is me?
I don't know
You tell me
Who is me?
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?
Yes
No
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
Bunnies
What the fuck is up with that?
Carrots?
Am I right?
Bunnies.
Word.
The End
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
Bunnies
What the fuck is up with that?
Carrots?
Am I right?
Bunnies.
Word.
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.
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
Sisters
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?
Probably
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
Wait
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
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?
Probably
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
Wait
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
THE LUCAS THING
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:
OPEN: LONG-SHOT, LARS FAMILY HOMESTEAD
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.
LUKE
Hey Aunt Beru, what's shakin'?
BERU
Darth Vader is coming! I read it in my crystal ball!
She holds up her crystal ball, which speaks in a funky Negro voice.
CRYSTAL BALL
Sho' 'nuff!
LUKE
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
DOGBERT
Ruh-roh!
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
INT. DEATH STAR
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.
TARKIN
So we captured the princess, Lord Vader?
VADER
NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
TARKIN
What?
VADER
Sorry, I mean, yes, we did.
TARKIN
Well we better get her to talk then.
VADER
Yes I will use the Force on her.
TARKIN
LOL! The Force! Epic fail! You can't use the Force, roflcopter!
VADER
NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO why not?
TARKIN
Maybe I can explain it like this...
ENTER the MAX REBO BAND to accompany Tarkin's musical number.
TARKIN
When you're fighting against all those nasty rebels
MAX REBO BAND
(nasty rebels!
TARKIN
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!
MAX REBO BAND
(use the Force!)
TARKIN
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
EXT. CAESAR'S PALACE, LAS VEGAS
VADER, JAR JAR BINKS and DANNY OCEAN lounge by the pool
JAR JAR BINKS
Yousa give meesa one millions dollarees for just-a one night with meesa Sith Lord?
VADER
NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
OK maybe I didn't have to finish.
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:
OPEN: LONG-SHOT, LARS FAMILY HOMESTEAD
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.
LUKE
Hey Aunt Beru, what's shakin'?
BERU
Darth Vader is coming! I read it in my crystal ball!
She holds up her crystal ball, which speaks in a funky Negro voice.
CRYSTAL BALL
Sho' 'nuff!
LUKE
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
DOGBERT
Ruh-roh!
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
INT. DEATH STAR
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.
TARKIN
So we captured the princess, Lord Vader?
VADER
NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
TARKIN
What?
VADER
Sorry, I mean, yes, we did.
TARKIN
Well we better get her to talk then.
VADER
Yes I will use the Force on her.
TARKIN
LOL! The Force! Epic fail! You can't use the Force, roflcopter!
VADER
NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO why not?
TARKIN
Maybe I can explain it like this...
ENTER the MAX REBO BAND to accompany Tarkin's musical number.
TARKIN
When you're fighting against all those nasty rebels
MAX REBO BAND
(nasty rebels!
TARKIN
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!
MAX REBO BAND
(use the Force!)
TARKIN
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
EXT. CAESAR'S PALACE, LAS VEGAS
VADER, JAR JAR BINKS and DANNY OCEAN lounge by the pool
JAR JAR BINKS
Yousa give meesa one millions dollarees for just-a one night with meesa Sith Lord?
VADER
NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
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.
(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
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?
Yeah
Knobs
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?
Yeah
Knobs
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.
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!
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.
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 no...you'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.
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 no...you'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
Rotundas
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
nothing
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
nothing
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
Tomorrow
But right now I need another drink
Right now I just can't say
But we'll be OK
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
Tomorrow
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
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
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