I'm a transgendered bogan
The first of my kind
And I don't truck no bullshit
I make bushpigs look divine
So put on the music
Wolf mother, Metallica
SH..Sh..Sh.Sharon
Ozzy Osbourne
And look for me
In pub's carpark
Vomiting
Like a woodpecker
On meth or was that ice
Using me spew
To lubricate my arse
And if yer looking for a fight
I've got me lebo boys
Rocking in the toilets
So you can fuck off
Unless yer buying
Two dozen pots later
Then I'll go skydiving
With me parachute open
And me knickers flying
With yer cock as stiff
As a drag queen's hairdo
We'll hump and bump
While I roll a smoke
I'll text me girlfriends
While yer still inside
'What a lousy fuck'
Then I'll sweetly say
Between my belching
You were great
Pinch yer wallet
Grab a cab
Go to sleep
Till I wake up
Then do it all
Once again
Tomorrow night.
tree at the end of the world
Monday, January 24, 2011
TIDES OF TIME
I die for you
Each and every time
A new day dawns
Spreading its fiery fingers
Across the world
Caressing the darkness
Into shadows
Within those shadows
I must hide
Beware
The noonday light
Fear that blinding eye
That rips and tears
And burns away
The cool of the night
And so I hide
A shade within a shade
Thus I wait
For Twilight
When we will
Embrace once more
You the dusk
And I the dawn
And so I die for you
Each and every time
A new day dawns
Each and every time
A new day dawns
Spreading its fiery fingers
Across the world
Caressing the darkness
Into shadows
Within those shadows
I must hide
Beware
The noonday light
Fear that blinding eye
That rips and tears
And burns away
The cool of the night
And so I hide
A shade within a shade
Thus I wait
For Twilight
When we will
Embrace once more
You the dusk
And I the dawn
And so I die for you
Each and every time
A new day dawns
Monday, January 10, 2011
BABIES OF FROZEN FAN SOCIETY
They tried to silence me, but no one can silence the truth. Within the confines of the Sircuit's smokers' area I, yes I stumbled upon an insidious cult that worships the unmoving fan. Every Sunday night after the second drag show these cultists gather in a circle directly beneath the fan in the smokers' area. They light cigarettes and skull schooners in a black arts ritualistic manner, and then mumble and laugh in a very sinister way. I got close enough to observe them frothing from their mouths. I pointed this out to a fellow patron but he wouldn't accept the TRUTH. He claimed the froth was from the beer they were drinking. I quickly realized he was a cultist as well I tipped my drink on him making it look like an accident and I swiftly moved to another section of the smokers' area, haha.
I decided to shadow the cultists every movement and action. After hours of drinking in the line of duty I uncovered their aims and their sick dastardly beliefs. They call themselves the 'Babies Of the Frozen Fan Society' or BOFFS which is more convenient and rolls off the tongue far easier I think, don't you? The BOFFS believe that if the fan starts turning a portal will open and demons from the realm of bogan will pour in screaming "Ahhh, hon" and "Mayyyte, spare us a dollar so I get home on the train (sniff)," and the drink specials will cease to exist.
The BOFFS claim they are guarding the fan from devious individuals who will not stop at anything to make the fan spin. BOFFS told me that this group of devious individuals call themselves Quad En Gres. At first I dismissed it, but later I changed my mind began to investigate. I started by asking a fellow traveller whose parents are of Brunswick extraction if he knew what Quad En Gres meant. He didn't know but he told me to speak to a drag queen because drag queens still speak the oldest language on earth and that Quad En Gres sounded very sequinese; the ancient language of drag queens.
After searching high and low I found a drag queen and I confront her and said, "Quad En Gres." and she replied, "Girl," waving her fingers like the old queen mother of England to her butler for another sherry, "you need a makeover, a lobotomy and nine hundred mils of Botox in your lips until they are large sensual and they don't move.' I pleaded with her that the safety of the world depended on me finding out what, Quad En Gres meant. I was in tears and then she whispered into my ear, "The cool breeze through the reeds to the sand bar after the show,' and don't ever speak those words aloud." I asked her if Quad En Gres could be secret society and told me, "Get a life, girl or take a walk up stairs and fucken stop touching my hair." I realized the BOFFS had lied and manipulated me.
I had been used and I needed time to think. After three schooners and giving Buddha a groin and belly rub for good luck ( I didn't know Buddha had so many tattoos on his body) I went to confront the BOFFS. First, I bought schooner from a Mohawk, skirt wearing barman who pointed towards a small bearded man wearing a top hat, snake skin leather vest and cat skin gloves, da da, dada, da da. He was standing next to the stage in most provocative way. (Well I just wanted to make it rhyme at this point in time.)
So I walked up to this top hat wearing guy and he said to me, Nothing! Well, the security escorted him out of the Sircuit because his cat skin gloves were actually a pair of kittens strapped to his hands and patrons had been complaining. They had been complaining that the kittens were too drunk and had started scratching lesbian couples who came within paw reach.
I bought another drink and casually made my way to the smokers' area. After pushing my way through packed bodies and knocking drinks out drinkers hands I saw them. The BOFFS were in their circle beneath the fan, chanting, mumbling and frothing at their mouths. There in the centre of the BOFFS was a table; a round table. In the centre of the table was a black small sacrificial bowl. I had to act. I broke through the BOFFS' circle, leapt onto the table and banged my head against the fan. As I slowly floated back down to the floor I smiled as the fan began to turn. Then darkness.
I woke to hands rummaging through the pocket of my coat and sound of a whining female voice, "Hon, I think the fat freak's waking up (sniffff). I slowly opened my eyes to be confronted by a skinny, semi-toothless guy wearing a Metallica T-shirt and he said to me, "Hey, man, dude, thing I was just looking for your ID. Yerrr were out cold. You look better now. I was gonna call cops. Hey, now your better, spare us couple a coins, see me girl 'ear, she pregnant and we've got to get to the hospital." I looked up at his girlfriend and there she stood with dyed blonde straggly hair with black-roots like weeds in drug dealers front lawn, and a half empty pint of beer in her hand.
I stood up and looked around. The smoker's area was filled with bogans. A woman wearing a workmen's shirt unbuttoned slurred at me, "Yer look at me man again and I'll kick da shit out of yer." I turned away while having a glance at her man (if man is what you could call him. He was shaved bald with cross thatched razor blade marks across his scone. Teeth that would be more at home on an old worn out piano key board.) He was a walking mess.
There I was trapped in bogan heaven and then it started. Chorus of hundreds of voices saying, "Hon, yer slag, yer looking at me maaate, yer a poofter or what skull yer beer yer bastard," on and on it went. I had to do something. Once more I leapt onto the table and punch the fan until it stopped. There were screams and mumbles of spare me a coin as the bogans melted away like Bailey's Irish Cream on hot Sunday afternoon out the front of a suburban milkbar. I blacked out again.
I woke up with two guys helping me to stand up. The Sircuit was back to normal. I tried telling the BOFFS what had happened, but they laughed and one of them bought me drink. I tried telling people what had occurred but no one would believe me. In the end I took my drink and sat on stool next to the open window and I stared out onto Smith Street. There on the other side of the street was a bogan couple. The woman yelled at me, "Yer still looking at me man." DA, DA, DA!
I decided to shadow the cultists every movement and action. After hours of drinking in the line of duty I uncovered their aims and their sick dastardly beliefs. They call themselves the 'Babies Of the Frozen Fan Society' or BOFFS which is more convenient and rolls off the tongue far easier I think, don't you? The BOFFS believe that if the fan starts turning a portal will open and demons from the realm of bogan will pour in screaming "Ahhh, hon" and "Mayyyte, spare us a dollar so I get home on the train (sniff)," and the drink specials will cease to exist.
The BOFFS claim they are guarding the fan from devious individuals who will not stop at anything to make the fan spin. BOFFS told me that this group of devious individuals call themselves Quad En Gres. At first I dismissed it, but later I changed my mind began to investigate. I started by asking a fellow traveller whose parents are of Brunswick extraction if he knew what Quad En Gres meant. He didn't know but he told me to speak to a drag queen because drag queens still speak the oldest language on earth and that Quad En Gres sounded very sequinese; the ancient language of drag queens.
After searching high and low I found a drag queen and I confront her and said, "Quad En Gres." and she replied, "Girl," waving her fingers like the old queen mother of England to her butler for another sherry, "you need a makeover, a lobotomy and nine hundred mils of Botox in your lips until they are large sensual and they don't move.' I pleaded with her that the safety of the world depended on me finding out what, Quad En Gres meant. I was in tears and then she whispered into my ear, "The cool breeze through the reeds to the sand bar after the show,' and don't ever speak those words aloud." I asked her if Quad En Gres could be secret society and told me, "Get a life, girl or take a walk up stairs and fucken stop touching my hair." I realized the BOFFS had lied and manipulated me.
I had been used and I needed time to think. After three schooners and giving Buddha a groin and belly rub for good luck ( I didn't know Buddha had so many tattoos on his body) I went to confront the BOFFS. First, I bought schooner from a Mohawk, skirt wearing barman who pointed towards a small bearded man wearing a top hat, snake skin leather vest and cat skin gloves, da da, dada, da da. He was standing next to the stage in most provocative way. (Well I just wanted to make it rhyme at this point in time.)
So I walked up to this top hat wearing guy and he said to me, Nothing! Well, the security escorted him out of the Sircuit because his cat skin gloves were actually a pair of kittens strapped to his hands and patrons had been complaining. They had been complaining that the kittens were too drunk and had started scratching lesbian couples who came within paw reach.
I bought another drink and casually made my way to the smokers' area. After pushing my way through packed bodies and knocking drinks out drinkers hands I saw them. The BOFFS were in their circle beneath the fan, chanting, mumbling and frothing at their mouths. There in the centre of the BOFFS was a table; a round table. In the centre of the table was a black small sacrificial bowl. I had to act. I broke through the BOFFS' circle, leapt onto the table and banged my head against the fan. As I slowly floated back down to the floor I smiled as the fan began to turn. Then darkness.
I woke to hands rummaging through the pocket of my coat and sound of a whining female voice, "Hon, I think the fat freak's waking up (sniffff). I slowly opened my eyes to be confronted by a skinny, semi-toothless guy wearing a Metallica T-shirt and he said to me, "Hey, man, dude, thing I was just looking for your ID. Yerrr were out cold. You look better now. I was gonna call cops. Hey, now your better, spare us couple a coins, see me girl 'ear, she pregnant and we've got to get to the hospital." I looked up at his girlfriend and there she stood with dyed blonde straggly hair with black-roots like weeds in drug dealers front lawn, and a half empty pint of beer in her hand.
I stood up and looked around. The smoker's area was filled with bogans. A woman wearing a workmen's shirt unbuttoned slurred at me, "Yer look at me man again and I'll kick da shit out of yer." I turned away while having a glance at her man (if man is what you could call him. He was shaved bald with cross thatched razor blade marks across his scone. Teeth that would be more at home on an old worn out piano key board.) He was a walking mess.
There I was trapped in bogan heaven and then it started. Chorus of hundreds of voices saying, "Hon, yer slag, yer looking at me maaate, yer a poofter or what skull yer beer yer bastard," on and on it went. I had to do something. Once more I leapt onto the table and punch the fan until it stopped. There were screams and mumbles of spare me a coin as the bogans melted away like Bailey's Irish Cream on hot Sunday afternoon out the front of a suburban milkbar. I blacked out again.
I woke up with two guys helping me to stand up. The Sircuit was back to normal. I tried telling the BOFFS what had happened, but they laughed and one of them bought me drink. I tried telling people what had occurred but no one would believe me. In the end I took my drink and sat on stool next to the open window and I stared out onto Smith Street. There on the other side of the street was a bogan couple. The woman yelled at me, "Yer still looking at me man." DA, DA, DA!
Saturday, January 1, 2011
A DAY AT FILM SET
This aint the day to say
I know demons grow in algae
At the bottom of my pond
Swamp gas and donut holes
Questions no one can answer
Batman's hooked on pain
Flashbacks, but this aint Vietnam
It's a sound stage
And the director's having a breakdown
Just like my computer
It can't handle the truth
In this spoof here on planet earth
Truth and buttered nuts
Gathering with black berets
Barking at the stars
Light years from Goldilocks
Far beyond our solar plexus
Hey, this is what happens
When you spend your life pretending
Bending to every little breeze
Down by the sea the crabs debate
Quantum mechanics
And the growing hegemony
Of internet porn
I know demons grow in algae
At the bottom of my pond
Swamp gas and donut holes
Questions no one can answer
Batman's hooked on pain
Flashbacks, but this aint Vietnam
It's a sound stage
And the director's having a breakdown
Just like my computer
It can't handle the truth
In this spoof here on planet earth
Truth and buttered nuts
Gathering with black berets
Barking at the stars
Light years from Goldilocks
Far beyond our solar plexus
Hey, this is what happens
When you spend your life pretending
Bending to every little breeze
Down by the sea the crabs debate
Quantum mechanics
And the growing hegemony
Of internet porn
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