Ballad Of The Skeletons (Australia Day Remix)

Said the prime minister skeleton, watch me gloat
Said the immigration skeleton, stop that boat
Said the education skeleton, kids are dumb
Said the Treasurer skeleton, I want my mum
Said the broadband skeleton, these wires are fine
Said the iron ore skeleton, it's all fucking mine
Said the medical skeleton, pay these fees
Said the backbencher skeleton, take my wife - please!

Said the talkback skeleton, it's an outrage
Said the Centrelink skeleton, that's a living wage
Said the editorial skeleton, stop this stuff
Said the columnist skeleton, you're not angry enough
Said the detention centre skeleton, it's for your own good
Said the press release skeleton, if only you understood
Said the grown-up skeleton, kids have lost control
Said the children skeleton, I can't hear you, LOL




Appropriate thanks to Allen Ginsberg

A Giggle of Googs

"What are you doing, Ben?" I hear you whine nasally.

LET ME TELL YOU!

For TWO NIGHTS at the Adelaide Fringe this weekend, I'll be hosting Our Little Stories, a collection of masterful comics telling tales of various heights. Friday and Saturday, 10.45pm at Gluttony. That's right! I'm taking it ON THE ROAD. Interstate. Get into it, South Australian people, with all your eccentric half-hour time differencey ways. Tickets here.




THEN...Tuesday, February 26, I'm popping up at PUGGS IN SPACE, at Pugg Mahones, 106 Hardware St, Melbourne. The estimable Anne Edmonds is MCing, and besides me you'll see the legendary Geraldine Hickey, the radiant Adam Knox, and MORE. Kicks off at 8.30pm

And guys it's FREE! Say hello!




And oh my God it KEEPS ON COMING! March 5 I'll be getting distinctly wordy at BAR STANZA, at the Owl and the Pussycat, 34 Swan St, Richmond. I'll be getting back to my spoken-word roots as part of a killer line-up including Sean M. Whelan, Steve Smart, and host divine Anthony WP O' Sullivan! Can you even believe that? Doors open at 7.30pm, it's only $5, how can you lose?





You won't believe this, but there's STILL MORE. March 13! Comedy at 59! Station 59, at 59 Church St, Richmond! That's a lot of 59s! Stone-cold stand-up guys! It starts at 8! It's free! That means NO MONEY. Look it up, that's what it means!




And oh wow, the VERY NEXT NIGHT I am becoming extremely LITERARY and also CONVERSATIONAL, talking to the genius philosopher and author Damon Young about his book Philosophy in the Garden. This is ESSENTIAL for fans of THINKING and READING. It's at Readings Hawthorn - book here!



Oh no, we're not stopping yet you guys. Gonna be throwing some MORE POETRY at you, on April 6. Come down to the Dan O'Connell in Carlton at 2pm for an afternoon of words and raucous guffaws. Poetry at the Dan is a Melbourne institution, and I'll be your featured poet, leading you through the windmills of my mind. Get in there, sons and daughters!




But of course ALL of the above is a mere aperitif, for some VERY serious business - the business of the MELBOURNE INTERNATIONAL COMEDY FESTIVAL. It's a festival full of brilliant people doing brilliant stuff, and I promise you some of that brilliant stuff will be happening in darkest Fitzroy, in the sweet, warm surrounds of Gertrude's Brown Couch, where I shall be reprising my splendid little Fringe show, Let's Put On A Show. FOR SIX NIGHTS ONLY, it's bigger, it's better, it changes EVERY SINGLE NIGHT as I take my cue from what YOU want me to talk about, and we create an award-winning show together! If you missed it at the Fringe, don't miss it again! If you saw it at the Fringe, no two nights are the same, so come see it once more! In fact, why not see it SIX times more? That's right - come along to every show and win a fabulous prize probably! Information and tickets HERE, I would sincerely love to see you all there. Even you, Anonymous.

That's a LOT of gigs, guys, and a LOT of chance to see me, hear my mellifluous tones, and pry into the deeper recesses of my psyche. It's gonna be fun, my friends, I will see you there. And there. And there. And...

Ode To Bob

O Bob where will we go from here without you there to soothe our worried minds and tell us everything will be all right?
Who will lead us from the darkness to the light?

O Bob how will we cope now that you can no longer show us the wondrousness of nature and help us understand the trees?

Who'll tell us about the birds and also the bees?

My eyes are blinded by darkness because the beacon of hope is gone

Gone from the Senate

Gone from my life

It is as if a candle burning in my bosom for so long

Has been snuffed out by a falling seagull

That is what it is like

O Bob

O Bob

Bob

Bob

Bob

Are you listening Bob?

Over here

Bob you taught us many things

How to save the earth

How to be a responsible citizen

How to tie knots and make simple yet nutritious meals on a budget

You taught me how to ride a bike and catch a fish

I'll always remember you for that Bob

For that, and for your amazing marksmanship

O Bob you killed sixteen Germans single-handed in a trench

How did you do that Bob?

And why?

How does grace and anger, poise and violence, peace and homicide

Co-exist?

O Bob

You will be missed

I will miss your voice and your laugh

Your kind words and your gentle hand

Your billowing cape and your flaxen hair

O Bob I love you

We all love you

Please don't go

Stay here and together we will stockpile canned goods

Forever and ever

O Bob

(fade to incoherence)

Brecht and Coleridge

"Ah, well-played, sir, well-played indeed!" The mellifluous baritone rang throughout the drawing room as Bertolt Brecht, playwright, poet, and champion middle distance runner placed the tray of marzipan delights in front of his friend, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, poet, lover, and foster mother.

"Did you hear that?" said Brecht, a nervous look in his eye as he sank into the deep folds of the comfortable couch.

"Hear what, sir?" boomed Coleridge, reaching for a treat and licking his lips, less in anticipation than in unstoppable nerve spasm.

"I could have sworn I just heard a mellifluous baritone," said Brecht. "It told me 'well-played, sir'"

"Ah, you Germans are a cunning bunch," said Coleridge, lifting his cup and pouring tea down his neck. "That was me, sir, complimenting you on that clever move you performed, placing the tray upon the table at the precise psychological tipping point. Quite an advantage you have over me, I think you'll agree."

Brecht studied the undercover poet intensely, noting well the curve of his neck, the cleft of his chin. In some ways, he thought to himself, man is little more than a cow with an aptitude for algebra. In some ways. He spoke:"It was prophesied that I would be killed by a man with a mellifluous baritone."

"I don't see how," Coleridge punctuated himself by quickly hemming his trousers, "a mellifluous baritone makes a poor choice of weapon. I once attempted to assassinate a Maharajah with my mellifluous baritone. He suffered only a superficial flesh wound and shot me in the knees."

Brecht was silent a moment, contemplating the futility of struggling against the machine. Sometimes he thought things would have been much simpler if he had been born a magical talking cushion. Sometimes. He spoke again:"Erst komm das Fressen," he said urgently, squinting hard at Coleridge, and leaning forward.

Coleridge hesitated. He had suspected this might be where it was all leading. When Brecht had invited him up to his room, he had accepted, not out of eagerness for company, but from respect for the bond they had forged with each other in Korea. But now, with Brecht's hand strongly massaging his thigh, he realised his initial instincts had been right: Brecht had invited him here to speak German at him."What does that mean?" he asked, reaching inside his sweater and removing his brassiere through an armhole so as to keep the mood light.

"It means, 'now we dance, tomorrow we urinate'," replied Brecht, sucking Coleridge's ear.

"FILTHY LIAR!" screamed Coleridge, leaping up and upsetting the marzipan. "It means nothing of the sort!"As quickly as it had come, the flash of rage passed, and Coleridge smiled pleasantly at his companion and took up a seat on the windowsill, contemplating the quadrangle."Do you sometimes feel, Bertie, that we are not doing enough?"

"What do you mean, enough?" replied Brecht, furtively. Coleridge turned from the window and saw Brecht attempting to climb into the kettle. He sighed. This happened so often these days he was beginning to regard it as part of the daily routine. Walking across the room, he yanked Brecht's head from the steaming jug and rubbed his hair with a towel. Brecht gasped. "You shouldn't have done that," he wailed. "Death is the only answer for me, I fear."

"Come, come," said Coleridge. "That's no way to talk. Talk like this instead," and he demonstrated with a low guttural moaning. Brecht tried it, and his mood imediately lifted.

"This IS fun!" he chuckled, capering about like a schoolboy. "Wunderbar!"

Coleridge laughed like a carefree schoolgirl, until he glanced once more out of the window. Ducking down, he hissed, "Stop it!"

"Why?" cackled Brecht. "I've never felt so alive! MOoooooo! MooooooO!" he warbled, twisting his nipples as he scampered onto the top of the bookcase.

"Stop it, man! This is serious!" Coleridge barked. "We've attracted humpback whales! They're in the quadrangle, bumming cigarettes."

Brecht sighed and climbed down. He perched once more on the sofa and mournfully vomited into Coleridge's teacup. "They will only get cancer," he said. "In the end, everyone gets cancer."

"This is true," Coleridge nodded. "I've had it six times this year, and frankly it's getting a bit much." Brecht nodded back, and so they proceeded in this fashion for several hours, bobbing their heads like deranged budgerigars, neither one willing to break down and mention the real cause of their dissatisaction. Deep down, both of them knew that the summer in Lesotho was weighing them down intolerably.

Eventually, the silence had to be broken. The detergent man was at the door, demanding he be paid for this week's detergent. Brecht dutifully slipped him a fifty, and sent him on his way with a tender kiss. Returning to his chair, he mournfully wrote a pessimistic modernist play and ate it without fanfare. In the opposite corner, Coleridge was talking animatedly on his mobile phone. Snapping it shut, he stormed across the floor. "Dammit! The Atkins account just fell through!" he raged.

"What's the Atkins account?" asked Brecht timidly, a pen up each nostril.

"Oh, I've no idea," said Coleridge, so airily that a ballon emerged from his ear. "I just like to occasionally shout that it's fallen through. It's a hobby."

"I thought poetry was your hobby."

"Oh no, poetry is my PASSION," corrected Coleridge genially, taking half an hour to punch Brecht repeatedly in the head for daring to say such a thing. "Poetry is my LIFE. I wrote one just the other day. It's about raccoons. Would you like to hear it?"

"I would rather be raped at gunpoint by a syphilitic anteater while a mountain lion slowly ate my head," said Brecht, with his usual suave Bavarian charm.

"Oh good, here it is then," Coleridge assumed a splay-legged stance, threw his head sideways and took on the facial appearance of a paralysed toad, his normal recitation pose. He began:

I have come, said the spider crab,
To bring you great news
News that will fill you with joy
For unto us a king is born
A great fat ugly dibbly boy

The spider crab proceeded to leap on the rocks
And do an amusing little dance
And all who saw him were sore amazed
And set fire to each other's pants

I have come, said the spider crab,
Not to abolish, but to complete,
To complete the undertakings of yore
Wackle wackle doodle, piffle goggle blee,
Slampitskin greddle weddle CAW!

Entirely spent, Coleridge spun around and shouted, "Lawks!" before collapsing on top of Brecht's meticulously constructed Lego pirate ship.

The next few hours were spent in hostile silence, Coleridge avoiding Brecht's gimlet gaze and Brecht tattooing Persian swearwords on his penis. The first to speak was Coleridge. He cleared his throat, using a catheter, and addressed his old friend in a high, reedy voice, apparently in an attempt to impersonate Glynis Johns.

"I saw Gerard Manley Hopkins the other day," he said.

"Oh yes," said Brecht. "How is he? Still a hopeless old drunk?"

"He's looking very well. Tanned. He just came back from Pakistan. He's got a girlfriend over there. Met her on the internet."

"Mein gott. How did he manage that?"

"Apparently she's morbidly obese, but very creative in bed."

"How so?"

"She makes cheese sandwiches in there. Got a jaffle maker hooked up to the electric blanket. Hopkins says it's divine. Anyway, they were going to be married, but they were caught having sex and she was stoned to death." Coleridge demonstrated how it would have looked like with a short and amusing mime.

"That's terrible," Brecht put on his "sad" hat, to indicate that he was sad. "How's he taking it?"

"Oh, he said c'est la vie."

"He's philosophical about it?"

"No, he just likes to prove he can speak French. Anyway, that's not what I wanted to tell you. Hopkins took me aside in the tavern and told me in confidence that he recently realised he doesn't actually like dappled things at all."

Brecht nearly leapt out of his seat, and then nearly had a stroke, and very nearly exploded. "WHAT?"

"He said, and I quote, Dappled things, they're rubbish, innit?"

Brecht fanned himself with a nearby otter. "I don't believe it, I just...all these years, he's been living a lie."

"He told me not say anything, he said it might ruin the Welsh economy." Brecht nodded. This was typical. Gerard Manley Hopkins was a talented silversmith, a competent monk, and a wonderful lover, but if he had one weakness, it was his obsession with the Welsh economy. If he had two weaknesses, it was the hideous growths the sides of his head which made him look like an eland. But Brecht tried not to think about that. It reminded him too much of the pain he carried inside him every day. On an impulse, he decided to confide in Coleridge.

"Samuel," he said, haltingly, "I have a great pain inside me, and I think it is something you need to know. Es tut mir leid, but I did something a few Jahren back which I am not particularly proud of."

"Is this the Vin Diesel thing again?" said Coleridge, yawning with barely disguised contempt and a completely disguised midget submarine.

"No, no, it's much worse," said Brecht, crying into his cornflakes.

"Where did you get those cornflakes?" roared Coleridge, his anger as sudden and terrifying as a summer's day or a delicate dandelion, perhaps even more so. Certainly more sudden than a dandelion. It is in fact difficult to imagine in what way a dandelion could be thought of as "sudden".

Brecht shrunk into his seat. "I bought them earlier."

"GIVE THEM TO ME!" screamed Coleridge, in a blind, unstoppable rage, hurling books and pot plants at his hapless Teutonic chum. Brecht cried and cried, shrieking for him to stop, promising him everything, and in the end, as always, it ended in a sweaty, passionate embrace, naked on the floor, exploring each other's bodies with remorseful passion. "I'm sorry," sobbed Coleridge. "Cornflakes, they just..."

"I know," Brecht soothed, stroking his hair. "They set you off." Indeed they did. Coleridge and cornflakes had had an uneasy relationship, ever since at the age of six he had watched his mother run off with Will Kellogg, and his father run off with a bag of pears, only to return shamefaced and admit he did not actually know the way to his car. From that day forth, young Samuel's father had forced him to eat cornflakes three times every day, for the next sixteen years. "We must confront our demons!" Coleridge senior would screech maniacally, shovelling more crunchy golden leaves of doom into his son's bowl. "Strength through indomitability! Here, have some milk!" he would hiss, throwing carton after carton at the boy's head. Poetry was Samuel's way of dealing with the nightmarish reality of his childhood. At that stage, he didn't actually write poetry, but he had sneaked a copy of the collected works of Emily Dickinson from the school storage cupboard, and every night, he would take the precious volume from his bedside table and lie beneath the covers, thrilling at the strange new emotions which awoke in him when he rubbed the book vigorously between his thighs. Coleridge often described those times as the happiest of his life, although when pressed further he would crumble and admit that in fact they were unspeakably awful and he wanted to kill himself whenever he thought of them. Eventually, his mother had returned, full of exciting stories about high society in Vienna, flaunting her newly acquired oboe-playing ability and kicking Samuel in the stomach at regular intervals. His father degenerated further and further into madness, until ten years ago he had planted himself in the backyard and begun to produce figs from his armpits.

"Anyway," said the undercover poet, covering his nakedness with his trenchcoat, the warm afterglow making him strangely shy, "what was it you wanted to tell me?"

"Oh yes..." Brecht hesitated. Did he really dare? He thought back to his days in the hospital in Munich. Proper equipment had been in short supply. He hadn't flinched at the thought of using a harpoon to remove a patient's spleen, even when it was completely medically unnecessary. He could not flinch now. He took a deep breath and inhaled a bee.

Five hours later, in his hospital bed, Brecht looked up at the swarthy Adonis holding his hand, smiling and reciting a new epic poem about parsnips, and realised how lucky he was to have found a true friend. Across the ward, some head trauma patients were performing an impromptu rendition of The Threepenny Opera. Bertolt smiled indulgently. Let them have their fun. After all, who's to say Mack The Knife wouldn't be better with several verses concerning a mischievous juggling rabbit? Not he, that's for sure. "Nicht mich," he murmured sleepily. "Nicht mich."

And now, the secret didn't seem so terrible and daunting after all. "Sam," he said, trying to focus on Coleridge, the task made difficult by the poet's insistence on running back and forth past the bed at high speed, squeaking loudly. "Sam, I'm ready to tell you what's been bothering me for so long..." he coughed, for no reason. "You...you remember New year's Eve 1946?"

"How could I forget?" grinned Coleridge, swigging from his Gatorade bottle.

"Yes, well...after the party was over, you'd fallen asleep on the couch."

"Ha ha ha," said Coleridge in an oddly unconvincing manner. "I was so drunk. Whatever possessed me to liquefy those Jessie Matthews records?"

"Yes, well...while you were asleep, I sort of...."

"Yes?" Coleridge was nude with anticipation.

"I set you up on your hands and knees, dressed you as a Dalmatian and took photos of you with Kurt Weill's testicles in your mouth."

Coleridge gazed levelly at Brecht. "I see."

"Then Kurt played the piano and we wrote a song together called Samuel Taylor Coleridge The Big Flabby Girlie Man, Let's All Shove Things Up Him'" Brecht looked carefully at his friend. "It went to number one in Japan, it made us both millionaires. Every night I call him up and we laugh at how much fun it was to humiliate you because you're so stupid and we hate you so much. We did that last night for hours. I hope you're not angry about this."

In many ways, this marked the beginning of the deterioration of their friendship.

A Poem In Honour Of The President's Visit

Barack Obama rhymes with armour
Because he shields us from our fears

Barack Obama rhymes with calmer
Because I am always calmer when he is around

Barack Obama rhymes with farmer
Because he tends his people and raises freedom and democracy from the soil

Barack Obama rhymes with chicken parma
Because he is cloaked in the cheese of nobility and the tomato sauce of joy

Barack Obama rhymes with banana in pyjama
Because he is long and yellow and chases teddy bears

Barack Obama rhymes with Dalai Lama
Because he is an elderly Tibetan man

Yes, Barack Obama rhymes with llama
Because he is surefooted and carrying our dreams up the Andes

And also, the fur.

You'll See Things In A Different Way

You know Liner Notes. You love Liner Notes. But you wish it would come along more than once a year. And you wish there was an opportunity for you to see Liner Notes tackle their classic albums more than once, because you missed out on tickets last year.

OH MY GOODNESS THIS IS GOOD NEWS FOR YOU

Liner Notes: Fleetwood Mac's Rumours is BACK



Featuring ME, and also:

Cate Kennedy
Lawrence Leung
Carrie Rudzinski
Emilie Zoey Baker
Sean M. Whelan
Omar Musa
Josh Earl
Alicia Sometimes
George Dunford
Eva Johansen

Showing you Rumours as you've never been shown Rumours before!

You never did believe in the ways of magic? I've got a feeling it's time to try.

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

Come join us as we raise a toast to spring (while we still have distinct seasons)! Feel free to laugh, boo, cheer and celebrate the poetic as we contemplate the demise of our planet! Rhyming optional.

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

www.stkildamemo.com.au

All net proceeds will go to the Sacred Heart Mission who work closely with our homeless community.

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

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?

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

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

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

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.

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.

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?
Yeah
Knobs

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.

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

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

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