Sound and Fury by Fiona Edge

The Gypsy Anthology

The Gypsy Anthology KGB

The Gypsy Anthology Keep the Gypsy Bar (KGB)

Contents Foreword by Hal Judge and Felicity Cobcroft Introduction by Brendan Sheehan and Stephanie Kensitt S K Kelen Spike

Xtian Amor Ad Infinitum, Amen Jerry is a Madman

11 12

Cover photo by ’pling of Tribotica: Frances and Holly perform cyber experiments on Kalo at the cRaSh CaBaReT Electronic Underground night at the Gypsy Bar. Disclaimer: All creations in this Anthology represent the views of the contributors and not necessarily those of the publisher, Keep the Gypsy Bar Inc. Copyright of all contributions remains with the individual authors, artists and contributors.

Printed by Canberra Publishing and Printing, Fyshwick, Canberra Designed by DesignEdge (Fiona Edge) ISBN 0 646 39484 3

Lucy Obelisk

32 33

Gavin Mount Capital City

Gerald Keaney Introduction Wanted

Jerome Kugan Imposter

BJK The Prayer of the System

Fred Smith Rosa Bonney Boat

16 17

Jack McCracken Dogs

Leigh Walker Mosh

Simone Penkethman Coming Back to Canberra

Jens Light Sensing the Sacred

Anthony Ives To the Gypsy

Brian Hincksman Poem to an Autumn

Jean Brownlee, Marie Gordon and Maurine Rodgers Mothers

Craig Cormick Words

Louise Morris Gypsy

David Branson The G

Barb Kraaz Burnt

First published May 2000 Keep the Gypsy Bar Inc 45 Forbes Street Turner ACT 2612

James Judge One Week

Hal Judge Gypsy Ishtar’s Stockings Strangle Me Her Tongue is Sabotage Marianne Brighton A Slight Relapse Beating

18 19 20 21

22 23

Nathan Arch Crawling Toxic

Brian Easteal Jammin

Sid MacKenzie Light Felicity Cobcroft The Candidate

Friends of David Branson Tribute P J Bayliss The Welcome Arms

Dave Hodgkin I made it to Yuendumu 69 Waterhole 70 You Got that Money Story 71

49 Robin Davidson Macintosh Love Info-tech Rap Mrs Albion …

72 73 75

Christos Tsiolkas Aegisthus

Orlando Luminere Vegan Rottweilers

Kim Houghton Jodie Said

Mark Lahiff Mars

Kylie Dickson Whisky Whispers Scat Cat

80 81

Flight Easy Warming He Was Already There

56 57 58

Edwina Blush Think of Me as Your Cat The Tale of Puss in Boots

82 83

Charlotte Regan Alcohol the Encrypter

Attila the Stockbroker Language Barrier Boys in the Hood (Trainspotter rap)

Lyn Kemmis On Love and Music

Robert Scotney from The Cheese Man’s Moon

David Cole Three Minute Song Urban Herbal New Age Bus

Daniel McFadden Dragon Drawing

Jane Mary The Dragon

86 88

61 Kathleen Bleakley Shells and Beans

Tug Dumbly Share Accom. Today Sick

92 94 98

Peggy van Zalm Let’s Escape

’pling Photos 15, 20, 36, 41, 45, 46 63, 74, 77, 85, 90, 97

Chris Johnston The Coffee Pot

Bob Pickup Cartoons

26, 30

Barbara Bowland Cartoons

50, 55

Anthony Hayes & Gerald Keaney Socio-biological Confessions 67

Foreword Is there something quintessentially Australian about fighting to save our pub? The Gypsy Bar is more than a pub. It’s many things to so many people: a floating stage, a sound studio, a sheet cloth cinema, a cat walk, a mosh pit, a speakeasy, a discotheque, a beat café, a night agora, a pleasure orb, a foosh ball sub-culture, a trampoline, an indie fest, a time machine, a horror circus, a pop art factory, an underground alien sound movement, an art deco lounge, a cauldron of art and a DIY dating agency. The Gypsy Bar has sex-o-matic staff, door bitch princesses, gentle security and two owners with amazing courage and vision. So the KGB (Keep our Gypsy Bar) has conspired to produce this anthology. It’s a kaleidoscope of photos, raps, tirades, prayers, short stories, poems, anti–poems, lyrics, metallica to erotica. It’s elegant, subtle, surreal, hot, bitter, bent, horny and dangerous as! This anthology says “In ya face!” to the Enemies of the Imagination and the Big End of Town. All funds raised from this anthology will go towards saving The Gypsy as a venue and as a dream. The KGB thanks all the contributors to this book especially ‘pling for his artistic photos and Fiona Edge (DesignEdge) who professionally designed it.

Hal Judge & Felicity Cobcroft Editors (KGB) Keep the Gypsy Bar

Introduction When The Gypsy Bar first opened on East Row, in October 1996, many of the original performers and patrons were bemused by the concept of an “all purpose” venue. James Valentine ex member of the Models, jazz musician and ABC announcer told us that we had an “identity” problem. We were a jazz club so why were we pretending to be something else? David Branson actor, director, musician, self-described “mayor of Canberra’s underbelly” told us to abandon The Gypsy Bar name and symbol (“tacky & commercial”) and similarly to restrict our activities to a more manageable scale. The singer of Welsh band Dub War our first international act - told us to paint the joint black and just do rock, man “that’s where it’s at”. We ignored this well intended advice. One of the things that makes The Gypsy Bar unique is the diversity of what we do. We do top quality jazz but we’re no jazz club. We host some of Australia’s best rock and pop bands but we’re not a rock venue. We have regular folk music performances but we’re not a folk club. We’ve done opera we’re certainly not an opera house. We’re all of those things and more: first and foremost we are a live performance venue. And within six months of opening, The Gypsy Bar was recognised as one of Canberra’s top live performance venues and had acquired a national reputation. But the thing about a live performance venue about any entertainment venue, if it comes to that is “noise”. Music is a type of “noise” and all live performances are going to be relatively “loud”. In August 1997, a newly opened bar began making persistent noise complaints about The Gypsy Bar. Our live music program virtually went on hold as we tried to negotiate a resolution of the problem. As reasonable people, we thought other people would be reasonable and that a resolution would be hammered out. But we were wrong.

From 22 nights of live performance in August 1997, The Gypsy Bar hosted 8 nights in November and 3 nights in December. Our antagonist above complained about rock music, he complained about folk music, he went absolutely apeshit over the internationally renowned acid jazz band Corduroy, he complained about background music set at a conversational. You couldn’t fart down there without them above complaining. On Saturday 10 January 1998, we hosted our first live performance of the year and our first in over a month. Two days later we were issued with a Noise Direction Notice. It read: On the eleventh day of January 1998 at 1.00am excessive noise being emitted from the premises was measured. Noise level emitted: 70dB (A) being 16 dB (A) above background noise of 54 dB (A). YOU ARE HEREBY DIRECTED that: Between the hours of 10pm on a day and 7am on the following day you shall not cause nor permit to be emitted from the premises specified above noise which exceeds the level equal to background noise. At the time that the noise measurement was taken, the bar above us was actually shut: 54 dB (A) is virtual silence. The level 70 dB (A) is less than the level of a telephone ringing.

The heart and soul of The Gypsy Bar has always been live music. Stop the heart and take away the soul and you got a corpse. Coming as it did on top of threatened legal action by the landlord and by the bar above, the Noise Direction Notice was a death sentence. It wasn’t simply a case, as one judge put it, of doing “softer” music or a “different” sort of music. He may as well have told us we should have been a shoe shop. The Noise Direction Notice meant that after 10pm The Gypsy Bar could make no noise whatever. And you can’t make music without also making a bit of noise.

The Gypsy Bar was stone cold dead on East Row. But six days later, through an enormous effort on the part of staff and friends, The Gypsy Bar rose again at new premises in City Walk. It was a close run thing. On opening night at the new venue Friday 6 February 1998 our working capital consisted of the money in the till and $500 in the bank. The rest is the rest. The Gypsy Bar not only managed to survive, it became bigger, better and louder. But after all that, The Gypsy Bar again faces a death sentence. In litigation spreading over more than two years, the Tenancy Tribunal found that we were perfectly justified in terminating our lease at East Row. But first the ACT Supreme and now the Federal Court have ruled that we were not justified in terminating the lease. We there was nothing to stop us operating as a live performance venue, we just couldn’t make any noise, that’s all. And they’ve awarded our former landlord a sum approaching half a million dollars in damages. OK so we lost in the courts but maybe The Gypsy Bar is not beat yet. The support we’ve received from within Canberra and from around Australia has been simply staggering. This anthology is one manifestation of that support. Virtually all of the contributors - from as far away as Alice Springs, Sydney, Melbourne and Malaysia - have at one time performed or enjoyed the performances at The Gyspy Bar. And they regard it as very much their Gypsy Bar, just as we hope you regard it as your Gypsy Bar. It’s worth the effort to preserve it. We thank each of the contributors to this cutting edge anthology for their work to save The Gyspy Bar and for the creative expression which this campaign has evoked.

Brendan Sheehan & Stephanie Kensitt

Spike

Amor Ad Infinitum, Amen

Cool rain fall softly rapture night A blessedly sunless dawn The paint on the car window keeps sunrise out. (At dawn Spike’s well out of it ) His car’s a bomb, a tomb on wheels Spike travels town to town, insinuates in veins Blood’s his business-good old Spike! The rain falls harder. Stop the car right here, now Food and pleasure-sweet dank rotting leaves Fallen, moon casting beam into the darkness Everlasting, Spike kisses moonlight, Burns, lurks and sees in the window Babies soft, tasty-information Input to the baby processor: programming Delicious but they are protected by pure light glowing In another window Spike watches pets sleep Growling and paws shake running in their sleepWhat a way to spend the night, scared the dog Might bark-from the animals dreaming comes the light Keeping baby safe from the likes of Spike Tonight belongs to rain and cobwebCool wet snails move like trucks And trucks move like ants The rain falls without sadness There’s nothing better than a sweet veinSpike said, love isn’t in the brain it’s the blood screaming inside doing its will you’ll fight and sometimes-Love will maroon A rocky coast, the surf is holy water. Worth eternal twilight to be in the cocoon Her moonlit loveliness fills the soulless with soul Every cell in the body says thank you Then barreling out of a shit fight Spike’s car careens to the highway And he loves lurking, eating among humansDangling car radio: Sid Vicious croons My Way. Once old Spike enters your life, It’s hard to shake him, You’ll scam all day to pay Spike’s way There are enough dark places for Spike to get a look in. Think bad and crazy, Spike’s car pulls up the driveway.

(Afterthoughts on Annalise)

S. K. KELEN

The Mona Lisa carries a blade and her eyes scream love and her mouth is filled with acid and lollies; she’s the girl my mother warned me about, but never the twain shall meet. So I check you out, Mona Lisa, You with your barbed wire underwear, wrapped inside dreams and fragments, sinewy cat-like batgirl sexgodess; I hear the words from behind the pearl cages, Cabbage-twats, bacon kids, we reinvent the wheel, the Mona Lisa’s smile is an asset, but you should hear her laugh, ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha how many times I wondered if your belly was salty, and damned telepathy’s not working, just bite me on the neck and let’s live forever already! Mona Lisa these are my thoughts, and Mona Lisa you confused my dreams, better to have or better to dream? The answer is in my head, next to the picnic for you and me, one perfect day, when I am lead and you are paper… Mona Lisa let’s not begin and then we won’t end, instead I’ll just smile and say amor ad infinitum, amen and I hope you smile as well Xtian

Jerry is a Madman

Capital City

Jerry is a madman, and Jerry is a maniac, Jerry rides a bicycle where all else walk, changes from third into insanity and pedals on. He opens his mouth and he spews out a dragon, but there’s no-one left to fight this creature, that art’s been lost, or is just ignored;

Here’s the thing, 1 a.m. You’ve been working hard all week You’re finally in the mood When they call last drinks Now all you want to do is dance Now all you want to do is boogy Boogy In the Capital City

so the dragon chews your head off, you just have another beer; Jerry and his dragon play pool, not even from close does he look normal, oh no, revolution (devolution?, evolution?), it and they are always scary. And as your head grows back, you wonder about Jerry riding his bicycle, you take a dinky with him as you think, it feels good, no? Yes, but only as long as you don’t have to pedal; and the dragon you spew forth is more an armadillo, it’s small, it looks scary enough to the walkers, but it has plenty of armour and is smooth enough to swallow again; and you think: “shit this beer is good!”, and the next time you see Jerry, he’s repulsive again, and nothing has changed, his dragon still bites, but... dragon’s aren’t real. Is Jerry? Xtian

// Chorus When the world, Closes down, around you In the, Capital City. Don’t let it get you down, Take a look around, The Cap-it-al City It’s the swingingest seat I know Everybody goes with the flow Did you know they like to Boogy? In the Capital City So I left that place and thought I’d take a chance at a place called Pandoras Where everyone looked at me with a kind of sideways glance. It was there that I met a sailor who was on leave from Creswell And he told me it was hard, Yeah he told me it was hard finding genuine love In the Capital City (and I said) // Chorus Bit later on then (around 3 a.m.) I ran into this friend of mine He was waiting for his sister outside the S.P. But she was coming home soon I started talking to my bruda About how he’d been taken from his mother The State did it for the sake of his charity We cried on the corner of history and Reid (and I said) // Chorus

I boogied at the Gypsy, I boogied at Heaven, I boogied at the Avenue, where I boogied till seven.

Gavin Mount CooCoo Fondoo

Imposter

i moved into your bed buried my head deep in your smelly pillow woke up in your clothes i watched your videos paused for your face touched the screen smiled when you smiled Jerome Kugan Kuala Lumpur

Photo by ’pling

when you finally left, i listened to your CDs turned on your computer opened all your files

Gavin Mount - CooCoo Fondoo

Why don’t you boogy? Boogy with Liam, Boogy with Lindsay, Boogy with Gav and boogy with Dizzy? Why dont’ boogy with Bernard and boogy with Viktor and, Boogy, boogy...with Miss Kitty... in the Capital City?

Rosa Chorus:

Bonney Boat I have a friend named Rosa, she lives in the Barossa. She spends all her time drinkin’ Beaujolais wine and sometimes forgets where her clothes are.

The frenchman Jean Paul Kuma Satre, had a lover he met in Sumatra. They’d dunny door just like Zsa Zsa Gabor, and swing it like Nancy Sinatra. The aging soprano was charmin’, she once sang the lead role in Carmen. I drank to the close, with the fading old rose, singing ‘Lilly the Pink’ with the barman. The captain of the Lara Kinsella, Was a gay and hearty old fella. Said: “There’s much to be learned from the water astern, ‘cause it’s done its time with the propeller”.

Two Scottish bastards were leaving from the port today They are taciturn as ever, no they never have naught to say Ask them for a smoke or a joke and they’re bound to say: “Who the fook are you” and they’ll go on their merry way singin’ Chorus:

Sail the bonney boat The bonney boat The bloody bonney bonney boat

Two Scottish bastards and a dignified Englishman Three wee willy Welshmen and fourteen pissed Irishmen Went on an expedition of sedition against the bloody government Came home in time for tea-time, made a bee-line for the bloody Wig ‘n’ Pen Chorus: Two Scottish bastards were walking through the glen today Whistling a rendition of the old ‘Road to Mandalay’ So abso-bloody-lutely and completely pissed were they They didn’t even notice when the bagpipes began to play Chorus:

I had a friend called Zoro, who felt inexpressible sorrow. That the passage of time, would leave him behind, now he lives far away in tomorrow. The burial wasn’t too Christian, for the death of the musician’s musician. The band for his sake played silence at the wake, for he’d just wanted people to listen. Fred Smith

Fred Smith

Burnt I burnt every night to follow and held the ash as grief I wore every word you’d ever said to me to the death And looked at everything as if it were green but, dead. I’d spent the air you left me in the first few moments of our parting And that made everything after it taste like dirt. When a fool-eyed Samaritan lifted my skit to gallantly rescue a dying urge I was too busy orbiting a memory to notice. I worried about growing complacent I didn’t even eat cheese. Barb Kraaz

gypsy

Ishtar’s Stockings

saturday night again bout 2am … there’s a party going on in my head … i’m not sure that i’m invited … i’m lou reed without the shades … the ruby red walls …are bathed in cumulus cloud …silent lightning twitches in my wide-angle pupils … each woman is beautifully crafted … every mortal is a demi-god for the next 5 hours

To save my life you take off your silk stockings bind me to the mast I tremble in the spell of the lyre, the flute, the song of doom. My back arches against the tree of myrrh. You let down your hair in slow motion as time unravels. You weave your hair gently into the rivers of Thailand drown the demon armies of Mara. You cover me with ambrosia by day and fire by night. Forbid me to speak the name of a woman. Slowly you shed one garment at each of the seven gates of the underworld. Naked as the evening star The temple of Babylon. You toss coins at my feet and follow me home whispering the name of Ishtar. You bed is the White Isle in the Black Sea. Libations of dewberry oil. Figurines of wax. Mask of Tlazolteotl Still I am silent. Your eyes half closed. With the finger of Michelangelo I trace the hollows of your body slow as the tide sweeps the sand. In the shadow of Vesuvius the Earth swallows us.

brendan’s a tesla coil clapping up lightning between his hands … the other bar’s run out of rum or glass … all the staff are grooving high on monkey magic … the barmanager auto- pours … a long water, ice, lemon slice … a short straw the spanish girl with sparkle eye lids … recalls a young troubadour … who serenaded her barking like a happy puppy in uruguay … she was just a kitten then the flash dudes are playing pool with the ravers … it’s not a game with a stick and balls … on green felt with six pockets … it’s a bizarre sexual ritual … in the eyes of the underworld … lighting a cigarette … a cavalier eyebrow … and a loose button whisper … “give it to me” my tongue is playing hacky sack … with a slice of ice … the smoky air tastes like a crisp breeze … cruising on the DJ jungle bass … fog-wet pixies dance in the laser strobe wave … my feet are tapping … a long way from here … hanging like a doppelganger’s fang at the bar … my invisible elbow in a damp bar mat … awaiting further orders from the KGB right now … i want a soft cool hand … between my shoulder-blades … can i bite you … a little? … my empty glass says no … give up the last sliver of ice … you little bitch … i look stupid banging the glass against my face recognizable beings appear … and de-materialize at their chemical whim … kent is on high octane … somethin psionic in his whiskey … about to hit escape velocity … he smiles and vanishes … in plume of cigarette smoke a slender wraith bewitches me … her green eyes switch … and she’s half way up the stairs to a taxi riot … pete is astral boy on goofballs … composing mandolin riffs on the inside of his skull … lost happy puppies licking the hands of strangers good night, my friends … i have a blind date … with the banshee rain … on mort street Hal Judge cRaSh CaBaReT & the S l o w Club

Hal Judge

Strangle Me Gimme a motive that screams Burn my finger prints off Pungent as burning plastic Gut punch rabbit chop Strangle me slowly Lascivious threats Crash my new car Don’t stop till I double over Sneer with your perfect teeth Slap my face till I see double Rake me with your talons Bite my fingers Make me make me fuck you all night !

Hal Judge

her tongue is sabotage just the thought of her makes my eyes roll back in my head her face flickers like a black and white movie falling off the spool hey god let me have one miracle and i’ll leave you alone forever the continent is silent the summer atmosphere becomes her slow slumber breath on my neck her nose under my chin she wakes gradually i feign sleep she kisses my eye … twice soft as a chinese ghost her tongue is sabotage she says everything without a word in a pretty accent that charms snakes catch my breath my pulse becomes hers candles light spontaneously when she sighs and tells my hands the pure truth of her glistening lips my fingers have to know the life story of each molecule of her incandescent body every sense is desperate, hungry

Hal (Warhol)

Photo by ’pling

love as sharp as terror shaking me from this silky planet the after shocks last for hours she’s in my dream … my dream like a chinese ghost hal judge

A Slight Relapse

Beating

My husband’s face I know all too well pressed against his cheek I inhale his smell but it’s your eyes that I see your blue eyes

At 1am in Garema Place I stride through the millennium crowd feeling sexy and immortal enter the netherworld of the Gypsy sequins, stardust and ecstacy with beating heart, I find him caught in each other’s web we dance close and slow in the big bar emerge into the dawn go home to make love back at the interchange another’s heart stops beating.

This morning the gym instructor said point your toes and write the alphabet but it’s your name that I wrote your dear name I go to work and sit behind my desk lipstick on and a top which shows my breasts but it’s your desire I seek your desire

Marianne Brighton

23 When my favorite song begins to play I close my eyes and then I start to sway but it’s your arms I dance in your strong arms I treat myself to movies; drink and smoke eat too much food, buy CDs and clothes but it’s your love I can’t have your sweet love I lie in these sheets night after night cursing that I didn’t play it right and it’s you I’m longing for I’m longing for Marianne Brighton

crawling toxic crawling toxic on dy-lantin asking carnivores for sympathy, inviting sorted businesses to cool you’re stelavene sight..... figuring epileptic styles will surrender their codes, sending fashion whores on a downward spiral. take a picture on me......... de’cor plainly outdated .. leads to sexual graphics throughout, women and men in helltight rubber can spit on each other and slide for days... while sirens scream and children watch through the slits in the sewer drains, stinging to be adult...... crawling toxic on dy-lantin asking carnivores for sympathy... dribbling and slurring toxic words to the wall. Nathan Arch Sailo-Ku6io

jammin

Light

shooting stars to me are just magic spaceships looking at the universe and seeing lots of funk chimps the rhythms gettin sequenced so we’re suckin on a fat track caught in the dream of alwayz hittin playback,

Everyone knew that the instrument should have detected such a massive movement. The sun glazed down over green blue water. Light played with itself beneath trees amongst the sprinklers, and children toiled innocently at the games they were playing. The summer had carried itself along past normal patterns. And the influx of those late summer bugs was becoming a point of annoyance for the setters who appeared to float through the evenings on gossamer..........whom we all wanted.............in ours we trust..........trolleys of confidence. It was a time of delightful afternoons It was a time to demonstrate ones ability to overcome a set-back, that in other times would have been seen as a lack of coherence or the stumbles or a little curve ball or a burnt stick. It was time for a massive movement. It was a wonderful day. Everyone had brushed their hair. We were all relaxed...waiting in the breeze.

thoughts forever flashing for me it don’t stop when i found myself i also found that life rocks on the mission for the mind, to progress hittin lots of hurdles, but that just comes with the test, jammin all day on the electro beat can funk your braincells and also make them feel sweet there’s no escape when your running from yourself knocked into place by a book out off a shelf sending out a message to the brain you’ve been warned every time where live at the show i’m reborn pulsating wavelengths and sounds that touch space low-frequency tones are just some other words for bass. Brian Easteal Constant Sound of Birth

Sometimes the purchase of the most essential commodities can be a daunting task. The Super Mall type operations pose problems of their own, and I was very hesitant to tackle the throbbing mass least I should drop something which I knew I wouldn’t be able to pick up, and then the tension stretches past the donut stand and the whole day can be spoilt. Then she walked into the light. Like a super Avon Lady and I could tell she had something to sell. But she was fresh out of firewood. We all dropped the shopping at the same time. A chorus of springy butterfly words echoed throughout the land. A thing gained is never lost. A slow horse, another day in the sunshine of your love. Sid MacKenzie

The Candidate I’ve worked out what I’m going to do. I’m going to pick a very stupid man, and trample all over him at my smart mind whim. Then when I’m sick of him, I will simply throw him on the dumpheap.

We all know what will happen next. Some stupid women walking by will pick up the very stupid dazed man and spend months, if not years of her precious life, putting him all back together again. Just like humpty dumpty. I’ve been by that dumpheap. Then I’ll probably have enough left over, to squeeze in another very smart man, who will fuck with my mind for a while. Then it will be time for the candidate.

Felicity Cobcroft

One Week

I remember you before & before the stratospheric journey when we danced a frenzied mazurka, our symphony in another hemisphere the dirge of atomic clocks conducting from their perch atop steel skyscrapers their dull drone filling our ears, trickling to our boots as we lay entangled, sheltering under the counterpane I remember you then & the disjointed consonants and fumbled colloquialisms, hesitantly exchanged, shared in the twilight hours the air quivered and our hearts shimmered, like a miner s first unexpected strike upon a rich vein, our wonderment was no less the pickaxe smashing the tired manifestoes of all those clock punching, gold-digging, autocrats, all their springs broke as our arms entwined our interlocking fingers a talisman to ward off all corporeal evils. embracing, we froze their shuffling gait, their singular thoughts I remember how and why the gracile curves and slender scents that stopped the spinning of interstellar pulsars, hushed the harmonics of the heavenly spheres what eldritch word was it in that incantation we whispered after the fourth drink & the third bar & the second taxicab & that first kiss?

If it could be served up in a pill or better still, a powder broadcast like the first seasons pollen emitted as radio waves sprinkled on our daily bread, salt & pepper & sugar & that most precious and prohibited of additives, an alchemical mix of rare potency its ingredients unobtainable or perhaps I have simply forgotten the recipe. If I could remember this now, with this philosophers stone I could plug up the ozone layer, soothe the ennui of nations, cure cancer perhaps even raise the dead among the gyroscopes of dizzy industries the pulse of ticker tape a man of divine purpose. James Judge Sydney

Obelisk Talisman of paganism Engraved with hieroglyph Mother church of romanism Holy sacred monolith Five steps to the ilium Sign of ill omen Seven stairs to jejunum Abode of the demon Erection of sensuality Doorway to elysium Baalâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s shaft of blasphemy Sanctum Sanctorum Image of occultism Offering salvation Pillar of symbolism Challenging creation

ÂŠ Bob Pickup

A prince without a palace A king without a throne Symbol of the phallus A monument of stone. Lucy Armoured Angel

Introduction

The news of the possible closure of the Gypsy reached me while I was studying in Brisbane. Exactly the same battles had been fought around venues in Fortitude Valley. It is sometimes easy to forget that local occurrences are also part of larger patterns. In this case what is at stake is the atmosphere and use of no less than the hub of the city itself, traditionally a place to gather, a place for talk culture and philosophy. So in the Bible the wisdom principle Sophia would solicit young men in the inside the city gates. The larger pattern of venue closures indicates a certain lifestyle, a certain movement in society, wants to quieten the inner city. Such a senescence enforced on the heart of a city will always effect individuals who otherwise thought they could simply go with whatever is on offer. Many think “it‘s getting a bit more restrictive and sometimes even a bit tougher, but whatever changes happen I can handle.” Then the time comes when the whole flavor of life threatens to become that much blander. At that point the responsibility a person has for their own environs can no longer be denied. They realize they must take action, as has the “KGB”. Such action could well keep the city a little more desirable. At least as far as their particular struggle goes – The saving of the Gypsy Bar. No one will have to climb up trees and I don’t imagine blows will be traded with police as they were over the Eastern Distributor, but in the closure of the Gypsy we have an urbanized version of the struggle for the environment. Given Australia’s demographics it is no less important. Sophia has detoxed, finished her degree and works as an accountant. We no longer have the agora of the Greeks or the parvis of the medievals; as the meeting ground of indigenous people Canberra has been mostly concreted over and is taken as a name; we have few places where young, or where people of any age, can get together talk and be creative. That the Gypsy is not just another business is both shown and ensured by the struggle which we now face to keep it running. Gerald Keaney Brisbane

The Prayer of the System

Dogs

(to be recited 10 x 106 times daily)

I pray to the god of misogyny, the father, the son and holy eunuch, who live in the sky and protect all men, to help us to stay on the right path. I pray to the god of industrialization, may we tame the wild, may the wind carry the fall-out in another direction, may our axes stay sharp and our holes deep. I beseech the god of war to help us kill our enemies, rather than to make peace with them. Praying to you thus may I make money from the misfortune of others. May the power of nationalism combine with globalism to create the best of all possible worlds for the consumer. Hear my cry, O god of alcoholism, you are always there for me, grant me oblivion in my day and night. May the spirit of medical science bless each one of us and protect those who have just died. May everyone be resurrected and placed upon a respirator. Calling to the infallible god of money, lead us to the water- that we may irrigate until our thirst is not quenchable. I ask all gods to bless the new world order, may the system go on forever and nothing grow old. BJK

Three sheets rigged to a hornpipe jig in the haze of a drunken dream Dogs of the night we sailed away on the tide of a useless scheme No shining star to light our path or the darkness in our souls And the anger spawned from a pillaged home that we once called our own Orphans and brigands from the slums and the prisons seething with vengeful intent In the glory for greed and black intrigue with black hearted pasts to repent

35 And - from a whore’s rump, it’s just a pier-head jump to the chill of a sub-zero night Where a dog’s salvation lies in death and damnation and only the hellfire flames burn bright to run our wares on the ragged streets in a barter of graves for gold Our colours nailed to a crooked mast like the buccaneers of old In the time of our lives on the lee of a land we wait for a fury to break And guide the hand that wields the power and return to the dogs who would seal our fate Scum of the globe abandoned of hope by the will of ourselves alone Shall raise some dog from the gutters to the gods and place that dog on your throne Jack McCracken

Mosh It’s Saturday night in Beirut and my M16 is jammed there’s rockets falling left and right frankly my dear I don’t give a damn what happens to you what happens to me what happens to anybody I’ve reached the point of no return today I saw five children burn In a car bomb down the street car bomb down the street gunfire gunfire now Mosh

Dropkick Murphys

Photo by ’pling

Saturday night in Baghdad and I know that God’s not here it’s raining lead and I wish I was dead but I’m not and it’s hot there’s eleven days to go before they put me up against the wall and shoot me in the head shoot me in the head gunfire gunfire now Mosh It’s Saturday night in Belfast and a black car just passed me by I wonder why I wonder why we have to die for causes long forgotten though we cannot forget the horror of Saturday night in Belfast Saturday night in Belfast gunfire fucking gunfire now Mosh Leigh Walker

Coming back to Canberra

Sensing the sacred...

it was picture perfect and that was the trouble everywhere you looked, it was like your eyes were the lens of a camera framing up a postcard where was the chaos? where were the train tracks? the traffic the people where was the sea? the people and the sea were out there in the real world battling the recession we had to have economic refugees streamed into Canberra whole families in crisis accommodation bed-sits debts and friends left behind for a better life in the bush capital there was a chaos you’d never imagine as you drove down Northbourne Avenue admiring the wide median strip with its colourful flower beds belittled by such perfect surroundings which seemed to magnify our own imperfections we looked for chaos without but could only find it within

lost religion a hole in my life reasons for living worship nature, community, love helter skelter mcdonaldisation ride roughshod over reverence, respect working in denial - “the environment’s a rich country’s luxury” “what have future generations ever done for you?” (MJ) knowing this, to breed or not to breed... seeing things the way they are making the most of exalted moments transcendental crescendos of chords, crowds and sunrises realisation - canberra’s home, cultivate roots no craving, no aversion, happiness new rituals, speaking truth mother earth, father sun natural beauty sustain me for Life KGB!

Simone Penkethman

Jens Light

Anthony Ives Catweasel

Annalise - Closet Stiffs

They’ve turned out the lights, out front of the Gypsy tonight They’ve closed up the doors locked tight, but there’s still some if us inside They say a judgement man is taking the gypsies away And our sweet Kathleen is wondering if she’ll see another day She says I might never see another caravan And I’m trying to remember the magic as best I can And I know my mother used to say If you kill a gypsy, you kill an angel And you’ll never be the same Then upon the stage, under the lights, in front of us she stands, And we see her as she is a stars fallen down to land She says as a child I had a gypsy Dad, but you know I lost him years ago to a judgement man And she says I didn’t come here for a fucking precedent And I’m trying to understand how this can happen again And I know my mother used to say If you kill a gypsy, you kill an angel And the all the swans will fly away I can’t wait here for the judgement man and I’m going to find me another caravan, And if I don’t find one along the way... I’ll become a swan and fly away But I didn’t come here for a fucking precedent And I’m trying to understand how this can happen again And if you take all the gypsies away There’ll be no more magic, there’ll be no more kings and there’ll be nowhere left to play... And if you take all the gypsies away There’ll be no more magic, no more kings and there’ll be nowhere left to play...

Photo by ’pling

To the Gypsy

Poem to an Autumn ( and a baby born )

Mothers

Welcome on the season of the leaves down on sunny days and furry scaled leafy bushland feathers in sky

My mother was a widow for many, many years Filling time with bowls and golf to keep away the fears. She wasn’t really happy but her feet were in the ground until the day she fell in love and turned our lives around.

Welcome cement loads of people in small geographical areas buildings far taller than broader metal transport machines with rubber tyres on tar taa paths Welcome to the season of vacuum tube satellite relay races three old men who walked on the moon bored bee jets heavy armed liked “Shiva” Venus probes ozone friendly food cooling devices Welcome to the season of waves tidal waves microwaves airport ways heat waves air waves full of Rock and sting rays laser rays and sunny days and winter. Brian Hincksman

It’s embarrassing to see her drifting in a dream and looking like a bloody cat that’s swallowed all the cream A mother shouldn’t be that way she’s having too much fun A mother getting more from life than her daughter, isn’t done. I can’t believe it happened she’s never been that way It’s a woman she’s in love with has she been led astray? My mother is a deviant a traitor to the fold but she looks so bloody happy As she breaks the family mold. When mother changed from sad to gay it caused a might quake The reverberations shattered me The family tree did shake It’s a bitter pill to swallow How could it happen to us? We’re not that sort of people We’re respectability, plus. Chorus 1 (Repeat) Lyrics by Jean Brownlee and Marie Gordon, music by Maurine Rodgers

Gypsy

he says hi and she says hi and both think hard for the next words and look around the bar a little and at the crowd there and at familiar faces but none they think they would like to be with as much as this person beside them now as they really feel that there is something there if only they can connect but the words aren’t coming and he tries to recall all the clever things he has said to other women he’s met here in this bar just like this and he looks around the room some more as if the words might still be there somewhere floating around on the music or left on one of the table tops with the damp coasters and she remembers all the lame lines that have been tried on her here and thinks that if he can even use even the least of them then she will smile and put her hand lightly on his and see if it makes her tingle like she thinks it will if only he will say something but he is staring away and she too turns her head a little as if she might find the words for him and then say something to him and let him know that she is interested and that she really feels there are some possibilities between them if they can only touch in some way but the words won’t come and he looks back at her and smiles a little and sees her grimace as she looks back at him and then he makes the same face and then frowns as he feels he is losing it and feels the moment is slipping away on the movement and noise of those about them but he knows if he can just say something right then it will still be possible to perhaps make something happen as he feels there is really something there between them if only he can connect with her but still the words won’t come and they both stand there in the crowded bar staring at each other and then glancing away around the room wishing to break the torture of it but not willing to abandon the last possible chance that something might still happen between them but still the words won’t come and still the words won’t come and still the words won’t....

A gypsy will steal your soul and dance with its passion A gypsy will inspire you with the beauty of risk As the world becomes fearful A gypsy will laugh at the ghosts of reason When doors lock and eyes close A gypsy will … sing. Louise Morris (The day-girl – 5 o’clock The electric shock The strongbow stock)

Photo by ’pling

Craig Cormick

Burpgun

words

The G Five o’clock at the Gypsy Bar The name will always bring certain memories – the time we descended to its first locale – it was “The Terminus” but that funny/suave bald guy Brendan was determined to make a venue – that was not dead – it would entertain his well-heeled middle-class public servant friends – he’d done his investigations; his market research. Grace Knight, Rick Ashley, Colin Hay (you know vegemite sandwich) and the Mighty Reapers – acts buried under the dead weight of 80’s star class…

Fortunately no-one came, or not enough to warrant the inflated fees they had asked. But Brendan kept on looking and out of his tenacity he discovered the JJJ generation – the Fauves, Custard, the Whitlams – the ones the over-educated young Canberra slackers could part with their readies – combined with the Canberra Fringe evenings, the easy listening lounge band + bar blowies. Fluges held up the bar… Under all this was heart & generosity – who else would sponsor the footy tipping – the independent music nights and all women Gypsy football club. Fred & Nobby then Fred Smith and his broken dreams, his orphans and attendant People’s Choir.

there once was a bar named Gypsy where lots of people went & got tipsy and a whole lot more… A cRaSh CaBaReT, jellywrestling, surrealist performance, and the Ladybird Lounge. The incredible Drop City, Sidewinder, Dead Salesmen, The Gadflys, Psycho Zydeco, “The Bands of Gypsy”, flamenco dance, Egyptian dance, dance dance dance, The Star Bar, The Ruby Lounge, ’pling’s photos, a place where politics might even meet action, the forests, Timor, Amnesty, benefits for Elbow, CIA, and young performance in Adelaide in Hobart, Grande Theft Auto, and then the fight… – Brendan our modern Quixote and why should we leave him charging windmills alone…up we went and fiddled at his ear Stephanie the boys slug upon slug he/we/they/us all. Slugged it out. The law is an ass. The sound restrictions – restrictive to the end – tell us again as the economic rationalist runs the day – has the law. But in the Gypsy we could fight.

47 Our own loungeroom away from home – a beer and a cigarette – the plush red velvet curtains, seats a womb away from womb – and as the Ladybird flew away from the fire it caught a spark of Cody’s fantastic electric dream images of Festivals of happy and drug fuelled time. No denying the acid was excellent then just ask Fluges and Kerr’s cur doesn’t seem so far away. The Balkans conflict and is that Art and the Oscars still take up space as the poets try to battle the State of Origin/the pool comp. The ignorant herd – the numbed alcoholic dreams. And is anyone really aware of the cultural history of this place – when it was Jax – and is it really true the profits went up the noses. Expense and what is taste anyway? If you service with a smile and the windy capital’s chill is taken away by friendship and after all how may going away parties can I have? but it is the Gypsy the Gypsy in us all it is the Gypsy that makes us stand tall.

Brendan and David

Photo by ’pling

David Branson

Tribute

The Welcome Arms

Ladies and Gentlemen probably the most interesting most creative performer … for those of you that know him … probably the most incisive and vibrant human being in the universe.

Ale flows freely Banter loud and boisterous Smoke fills the tavern An ocean of nicotine

You don’t need to see the ubiquitous Falcon sitting on the elbow of Tossolini’s or illegally parked beside Café Essen You just know he’s there. Because you believe, my friends, like the Devil, he’s everywhere. I can’t remember who paid the bill for the godfather of the fringe A man made entirely of myth and blood, burgeoning vest, black Stetson, silk cravat, cigarette, a bottle of claret under his arm. It’s rehearsal time in tight tartan hotpants and a conspicuous bulge. Booming “Has anyone forgotten, I am the Director” He’s bigger than the writhing universe. I can’t believe he just stood on his head He just took off his pants Yes, it’s the best of the best opening tonight at a theatre too small. So dim the house lights. Release the burning beast ! Unshaven, fulminating, plugged into the electric sweat. Hit the spot lights in his concrete eyes … dreaming of Darlinghurst, Fitzroy, Berlin. Oh speak to me in hyperbole ”Darling, have I ever told you how much I love you. Have I ever told you how talented you are! ” Let’s have it all out to a noisy house or the chewing gum on the pavement. Fight the powers Ladies and gentlemen Let’s tell John Howard what a little man he is. And let’s have another enormous round of applause for a drunken poet and the leg of a table. Let’s drink a toast to a rope dancer, to an Italian film maker, to a slice of pizza “Oh I’ve been bad I’ve been worse than bad! ” Okay okay shut the fuck up David ...and whip that fiddle ! by a bunch of David’s friends on his birthday

Floors awash, or rather rarely washed Shoes stick to the floor No Teflon here Ruddy faces cheer on the celebration End of the working week Friends, Romans, Countrymen It’s your shout! A disagreement over game rules Escalating First floor shouting Second floor pushing and shoving Third floor Fisticuffs Sorry no lingerie or household items here The bell rings Combatants go back to their corners Sup up, clean up, move on PJ Bayliss Icecream Headache

On love and music I went to see the Mavis’s with Greg, who talked too much and thought the music was loud. But that’s when I met Rich; our eyes met, the lights on the ceiling like stars,

we mouthed lyrics together ‘til our lips stilled each other with one kiss. It lasted a week; he said he’d call and didn’t. I went to the Whitlams, propped up the bar, shredded a coaster, and left with Tom. Tom was from ADFA, he paid for pool and lost, had great designer stubble; but wouldn’t listen to jazz, or blues, or folk; fine, I thought, and saw the Backsliders alone. It was a groundswell of sound, they played the right chords, the right rhythm, like hearing an echo of something played back fuller, and more true. I felt it in my chest, I heard the melody in the brief silences, the air overflowing with immediate song. I left alone, left whole.

Lyn Kemmis

from The Cheese Man’s Moon (a work in progress)

Cheesy. I looked it up in the Oxford dictionary the other night. The definition was: “inferior; cheap and nasty.” When I think of cheese I think of something exquisite. I think of rolling hills and fresh fruit and healthy cows and hay and mushrooms and marigolds. I think of walnuts and sheep and burnt caramel and water buffalo and fresh young peasant girls with rosy cheeks and luscious loins who want to be movie stars and who I wanted but never had. I think of the beauty of age and time and character and of the unique formation and nature of all things from nothing. I think of fine wines and liqueurs, the smells of fine food cooking, and dancing to fine music around the fire. I think of humans enjoying nature in nature. I think of care, precision and love, and monks carefully placing little bundles in cool limestone caves over the centuries. Cheese is heavenly. How can the word have come to signify its antithesis? Well I guess you don’t have to look far to see how this might have happened. Just look for the golden arches. Plastic cheese has taken over the world. Amen. Plastic cheese and plastic people. Plastic lives. Plastic love. Plastic sex. It’s as though a membrane of plastic cheese has covered the globe, slowly choking away all life. So here I am, walking the city streets at night, a solitary figure. I might walk down across the Yarra to the Arts Centre and see some plastic theatre from MTC or The Royal Shakespeare Company. But instead I keep walking, and I find myself at a large wooden door, which I enter. I ask what their prices are and pay half at the counter, then I am ushered into the red lounge bar, where I am offered a complementary light beer. The madam introduces two of the girls to me who I chat with as I sip my light beer. I ask one of them with rings in various places if she likes her job and she answers: “the money is good.” I think she looks like a bit of a junky so I steer away. Then I see one who picks my fancy talking to two men in the corner. She’s blonde, and has a facial expression that still looks half alive. We go upstairs. The whole place is decked out in red curtains. Its like something out of Twin Peaks. She hands me a towel and tells me her name is Hanna. I tell her my name is Jim and hand her the money. I take a very brief shower, and then she sits me down on the bed and inspects me for diseases thoroughly with her hands, like a doctor. I am not yet responding to her touch. She notices my hesitancy and asks me if I’d like a massage first. I am thankful for this. As she massages we talk. The stuff she’s massaging me with smells cheap. I ask her how she got into this kind of work. She tells me she is from Brisbane and was working as a secretary when her boss told her she would lose her job is she didn’t suck his dick. She refused and took him to court and won. Only problem was that he was a high profile man with lots of connections to organized crime, and it was soon made clear to her that she had to leave town or something very unpleasant would happen to her. So she came to Melbourne where she discovered one of her friends on the game. She decided that instead of being a victim to men’s sexual urges in a world where men have most of the power, she would make money out of it instead – at $200 an hour – and work with other women, employing men to protect them,

instead of being dependent on them. I ask her if it ever gets hard and she says that she hated it quite frequently – she got all sorts, and some of the men were impatient and treated her with no respect. The repetitive nature of it gets her down as well, but she just switches off and focuses on the money. She says she is saving money to buy her parents a trip around the world. She loves her parents. They don’t have a clue what she does for a living, which she only plans to do for as long as it takes her to save the money for the trip. I ask her if it is possible for her to have lasting relationships with the kind of work she’s doing. She tells me that she’s just broken up with someone who was okay with the kind of work she does, and tells me that the difference between having sex at work and having sex with someone she was truly physically and emotionally compatible with. How it is a whole different dimension that can’t touch or be touched by the kind of stuff she does money for, and how timing plays a crucial role, and how they would both just “know”. I understand exactly what she means. She rolls me over and eventually manages, with some effort, to slide a condom onto my cock with her mouth. I am a bit bendy, I still have not achieved a full hard on. She asks me if everything’s alright, telling me I don’t have to continue if I don’t want to. I say to continue. She gives me head in a way that suggests she no longer has any kind of gagging reflex – deep and in and out at high speed. I swell a little more, but still fail to become fully erect. I reach for her hair to stroke it and she looks at me bemusedly and pulls off the blonde wig to reveal tied back dark brown hair. Then she grabs a tube of lubricant and gels herself up, attempting to slowly straddle me, but its no good, I’m slipping and sliding everywhere and fail to penetrate her. She bends over on her hands and knees and as I grab her ass I see deep scars that seem to be gouged into the flesh of her buttocks and thighs. I don’t ask and finally I manage to squeeze myself into her. I fuck her slowly, then I fuck her fast. It’s all the same. Then I say, “fuck,” and I come. She says “What’s the matter?” and I say, “I came,” and she says “What’s wrong with that? That’s a good thing isn’t it?” I withdraw, unpeeling the condom and dropping it in a small bin by the bed, mumbling, “I usually like to…hmm, doesn’t matter. I guess.” I pull my clothes on and she smiles at me. We say goodbye, and I want to kiss her but I don’t. I leave out a back exit, out into the street, into the night. Robert Scotney Hobart

Vegan Rottweilers

mars so they’ve discovered life on mars

Orlando Luminere

4 and a half billion years ago do i give a fuck

mark lahiff The S l o w Club

Vegan Rottweilers improbably grace this landscape of self sustaining metaphors growling predatorily at vegetables here and there

Easy

Warming

strangle me with love

I’m going to fuck you from behind tonight. He says it, like he’s asking me to pass the salt. Great, I say unsure of the correct circumstantial response. You won’t be so sure of yourself when you’re begging me to stop. Maybe I won’t, I venture, warming to the game. He snatches my plate with my chicken on it, and pulls me, by the arm to the bedroom.

wrap your arms round and round me steal my air until its yours that keeps me alive

57 breathe for me in and out in and out fuck me like a piece of equipment don’t return my calls consume me any time you like i’m takeaway hot and easy flight

I am mildly amused. He stands me in front of the mirror. Strip, he says. Quite loudly. I look at him a bit He means it. I strip. So, I find myself in this interesting position, standing, naked by order, facing a huge pile of washing, and a man who I hardly know, who as it turns out I’ll never know. This man has a bit of a crazed look in his eye. One minute I’m sitting fully clothed, with a plate of fairly uninteresting organic chicken. The next I am object in my own bedroom. How time flies. Flight

He Was Already There

He was already there. Unusual, but I had come to expect that from him. Unusualness that is. He was talking on the phone. His lips theoretically only millimetres from someone’s ear. He had intelligent lips. A certain colour, well defined. Lips that conjured landscapes of the Upper Snowy. What came out of them was often worthwhile as well. It was lucky he did not feel the urge to speak to us of all his thoughts and fantasies. I imagine that could be very scary. But as luck would have it he was very discerning, even with all the woman, and he knew which details to keep to himself, which to treat his various women with and which to present as prizes to his friends and family. His values could in the current political climate only be described as rather more or rather less than the ruling middle class fat pigs but definitely not the same or even vaguely similar. He looked good on stage. I suck air, order a coffee and studiously eavesdrop. Knowledge is ammunition you know. The joint kicks in. I couldn’t eat if my relationship depended on it I think. Are you hungry, he asks the minute he gets off the phone. I briefly consider sharing my previous thought but decide this would leave me with little scope for later so I say, just coffee for me thankyou. Very sweetly. Like I’m working behind the Macdonald’s counter in uptown Kentucky and I have braids and big shiny teeth and a hymen and I’m not wearing any knickers. Where are you parked he asks. Are you from the CIA I think. Why the fuck does it matter where I parked? I say, over in the three hour across from the bookstore. My voice has its knickers back on, I can’t help it but maybe the teeth and the hymen will be enough on their own. Has it ever struck you as odd or even faintly patriarchal that the word “hymen” has the word “men” in it. Maybe “testicles” should not be “testicles” but lets say “testywomenickles” or something. I do not share this thought with my husband. Even I know it would be very inappropriate right this minute. I called you from work last night, he says with a very unnecessary sigh. I already know he thinks I’m fucking someone else so there’s no need for all this wasted air but I pretend to ignore it, consider saying something positively infuriating like I was at a feng shui class but at the last minute I come up with this appetiser; I could wait till you’re eating but then maybe not cause you might choke and my St Johns ambulance certificate has just run out which would mean I wouldn’t be able to touch you or help you in any way for fear of insurance claims, and I would just have to stand there and watch you die. And then one or all of your mistresses would most probably sue me for money to look

after all those delicious illegitimate children you’ve got stashed away, so I’d be fucked as well. So we cant have you die. I could wait until dessert but then you might vomit up all that expensive food and soil your clothing....He was looking at me in alarm...so maybe I should just tell you now, god knows its not earth shattering or anything, just requires a few rearrangements really. Maybe now is best. Ben and I are moving in to a place on Dent St. Lotte comes with me, you can see her when ever you like, have her for weekends that kind of thing, oh.... and I expect you to be generous with the settlement in recognition of 4 years of keeping my mouth shut, and sleeping alone. You can deal with the press I don’t want any contact with them unless you are very stupid and then you would just have to add very sorry to the list. That went well I think, no reference to the hymen even. No finger pointing, just the facts. No veiled threats. I propel myself out of the situation. I leave him sitting there like he just backed the wrong horse by mistake.

59 Flight

Alcohol the Encrypter

Three Minute Song

Your heart is your home You know who to invite past its threaded threshold, A delicate dance of itself Not aided by alcohol the encrypter and its loutish whelps. Ecco homo Beholding your purse your vitals your soused Very little required before a house guest Ecco homo, ecco Romeo Crown of boys Heirogryphical acumen devoid. A hypnosis a synopsis, a run down Cabs are rare, a bus is there It’s hoe down Ecco Romeo, ecco ecco, it’s a tomb in here The windows punish in coded relays That veer into tears. Cracks are nursed, no such thing as over-rehearsed The danse was macabre, Invitations inscrutable, delivery encrypted in compound.

It’s just a three minute song I can’t get too profound It’s just a three minute song on a CD spinning round Don’t ask me to bare my soul you’ll find it in the CD hole of this three minute song Spinning round

Charlotte Regan Sydney

It’s just an old-fashioned song I wrote it for a buck The verses aren’t that long but I don’t give a fuck Don’t ask me to change the words they fit in nicely with the chords of this three minute song spinning round What am I allowed to say? What are they allowed to play? Cynically, I hear you say “nothing relevant to today” but where does that leave me? Stuck in this three minute song guess there’s nothing left to say inside this three minute song that nobody will play The present music industry requires the mediocrity Of three minute songs spinning round David Cole Icecream Headache

Urban Herbal - New Age Bus (Reggae)

I’m riding on the new age bus There’s room on her for all of us I practice yoga daily to cleanse my chakras I find it is most fun to do when starkers & why would I take the bus when I can travel astrally? Don’t lie to be baby cos you know your aura – I can see I’m riding on the new age bus There’s room on here for all of us When I’m stressed I take time out for meditation & when depressed I use a positive affirmation The Tarot cards are now my favourite reading The I-Ching may bring something anything Yang Ying I’m riding on the new age bus There’s room on here for all of us Sometimes I wonder what is happening to me Always trying to maintain the good chi I’m held together by echinacea Hypericum and Vitamin B

David Cole Icecream Headache

Photo by ’pling

Living urban herbally X 2

Daniel McFadden

To get up I need some caffeine and guarana To get down I need some good ol/ marijuana To keep thin I eat lots of breindelberry & prunes & psyllium husks provide temporary - relief

The Dragon A Dragon with two swords Against his gaping open heart Thrusts them out, damning fire In his face and in his breath Men on horses broad and mighty hard Sought this one last awesome beast None had dared for in a thousand years All were slain, â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;till came these two Strong and invincible was dragon once In time, even dragons show their age Two strikes close to your heart Even in your thickets deep They smell the putrid secret To your soul Burning passions flame However wily, even wounded hearts will mend will they Never mend, Though I aimed at he I struck at you nearly breathless, ebbing fight madness prevails Thrusting pillars of dust Obscuring sightless eyes Over, under Screaming wail of banshee Quiet I couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t set him free, But he hides where I know he cries And he waits for me Jane Mary Daniel McFadden

Let’s Escape

Socio-biological Confessions

Sunny and Cupid and Little Boy Blue left the harbour city in springtime on a wing and a prayer and a burgeoning dream with destination freedom goodbye prisoner mind hello Northern sun we’re rising from sleeping times

Man : Darling I have a confession to make. I cheated on you. er of course you recognise that I only did because as a male I want to distribute my genetic material as widely as possible...you know a bit like those male drosophila... Naturally, I cheated with a woman who had a small chin and full lips- a sign of high estrogen. Further, she was young large breasted and full hipped - so she had all the requisite fertility cues.

CHORUS Let’s escape, let’s escape, let’s escape and follow our star

Woman : (sobbing) Naturally I am jealous because (sob) the human brain evolved in the stone age, and so women had to cling fiercely to their mates to ensure their survival, as well as the continuance of their own genetic material. The same brain is with us now, just as much a puppet of the master genes memes as it ever was.

Ultramarine those liquid mountains the North Coast summertime fuel for the flame of a minstrel’s dream - Divine but the gypsy heart beat steady so steady along the road of time their destiny unfolding before their eyes

Man : (comforting her) I understand darling (pause). Of course you realise that in comforting you I am only trying to ensure the further propagation of my own genetic material over and above my nearest male competitors.

67 Woman : Yes (sob) Yes (sob) Man : I’m so glad we had this little chat

CHORUS Woman : (sobbing) Barry... South of Sydney syncronicity new friends are old friends high on magic mountain Gulaga speaks to me “keep on moving - keep on moving to the feeling..........” CHORUS Peggy van Zalm

Man : (knowing pause) Yes ? Woman : I too have turned to another. Man : What! ( grabs her) How could you ! You know that I am compelled to be promiscuous, and you, YOU, can only have on average one child a year. What of the financial security and emotional stability you are predetermined to desire? Woman : I was simply upset at the thought of losing your emotional commitment, and thus your resources.

The Coffee Pot My coffee pot begins slowly. On the verge of climax it pauses, before spouting in ecstasy. I behave much the same way with Matilda, so it gives me great pleasure to boil coffee. The more it pleases me, the more I boil. Nowadays I boil so much coffee I cannot sleep. Ah Matilda, you’ve taken over my life. Chris Johnston

Man : (gasp) But then ... are our children mine? Woman : Pardon? Man : I don’t care for your lies, or your fastidious use of birth control. I naturally am paranoid that your offspring are not carrying my genetic code. As you know the desire for the genetic pattern or meme to continue itself controls my emotions. I fell a sense of rage propagated by exactly that. My genetic material is provoking me into a total rage! (rage hits its peak)

Woman : (comforting) The children are yours. But naturally I cheated with a man of high economic and social status who had access to resources. He was only too eager to oblige, seeing as how he wanted to ensure the continuance of his own DNA. We were reticent at first... the courtship procedure roughly paralleled the mating behaviour of bonobo monkeys. Man : (pulling himself together) Actually I knew. You see the survival of a particular genetic code depends upon a) the ability to cheat successfully and b) the ability to detect cheating in others. I have both attributes, both a) and b), which according to Vernon and Leek of the university of Michigan, makes me a “prime”. Since you did not detect my cheating prior to my admission you only have a) so you can only be a secondary. Woman : (pulling herself together) my inability to detect your cheating patterns troubles me more than anything. In this I feel a sense of failure that can only highlight what is perhaps a flaw in my codes, as Rutbridge of the University of California suggests. Thus I must defer to your evolutionary success though I am still abandoned in the storm of predetermined emotions. Man : But don’t worry about it darling. Random mutations though not consoling, are but a factor in the unveiling of our particular series of mitochondria. Woman : (sob) ah ha Man : (consoling) Providing you can carry my messages effectively, I don’t care. Shit! Look at the time! We better get going! We’ll be late for the Human Behaviour and Evolution Society meeting! (exits) Woman : heh heh what a charade and inferior mate! His genetic material is not as good as he thinks! The children aren’t his at all. They belong to Jabba The Hut! Sure Jabba is a xenomorph, but he’s got heaps of resources at his disposal, ensuring that as the bearer of his children my survival as well as genetic continuance is assured. I’m playing the “cuckoo game” as described by Wallace and Stevens (1994, University of London). I just hope the amorphous skin, huge mouths and gruff laughter of the children doesn’t give me away. by Anthony Hayes and Gerald Keaney

From the “Yuendumu Sagas” I made it to Yuendumu Well I made it to Yuendumu...Wow! The trip here was pretty wild. The road sign said the highway was closed... So we went to the cop-shop in Bullia to ask and the cops weren’t there, so we tried the RACQ office but they were closed, so we asked at the pub, they said “No worries mate hasn’t rained for days!”, the local shop said the same... Well... 50k down the road it became pretty clear why he road was closed. Mud ! 850k to Alice the road sign said... 850k of hell. The first river crossing didn’t look too bad. Turned out the water was over the bonnet and half way up the windscreen. Its amazing how far you can roll if you start out fast enough! The vertical wall on the other side of the river didn’t help. I think that’s when we smashed the shock arm off the left rear wheel and buckled the right rim, but I’m not sure! It could have been as we drove over the embankments at the side of the road and went bush to avoid the mud, or else it might have been the 2ft deep wash-outs in the middle of the road... what ever it was another 40k down the road the car started to bunny hop as the rear shocky dug into the ground. So two hours figuring out how to rip off a shock absorber with no tools on a closed highway in a mud puddle in the middle of nowhere... The next three hours were spent driving with only springs on one side through about 50k of mud. Two high-points linger in my mind... 1) When I asked the Walpri man (Osmond) next to me if he thought we would make it through a creek crossing... After walking half way across with water up to his waist and mud up to his knees he came back with an unarguable and definitive “NO” 2) The second was about 100k later, with dark approaching, having not seen a soul, limping along at 40k, in and out of the bush, on and off the road (if you can call it that). When Osmond turned to me in his quite Walpri manner with stilted English and said “This road, she useless hey, I don’t like this one”. We finally made it out to the other side of all the mud and onto a real highway (well dirt and corrugations but dry at least). Stopped in at a Cattle station where a young buckaroo welded the shocky back together, while swearing a lot about “How the *&^% did ya make it through there mate, them $%^&ing trucks been #$%^&ing stuck @#$%^in ‘ere for four @#$%^ing days mate”. I learned two things 1) When a Desert man tells you a desert road ain’t good, it’s worth listening 2) When the sign says the roads closed.... it is! Dave Hodgkin Central Australia

Waterhole

You Got that Money Story

Went to a great waterhole for a swim yesterday after a bit of roo shooting the night before. The waterhole is at a place called Mt Wedge. Its a sacred site (Rainbow serpent). There is a large rock standing upright guarding it... a place where photos don’t work if you try to take them. A cool place in a heated landscape.

Up here people ask “What your country?” I answer “Canberra” Almost always the reply is “You got that money story” It seems strange and yet it’s so accurate, somehow being born and bred in Canberra does give you a good understanding of how the “Money story” works... out here its just plain baffling. Things that need funding don’t get it and things that don’t do...

I went with a white-fella who is married to one of the traditional land owners so it was okay to be there, well at least at that hole, the one round the corner was way outta bounds. The bloke’s name was Joey, basically he is Walpri at heart, but a private boarding school background, young fella, speaks Walpri and another language and lives on a remote out-station, with his Walpri family. We actually went out to take photos for his band’s new album cover on the digicam. So we went to a Saltpan below Mt Wedge to get a photo of the band gear set-up with no band in an abandoned landscape... an amazing image, Mt Wedge in the background. When we first got there it was too hot too much haze for photos so we headed off to the waterhole to kill some time... The rock-hole is in a canyon through a cliff face of deep red boulder rocks. The place’s Walpri name translates as “over there standing”. On arriving we had to brush the base of the rock with a fresh branch to let him know we were friends. Then as we approached the water we threw in some little rocks so the Rainbow serpent couldn’t see us through the ripples...then we were okay. Joey knows the serpent exists and that he can travel through rock but lives in the water. He knows cause if you say the name of other serpent waterholes in the area, he gets jealous and makes the wind come up and it rains. Well... we tried it and as we said the names, the wind suddenly whirled through the canyon... a willy willy on a still day in a totally sheltered place... The land is so Magic out here... the colours are wild, the people incredible, the culture so deep, the problems so immense, the landscape boundless and timeless. So much it makes me wonder about the sacred places back in Canberra, about places long forgotten, massacres not spoken about. Angry serpents, being brutalized by a bunch of ignorant “kardia” (white-fellas) tromping around building lakes and roads with no respect. Dave Hodgkin Central Australia

It’s been a hell of a Christmas. Lots of adults in Yuendumu are away for “Men’s Business or Sorry Business” as well as a whole mob that have headed off to Melbourne for the International Baptists Convention. This has left the town with way too many kids and not enough responsible adults. On top of that we have had lots of people from other communities here for “Business” (there is big business due in Wilara next week, maybe 2,000 maybe 7,000 people expected, so roads are closed etc). All of this has meant chaos... As you can imagine the job of keeping it under control has been way out of control...

71 Christmas has included: being chased by a mad woman with an axe; having my car beaten up by a spade and a steel pipe by another mad one and the saga of disarmourment and reconciliation, then hasty retreat that went with it. All night drives to Mt. Driving to Wilara, only 180k, but 16 hours driving there and back, fording rivers 5ft deep and getting bogged, climbing out windows to swim under the car to unbog the diff and being rescued by a passing tractor, bogging the land-cruiser so deep in mud in a bog 50m across that we had to climb out the windows ‘cause the mud was above the door line. Secret mens’ business, with the “red ochre men” running through town whooping and wailing, children hiding, women cowering Bush camp, seeing men’s business that can’t be talked about and sitting round fires eating fresh damper, billy tea, bulluko soup and Marloo (Roo)talking to old men about ancient lands and their ancient traditions. With naked young men listening and mocking, proud in their new found manhood and the pivotal role they play in the community that night, nurtured and heads held proud, brother in laws by their sides “fulfilling obligation” for the wives they might yet marry. In hindsight it’s no wonder that on average nurses last 4 months in Yuendumu. 1 year is considered long-term...It does get in your blood though... that bull-dust is mighty fine, it sneaks its way into every crevice, your clothes turn red, the inside of the doors of the car have an afternoon shadow and it creeps up your veins and eats at your heart. White man’s logic doesn’t make sense out here, the bush has its own time and stance. It demands respect and attention. I was laughed at the other day as I sat by my broken down car, my second flat tyre in a row, “What? You only brought two spares?!” they scoffed (fortunately I had a third). It felt funny today, we drove into “town” and I rang a friend on my mobile phone (back in range at last). A two minute phone call, he had to go “running late for a meeting”... We just laughed...

Canberra will be hard, it’s getting time to remember that “Money story”, pick it up where I left off. Mortgages seem surreal in a community where the average house has 20-50 people. Working 9-5 seems strange in a community where there’s 80% theoretical unemployment yet people work all day and all night fulfilling obligation and juggling responsibilities to white law and black to family and land... People think nothing of it here when you ask “Wanna come for a drive” “Where to” they say. “Western Australia, not sure of the way.” “Yawayi” and in they jump, not telling anyone, not packing or gathering clothes, they’re off... and when you get there they might just “stop for a while” or else some family jump in for the ride back... It really is no wonder the travelling Walpri’s have trouble understanding our weird ways and us theirs.

Info-Tech Rap I used to be an info-technology junkiethought a mobile and laptop made me spunky. Took me less than thirty seconds, the infotech way, to tell the whole world I’ve got nothing to say. Downloading text from the Angolan Ministry of Labour got a knock on the door from my next door neighbour. I said ‘Who are you? I’ve never seen yr face. Are you just an e-mail address from outer space?’ He said ‘Man you’ve got it bad, the worst I’ve ever seenI gotta separate you from your brainspace machines.’ He tore me away and made me cold turkey I was sweatin’ and a shakin’ and my sight went murky

Dave Hodgkin Central Australia

Macintosh Love I click on the icon of yr face & drag it to the Trash. Then to the Special menu, down to . A dialogue box appears with an exclamation mark inside a triangle: The Trash contains 1lover. It uses 416 gigabytes of dreams and memories. Are you sure you want to permanently remove it? I click OK. Then to the Special menu again, I select Shut Down. Another dialogue box: It is now safe to switch off your Macintosh. The Restart button does not appear. Robin Davidson

My mind was deleted and I heard my voice groan‘Just one ISD call my from my mobile phone?’ But only two weeks later I’d regained my youth Smashed my machines and became a recluse. my love of infotech’s turned to hate I don’t want to communicate Turned my back on society, did it my way, scattered thumbtacks on the information superhighway. I’ve just come back from doing something vile to yr wafer thin handsfree digital mobile If you give me a ring you’ll find something obscene Waiting for you on my answer machine Saying what you want to tell me, I don’t want to know With compass directions on where you oughta go, Cause there’s only one thing I want to stateI don’t want to communicate I’ve sent two viruses one male one female to breed inside yr computer email I’ll caress yr facsimile machine with an axe Cause I want the real truth, not just the fax I’ve said it before n i’ve said it straightI don’t want to communicate!

Dick Smith, IBM, Macintosh and Optus all tell me I need a brand new thousand dollar whatsis They don’t understand, however I stateI don’t want to communicate

Mrs Albion, you’ve Borne Some Beautiful Sons

I could’ve sent that message thru computer modem, but I rather think the gelignite through the window showed ’em. I could’ve sent an attachment in helvetica typeface, but I preferred to let em know with a fist in the face.

They bought beautiful and sacred things with gunpowder and blood: The Great British Museum hoarded wond’rous goods.

so I’ll say it again and I’ll say it straightI don’t want to communicate Yeah all I want to say I’ll say right here, come near N i’ll shout it in yr ear loud n clear Mate I just don’t want to communicate!

Their likenesses in marble, their honoured names in stone, While in corners of some foreign field rot their flags and bones.

Scientists’ and artists’ steps echoed marble floors Among the art and artefacts of places you called yours. You thought yourself the Roman Empire and the Glory that was Greece, But newer, better, brighter, bringing Cricket, Christ and Peace. With tribute from your colonies and labour from your slaves, You rebuilt old St Paul’s, you gilt Westminster’s knaves.

75 And in these hallowed sacred spots stand statues of your sons, Whom mothers grieved, their flesh torn red by other mothers’ sons.

Robin Davidson Their likenesses in marble, their honoured names in stone, With Houris and Muses like Heroes of Ancient Rome. Their eyes look sharp as bayonets, their faces look so young: I wonder how you bore to slay such sweet angelic sons. Your fragile empire’s crumbled now into forgetful dust: No foreign fields to feed your sons to sate an Empire’s lust. You’ll have to meet their living gaze, not blind, heroic stone, To build that green and pleasant land you’ve wanted for your home. To humbly grieve for all you lost in playing the Emperor’s part: Then sail the strange unchart’d seas that lie within the heart.

Endorphin

Photo by ’pling

Robin Davidson

AEGISTHUS (from the play Elektra A.D.)

A gypsy boy came in one night, he too wished for some shelter. I detest gypsies, David, I think them animals. I stopped thinking that way at University but then, of course, the war came. He was a gypsy so I didn’t hear him climb down the stairs. They walk with the Devil my grandmother taught me, that’s why they make such good thieves, the demons protect them. Can you believe that, David? Such an old foolish tale, yet I think I believe it. I was scared of gypsies as a child, I thought they stole your soul at night. I woke up to see him staring down at me and smiling. Here is a fine catch, I imagined him thinking, this will get me a nice little reward. The little cocksucker was grinning; he had a knife to my throat.

I felt I had become a man. I was smiling with God as I climbed the stairs into the night. I had an erection, David, I was happy. I think I might have been the happiest I ever remember being.

Photo by ’pling

I killed him. It was easy, that is the strength of hate. I looked into his dirty face and my arm stretched out and I grabbed at his evil throat. I was not scared of the knife and he must have been so shocked by my swiftness that he had no time to attack. I choked him as you would a kitten or a dog. I tightened my fist, he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t scream. He was kicking and I tightened my grip and I snapped his throat. He was dead, limp. I threw him into a corner and I made my escape. I may have killed others, but it is the gypsy boy I remember. And do you know how it felt? Can you imagine?

My son is Australian. He will be raised here, and Klytemestra and I will protect him. We will work hard and take care of him. We will educate him, we will shelter him. We will love him. And if I never see bloody Europe again, I don’t mind. I have had it with Europe. Europe, my friend, has had it with us.

Dylan - Brown Hornet

I shot at shadows. But early in the war, when we were sent from our homes, I was hiding from them, hiding in a cellar of a farm. It was winter, David, it was freezing cold. I hid there, in my shirt, that’s all I had. The owners of the house were old and frail, and if I heard them begin to descend it was simple to hide from them in the dark. Only a few days, mind you, that’s all I wanted. I know they would come searching. But I was scared and needed to make plans. I had a Bible down there in the cellar, I was learning the New Testament and learning all the Christian prayers. Do you understand, so when they found me I could pretend to not be Muslim.

Christos Tsiolkas Melbourne

Jodie Said

Jodie said: When you rang, I was watching the X Files. The new series. Jodie said she thought I wouldn’t mind if she waited till it finished. Jodie said she hates it when the mobile rings during the X Files Should leave it off But a job’s a job. Jodie’s got 3 jobs but only one depends on her mobile. It connects disconnects and connects like Jodie in the course of an hour

Jodie’s got a back like a cello nipped at the waist broad in the hips narrow at the nape of the neck. Jodie keeps her mobile on so she doesn’t get stuck with some weirdo. Jodie’s got a driver at the other end of her mobile phone. Actually it’s her boyfriend. Jodie’s boyfriend puts her third on his list, She says. She says she comes after the dogs and the ute Truly But she loves him heaps, though. He rings on the mobile while we are still going I don’t know what to do. Finish elegantly, I guess. And I do. Jodie says: Seeya, call me on my mobile and doesn’t offer a kiss goodnight. Kim Houghton

Jodie helps her boyfriend run a boarding kennel and breed Rotties. Jodie works in an office she’s been there 3 years but they’ll make her a manager soon even though she’s not 20 yet if she gets her licence and if Mick shows her how to do the paperwork. And Jodie’s got an ad in the Brisbane City News It says: Relax with me. Call my mobile.

Whisky Whispers...

Scat Cat

Whisky whispers tight little squeeze of my hand in your pocket enough change to see me through the night

i’ve got my cat’s eyes in tonight and i’m prowling the four corners of your night

can sneak its way into your head until your dreaming comfortably but please don’t be mislead

chasing shadows slinking to the door and it’s a pause in hallways and thinking cigarettes

feeling whoosy? well have a drink my friend boosy boosy drink until the bottles end

i can see where you’ll be i can read your mind already know where you’ll go it’s all in good time

Bourbon drippers Whisky pour hardyard drirs we welcome all

follow to the places where you go no need for hiding cause i already know

penny walker just a few drinks later and he’s the baby talker that’s passed out on the floor

i can see where you’ll be i can read your mind already know where you’ll go it’s all in good time you’ll be me you will see it’s all in the lines already know where you’ll go it’s all in good time.

Kylie Dickson Moozoo

Think of Me as Your Cat

The Tale of Puss in Boots

Don’t want to be your girlfriend Don’t want to be your wife Too many obligations cluttering up my life But ... I’ve got a fine solution If you want me to stay with you, Use your imagination, Here’s all you have to do Think of me as your cat You can get used to that

There’s a tale that’s told of long ago about a cat with far to go This feline was a total cutie Really knew how to shake her bootie Left in the care of a miller’s son When his Daddy’s life was done “A cat!” he cried ,”Man I don’t need it , How in the hell am I gonna feed it?” She knew that now was the time to speak She told him how they could reach the peak Rrrrrrrrrreow! Rrrrrr rrrrrr rrrrr rrrrr rrrreow!

Frolic in your garden slightly overfed feeling warm and furry hogging all the bed obligation free it would be such fun Chasing after butterflies sleeping in the sun You would find me gorgeous Even when I was a pest. Tearing up the furniture Scratching all your guests I could flirt with anyone without the risk of danger. Play and tease with all your friends or some attractive stranger. I could just ignore you If you were in a mood Go out late with all my friends and just come back for food And it wouldn’t piss you off I treated you like that! I could get away with it, If I was your cat. Edwina Blush Sydney

Long and loud she was vociferating He thought he was hallucinating Hey cat, how come you’re so verbose Now that the old man’s comatose She said “ Talking’s not my only thing. I can dance and I can sing. Stop worrying about the whys and wherefores Find me protection for my velvet paws. Before we can be in cahoots How about some brand new boots? I want thigh high black leather If we’re gonna stick together Black leather, thigh high Oooooh baby hear me cry Rrrrrrr rrrrr rrrrr rrrreow! In her boots with a voice like velvet fur And the miller’s son for her Manager They were padding through the prints of a purrfect plan Blowing out the critics like a turbo fan Carefully culturing all the right contacts Getting legal advice on their contracts Finding the ultimate song with a catchy tune and a beat so strong That every Dj was spinning her vinyl and pussy’s victory was final Rrrrrrrrrreow! Rrrrrr rrrrrr rrrrr rrrrr rrrreow! Hey man Pussy will take you far Gold card, limousine, caviar, All yours safe and warm inside, Puss In Boots will take you for a rrrrriiide!

Rrrr e rrr e rrre rrerre rre e rrrre rrrrre rrre rreowow! Rrrr e rrr e rrre rrerre rre e rrrre rrrrre rrre rreowow! rr*#erre*** fffttt hhth wwrr ekekekekekek (etc) I I I I want! Thigh high black leather If we’re gonna stick together Black leather, thigh high Oooooh baby hear me cry Rrrrrrr rrrrr rrrrr rrrreow! Hey man Pussy will take you far Gold card, limousine, caviar, All yours safe and warm inside, Puss In Boots will take you for a rrrrriiide! Purrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr hhhSSSthTTT!

Photo by ’pling

Edwina Blush Sydney

Way Hip Antelopes

One day a major DMC was caught up in the ecstasy Her presence caused him cataplexy He found our feline really sexy He challenged her unto a match Yeah she could sing, but could she scratch? Puss wasn’t just a piece of fluff She took the challenge She was tough She had the rhythm in her paws Jumped on the decks and used her claws!

Language Barrier

‘Oi, you! Whaddya talking foreign for? You’re English like us, aintcha? So whaddya talking foreign for? Nice birds though, ya done alright there mate But watcha talking like that for? Oh, they don’t speak English, don’t they? Well, whyya bovvering with them Froggie slags then? Talking never did any good anyway - give us ‘em over ‘ere, they can talk to our meat, that’s Esperanto, innit? Watcha sayin to em? Oi, cunt, watcha sayin to ‘em? Talkin bahrt us, are ya? Fuckin wanker Bet ya think yer really clever - clever, dontcha, talking foreign so we can’t understand ya trying to impress those birds with yer fancy lingo fucking university wanker Hey, Del boy, shall we talk to ‘im ‘eh? Poncy cunt - let’s teach him a REAL lesson, eh? Oh, not so mouthy now, are we, wanker? Well it’s too late - we’re gonna kick some good British sense into yer, aren’t we, lads? No use begging now, ya student tosser!’ and the boots went in the fists went in and he went down the boots went in again and the lights went out on a life destroyed in a moment of hatred by the psychopathic flotsam of Thatcherism’s own and let’s have no excuses, no bullshit sociology, no talk of deprivation, of mitigating circumstances Kingston-on-Thames? No, these were just mean-spirited scum, celebrating the values of the last thirteen years the values of crass ignorance selfishness violence and of course ‘pride in being British’. Was it for this, the 1944 Education Act?

People are murdered every day, of course - in this nasty, brutish zit of a country, often for even more unbelievably banal reasons so why this poem? Simply that I remember a visit to a pub my own bilingual conversation (it’s a skill you know, you learn it, like medicine or carpentry a skill that most Europeans take for granted) and the broken beer glass and the contorted face of the thug when I replied to his insult in his own tongue for me it ended differently but when I saw that story in the paper a shiver ran down my spine I remembered that evening in the pub and the impotent anger swelled uncontrollably in my guts... One final thought; I bet THIS senseless murder didn’t make the tabloid headlines: After all, The Paper That Supports Our Boys wouldn’t want to alienate its readership, would it? Attila the Stockbroker London

Boys in the Hood (Trainspotter rap)

MC Trainspotter, yeah, that’s me - and this is my homeboy, Nice-T! Now some people think that trainspotting’s rot... but me and my posse, we say IT’S NOT! All you need is a camera, notebook and pen you write down a number, then you write one down again We’re ignored by the nation, we go down the station and we’ve got another hobby masturbation Hey don’t walk away, ‘cos I’m talking to you You know what they call us The Platform 2 Live Crew! Now me and my homeboys work in a band and at the weekend we go to the library On Saturday mornings we like shopping and then we go amateur league groundhopping I nearly caught pneumonia at Billingham Synthonia Wanna know the layout of the ground? I’ll phone ya! A nice telephone directory to read MC Trainspotter in the house I’ve got the suss and I’ve got the nous I don’t live in a ghetto like those rappers in the States I like the police Yes, they’re my best mates... I’ve never been arrested (that goes without saying) I’ve reported lots of people I’ve seen travelling without paying And here’s what I say to every other rapping crew well I’m not as good as you! But I do think

you spend far too much on your gear I could save you some money so please listen here: My trainers are from Oxfam and they cost 50p My anorak’s my mum’s and the carrier bag was free! I wouldn’t like a gold chain - someone might mug me and I don’t want a baseball cap - they really bug me! We’re the parka posse, we’re the ‘boys in the hood’ and it keeps out the rain - now isn’t that good? And if you want information down at the station just ask me, it’ll fill me with elation! MC Trainspotter - yeah that’s me Yo! there, homeboy! Want a cup of tea? Attila the Stockbroker London

Shells & Beans There are sharks out there. The Guards are on patrol in red & yellow stripes. Fiery and rigid. They’re not going to let in any more coloured sharks to Our Shores. No brown or black sharks. Only Whitefish are allowed in these waters. Whitehorses are permitted. It’s an ocean of fear with rips and sharp edged rocks. Not a place of dreams. No star gazing. No painting. No thinking. Signposted on the sand. Just Work. Bean counting, Number Reduction and increasing paper consumption. Swim away from this beach and explore new shores. Into rockpools to find sea-urchins. Barnacles know of times before The Guards moved in. i’m a crab and disappear quickly into sand. Under my shell are hidden places. Soft & fleshy dark-pink. The Guards are ultrawhite, their light hurts my eyes when I come up from darkwetsands into the day-sun. The sun on the horizon. The sea dreams beyond dreams and i count shells to infinity. kathleen bleakley

Pip - Sidewinder

Photo by ’pling

* This piece was performed @ The Pinter Festival Benefit, Gypsy 10/9/98. KB has been performing spoken word @ Gypsy (old & new) since ‘96 for various events including Apocalypse Clubs, Going Off and benefits. She’s danced at many a great gig and hopes we can keep Gypsy a-live @ out of sharks mouths.

Share Accom.

Everyone’s lived with a girl named Ange and a boy named Brad and some uni kid from the sticks with acne and crabs. Everyone’s had the Washing-Up-Mexican-Standoff, STD downers, both sexual and telephonic, got melancholic to Tom Waites and gin and tonic. Everyone’s been woken by tripping drunks on the landing found themselves standing in Megan’s cat shit, spilt Sam’s bong, stolen Sue’s cheese, been bitten by Doug’s dog’s fleas, snorted snow with Debbie or Don. Everyone’s scabbed Sally’s cigs and slammed at a gig with a pneumatic, neurotic Teutonic blonde. Everyone’s potplants have choked to death on beerdregs and butts, everyone’s bitched over bills and bonds and who owes what cut. Everyone’s woken to cockroach turds in the toothpaste, a body in the bath, Sodom in the sink and something dead in the fridge that just can’t be traced. Everyone’s suffered the moaning and thumping from next room’s humping, the sound of slapping fat and futon slats and the Doors and Led Zep Four at Three in the morning, and regretted not getting that nice accountant Glen with the VCR. Everyone’s gone through the formality of showing unsuitable accountants through vacant, ghostly revolving-door rooms, heard Dark Side Of The Moon on a beanbag over two minute noodles and tofu, everyone’s realised they’re out of toilet paper sitting on the loo. Everyone’s had that Tasmanian Wilderness poster in their dunny, if not, Che Guevara. Everyone’s read Lord of the Rings, started the Bible and Ulysses, everyone’s played in a band,

everyone’s lived with a poet or a tortured artist with a spiteful novel planned. Everyone’s tried a kitty once, and a roster, everyone’s marked their own phone-calls ‘til that bill blew out and Bob did a bunk to Foster. Everyone’s faced eviction and disconnection, lost an erection trying to roll on protection. Everyone’s been exposed to hand-me-down Age of Aquarians, homoeopaths, naturopaths, psychopathic vegetarians, windchimes, crystals, incense, numerology, aromatherapy, clairvoyancy, tarot, astrology, batik, cheesecloth, reincarnation and Shirley Bloody Maclean! Everyone’s been exposed to dolphins dolphin candles, dolphin carvings, dolphin calenders, dolphin stickers, dolphin condoms, dolphin dildos, dolphin tattoos, dolphin knickers, dolphin songs, dolphin cards, dolphin toys and tapestries ... Oh, for a dolphin cookbook, with recipe for sushi. Everyone’s had English backpackers crash for just one more week? Everyone’s regretted fucking their flatmate or flatmate’s friend Fiona four times in the back of her Toyota Corolla after Pictionary and sixteen Coronas. Everyone’s had a late religious argument in the kitchen when they’re bent. Everyone’s enlivened a cocktail party by imitating Mount Vesuvius, spray-painted the stereo with coconut cream and kidney beans, laid a trail of pureed pretzel and cabanossi through the shag-pile, to the bathroom, which ends up looking and smelling like a Parmesan Cheese factory in a heatwave ... or is that just me? Tug Dumbly Sydney

Today

I tried to fall in love with myself. But you can’t fall in love with perfection. You can’t kiss a piece of shiny red steel and get something real. You can’t tongue a razor, you can’t neck a mannequin. It’s the cracked ones I like, the ones who can barely cope as they tread sanity’s tightrope. The ones conceived in doubt born into uncertainty, baptised in weakness and blessed with a confessional streak a mile wide. You show me yours, I’ll show you mine. I fall for the fallible I fall into a mirror. All the strong-arm stuff, the pectoral huff and bluff don’t ring my bell. I’m just not a hard man. I’m a soft tissue kind of guy, here, blow your nose on my knee and see, I bruise like a peach, you could kill me with a squeeze, at your ease kill me any way you please. The loud alarms and gaudy lashings at the big feast are very alluring, very colourful, but it’s the morsels beneath the table that my mouse loves. ——Today I remember lost things soft things the shy creature creeping around the perimeter

Today kiss the cripple within rinse the grit and heal the hurt ears the stinging eyes and rasping lungs Today I warble like a Currawong and buzz like a cricket Today I send my ego to a fat farm slip cynicism a mickey peg vanity in a pig-sty and throw caution from a Tiger Moth into a deep blue lake Today I let love off the leash to frolic freely in the park untroubled by perverts and muggers

95 Today I hug criminals and invite religious doorknockers in for a buttered crumpet, giving their views full and polite consideration Today I want no supermarkets, but friendly corner delis run by happy, rustic peasant couples that you can banter with as you buy a light bulb Today I want no sirens or jets in the sky but Willy Wagtails and Dragonflies Today I want goatherds with panpipes not Monaros with tuned-pipes. I want the sound of accordions wafting from taverns and the gentle crackle of a Noel Coward 78 Today I want to piss streams of tiny brightly coloured tropical fish into the gutters turn dog turds to mushrooms deros to leprechauns and petrol fumes to the smell of cow shit and fresh cut hay

Today I want Arcadia and Utopia and I don’t mean the nightclubs So give me this day my undaily self to love the mammal I am with all my heart, mind, body and soul for mine is the freedom the joy and the love for ever and ever amen

Photo by ’pling

Tug Dumbly Sydney

Secret Chiefs 3

Today I want to take a horse-drawn carriage to a picnic on the riverbank with Ratty and Moley and Badger and Mr Toad and after dining I want to walk by the river and fall down a rabbit hole to meet Alice and play croquet with the Queen of Hearts and then climb the Magic Faraway Tree to find Heidi’s green alps and Middle-Earth and Oz and Narnia and Shangri-La

Sick

She said I’m sick of your poems. They’re all just poems about poetry and the pain of being a poet and what a hard lot this self-imposed torture is. Poems about poetry. They’re as bad as novels about novelists or rock songs about rock’n’roll. I mean, a spoonful of shit makes the poetry go down, and it’s okay to say you’ve had a hard day toiling over a hot page, but when your whole job is to just to bitch about how hard your job is, and your only inspiration is the sad romance of slow self-murder and the grubby glories of the garret, and all you can write about is rutting like a satyr on a soiled milk-crate bed with a bevy of bambis plied on four litres of cardboard and a packet of shag, singing ragged hymns to bittersweet squalor, and when local colour passes for a shit-stained bowl and empty fridge in a roach rest home on a diet of beer, cigarettes and two minute noodles, because to try for a little health, happiness and stability would be very un-Charles Bukowski, because that’s who you want to be, Charles Bukowski, when in fact you’re a pale imitation whose line in squalid self-revelation and mastubatorial depravity is so contrived and transparent in all its self-mythologising bullshit as to be pathetic ? well, darling, have you ever considered becoming a plumber? That way you get fresh shit everyday. You don’t live life, you examine it, I’d say study it like an insect under a magnifying glass only that’s a simile,

and I’m sick of similes and metaphors and allusions. Even when we make love I can almost hear you composing verses, when you go down on me you’re not really there, you’re thinking up stanzas to describe my cunt. You don’t eat, wank, fuck or sleep because you want to or because you have to but so as you’ve got something to write about. You wouldn’t even bother shitting if you didn’t think you could squeeze a poem out of it. Why can’t you write about nice things, simple things, everyday things, things not related to poetry, like the bush, or the death of a cherished cat? I don’t know, use your imagination, but it has to stop, it has to stop now do you hear?? Tug Dumbly Sydney

The Gypsy Anthology

The Gypsy Anthology KGB