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By Robert (Poet Laureate of Slammatown)
There’s a door by the doorstep. This seems like a Clue.
There’s a hideous temptation to rhyme with ‘poo’.
The light is quite shiny – it shines like the light.
If we didn’t have darkness, we wouldn’t have night.
If we didn’t have night then we’d all go insane.
So let’s paint all the hearing aids purple again.
There’s a door by the doorstep. This seems like a Clue.
There’s a hideous temptation to rhyme with ‘poo’.
The light is quite shiny – it shines like the light.
If we didn’t have darkness, we wouldn’t have night.
If we didn’t have night then we’d all go insane.
So let’s paint all the hearing aids purple again.
Hey kid how are you?
Today I called the Mayor 'Kid', he was so shocked that he stood like a statue in the middle of the hallway for a full thirty seconds. I walked down the hall, smiled pleasantly then shut the door to my office.
He may still be standing there.
He may still be standing there.
Salad sandwich and an orange juice
Today I was walking down the street feeling particularly pleased about the world. I had just completed the quick crossword, the sudoku and reached excellent in the target word, in my lunch break. I thought I saw David Hassellhoff but it turned out to be just an ordinary member of the public.
Brush, juice, grape, awesome
There was much discussion about unmint toothpaste last Sunday afternoon. I was sitting in my cafe with Spencer, Madam Squeeze and most of the members of Psychonanny and the Babyshakers. The singer has taken to sporting a green supermarket shopping bag as a handbag and I find myself strangely drawn to the fashion.
The non-Simon guitarist was very pleased with the idea of unmint toothpaste. He said that he once had a tube and it was a revelation. He drank orange juice every morning immediately after brushing his teeth, with no ill effects. He assured me that unmint toothpaste also allows for the immediate post-brushing consumption of grapes. I am entering a reasearch phase, I will find this toothpaste if it is the last thing I do.
The non-Simon guitarist was very pleased with the idea of unmint toothpaste. He said that he once had a tube and it was a revelation. He drank orange juice every morning immediately after brushing his teeth, with no ill effects. He assured me that unmint toothpaste also allows for the immediate post-brushing consumption of grapes. I am entering a reasearch phase, I will find this toothpaste if it is the last thing I do.
Don't leave me in charge, I'll fuck your shit up on purpose
Today I sorted through job applications. There are some people in the world who very much want the job I can not wait to stop doing, in fact ninety five people want that job.
One man declared in his application that he knew all about one of the selection criteria because the company he used to work for had a 'reputationally good reputation for being the upmost at this'. English is his first language. I put his application in the 'yes' pile.
One man declared in his application that he knew all about one of the selection criteria because the company he used to work for had a 'reputationally good reputation for being the upmost at this'. English is his first language. I put his application in the 'yes' pile.
Are trains electric?
It was curious but I found myself to be nervous. At first I was unsure as to why I was covered in a light sheen of sweat, had a heightened awareness of sound and a general inability to finish my piece of banana bread but it soon became clear that I was nervous.
I harbor no real desire to become a train driver, my motivation for undertaking this lengthy and trying process is more complex and unreasonable than the jurisprudence of equity, and I think you might find that equity has more to do with reasons for taking train driver tests than you first thought.
I was surprised, though I shouldn't have been, to find myself standing in a crowd of men dressed in their smart casual best. Their hideous hair was tied back, gelled down or spike upwards. They all wore pale button up shirts,ill fitting trousers and awful shoes. Somebody else had ironed their shirts. There were about 170 of us, we were herded, inspected, marked off on lists. I was not uncomfortable, not once the pencils came out and we were sat down at desks.
Train driver exams are tremendously enjoyable. It must be a hangover from law school but sitting silently amongst row upon row of people concentrating furiously felt like home. This disturbs me greatly.
The first exam was a knockout round, anybody failing to meet the required and undisclosed score was asked to leave. At first I was pleased to pass test after test but then I heard some of the men talking amongst themselves near a lift shaft. These men have not taken exams, unless it was part of learning a trade. They do not read for pleasure, do puzzles in newspapers or think in unfurling abstract strands. I thought I could be one of them, trying my best with the provided pencils, but something more than a lack of penis in my underpants separated me from the herd and I felt nothing but shame.
Recently I have begun to think that university was a waste of my time. I feel nothing but a sense of awkward regret when I look over those five difficult years. My new and thankfully temporary boss said that I was wasted in my present position, that I would be much better off somewhere else though she still begged to keep me. I am tired of trying to find interesting, challenging and meaningful work. I am exhausted from towing around all this knowledge, the heavy memories of contorting myself to accommodate everything academic. I knew what I wanted to say when I was the shower but it has now become unclear, this is a product of my exhaustion.
I am shedding people faster than dead skin cells, Superman wasn't the first and he certainly wasn't the last. I am exhausted by the mantle of my learning, I am exhausted by people who do not think and require me to do all the thinking. I am exhausted by people who think they are thinking but they are not, they are not even close to the idea of reason. I am tired of people who live in the suburbs and pour judgement across my way of life. I want to sit here, in this city, and type. I am confused about meanings, motivations and just why I dedicated myself to so much learning with no beneficial outcomes.
I want to cry out the maxims of equity, hold up my clean hands and beg for restitution. I want to unlearn all this learning and find myself suddenly just another face in a crowd. I want to gel down hideous hair and laugh with the others at the idea of thinking. I want to wear uniforms kindly provided and view my roster no more than two weeks in advance. I want to tell people at parties I'm just a train driver, I know nothing of anything but signals and patience and the popular easy to read novel tucked into my ugly bag.
Last night I dreamt I was flesh made into a totem pole. I stood three metres high in the middle of a park, sturdy, cylindrical and ancient. I was not carved but constructed, my sides panelled with cassette decks. Every time I thought of anything at all the cassette doors flew open and the force of my will ejected tapes like rockets all around me. All night I ejected tapes faster than the speed of light, across the park and into the stratosphere. I still feel like this, ejecting and rejecting with frightening speed and precision. I don't know what I'm doing but it feels necessary. I might wake up tomorrow and laugh at my train driving exam adventure or I might wake up, call in sick and spend the day writing lists of things I do not like. The future is unclear.
I harbor no real desire to become a train driver, my motivation for undertaking this lengthy and trying process is more complex and unreasonable than the jurisprudence of equity, and I think you might find that equity has more to do with reasons for taking train driver tests than you first thought.
I was surprised, though I shouldn't have been, to find myself standing in a crowd of men dressed in their smart casual best. Their hideous hair was tied back, gelled down or spike upwards. They all wore pale button up shirts,ill fitting trousers and awful shoes. Somebody else had ironed their shirts. There were about 170 of us, we were herded, inspected, marked off on lists. I was not uncomfortable, not once the pencils came out and we were sat down at desks.
Train driver exams are tremendously enjoyable. It must be a hangover from law school but sitting silently amongst row upon row of people concentrating furiously felt like home. This disturbs me greatly.
The first exam was a knockout round, anybody failing to meet the required and undisclosed score was asked to leave. At first I was pleased to pass test after test but then I heard some of the men talking amongst themselves near a lift shaft. These men have not taken exams, unless it was part of learning a trade. They do not read for pleasure, do puzzles in newspapers or think in unfurling abstract strands. I thought I could be one of them, trying my best with the provided pencils, but something more than a lack of penis in my underpants separated me from the herd and I felt nothing but shame.
Recently I have begun to think that university was a waste of my time. I feel nothing but a sense of awkward regret when I look over those five difficult years. My new and thankfully temporary boss said that I was wasted in my present position, that I would be much better off somewhere else though she still begged to keep me. I am tired of trying to find interesting, challenging and meaningful work. I am exhausted from towing around all this knowledge, the heavy memories of contorting myself to accommodate everything academic. I knew what I wanted to say when I was the shower but it has now become unclear, this is a product of my exhaustion.
I am shedding people faster than dead skin cells, Superman wasn't the first and he certainly wasn't the last. I am exhausted by the mantle of my learning, I am exhausted by people who do not think and require me to do all the thinking. I am exhausted by people who think they are thinking but they are not, they are not even close to the idea of reason. I am tired of people who live in the suburbs and pour judgement across my way of life. I want to sit here, in this city, and type. I am confused about meanings, motivations and just why I dedicated myself to so much learning with no beneficial outcomes.
I want to cry out the maxims of equity, hold up my clean hands and beg for restitution. I want to unlearn all this learning and find myself suddenly just another face in a crowd. I want to gel down hideous hair and laugh with the others at the idea of thinking. I want to wear uniforms kindly provided and view my roster no more than two weeks in advance. I want to tell people at parties I'm just a train driver, I know nothing of anything but signals and patience and the popular easy to read novel tucked into my ugly bag.
Last night I dreamt I was flesh made into a totem pole. I stood three metres high in the middle of a park, sturdy, cylindrical and ancient. I was not carved but constructed, my sides panelled with cassette decks. Every time I thought of anything at all the cassette doors flew open and the force of my will ejected tapes like rockets all around me. All night I ejected tapes faster than the speed of light, across the park and into the stratosphere. I still feel like this, ejecting and rejecting with frightening speed and precision. I don't know what I'm doing but it feels necessary. I might wake up tomorrow and laugh at my train driving exam adventure or I might wake up, call in sick and spend the day writing lists of things I do not like. The future is unclear.
Toot toot
Tomorrow I take my train driver's exam. I have no idea what the exam will entail. I am supposed to bring my reading glasses and ensure that I arrive on time, there must be some room for error with respect to the arriving on time part of the proceedings. It wouldn't do to start hiring very prompt people to drive trains now would it?
Finally a practical alternative application of the term 'the troops went over the top'
I just misheard the radio. I thought the newsreader said "Eurovision is still refusing to send more troops to Afghanistan".
I thought 'more troops! I didn't know Eurovision had troops', but then my brain kicked in and my beautiful imagined beglittered lycra jumpsuit high hair army vanished. I do not know how I will bear the disappointment.
I thought 'more troops! I didn't know Eurovision had troops', but then my brain kicked in and my beautiful imagined beglittered lycra jumpsuit high hair army vanished. I do not know how I will bear the disappointment.
Books not burning?
If your books are not on fire then you might like to consider donating some books to Borders. Borders will use the books to restock libraries in fire affected areas. You can also purchase new books to donate at Borders. Click here for more information.
I don't think it counts as bookshop infidelity to go to Borders just this once.
I don't think it counts as bookshop infidelity to go to Borders just this once.
Compass
I imagined her in the wrong direction. I always thought of her as north east of where I sat but it turned out to be north west. I still admire her implied pearl necklace and Lauren Bacall wardrobe but I am mourning the loss of intangible tea on the terrace by the harbour, it was a comfort to think of her there.
My exhaustion is rigid
But I'm smiling. I've got plans, not pipe dream plans of wistful kookishness but actual plans with turning wheels, flow charts and a compass. I've surfaced my submarine to have a good look around and lo, I was pleased.
My next reviewing assignment is Gary Numan, I am as we speak scheduling an urgent milkshake meeting with Madam Squeeze for research purposes. It is important to note that if the good Madam is available it will be her having the milkshake and not me. I never take milkshakes myself.
My plans are not limited to penning the occasional questionable review, they loom larger than that. In fact I declare them to be of icebergian proportions. I am also learning shorthand, I wear stockings when I practice, stockings, glasses and a pearl necklace, I am sure that it helps.
My next reviewing assignment is Gary Numan, I am as we speak scheduling an urgent milkshake meeting with Madam Squeeze for research purposes. It is important to note that if the good Madam is available it will be her having the milkshake and not me. I never take milkshakes myself.
My plans are not limited to penning the occasional questionable review, they loom larger than that. In fact I declare them to be of icebergian proportions. I am also learning shorthand, I wear stockings when I practice, stockings, glasses and a pearl necklace, I am sure that it helps.
I recently was ordained as the pope or I blew up a chicken man last night (I'm not yet sure what that really means)
I went to a night of erotic fan fiction readings, I didn't know what to expect but it certainly wasn't the odd privilege of standing near an open window watching the pouring rain from a darkened room while Aidan sang me Bruce Springsteen's Altantic City. He didn't hesitate for a second, it was such a small thing, the demonstrating of a song to see if I knew it, but this is exactly the kind of thing musicians are prone to doing. They just stand there pouring out music like its nothing special while I listen in silent wonder. It doesn't seem fair.
We'd been talking about Bruce because I have just bought my first ever Bruce Springsteen record. It's a cd actually, and not an album but a three disc set called The Essential Bruce or Bruce Songs You Must Have or Best Bits of Bruce or similar. Aidan asked me if I knew Atalantic City, I wasn't sure which song that is becuase I've only just started on my Epic Bruce Journey (EBJ). I'm fairly certain that me EBJ is going to be one hell of a ride.
At some point in the evening I became extraordinarily jealous of Marieke Hardy's stockings, this was after she read her piece on attempting to shag the animated dog from Family Guy but before someone's piece about being the pope, Jessica Alba, Jack Nicholson and Scarlett Johansson's dislocating jaw. I can't remember if the stockings were blue or red, I suspect red but that's not the point. There was something particularly undefineably awesome about those stockings. It is a great shame, for Australia, that I don't ordinarily wear stockings because if I did then I might be better able to describe these blue or possibly red stockings.
The erotic fan fiction was more filthy and hilarious than it was erotic. When I first arrived I thought I might not be able to get in. They had scrawled 'sold out' on the wall in chalk. I thought how could Paquita and Mona's house be sold out? The question was soon answered after I climbed the stairs and found the stadium sized front room full to the brim with people sitting on the floor and laughing hysterically. There must have been a hundred people in there, that's how Paquita and Mona's house can be sold out.
We'd been talking about Bruce because I have just bought my first ever Bruce Springsteen record. It's a cd actually, and not an album but a three disc set called The Essential Bruce or Bruce Songs You Must Have or Best Bits of Bruce or similar. Aidan asked me if I knew Atalantic City, I wasn't sure which song that is becuase I've only just started on my Epic Bruce Journey (EBJ). I'm fairly certain that me EBJ is going to be one hell of a ride.
At some point in the evening I became extraordinarily jealous of Marieke Hardy's stockings, this was after she read her piece on attempting to shag the animated dog from Family Guy but before someone's piece about being the pope, Jessica Alba, Jack Nicholson and Scarlett Johansson's dislocating jaw. I can't remember if the stockings were blue or red, I suspect red but that's not the point. There was something particularly undefineably awesome about those stockings. It is a great shame, for Australia, that I don't ordinarily wear stockings because if I did then I might be better able to describe these blue or possibly red stockings.
The erotic fan fiction was more filthy and hilarious than it was erotic. When I first arrived I thought I might not be able to get in. They had scrawled 'sold out' on the wall in chalk. I thought how could Paquita and Mona's house be sold out? The question was soon answered after I climbed the stairs and found the stadium sized front room full to the brim with people sitting on the floor and laughing hysterically. There must have been a hundred people in there, that's how Paquita and Mona's house can be sold out.
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