Bar Oussou 10 April 2017

There’s poetry about a screw
There’s poetry in screwing
Is there poetry in being screwed?


He sat in a chair, fully clothed.
He said to her, “Take your clothes off.
Leave your underwear.”
If she’d asked, “You want me to striptease?”
He’d have said, “No. Just take them off.
Come over here. Squat … facing me.
And if she’d said, “That’s a bit hard on my knees.”
He’d have said, “OK, go to the kitchen, bring back a chair.
Sit facing me. Spread your legs. Everywhere!”

But they were not her responses.
“No,” she said, “I don’t like this.
All you want to do is objectify me.
Who do you think you are?
Kneel before you on your throne?
You’re just a man not a king.”

At these words, he felt himself losing his erection
He was after frisson, not friction
She was taking over, he knew how this went
She’d talk him round, gain his enfeebling consent
And they’d continue like all the other times they’d spent.
He’d close his eyes and desperately try to inflate his libido by thinking of someone else
in some other situation, some other position.

But no, not this time.
This time, some sense of poetry grabbed him by the scruff of his manhood.
He said, “Yes, I want to be your king
I chose you for my queen
This room is our chapel, here we worship each other
This between us, this our treasure.
I want my woman to give me pleasure
If not you, who else will take my measure?”

Still she resisted.
“But not like this,” she persisted.
“Yes I’ll give you pleasure
Yes love is a treasure
To be measured equally.
What you want is all about
You. What’s in it for me?”

He took his left hand
Picked up her right hand
Held it to his heart
He took his right hand
Picked up her left hand
Held it to her heart
In love’s orbit
They gazed at one another
Symmetrically together
Eliptically apart … of each other.
Or so he thought.
She seemed reassured by this new direction
Emboldened by his action
He got a little frisky
Took a little risky
And he liked to be blunt.
“This how it goes
First you kiss my cock till I yell, ‘Thar she blows’
Then I kiss your cunt until you curl your toes.
That’s what’s in it for you, for me, for us.”

She snatched her hands away.
“This is all about power.
You want a little slut with nothing on her mind but how she’s told to fuck.
Talking dirty makes me feel unclean.
If that’s what gets you hard
I want no part of it.”

Still, she didn’t move away
He took his right hand
Put it between her thighs
He took her left hand
Wrapped it round his penis
His poet was mute
Her hand was slack
There they sat
Both of them

“Sorry.” He began to cry.
“I don’t mean to degrade you really
I just thought it would be fun to try – ”
“But darling, that’s fine. There are lots of things we can do.
But don’t you think it should be things I like as well as you?”
She bent forward and gave his little man a tiny kiss.
She lay back. He followed her down into their rut.
He began thinking about a colleague.
He imagined her spread over her desk, naked, legs open wide …


Barista Sister

Bar Oussou 27 March 17

Barista sister
At your Senesso
Sex is the coffee
You espresso

Barista sister
Press your tamper
With each squeeze
I get damper

Barista sister
Your wristy action
Gives this mister

Barista sister
It’s your job
To read the dials
And finger knobs

Barista sister
Extract the essence
You pump up
My tumescence

Barista sister
I am fond
Of how you clean
My steamwand

Barista sister
Pump it out
Wipe the milk stains
From my spout

Barista sister
Bring your cloth
I’ve overflowed
And spilled some froth

Barista sister
That one flick twister
Does it make
Your clit blister?

Barista sister
What’s your taste in fats?
Flat and white? Or
Long black bats?

Barista sister
You blow my mind
I love to watch you
Pump and grind

Barista sister
At your Senesso
Sex is the coffee
You espresso

Terminal Case of Goodbye

You checked in at the airport
They were playing Fleetwood Mac
‘You can go your own way’
Used to be my favourite track
You went through the boarding gate
Last I saw of you was your back
The plane took off into the sky
I fell down in the terminal
With a terminal case of goodbye
Goodbye goodbye farewell so long
The weak are left behind by the strong
The strong live on and the weak they die
Of a terminal case of goodbyes

Where are my friends and lovers
Mum and dad, sisters and brothers
My wife my daughter and son
They left me at the terminal
With a terminal wave they were gone
Why am I here when they’ve moved on?
Can you give me an explanation
For all of this termination
Goodbye goodbye farewell so long
The weak are left behind by the strong
The strong live on and the weak they die
Of a terminal case of goodbyes

I’ve been living at the airport
Sleeping with the bags
Pushing a tray at the steel buffet
Smoking the butts of lost fags
There’s a hangar full of empty lies
A bus station of the cross
Down a highway of windscreen eyes
A lounge in transit, a limbo of loss.
Everyone’s just passing through
Since the day I said goodbye to you

I went to the clinic and asked my GP
Can you tell me what’s wrong with me?
Why does everyone leave?
Have I got some kind of disease?
She said “There’s not a thing to be done
Everything good comes to an end
You’re no different to everyone
Terminitus has got you son”
Goodbye goodbye farewell so long
The weak are left behind by the strong
The strong live on and the weak they die
Of a terminal case of goodbyes

Most Poems Are Read Once

Passionate Tongues 15/05/17 & 29/05/17
lowercase 18/05/17
Bar Oussou 22/05/17

Most poems are read once
Most flowers bloom unseen
Like a quiet act of kindness
We are more because they’ve been

A butterfly starts a storm from hell
A life begins with a single cell
A poem wants to be transferred
To a life that says “I know those words.”

Some poems are read again and again
Some poems are never said
Kept inside to hide their shame
They do their work in the poet’s brain

Your voice passed through many doors
What you say is uniquely yours
What you say has been said before
There’s no end to poems that bore

Most poems once they’re read
Return to the heart in which they bred
Never more to see light of day.
Toilet paper once it’s used
Is best flushed away

Most poems are read just once
Written by a deluded dunce
Heard by a few noncey cunts
Who sit and wonder, “What’s the point?”

The Deep

Passionate Tongues 20 March 2017
Bar Oussou 27 March 2017
Eltham Courthouse 15 06 2017

I was born on a sunlit shore
In mummy’s arms I found my keep
Paddled my toes in shallows warm
On the shelf of the inky deep

I built castles by the score
Watched bikinis scream and leap
Surfed the waves that break onshore
Careful not to go too deep

Don’t go too deep don’t go too deep
Keep to the flags be good sheep
Forget the girls that taunt your sleep
No good boys go to the deep

Ofcourse my kids liked sandy play
I taught them things they can keep
They’ll teach them to their kids one day
Most of all, don’t go too deep

Now my kids have grown away
A rip has got me in its sweep
Can’t resist or swim sideways
The slow flow draws me, to the deep

The deep is cold, the deep is dark
Leviathan lives down there
Will it be the last thing I see?
Alone, afraid, unknown, nowhere

Mummy’s gone to her coffin deep
She won’t keep me or hear me weep
When I lay me down to sleep
In the deep, abysmal deep

Concerto for Crying Man and Bells

Bar Oussou 5/6/2017
Passionate Tongues 12/06/2017
See also: “An Absolutely Ordinary Rainbow” by Les Murray

The bells ring out the cold wet air
No one near to hear them
I alone cry out my despair
Great wracking wails from deep in my chest
The bells ring on, unimpressed

Someone walks past on the bridge going to work
I hide my face in case they look
Let them pass by, unperturbed
Leave me alone, I’m disturbed
A hairy beary blubbering bloke
A bellowing fellow who feels that he’s broke
Under the bells tolling the place
Sobbing howls cracking my face
Splintering notes invading the space
Clashing! with 39 upside down
Gold top mushroom bells
No rhythm or chime no metre or rhyme
Out of tune out of time
A counterpoint to a chorus sublime
The bells ring on, no care for mine

But the thing is – he wants a witness
Someone to see
Look down from those towers
And with a very long lense
Film the mad man
Poke him with sticks
Stick him on YouTube, be good for a laugh
Broadcast and outcast his sad sorry arse

He should be that man in Martin Place – the one who won’t stop crying
But he’d need courage titanic
And he’s too self conscious
To be messianic
In his imagination
He is ant size and silent
Filmed from afar
On the soundtrack, The Bells of Federation
ln Birrarung Mar

Another thing is, he wants a stranger
To take him by the neck
Hug him and hold his empty wreck
No explanation sought
No calling the ambos or cops
Just someone to feel
that he’s sad and in pain
afraid of the future
and he stuffed up again.

A little boy standing there
Turns to his mum and says
“Mummy, why is that man crying?”
“Hush darling. His mumy is dying.”

None of that happened of course.
No one stopped no one stared
No one filmed no one shared
His private place in the public realm
The bells ring on, underwhelmed.

Hear the bells
Hear the bells
Bacon and potatoes
Bacon and potatoes
All done well
All done well

Bells peal
Hearts heal

All is well.




the it of this

Bar Oussou 24 April 17 – only performance

People can be multilingual
Sometimes in tongues you’ve never heard
People can be cunnilingual
They need a tongue, but not for words

A bit of that a bit of this
I love to tip your pip a kiss
Play hide and seek and hit or miss
Take a slide on the slippery dip
A trip to bliss.

A bit of that, a bit of this
Find a view to sit and kiss
A picnic spot not fit to miss
The tip atop the pit of bliss
On the lip of it.

A bit of that a bit of this
I’ll entice your pretty puss
To the lip of the precipice
There to tremble and paw and hiss
On tippy toes with Icarus
Arise. Take flight.
Leap into the this is it
Touch … the it of this

Felatio Oratorio

Upon your rock
this hallowed day
I build our church
Let us I pray:

I hold your staff in
Prayerful palms
I bless the tip
Praise the glans
Annoint the shaft
With my tongue
Fore and aft
Around about
The mystery of
My sacred mouth

You shake and laugh
When you cum
Make oblations
To my tongue
I love the way
Your eyes shine
The way you look
Into mine
You raise me up
embrace me.
Now it’s your turn
To grace me

My lover, whose part is heaven
Hallowed be its name
In thy kingdom of cum
I will be done on earth as if in heaven
Give me this day my daily head.

At my altar
I’m a goddess being blessed
To my thighs
Baptise me with a tongue of fire










Hey Mr Tarantino

Bar Oussou 17 July 17 (1st performance)
Sam George-Allen, writer, for a line I adapted from her article “Writing Sex Online is Great”
Serge Gainsborough Laissez Tombe les Filles translated and sung by April March as Chick Habit
Used by Q Tarantino in his film Death Proof

Hey Mr Tarantino
You don’t know me no
Please won’t you call me Nick

I’ve got a message for you
Stop with the bloody guns
You’re making everybody sick

Hang up the flack jacket for good
Holster the 45
Set the safety on the shooting stick
There’s a place that you could go
We could have a lotta LOLs
Beyond the Valley of the Dolls

Hang up your flick habit
Hang it up, daddy
You’re a pony with just one trick

Get out your box of tricks
Pay attention to the chicks
Make me a sexy flick

Hey Quentin,  I like your films.
Pulp Fiction is in my all time favourite top 10.
You’ve done so much for violence:
you showed a beheading in the most exquisite Fred Astaire & Ginger Rogers taste
You turned a motor car into an instrument of execution
You showed that guns kill as casually as you’d wave to your mom
Eye-popping scenes. Unreal.
So much blood. So tasteless. So real.

Mr Tarantino please.
Won’t you do for sex
what you’ve done for violence?

In this movie women are calling the shots
The shots in this movie you clean up with a tissue
The only deaths in this movie are les petits morts
I don’t want porntopia in this movie. I’m talking real bodies, messy bits, awkward getting in the way bits,  “you’re NOT putting that thing in my mouth straight after you’ve had it in my bum” bits

What about routine sex, or bored sex, or sleepy mid-week sex.
A male prostitute caring for a woman with a disability
A movie that celebrates the beauty of the human form
Ah … maybe one scene set in porntopia. Starring Emma and Ezra. Eh?

I wanna see M Hulot lose his virginity
I wanna see Mae West trying in vain to get laid – until she meets M Hulot.
How would Basil Fawlty manage sex. With Sybil?
I wanna see a bunch of men debate whether a woman who has slept with all of them should be their leader.
And choose her because she’s the best person for the job.
You could stage a sex scene like Charlie Chaplin would
I wanna see a creep get his just desserts.
I wanna see a man weep tears of joy
I wanna see a couple fight while they make love.
I wanna gay couple in the mix.

Bring back Lovonia Lola Langusta
Bring back the temple prostitutes
Take me to Sodom and Gommorah.
Show me what witches did with deadly nightshade and broomsticks?
Let’s go to the orgy with Rick Moranis.
He’s the one on the sidelines saying “Aw gee”

I’m looking for a film in the spirit of Bob Carol Ted and Alice,
that sounds like Love Shack.
Feels like “The Sessions”
Mashed up with the Marx Brothers
It should be juicy sweet tender messy pulpy friction.
I know you won’t have trouble getting the kink in Quentin

He’s Mr Wally Wally
Swinging by his bolly bollies
He’s got a lollypop he calls Dick

Mr Tarantino please.
Won’t you do for sex
what you’ve done for violence?

Ballad of a 1-eyed Midget Man

Listen to Ballad Of A One Eyed Midget Man by Tropicana Slim #np on #SoundCloud

Mr Bob Dylan you just keep on performing
Like a monkey on a chain you’re perverse and deforming
You talked to Lou Reed cos your songs have been transforming
All your tunes are unknown
Somethings happening here and we know what it is
Do you, Bob Zimmerman?

Well Bob I’m here to tell you changing tunes is the worst
If you must change something, write a new verse
One more time with feeling, before they carry you off in a hearse
Leave those melodies alone
And there’s a man here can make the new words frank and sick
Weird Al, Jankovic

I went to the hit factory looking for a nine
You were the foreman and you played Frankenstein
I took out my technology cos I’m a pilgrim of modern times
I shut you out with earphones
Here’s the answer to the question – “How does Mick feel?”
Like a, rolling stone.

You’re nothin’ but a blind joker with an unjustifiable lurk
People are cogs in a wheel – they don’t have your perks
They go on with dignity and pride and they call it work
Woody would call you a bum
There’s something happening here and we know what it is
Don’t you, lazy bones?