YouTube
Is
Buffering
And so
I pause
To watch
The grass
Grow slowly
For
Maybe
Fifteen
Seconds
Or So
And then
I Hit
Play
Again
OH IT IS SO TRUE!!! Also, here is a Tom Waits song.
Marie you are the wild blue sky Men do foolish things You turn kings into beggars Beggars into kings...
The face forgives the mirror The worm forgives the plow The questions begs the answer Can you forgive me somehow? Maybe when our story's over We'll go where it's always spring The band is playing our song again ...
Moon is yellow silver Oh, the things that summer brings It's a love you'd kill for And all the world is green...
He's balancing a diamond On a blade of grass The dew will settle on our graves When all the world is green...
Pretend that you owe me nothing And all the world is green We can bring back the old days again When all the world is green...
Another Saturday, another meltdown of the train system, which is amazing really, the fact they actually made it a whole week before the system melted down again, sending it all into total chaos.
It can't be that hard, I mean the very fact it keeps getting worse indicates it can be better, as it was better.
Other countries manage it, somehow, Last Saturday, when I couldn't go anywhere due to the last total meltdown of the train system, I tortured myself by watching a documentary all about how brilliant'y efficient Japan's trains were, always on time to the very second and almost never malfunctioning, despite, in Tokyo, dealing with many millions more people than Sydney.
Then there is the ever-worsening "nanny state" killing any life at all in this city, with the pokie-ridden pubs already almost killing love music before "noise complaints" by people living near venues known for playing live music... and the lock out laws, that somehow managed to entirely exclude the Star Casino, killing the precincts like King's Cross and sending their patrons to invade other precincts like Newtown, so what was once a gay-and-alternative-friendly area is increasingly ridden with violence.
And the whole thing, on top of rising rents and a housing shortage... it all adds up to make Sydney more and more like Chickentown of "Evidently Chickentown" by John Cooper Clarke, the punk poet from Salford just out of Manchester in England. It was presumably Salford, which was also the inspiration for Ewan McColl's folk standard "Dirty Old Town", that Clarke had in mind, but the words of his most famous poem fit a little too well in this fucking shithole.
Yes... a fucking poem. Not a joke poem. I usually restrict myself to joke poems out a self of basic human decency.
But I wrote this when a facebook friend specifically asked me, after I made a joke about no one paying for my poetry, to write a poem about "Utopia", coz why have a simple topic.
So I figured, seeing as I wrote it, this Godforsaken blog might as well be subjected to it.
It is about the 2005 World Festival of Youth and Students, an annual gathering of thousands of left-wing and progressive youths from around the world, that was held in Caracas that year. I was there with a "solidarity brigade" from Australia.
At the opening of the event in a huge stadium in Caracas, then president Hugo Chavez address probably tens of thousands of youth from all over the world, divided into contingents by country. Chavez had only recently declared the goal of the Bolivarian revolution he was leading must be "socialism of the 21st century" -- and that this should be the goal for the whole world, lest we face extinction. This was the basic tenor of his festival speeches.
As Chavez spoke, one of the brigade organisers took a phone call on their mobile and somehow my sister had gotten through. I had been very sick and in hospital. First of all, the private hospital I was taken to just milked me for travel insurance cash, putting in antibiotics that made me sicker, and I was pretty ill.
The doctors in charge were white, upper-middle class and hostile to the government. When they weren't around, the dark-skinned nurses declared themselves Chavistas. There is a photo of me somewhere, sick as a dog on an IV drip, with two nurses, all of us with our fists raised.
Eventually, the supporters of the Chavez government and the pro-poor Bolivarian revolution who were looking after our brigade brought in a couple of the Cuban doctors working in the poor communities in Venezuela due to a deal with the Chavez government, where they staffed the free health clinics. The Cuban doctors, careful not to speak in front of hospital staff so their Cuban accents didn't give them away. (they were were hated by the private health doctors).
They looked at the charts next to my bed, declared I should definitely get out of there or the mistreatment could kill me, and so, still so sick I needed to be on a drip, the unhappy hospital had no choice but to discharge me.
I was taken to one of the new clinics in a poor area run by the Cubans providing free health care to the poor -- the fact that, as a journalist for Green Left Weekly, I was there in part to report on clinics like the one I was now lying in seemed to bring endless amusement to the medical staff.
Compared to the lush private hospital room, it was austere. Just three beds on a concrete floor and the food, and I use the term loosely, was bought from some nearby streetvender. But whereas I got worse in the three days in the private hospital, here, I got better over the next three days, and, being discharged,was handed the medicines I needed, no charge.
While still recovering, I logged in to check my email for the first time in ages. My sister wanted to get in touch urgently. Someone else, with no connection to my sister, also wanted to get in touch with me urgently. I couldn't for the life of me think what possible common issue would have both desperate for me to get in touch, but I was in Venezuela for a couple more weeks. It was clearly gonna have to wait.
It waited until that stadium in Caracas when I was handed the phone while Hugo Chavez spoke of youth in the forefront of a global revolutionary transformation. Justin was my best friend. I spoke about him a little bit here a couple of weeks ago in relation to different issues.
There is a lot that could be said on the topic. I wasn't there, I hadn't spoken to him for months, I don't really understand the circumstances. I didn't go to his funeral or memorial as I was half way around the world. I am not sure if that is better or worse.
The main thing I take away is that "Utopia" only has meaning in relation to the darkness of today.
I promise don't intend to keep being so serious fucking thing. I've been to serious lately, what with pieces on the death of Irish comic Sean Hughes, heartfelt ruminations on homophobia and
Justin would walk away from me in disgust if he know I'd written a fucking poem.
Regardless, here is a song by Lucinda Williams, who has something of a tendency to write about this type of thing (this is the new version she has recorded of this track, originally released in 1992). Her lyric, unshockingly, make better poetry than my effort.
Then again, Lucinda Williams wasn't standing in the stadium in Caracas listening to Hugo Chavez urge the a new world, so it certainly isn't the same. Still she can fucking sing this story.
See what you lost when you left this world, this sweet old world The breath from your own lips, the touch of fingertips A sweet and tender kiss The sound of a midnight train, wearing someone's ring Someone calling your name Somebody so warm cradled in your arm Didn't you think you were worth anything...
Millions of us in love, promises made good Your own flesh and blood Looking for some truth, dancing with no shoes The beat, the rhythm, the blues The pounding of your heart's drum together with another one Didn't you think anyone loved you...
Sit Down, Have One More (or: The Kiss Of An Alcoholic Always Tastes Minty)
They say too much booze can kill you Yeah well so can not enough . I'm fast drinking and slow thinking, Why the hell can’t I pick up? You sure you won’t come home with me? I promise I won’t throw up. Yeah sure, too much booze will kill you But then so will not enough.
Well I kicked that drinking habit but the goddamn thing kicked back. You see, my love has gone away And they won’t be coming back. Without you I'm drinking for two Someone must pick up the slack. Yeah I kicked the drinking habit Then that fucker it kicked back.
I'm at my best after three drinks At my worst just after four. Hey, where do you think you’re going? Come on, sit down, have one more. There’s nothing on TV tonight And no one is keeping score. I'm at my best after three beers At my worst just after four.
And I wish that I could love you But I swear it don't feel right. Now, you're call me a poseur Coz you know that I can't fight. Well my favourite pose is standing But that’s harder late at night. And you know I'd love to love you But I swear it don't feel right.
And too much booze will kill you. But not tonight, it won’t Not tonight.
Posted for Sean Hughes.
* * *
Yes, I know. That thing is sort of a poem, only it has a very basic rhyming structure that surely no poem does, not these days. Not that I know much about poetry. And it is sort of a set of song lyrics, only not set to music or with a chorus or probably many other things.
It is really intended as spoken word and I wrote about 15 years ago, when I first started to listen to a lot of Tom Waits, which is probably obvious as it is more or less something I think I imagined delivered by a Waits-esque character circa-1976's alcohol-soaked Small Change.
Though I wro it so long ago and barely think about it, or the small number of other lyrical-type things I've bothered to write, I've been thinking it about since Irish comic Sean Hughes died of cirrhosis of the liver aged just 51.
Coz that the is obvious irony in that poem/song/thing, of course. Too much booze does kill you, maybe not tonight but some night, like October 16, 2017, in a hospital having a cardiac arrest while getting treated for liver disease, if you are Sean Hughes.
And I am aware I am writing about this on a blog called "An Alcoholic's Guide to Modern Life" with a tag line "We are all in the gutter, but some of us are drink". I guess I just fucking love irony.
One thing about Sean Hughes was he also wrote poetry, like in a way I would never really dream of doing. Serious poetry, like the now-widely reported on poem "Death" that featured in 1993's Sean's Book.
I don't know almost anything about poetry, so I can't judge it, but some of it seemed alright to me, some seemed pretentious, but I don't really know. Sean Hughes could be quite earnest when he wanted.
It is not that I haven't published a lot of poetry in my time, right here on this blog! But, with titles like "I KILL YOU NOW FUCK OFF AND GET ME A DRINK", this stuff is really too genius to even mention among poetry in general. Like it operates on a whole other level of brilliance that is beyond mere mortals (such as the Nobel Prize for Literature judges who keep ignoring me).
I am generally not interested in mortal poetry, even my own. Fuck, especially my own. the rare times I try to write it seriously, I do my hardest to seek to forget the fact.
But in honour of Sean Hughes, I will do something I have never done — and post here something poetry-related that I wrote seriously. Feel free to go to his funeral and heckle him about this point.
I will also note a piece Sean Hughes wrote a couple of years before his death on alcohol. He had quit drinking, then started up again.
The piece, entitled The fine line between drinks and 'proper' drinks, discusses the tragedy of alcohol in society, especially Irish society. Particularly noticeable is the suggestion he makes that his friends welcomed his return to drink as "the old Sean is back" — it is worth pointing out that this is his interpretation, not necessarily an accurate account, but it isn't hard to imagine.
Here are three poems that form part of a... well a "trilogy", as I believe the kids call it. They are very important and I present them to you for your intellectual gratification and, most importantly, development.
*
A Poem!
This is a poem!
May it give you strength!
Although some say it is not very good!
Because it uses exclamation marks too often!
And awkwardly!
But exclamation marks!
Are AWESOME!!!
*
A Poem! (II)
A poem!
Again!
With marks of exclamation!
For they indicate great points!
Are being made!
Here!
In this great poem!
IT IS AWESOME!!!
*
A Poem! (III)
A poem but
This time
Without explanation marks
As
The point
Speaks for itself
Without Them
Ah fuck it
I love exclamation marks!
A lot!!!
THEY ARE FUCKING AWESOME!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
YAR!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
BUY ME A BEER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
*
(Copyright Carlo Sands 2017 like seriously do not even THINK of trying to steal these poems for your own commercial gain coz I I will fucking hunt you down.)
There they are! All three! About a topic very close to my heart! The exclamation mark! I know right? The Nobel Prize for LIterature is fucking rigged.
Hello loyal reader (the singular is not accidental)!!! Not many people know this, but I am famous for my poetry. You might say it is a contradiction in terms to be famous for something not many people know about but THAT JUST SHOWS HOW LITTLE YOU KNOW!!! Despite the blatant conspiracy against me by the Nobel Prize for Literature, and by the entire poetry establishment (I am hated by Big Poetry) and by all other mediums, outlets and well anything at all asides from this blog... my Fame nonetheless grows.
Now in my spare time I like to torture myself by editing Green Left Weekly's cultural dissent section and looking at poetry submissions (I refuse to abuse my position by running my own works, despite many requests and even furious demands I do so, for I have principles).
And while I will not deny there is a lot of really high quality political poetry out there, and some of it by people who can even rhyme, it got me thinking that I don't publish enough of MY OWN poetry which is, of course, SO MUCH BETTER!!! HERE IS A GEM I JUST FINISHED JUST NOW AFTER SLAVING FOR 1.09 MINUTES!!
DEATH! A poem. About the Greek crisis.
I once wrote a poem just for fun
Then sat back and looked at the horror I had done
Did the world really need to hear me rhyme?
No, but they'll get over it, I suppose, in time.
DEATH DEATH DEATH DEATH DEATH
DEATH DEATH DEATH DEATH DEATH
DEATH DEATH DEATH!
DEATH DEATH DEATH DEATH DEATH
DEATH DEATH DEATHITY DEATH DEATH
There it is. A work of genius! And YES! I KNOW the last line doesn't rhyme! I KNEW some ignorant pricks would pick up on that, not realising that POEMS DON'T ALWAYS HAVE TO RHYME, YEAH? I *know* every other line rhymed in a highly unique AABBCCCCCC format, but it is called "experimenting with the form" and anyway it is an *important social issue* I raised in that last line, which is all the more highlighted by the way that JARS with the rest of the otherwise totally orthodox poetic form. GREECE IS IMPORTANT!
***
Do you want to know MORE about Greece and its current crisis than my poem can teach you? fear not! Tom Waits is on the job! His song "rtaling At the Same time" from his 2011 album Bad As Me, is ALL ABOUT THE CURRENT CRISIS IN GREECE! Yeah some might say it is a song inspired by the effects of the Great Recession in the United States to which Waits has added, as his wont, big dashes of heartache over a relationship ending when the narrator's lover walks out on them (obviously a reference to Yanis Varoufarkis's resignation as finance minister) BUT REALLY IT IS GREECE! EVERY LINE!!!
Yeah, because "All the news is bad, is there any other kind?" and "All the money is gone" and "Someone makes money when there’s blood in the street" and "Well we bailed out all the millionaires, they’ve got the fruit, we've got the rind" and MOST OF ALL ( as anyone who has tried to follow the media or just he fucking far left on social media can attest) "Everybody's talking at the same time".
Sing it, Tom.
Talking At The Same Time
Get a job, save your money, listen to Jane
Everybody knows umbrellas will cost more in the rain
All the news is bad
Is there any other kind?
Everybody’s talking at the same time
Well it’s hard times for some
For others it’s sweet
Someone makes money when there’s blood in the street
Don’t take any lip
Stay in line
Everybody’s talking at the same time
Well the dog is in the kitchen
And the war drags on
The trees wait by the freeway
All the moneys all gone
Well she told me she would leave me
I ignored all the signs
And now everybody’s talking at the same time
Everybody’s talking at the same time
Ain’t no one coming to pull you from the mud
You gotta build your nest high enough to ride out the flood
I know you’re leaving and there’s no more next time
Everybody’s talking at the same time
A tiny boy sat and he played in the sand
He made a sword from a stick
And a gun from his hand
Well we bailed out all the millionaires
They’ve got the fruit
We’ve got the rind
And everybody’s talking at the same time
Everybody’s talking at the same time
Smash.
Smash smash smash smash.
Smash smash smash smash.
Smash smash smashity
smash smash smash smash smash smash smashity smash smash
smash
smash
smash
smash
smash
smash
FUCKING GODDAMN SMASH!!!!!!!!!!!! SMASH!!!!!!!!!!! SMASH!!!!!!!!!!!
SMASH IT ALL INTO A THOUSAND FUCKING PIECES THEN SMASH THE SHARDS SOME MORE YOU MOTHER FUCKERS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I SAID GODDAMN SMASH IT ALL!!!
Smash.
Smash smash smash smash.
Smash!
I am never watching the news again.
OK NOW WHERE THE FUCK IS MY POETRY AWARDS YOU GODDAMN BASTARDS???
Well, all I can about this is this is what happens when you drink *special* Johnny Walker, with extra ingredients of the sort my good friend Conehead might add, assuming Conehead drank booze. And then follow it with beer and Irish whiskey and special cigarettes at Conehead's. Indeed, as anyone who has been there will tell you, simply *walking in front door* at Conehead's place is enough to put most mortals in a frame of mind required to create a work of art of the sort above.
This is really just an in-between thing, a poetic interlude to pass the time until I finally get around with Ben to creating the much anticipated Conversation V film. Yes, it has been a long time the latest installment of this truly groundbreaking film series -- the critically acclaimed Conversation IV: This Time It's Sensual. All I can do is assure you that the fifth (and final) in the series is not long off...
It is not even the second greatest poem ever written. Not while my undeniably brilliant Dedicated to a Fuckwit remains available to the general public.
But I like to think it adds something to a growing body of highly impressive work and the likelihood of random acts of violence against Franks committed by the general public.
Now I know *just* what is on your mind. Who *is* Frank? Well, I think *all* know a Frank, don't we? Frank comes in many shapes, sizes and even cover names. But all these pricks, to me, will always be what they are -- a Frank. Because I said so.
But I have said enough. Far better to let Tony Duggins from Irish-American Celtic punk legends The Tossers explain it far better than I ever could... in this great clip and album version of "Whiskey Makes Me Crazy" -- which YouTube WON'T LET ME EMBED!!!!!!!!
'Irish whiskey drives me nuts, yeah whiskey makes me crazy!"
Yes, let no one deny
You, yes you
Are a fuckwit.
A total fuckwit.
Fuckwit
is what you are.
A total fuckwit.
Did I mention
that I think
you are
a fuckwit?
If not let me say here and now,
That
A fuckwit is what you are.
Jesus fucking christ
You are
A fuckwit.
FUCKWIT.
And,
lest there be any
misunderstanding,
Allow me to say
FUCK YOU.
"Like a nightclub in the morning, you’re the bitter end. Like a recently disinfected shit-house, you’re clean round the bend."
It is my considered opinion, avid clickers on the google ads kindly provided by my good self at the top of this blog, that John Cooper Clarke, “punk poet” and the “Bard of Salford”, is a fucking legend.
I have already drawn attention to one of his more charming poems, entitled “Twat”. And there are plenty more delightful ditties to be found on his website.
But more than anything else, Mr Cooper Clarke should be celebrated as the writer and performer of indisputably the Best Poem Ever Written By Anyone Ever.
Now, I can hear the cries of my loyal google-ad clicking fan base. Yes, Carlo Sands is also a poet.
And, yes, my masterpiece, I Kill You Now Fuck Off And Get Me A Drink, was one of those rare pieces of art that totally redefined a genre, revolutionised an art form and was so ahead of its time that time travellers from 2750s feel like backward hicks when they stumble across it.
It is true it was an important, if controversial, piece of work that bravely tackled such taboo subjects as the practice of yelling at corpses that fail to bring you a beer. Which, in my experience, is pretty much all of them.
But, if my more fanatical supporters will permit me to say so (and seriously guys, maybe you should relieve a little of that passionate energy with a few google ad clicks), it still falls short of Mr John Cooper Clarke's “Evidently Chickentown”.
Put to music by his Invisible Girls backing band for his 1980 album Snap, Crackle and Bop, featured briefly in the film clip to the Joy Division song “Transmission”, and played over the closing credits of an episode of The Sopranos, "Evidently Chickentown" is really fucking good.
It presents the most vivid picture ever provided in word form of what it is *actually like* trying to live under late monopoly capitalism.
Inspired by the wonders of working class life in northern England in the late ’70s, it describes life for ordinary people in the “developed” world everywhere.
It may also have served as inspiration of a sort to a post of mine entitled “Dear Motherfuckers” — but I warn Mr Cooper Clarke now, he wont ever see so much of a cent of my google ad revenue.
“The reason I like to do this number is, quite simply, I can't do this on TV. They wont let me do it on TV because last time I did it, the beep operators sued for repetitive strain injury. Also, my swear box doubles as a high-yield pension scheme.”
Evidently Chickentown
The fucking cops are fucking keen To fucking keep it fucking clean The fucking chief's a fucking swine Who fucking draws a fucking line At fucking fun and fucking games The fucking kids he fucking blames Are nowehere to be fucking found Anywhere in Chickentown
The fucking scene is fucking sad The fucking news is fucking bad The fucking weed is fucking turf The fucking speed is fucking surf The fucking folks are fucking daft Don't make me fucking laugh It fucking hurts to look around Everywhere in Chickentown
The fucking train is fucking late You fucking wait you fucking wait You're fucking lost and fucking found Stuck in fucking Chickentown
The fucking view is fucking vile For fucking miles and fucking miles The fucking babies fucking cry The fucking flowers fucking die The fucking food is fucking muck The fucking drains are fucking fucked The colour scheme is fucking brown Everywhere in Chickentown
The fucking pubs are fucking dull The fucking clubs are fucking full Of fucking girls and fucking guys With fucking murder in Their eyes A fucking bloke is fucking stabbed Waiting for a fucking cab You fucking stay at fucking home The fucking neighbors fucking moan Keep The fucking racket down This is fucking Chickentown
The fucking train is fucking late You fucking wait you fucking wait You're fucking lost and fucking found Stuck in fucking Chickentown
The fucking pies are fucking old The fucking chips are fucking cold The fucking beer is fucking flat The fucking flats have fucking rats The fucking clocks are fucking wrong The fucking days are fucking long It fucking gets you fucking down Evidently Chickentown
It seems you can't do anything without some bastard ripping you off.
I wrote a, frankly, quite brilliant poem about drinking with Jesus and demanding he buy me booze, and a good friend has brought to me attention that no sooner do I post it than those motherfuckers Jello Biafra and Mojo Nixon rip me off with their own song about getting pissed by Our Saviour, Jesus Christ.
That said, I wholeheartedly approve of the song. I gave up trying to pick the best lyrics to highlight so here are the lyrics in full:
I saw you sittin' there I was tryin' not to stare I wasn't sure if it was you I didn't know just what to do
Are you drinkin' with me Jesus I can't see you very clear Are you drinkin' with me Jesus Would you buy a friend a beer
As I nestled on my barstool I felt your warmness within I looked down at my pants That wasn't warmness I wet myself again
Does your head pound, Jesus As hung over you do rise How does paradise look, Jesus Through holy bloodshot eyes
Should we take a cab home Jesus Shit, man, we can hoof it from here I know you can walk on the water But can you walk on this much beer
“How does paradise look, Jesus/Through holy bloodshot eyes” — Only God knows if Jesus will be sober for the Final Battle between Good and Evil.
It is often said that a true artistic genius has to die before they are recognised. But, as I have aleady explained, I died on October 31, 2008 and I have the Facebook quiz "When will you die" as my death certificate.
Still, I await in vain for the accolades that this epic is overdue.
Not to be deterred by lack of recognition I have faced even in death, I hereby publish a more recent work.
As the few who truly know me can attest, I am also quite spiritual.
All of us have a chance, an opportunity and, some may say, even a duty to develop and nurture our own personal relationship with Jesus Christ, Our Saviour.
I was moved to put down my own thoughts and feelings on the profound relationship I personally enjoy with our Lord Above in the form of a poem.
Plus, I happen to be quite broke right now. We are told that Jesus loves us, and I thought now would be a good time to cash that cheque.
Plus, it's His shout.
* * *
Buy Me a Beer Lord — a poem by Carlo Sands
Oh, God
Get me a beer, Lord I've sick of the world hand me a beer, Lord coz I've sick of it all
Oh, God
Could you buy me a beer, Lord? I hate everything Buy us a beer, Lord actually, second thoughts, make mine a gin
Oh God
Buy me a beer, Lord I am hard up right now Get us a beer while you're there, Lord anyway, it's your fucking shout
Thank Christ!
Thank you, Lord for this amber gift Now with your offering of love, I'm going to get pissed
Yeah thanks heaps, Lord for your alcoholic gift now leave me alone, Lord so I can get pissed
I have not posted for some time. Far from slacking, I have been working furiously on my greatest artistic work, the creation of which my whole life has been working towards. The jewel in my creative cultural life, everything I have every wanted to say, every emotion I have ever felt moved to express, is in these lines.
Here, finally, I present it for the viewing of the general public.
I KILL YOU NOW FUCK OFF AND GET ME A DRINK
I kill you Why? Because you are a bastard And you deserve to die Violently Why? Because you are a fucking arsehole I will kill you again What do you mean I can only kill you once? Why are you talking, you are dead! Now fuck off and get me a drink
