Tiny. That's what we call him. Tiny.
Ha. Ha.
Eels fans, you get it.
Stevenson writes about
Catching concrete.
"Imagine standing, looking at the sky." Catching concrete.
EELS FANS, YOU GET IT.
No fucker dare
Catch concrete. Or Tiny.
EELS FANS, YOU GET IT.
Broken,
Evergreen
Hero.
Indiscriminate
Neanderthal (but not in a
Derogatory way).
Forced
Up, tucked
Into
Fragrant
Underarms,
I'm
Me. I miss
Openings, I cringe at hits,
I'm me. I'm the ball. I'm
More
Old-school, than you,
I'm me. I'm Fui. I'm Fui.
Andrew Stevenson's article,"The Science behind Parramatta's Secret WMD", can be found here.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Sunday, September 27, 2009
The Fev at The Brownlow
Thirsty?
Here.
Enjoy this
Frosty,
Effervescent
VB.
And
Tune in
Tonight, 'cause I'm
Hosting an
Evening of laughs, a
Bawdy,
Rollicking
Occasion.
With
No
Losers,
Only
Winners. Only me.
Here.
Enjoy this
Frosty,
Effervescent
VB.
And
Tune in
Tonight, 'cause I'm
Hosting an
Evening of laughs, a
Bawdy,
Rollicking
Occasion.
With
No
Losers,
Only
Winners. Only me.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Jive's Triumphant Return: "Women's Sand Wrestling: The Bowling Ball Grip"
Wild
On's on,
Mum.
Everyone's
Nearly
Set.
Send for chips,
And
Nachos, and
Dip.
Wanton
Rebels,
Elegant
Soceresses
Taking
Lessons
In
Not exposing your
G:
Tide of
Hedonism,
Existentialism, full
Blown
Opportunistic
Wager
Leaning
Into a
Not-so
Good
Breeze.
Allay my fears.
Lean
Left.
Great
Roast potatoes Mum, love this night.
It's
Peachy.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Update, Dodgeball.
Hi, guys.
Just jatzing on to apologise to all those peeps who, have contacted me over the last few, days to see what's, going on with the blog. I've been in hibernation mode, like, deep sleep, bear in a cave, bear in a cave with a wooden roller door made of trees, like, mode. As you can imagine, it's ASP-related - got a big presentation of my oeuvre this week (private viewing, sorry guys, sorry JCF_2275), so I've just been polishing and polishing, a lot of polishing.
Oeuvre. That reminds me of an ASP I once wrote.
Dodgeball
Deliberate
Oeuvre of
Danger,
Gramatically
En-triguing.
Beowulf
Ate
Leaves. Left behind
Love.
Pretty sure that speaks for itself! If you want a dissection of that poem, if you're, like, studying it, or something, for school or whatever, I'm pretty sure there's a clip on YouTube of me breaking it down line by line at a workshop I gave last year, in Kentucky.
Will try and jatz on here a few times this week, but peeps, please excuse if I just chill a little with the ASPs over the next, couple of weeks, until I'm, fully there again.
Jatz,
JC
Just jatzing on to apologise to all those peeps who, have contacted me over the last few, days to see what's, going on with the blog. I've been in hibernation mode, like, deep sleep, bear in a cave, bear in a cave with a wooden roller door made of trees, like, mode. As you can imagine, it's ASP-related - got a big presentation of my oeuvre this week (private viewing, sorry guys, sorry JCF_2275), so I've just been polishing and polishing, a lot of polishing.
Oeuvre. That reminds me of an ASP I once wrote.
Dodgeball
Deliberate
Oeuvre of
Danger,
Gramatically
En-triguing.
Beowulf
Ate
Leaves. Left behind
Love.
Pretty sure that speaks for itself! If you want a dissection of that poem, if you're, like, studying it, or something, for school or whatever, I'm pretty sure there's a clip on YouTube of me breaking it down line by line at a workshop I gave last year, in Kentucky.
Will try and jatz on here a few times this week, but peeps, please excuse if I just chill a little with the ASPs over the next, couple of weeks, until I'm, fully there again.
Jatz,
JC
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Chess Boxing
Children
Hindered.
Hindered.Eh,
Sounds like
Sommerville House.
Bandaids,
Old,
X-rayed
Ink.
Nineties
Ginga.
Sounds like
Sommerville House.
Bandaids,
Old,
X-rayed
Ink.
Nineties
Ginga.
Big Weekend of Sport
Hi, guys.
Feelin kind of, low today. The downfall of the Bogan Empire over in the motherland really has given me the grumps. It's eating into me, like moths ate into my favourite jumper, last winter, the one I left, lying, on the floor.
Couldn't help but think of something I, once heard. The great philosopher, grade cricketer, and good mate Stumpy Johnson once said after we lost the 1998/99 C3 Northside Warehouse Cricket Final: "Cricket - c'est la morte" (Johnson, 1999).
Guess this isn't the place to take bites at the team, that's for some other blogger or poet or someone to do, commentator maybe, but gosh, man - what has been going on over there? The way we fell over the other night, it just got me so darn tickled. I don't blame The Skip (I know Rick, good guy, big fan of YourASP), but there was just something about the whole tour that didn't smell all that good. Something smelt off - you could see it on Rick's face, he was just smelling something the whole time, something not quite right. It wasn't 'till today that he worked out what that smell was. Whole time, the dude was smellin the whiff of defeat.
Anyway - enough about that. I'm too down to jatz on about the cricket today, too darn down, so I thought I'd post something from another sports highlight from the weekend. I was lucky enough to head out to Davies Park on Saturday afternoon and take in Brisbane's second division rugby league grand final, between Inala and St Brendan's. It was a cracker, just a, great, great game, really. I stood in the pigpen, on the hill, with my dear friend Berry Turkitt, and while I was standing on that hill, I was struck by a little bit of inspiration.
Fight in the Pigpen
Flaccid
Irreversible
Girth-lacking
Hooligans.
Toy dolls
Ignited by
Narcissism.
Tender,
Hardly
Enigmatic.
Pray these
Ideological
Goannas,
Paradigm-shapers
Each,
Never die.
It's just a few thoughts, I guess.
Anyway - hope you are all well. Will be in touch soon.
Jatz,
JC
Feelin kind of, low today. The downfall of the Bogan Empire over in the motherland really has given me the grumps. It's eating into me, like moths ate into my favourite jumper, last winter, the one I left, lying, on the floor.
Couldn't help but think of something I, once heard. The great philosopher, grade cricketer, and good mate Stumpy Johnson once said after we lost the 1998/99 C3 Northside Warehouse Cricket Final: "Cricket - c'est la morte" (Johnson, 1999).
Guess this isn't the place to take bites at the team, that's for some other blogger or poet or someone to do, commentator maybe, but gosh, man - what has been going on over there? The way we fell over the other night, it just got me so darn tickled. I don't blame The Skip (I know Rick, good guy, big fan of YourASP), but there was just something about the whole tour that didn't smell all that good. Something smelt off - you could see it on Rick's face, he was just smelling something the whole time, something not quite right. It wasn't 'till today that he worked out what that smell was. Whole time, the dude was smellin the whiff of defeat.
Anyway - enough about that. I'm too down to jatz on about the cricket today, too darn down, so I thought I'd post something from another sports highlight from the weekend. I was lucky enough to head out to Davies Park on Saturday afternoon and take in Brisbane's second division rugby league grand final, between Inala and St Brendan's. It was a cracker, just a, great, great game, really. I stood in the pigpen, on the hill, with my dear friend Berry Turkitt, and while I was standing on that hill, I was struck by a little bit of inspiration.
Fight in the Pigpen
Flaccid
Irreversible
Girth-lacking
Hooligans.
Toy dolls
Ignited by
Narcissism.
Tender,
Hardly
Enigmatic.
Pray these
Ideological
Goannas,
Paradigm-shapers
Each,
Never die.
It's just a few thoughts, I guess.
Anyway - hope you are all well. Will be in touch soon.
Jatz,
JC
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