I had a great (tiring) week at the Sydney Writer’s Festival. Yeah. Well. I’m tired now, so rather than recapping, I’m just showing you this photo. Proof, if you will.
Crab hands.
Photo by Fred Land.
- Scott Sandwich
Scott Sandwich Gigs – Coming Soon!
I’m performing a few times in the coming weeks, and I’ll post that information RIGHT NOW.
Fri 10 May: I’m performing at The Windmill at The Rocks for the wonderful Penguin Plays Rough. The performance sold out before I got added to the bill (so me posting this here is more like I’m rubbing it in your face) – but I’ve written a new work for it, and I think it’s quite nice. Once I’ve performed it, I’ll post a recording or transcript, I PROMISE. Information on The Windmill is listed here!
I’ll be appearing a number of times throughout the Sydney Writer’s Festival, and you’re more than welcome to come see;
Mon 20 – Sat 25 May – Q-Poetics: Myself and some favourites of mine are roaming Walsh Bay during the festival, flooding waiting lines with poetry. What are you waiting for? Featuring CJ Bowerbird, Jo Sri, Eleanor Jackson, Scott Sandwich, Skye Loneragan and more! Presented with Word Travels. Created by Skye Loneragan.
Sat 18 – Sun 19 May – Troubadours & Minstrels: Follow the music, a guided tour through The Rocks in Sydney, with a plethora of poets hiding in the nooks and crannies. I’ll be performing with the likes of Tug Dumbly, Catherina Behan and Jade Oldfield, hosted by Candy Royalle! (Another selection of poets the week after, including Anis Mojgani, Eleanor Jackson, Miles Merrill, Jo Sri & CJ Bowerbird.) Add it to your Facebook calendar here!
Sat 25 May – The Rumble: A team-based youth slam! I’ll be performing along with Jo Sri at the Riverside Theatre in Parramatta for this cool event. Kinda hoping the kids don’t show us up, but also, I know they’re going to blow me out of the water. More information here!
Troubadours & Minstrels
Filed under Other & Nothing
Scott Sandwich @ SOYA 2013
Well, I’ve gone and done it; I’ve uploaded a portfolio of work to the Qantas Spirit of Youth Awards. If you think I’m a little bit alright, I’d love you to click the ol’ “Like” button there, post it onto Facebook or wherever! I’m pretty easy to impress, so make this the highlight of my week!
My portfolio is here: http://www.soya.com.au/entrant/scottsandwich
I command you.
Filed under Other & Nothing
Cut Snake!
Cut Snake: Take another look at life and say HELL YES.
Cut Snake is open, up and running! I’ll be performing a few tiny words, for this brilliant and wonderful show. If you don’t get a chance to see it… well… I just feel sorry for you. Come and say hi, maybe? It runs until March 23 at the Bondi Pavilion, so you have plenty of time.
Here’s the link: get yourself tickets by clicking here, and get yourself happy.
- Scott Sandwich
March 14, 2013 · 5:34 pm
Pebblecrete
With special thanks to Eleanor Jackson & Pip Smith
When was Pebblecrete invented?
On what day was it patented?
When was it first installed?
Today as Scramjets scream overhead,
someone will hold their cochlear implant high in the air
to hear it even louder.
Someone else will sample the sound on their Fairlight with all 24kHz available
so they’ll hear everyone sharing powerboards,
filling their glasses from goon sacks hanging from Hills Hoists,
hating on their favourite New Zealand actors,
hating on the left, or hating on the white,
while waving Polymer banknotes with Vegemite-stained fingertips.
Many will accept that the Hottest 100 is filled with mostly 90s-style retro electronica, and be totally cool with that
or secretly know they should have voted for Call Me Maybe, because blimey
it’s a catchy song.
When was Pebblecrete invented?
Today someone will be photographed with a Frazier lens
while emptying their bowels
into a dual flush toilet.
Some will argue over the rights of refugees,
accept arranged marriages,
nod politely when told a non-racist story
about the woman who works at the bakery,
and try to ignore the imitation of her accent.
Some will eat lamb if they so desire
but fully acknowledge that it is not the lamb itself that is Australian,
nor is the requirement to eat it, to eat meat,
or to prefer it over something else.
Someone will begin preparing for Chinese New Year.
Someone will be honest and say,
“I think Lamingtons are essentially boring cakes.”
Someone will be attacked by a great white shark,
and maybe it won’t be such a big deal,
because that’s just the risk you take.
When was Pebblecrete invented?
Today someone will be overseas
dancing to Swedish industrial slow-core jazz.
Someone will be explaining that they don’t always eat Yum Cha.
Someone will sniff petrol and wonder if anyone else thinks it kind of smells like warm bread, or if that just means they’re addicted.
Someone will start a book they won’t finish,
say they’ve read a book when really they’ve only seen the movie,
say they’ve seen the movie when really they haven’t even heard of it,
not see the movie no matter how many tigers are supposed to be in it,
Someone will see the movie and really like it.
Why today?
On January 26 they had already been on land for three days.
On January 26 they named New South Wales,
Alienating Victoria, alienating Western Australia,
and all those other places too,
from what should be a National Holiday.
January 26 just happens to be Day 1 of slaughter,
and when that dude from The Whitlams committed suicide.
Surely there’s a better date.
Or just a different one.
Someone just has to say… “Okay, next year? February 2nd.”
And that would be that.
When we all die, they’ll find our black box
and hear us celebrating on the stupidest date.
And they’ll ask, on what day was Pebblecrete invented?
Why didn’t they celebrate that?
- Scott Sandwich
Filed under Poems & Poetry
Small Pink Blob
I look at the small pink blob in front of me. Pathetic. Fat. Twitching its leg, these weird muffled sounds coming from its mouth. Long held notes face down in the dirt. Blood around its neck where it had been grabbed by teeth, blood down its leg where it had been dragged through the sand and over rocks. Grabbed and shattered and shaken.
I look at the small pink blob in front of me. I cock my head. It smells of shit and grime. I nudge it with my nose on the fabric of its ripped jumpsuit and touch its side. It’s light, it’s weak, I nudge it again and roll it onto its back. It wails. I can hear its clenched throat, I can hear its pain, I can hear it dying, and I can see it freezing.
I look at the small pink blob in front of me. I step forward and stand over it with my legs on either side of its body. I catch its eye. The crying stops for a moment. And looks back at me. It’s not happy but it is distracted, looks at me as something familiar. And it reaches out and touches my nose and runs its fingers through the fur on my face, and I lean in and take another sniff.
I look at the small pink blob in front of me. I’ve seen bigger versions of this. But they’re always fighters and loom over me. This is different. This is just a baby. This is no more than, I don’t know, three months old. Two. What would I know. Not old enough to stand. Not old enough to think. Just old enough to cry when it’s hurt, cry when it’s cold, cry when it’s hungry and stop when it touches something soft.
Hungry. I lick its face and it cries again. Hungry? I can’t give it anything. I have nothing for it. Just water. I lap some from the puddle in the den, store it in my mouth and let a few drops dribble onto its lips. Its tongue doesn’t come out, it just drops right in. But it’s hungry. And it cries. And it cries again, more like a scream now than ever. Rasping. It’s chin waggling, willing for more water. Be quiet, or the others will hear you.
And they hear you.
They hear you and the light from the front of the den flashes, and I look up to see the silhouette of my comrade and I hear a growl. No time for this. He smells the shit and sees the meat. A few steps in and bares his teeth and gums at me. Saliva dribbles from his mouth and onto the floor. Barks at me. Yells at me.
I look at the small pink blob in front of me. It wails. Defenceless. Open. Ready for the taking, to be ripped to shreds by us. But we don’t need it. Not now. Pathetic. Nothing. I’m still standing over the body. I look up at my comrade. And I stare. And it cries.
Another growl. I growl back.
A bark. I bark back.
He takes a step forward and opens his mouth, pointing towards the crying sack under me. I react, bend my knees suddenly, pull my ears back, bare my own teeth, stick my tail out, and step forward. Putting myself between my comrade and this small pink blob. It’s mine. My comrade barks. I bark back. It cries. I step forward again. He’s bigger than me but my teeth are sharper. There’s no need for this. No point in this. Just blood. That’s all. Just blood and nothing. I took it. And now I don’t know what to do or what I’m doing, but it is mine. I will defend it. I will growl for it, bark for it, scream for it, fight for it, kill you for it, I will pierce your gut with each of my claws and step on your organs, and pile them in the corner under your bones. You may want it, but this pink blob is mine. You will leave. You will find your own. Go chase your tail. Go sleep in the sun. Go suck the fuck off your own corpses. This pink blob is mine and you will not touch it. Go.
My comrade is not happy. But my comrade huffs. He breathes in the dirt. Turns his neck, and slinks out. A flash of red as the sun hits it at the front of the cave.
I stay in attack mode, ears pointed, for a few seconds longer, just in case. Just me in the dark with an echo of cries. It’s loud. It’s cold. It’s scared. It’s hungry. There’s a pool of blood under its head now. I pull myself up and pull it onto fresh dirt. It’s getting dark. It’s getting cold. I cuddle around it. Envelop it in my fur, and it huddles up like I am a blanket. It is still in pain but it is distracted and full and weak and empty.
It won’t survive the night. It will freeze. I will wake to find it is no longer a small pink blob, but blue, and stiff, and nothing. There will be no more cries. It will just be. I will just help it through. Get there without pain. Just rest on me, little one. Fall asleep and give up. I can’t help you any more. I will wake, and this will be over and I will forget you. But for now, just breathe in time with me. Breathe like you will never stop. Breathe like everything is okay. Breathe like you will see your mother soon. Like she is on her way. Like she is here. Like she cries for you. Like she is me. Breathe until you have nothing left. Breathe, you small pink blob. Breathe.
- Scott Sandwich
Filed under Poems & Poetry
It May Be Dramatic But It’s Exactly What Happened
Day 1
There was a mosquito the size of my fist.
Our tents hit 50 degrees and all the muesli bars and Killer Pythons melted together to form a gelatinous fibre-filled rainbow snack.
There are also actual killer pythons.
It’s hard to sleep because we’re woken up by the sounds of brown snakes choking on cane toads.
Or that one fucking bird at 4:36am.
We don’t recognise any of these bugs before but we’re pretty certain they want to kill us.
What are we doing.
Day 2
It’s fun
We’re a bit dirty now.
We slide on the ground, let dust fill our noses
Building monsters out of each other
Perform battles
Speak in gibberish
The stalks of the building creak and sway
As we run from left to right
To see where we can bend
Where our limits begin and end
What are we doing.
Day 4
Okay
We get it now
Dirt between toes
Crevice in the belly button
In every fold of our skin
Layers of ambergris
Dried saliva
And congealed sleep
We can wash it off, but the pores in between are permanently dyed
Without thinking we dislocate our shoulders to peck our own faces
And breathe in smut
Mad as a cut snake, drum rolls in the long grass
And it all makes sense to us
What are we doing.
Day 5
There’s a trip to civilisation
We look at everyone a little strange
We keep track of them in the corners of our eyes
Get offered free entry to a club where the “local youths” go
Blacked out windows
We just stare back
And slowly reach for the wristbands
These will make good sustenance
If we boil them down and drink them.
Day 7
Pitch black
When you don’t know where you’re going
You just run forward
Racing the sun behind you
Trying to get to the other side
Day 9
One by one, less leave our tents
Sleep in, pack up and leave
Less like we can’t hack it
Less like answering the calls of responsibilities back home
More like grey hairs falling
More like wrinkled reptiles trudging through mud
Until we are left with the final few
Comets streak overhead as we twerk
What are we doing.
Day 11
Volcanos erupt on the horizon
As we dive down to the pond to pluck a weed
Collate our dead skin with clay, shave bends and shapes in them
To create someone that looks like us
That mirrors us and challenges us
We don’t know what we’re doing
But we know it’s pretty damn great
Day 14
Roll each other up
Like elephant skinned rugs
Mould what’s left, to fit in the car
This is all in silence
Just the hiss of smouldering ash
Our assgrooves will grow over
Our compost will decompose
Our clay statues will die and we will grieve, settle for it or try again
We leave with one small and slow step forward
What are we doing?
- Scott Sandwich
Filed under Poems & Poetry
