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

My portfolio is here: http://www.soya.com.au/entrant/scottsandwich

I command you.

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

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

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

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

YAY.

- Scott Sandwich

This coming month is crammed with performances. In fact, there’s this one;

The Art of Storytelling – October 31, The Brass Monkey in Cronulla, $18

You can visit the Facebook page here, which will direct you to the ticket buying place here.

Thanks to Sofar Sounds and everyone who is listed on the poster below. It was a wonderful night full of gut-tugging songs….

And I said the word “fuck” a lot. That was my contribution.

I will be featured in the upcoming show These Arms Of Mine at the Melbourne Fringe Festival next week, fulfilling the “Otis Redding” quota in the show’s blurb

You can check it out on the Melbourne Fringe Festival website by clicking here, or view the Facebook event here.

—

These Arms of Mine is an intimate evening of exciting new work about horses, synaesthesia and Otis Redding. The show has a bursting-to-full bill featuring new plays, including Electric Blue by Amelia Evans, Percheron by Dan Giovannoni, with a special guest appearance by performance poet Scott Sandwich.

Booyah.

- Scott Sandwich

That’s Tuesday 2 October, 8:00pm at The Friend In Hand Hotel (58 Cowper St, Glebe), with donation entry of $10/$5. There’ll also be a slam afterwords – so that’s $50 that could go straight to you!

If you’re interested, check out the Facebook event here: https://www.facebook.com/events/467447826622766

Come along. It will be good.

- Scott Sandwich

I’m pretty excited about this. You should be too. Come along!

Click here for more information.

- Scott Sandwich

Be sure to check out Candy Royalle’s actual winning performance, and Eleanor Jackson, and Darkwing Dubs and- hell, they’re all doozies. So just settle in for a bunch of words.

- Scott Sandwich

- Scott Sandwich

I’ve been developing this other blog. It’s called Strictly Honourable, and it explores James Bond through classic and short poetry forms, as you can see below.

Strictly Honourable: Check it out!

- Scott Sandwich

I wish I was more environmentally conscious because
I am concerned about the great white shark
With the increasing size of its domain
Where we are but floundering monkeys
In Hawaiian shirts, still learning to swim
And the great white shark is… well…
… a fucking great white shark
Destroyer of Monkeys

- Scott Sandwich

The weather is a gimmick. The weather is a waste of time.
I blame Tim Bailey for this. He used to be cool, you know?
But then even he, the most popular and recognised weather man
Realised the weather wasn’t enough to keep his career going, and to keep people watching.
The weather became a vehicle
To be reported from primary schools, multicultural festivals, and people’s backyards
Rain, hail or shine, he appears
With a four day forecast
Weather followed by sports, because the actual news was over
Or whether it was wedged between two human interest stories
Because the weather was not interesting to humans
He was never seen in a news studio ever again
Stuck on a Taronga Zoo walkway to show a new baby tiger
Or the Tiger’s locker rooms before a match
No more green screen, with moving maps, swirling colours
And numbers, and science.
Suddenly he knew nothing
Because he was separate from those numbers and symbols
He never appeared on screen with the science
The science was thrown out the window
Which is where my look is cast for my forecast
I check the skies by looking outside
Tim Bailey abandoned for my own eyes
So weather for me can only be the next 3 hours of clouds I can see
Never perceived on a grander scale than my suburb

- Scott Sandwich

A beautiful day
Piercing sunlight, so warm
We stood on the cliff of Lighthouse Beach
On the rails, overlooking the sea
There was an old rock fisherman down below
At first guess, 70 years old
It would have taken half an hour to climb down to where he was
So we stayed where we were

The clouds were amazing
They were brewing
The light was shifting from day to evening
Quicker than we thought
We alternated between who was taking photos of the other three
Document our presence because this was a beautiful day and it was over
We knew from the green tinge in the sky

The cool wind hit our eyeballs
That’s the best way I can describe it
You know it’s cold when your eyes feel the chill
Even hidden behind their protective jackets
The clouds had grown
“It’s going to rain.” I say
Rather than those wise native Americans sensing changing winds in repeats of MacGyver, pan flutes in the background
I relate this more to those old women sitting on verandas
“My knee’s acting up”, one says, “Yep” says her husband, “Your knee never lies,”
And they know, a storm’s a-comin’.
They announce it to noone in particular
They can feel the storm in their goitres

So, “It’s going to rain” I say, and we laugh
Not a chance, it was the most beautiful day, and it was evening
But looking out to sea, the horizon was blurry
I waved my fingers in front of my face
As the blur took over my sight
Convinced I was having a stroke
I couldn’t focus on the water down below
And we realised it wasn’t evening that had hit
The clouds had just turned black
The green sky had been swallowed up
Like shoving a wad of fairy floss in your mouth
Completely dissolved
I blinked and suddenly we were all wet
I was not having a stroke
A wall of water sprinting towards us
And being pulled down on our heads

Our car is only 10 metres away
But we’ve already been hit with hail
We trip on the marbles on the floor, all four of us flailing on the ground
Pathetic turtles
Doomed
Enjoying the confusion and tragedy
Screaming with laughter and pain
We can’t see past the windscreen
Twenty minutes we’re in the car
With cracked windscreens and now only one side mirror
When there were no more rattling rocks on the ceiling
Like waiting for popcorn in the microwave
It took half an hour to drive two blocks
Because we couldn’t see an inch past the rain

We bought clothes and shoes from K-Mart
We’re drenched, happy, wonderful
A freak storm, and we were in the middle of it
The biggest on record
Amazing, we four friends are fine because we had each other
And a car
Then we remember the rock fisherman
And wonder if anyone else does

- Scott Sandwich

Yo. I’m supporting the brilliant Darkwing Dubs on Wednesday: performance poetry at it’s coolest.

Anyway, you should come – I’ll be performing alongside Fez, Matias Valdez, and the fantastic Skye Loneragan. So it’ll be a really good night, and and we’re each doing 15 minutes or so!

It’s at Hibernian House (342 Elizabeth Street, Surry Hills), Studio 401. 4th Floor. BYO.

Come? I’m pretty sure it’ll be about $10.

- Scott Sandwich

Emphasise I.
Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
All other poets, of lesser skill and talent and fame, always compare their loved ones to big, perfect things.
Shall I make a boring, superficial simile like the rest of those unimaginative buggers?
I, he says, would never do that. And in the rest of the entire collection of sonnets, he does not.
But, he continues, I will anyway, just to prove to you why it is pointless.
I will take the grandest most natural and widely understood idea of perfection. The toughest competition for comparison, filled with dawn and roses and rainbows.
It should too easy for the poet – and it still proves inadequate, unworthy, and inferior to his love
The pure summer day changes, it passes, it is unreliable. The flaws are innumerable.
But the young man he writes about has none.
Because this is what Love does to everyone
His Love is so strong, that the very notion of comparison is a weak and pathetic compliment, and can only be fruitless, or can only mean words have been chosen to sound good, but ultimately mean squat
Hyberbolic comparison (for want of a better reference) is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury but signifies nothing
In previous sonnets he wrote about why he loves, logically. Share your love, he says, the bloodline must continue, you must breed, so that your beauty can still be in the world
But this time, 18 sonnets in, he says I love you because I love you,
Praise for the sake of praise, begging for a better way to say it
But he settles on a tired idea, because even he knows that even the greatest words of Shakespeare can never be enough

And with that in mind, you, my dear, are a zipper.
You are comparable to the zip on the fly of my unwashed jeans
The ones I wear that you can’t stand
The ones you don’t understand why I still have them
Why I haven’t thrown them out

Because you may not see it, but that zip is perfect
And zips I don’t always understand
And you may break but when it does, let’s face it, it’s generally my fault
And maybe criticism can be thrown your way
When you feel out of order, or you decide your parts are not perfectly shaped

Love may mean that comparisons are pointless
But you are a zip
One of the greatest and most useful inventions known to humanity
Often overlooked, underrated
But nobody could say that life would be better without you
There have been previous fasteners
There have been buttons, there have been clips
But you are the best
You are my zip

- Scott Sandwich