. Some flyers to prmote our upcoming gig at the Dan O Connell:
After their microphones were taken away,
after the money ran out, after using up the bar tab before going on stage,
counting the number of berets in the crowd,
getting lost on the way to Lismore,
...watching that uninsured windscreen crack get bigger and bigger (and bigger), after talking philosophy with teenagers at the drive through, sleeping on the platform waiting for the first train seeing the best, and worst, performance poets in Australia, and after visiting Wagga Wagga...
...Steve Smart and Randall $tephens have some stories to tell you.
The two poets who turned the word ‘fuckhead’ into a verb, are now bringing their sleep-deprived synergy developed on the road together back home, as the “Taking Arses and Kickin' Names” tour comes to Melbourne.
A few things will make this Dan O Connell gig special. Because this is Randall’s last Melbourne appearance before embarking on an epic two-month solo tour of New Zealand in early 2011, we’ll be passing around the hat (yes, THE hat!) to help keep him away from us as long as possible.
Also, we’re going to record the event on our brand new whiz-bang crackerjack fancy-pants recorder, for the next CD release. So come along for the chance to have the sound of your confusion, disgust and outrage immortalised in a 4 track, 24-bit 96kHz digital recording.
Walking the night in another city you'd never been before yet looking like so many others you’d been to since June twenty-two.
The date that you left her.
Now this lonely planet bookshelf blur of single serve countries of long forgotten lessons from phrasebook collections and you’ve lost count of their exact numbers now how many foreign tongues have you gotten tied with? how much have you misunderstood bluffed your way through de-creased in the map folds the passport pages dog eared the blank stares you’ve coffee stained how much time lost or gained in time zone changes?
You long ago quit counting.
Without doubt you must have walked down hundreds of such strips by now stretching back further than you can remember but never have you failed to retain this date, today’s date.
June Twenty Two.
Before then you’d never pursued the taste of foreign food never sought sights Saharan Himalayan Mediterranean metropolitan cosmopolitan never knew the freedom of forty eight hour friends light but for the weight of a pack no ball and chain holding you back you’ve beaten back the beaten track no home except where you hang your hat go it alone instead of taking out a loan no mortgage on your future you live cash and carry question and answer living affirmation and hopes reasons and regrets right out of your system and right around the globe.
Despite a do-before-you-die list now carved down by half tonight your eyes can’t help but pave new paths all over with old memories your confusion of those old feelings too consuming to have sustained too childish to have lasted too sincere to have survived too real to have forgotten or ever really gotten over no matter where you go the world over.
The date eventually rolls round three years now since leaving after that final-fight to go and find out she was... wrong.
Said amongst the latter and bitterer blows you exchanged she uttered, (almost a whisper) a kind of curse and worse than any other thing she tried to put on you that June Twenty Two,
Angry tears welled in her eyes fell defiant as she prophesised that for all your living outside the box no matter what you won’t ever, you would never, now and forever be able to find another woman like her.