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The Good, The Sad and The Dr. Stuart Introducing the Paul H poetry slam!

The Good, The Sad and The Dr. Stuart

Introducing the Paul H poetry slam!

by Paul Hawkins,
first published: January, 2007

approximate reading time: minutes

we played numerous times together with Signor Degnino and Greg as Backwash, listening to music and haranguing, discoursing, babbling, jabbering, mumbling and muttering.

I was casting my mind back a few years recently (size 4 hook, spam and cheese bait) and recalled an evening I spent with my soul brother Dr. Stuart. That particular night we spent the night playing music, (Stu is a fucking brilliant musician and we have played numerous times together with Signor Degnino and Greg as Backwash), listening to music and haranguing, discoursing, babbling, jabbering, mumbling and muttering.

I spewed this out about that night, just flowing like a slow moving memory river, leaving me spent and with tears welling up in my eyes. He is a beautiful fella, as is his artist partner in crime, Chris.

The Good, The Sad and The Dr. Stuart

A balcony and Fosters,
Telecaster feedback, no announcement,
Full of love and fears and, of course,

In only one take,
Smiles and things down on tape, milk a cow (oh yeah),
We cawed as we thought.

Chris of hearts lounged out beside us,
Canvassing loudness, colour and brightness,
Alive in a room with five halls.

Upstairs and downers,
Memories tranquilise and surround us,
Universal things, shatter and fall.

A guitar that breaks hearts,
Blueskies, no flies,
I can hear Robyn Hitchcock, are you with me, so far?

Sadness, tears, blocked out big sky thunder,
Over and under,
The northest north star.

Hot warmth, head and breakfast,
Smashing ashtrays with a vengeance,
You, only just breaking your fall.

Soaked thru-skin, the life force(d) of smiles ,
Throw stones, broken homes,
Yet no remorse.

"Its all around you", sang Bark Psychosis,
Backwashed, in the docks,
In the eyes of the blackmailers, he was just a whore.

Sitting in scrapyards, ignoring the jack of hearts,
The man on the blower, the raspberry follower,
Said " I am not ready to be born".

Whistling cadavers,
Meat packers and dancers,
All drink from the jug of my lawn.

The idle backpackers,
All wheedle and clatter,
Fat flies burn into the face of the cursed.

The fragile and frigid,
All busted and billetted,
Cold camels, with their tea, facing north.

Once shredded like a dead pilot,
Dead, sexy, yet violent,
We drank absinthe without a single thought.

That Buddha beside her,
Can`t wake up her minder,
Scowling and fretting and all.

Snake faced godiva,
So dread like a rasta-biker,
Ate purple neckerchiefs and screamed out for the law.

The whaleboned instructor,
Kept niggling inside her,
Till death`s Dame came struggling with awe.

When the mighty survivor,
Eat a peach with the driver,
So families can talk some more.

Of buddies and cuddles,
Dead of night fumbles,
All battered and bruised and against nature`s law.

Smiles in the dawn,
Lukewarm and overdrawn,
And all you will do is yawn.

Time to be silent,
All small talk, non-violent and,
Talk, lets talk, some more.

Chris`s website is worth checking out;

Paul Hawkins

Paul Hawkins has been interested in popular culture and music, protest and survival for as long as we can remember. He began writing about things, making music and other noise at an early age. Paul has interviewed musicians, writers, poets, protestors and artists.
about Paul Hawkins »»

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