acres of babes
How can you fuck up corn chips, cheese and bottled salsa?
Posts from the ‘Byron bay’ Category
Feb 18
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the surfing literature panel. byron bay.
- and Shearer just whickered away at his dagger blade up the back by the door. Stone on steel.
how to know when you’re too old to go
Sammy is the one lying awake and listening to the rumble. Sammy is having doubts.
byron bay cops and long memories
Big fellow Ben - carries an ugly snake bite scar on his face.
nat young – my part in his downfall
Nat had a funny way of introducing himself to you when he dropped in - sometimes he would slice around into a full-blooded cutback and say hullo to your head with his elbow.
main beach byron bay, reading waves and oral sex.
Nobody else can catch him. They're just milling around out there getting closed out and whumped as he streaks out of the pack again.
postcard from suffolk park
Two women lying face to face by the low dune, talking. Miranda Kerr with her back to me and a dusky Nefertiti topless. Just a glance.
I don’t come from there anymore
Scoresby has a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes and how these do they beam a steadfast and penetrating gaze on me as I fidget with a notebook and pencil.
through the hotel window, mick’s $20
Mick has long taken to the drink like a lot of Ballina men, and he likes the first one early and the lack of it has determined that he lose a little dignity in his morning routines.
the slaughterhouse, the cooking room.
A dark passageway, all the walls wet and over there a young man racking up a firehose. He watches you pass by. The smell in here is overpowering.
dreaming of byron bay
It's a pity that the old Byron Astra is now just another pub full of posers and old men spinning fabulous lies and lowly mistruths.
watching a hamburger eater … as an existentialist
Watching a fellow eat a hamburger can be enlightening, in a philosophical sense.
the bloke on a bike on bangalow road
Nowadays every bloody car on the road is up your exhaust like male dogs testing each other for signs of Proestrus, never mind the scenery.
the nimbin route from byron
The Hippy buses from Byron to Nimbin - an observation of the life within.
the maggot
Monty would raid anything binned up on the footpath outside a retail outlet; lingerie, old calendars, book bins, litre bottles of Corsican chardonnay, apples and bananas.
byron bay crowd control – 1964 – a proven method
Rip an unborn calf from the womb of its dead mother and let it stew a while in the summer heat, then transport it at the dead of night to the Pass campsite wherein sleeps The Tribes of Unwanted and deposit this decomposed matter within their midst.
a home of bones and charnal dust
The high rafters of the cooking room hide platoons of giant rats; sleek, fat, black and fed to bursting from their nightly foraging from the split edges of the bags
never look back
Well I walked up the beach and past the pandanus cove and stopped a while by a surf school proned out on the sand as their coach pimped his authority over them and played for passing trade amongst the thronging idlers who wandered their aimless path with me.
west of byron bay
Al is a Dylan man, lifelong, plus he has no nighttime eyesight – and his emphysema betrays a swamped puddle of rotted lungs – yet he smokes and smokes.
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