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Posts tagged ‘Byron bay’

jimmy’s red merc’

surf's been up, they say

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shearer’s ghost

waves twice as big, twice as fast and twice as long.

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this is what bansky does on walls

mind if I grab a rock?

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warren cornish – after the funeral

the boys who rode balsa

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cliffy’s dogs and family business.

Such a pretty girl, flashes of underside colour like a dancers' petticoats when she flies overhead

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seen in byron bay the other day

Everyone comes to the Bay, from everywhere. Every day.

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franks’ troubles, the byron pests.

Surprise surprise Frank, they said, look at what we found.

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how to get out at lennox on a big day

without really dying

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byron bay, the capital of kooks

Between the fucken eyes my son. Next.

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acres of babes

How can you fuck up corn chips, cheese and bottled salsa?

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the bolt chewer

Lismore is a little to the west of Byron Bay - that place on the coast where everybody wears towels

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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.

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byron bay cops and long memories

Big fellow Ben - carries an ugly snake bite scar on his face.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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why chicks don’t dig you – the toes.

Why surfers' toes are a FAIL

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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.

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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.

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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.

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the nimbin route from byron

The Hippy buses from Byron to Nimbin - an observation of the life within.

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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.

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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.

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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

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