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(Written stumbling home one Sunday morn' it was a live narration that, as a poem, won the NSW Writers' Centre Inner City Life Poetry Prize. Then it became this song/poem, pong/soem bastard thing.)

lyrics

“Sunday Mourning”

Sunday Mourning. Sunday Mourning.

Yeah the sun's coming up on Sunday as I stumble out of Stanmore, and the cabs crawl out like cockroaches onto Enmore Rd.

As I steer myself down the spirituous sidewalk I see them search the soiled streets like Sirens for lost sailors to entice with their warm vinyl Islands, and directions to their cousin Abdul's in Surry Hills, where you can purchase a gram of Turkish delight to lull away the recovering day.

Sunday Mourning. Sunday Mourning.

As I pedal my feet down the street, my blindman's brain riding my body like a battered bicycle, the sick sweet stench of beer and kebab swims towards me from the bent over boy in the Commodore door as he attempts to kiss the tarmac with his intestines, like a Pope turned inside out.

The Bank Hotel’s bouncer, his bored broad shoulders bursting sluggishly through his suit, looks as fresh as the apathetic kebab that you purchase next door, as he sways from sole to sole, wishing some young Goth would get smart with him, allowing him to expel that pent up energy that bubbles inside of him like a nun's libido.

Sunday Mourning. Sunday Mourning.

And I veer right and roll towards Erskineville, where outside The Imperial a cornucopia of subterranean scenes, blend like Bailey's and cream, as a boy with a beer glass embedded delicately in his face boldly refuses an ambulance as he floats painlessly on beer, battery acid and testosterone, then falls flatulent and flat at the fatigued feet of a paramedic, like a drunken fish.

Sunday Mourning. Sunday Mourning.

And I veer right and roll towards Erskineville, where outside The Imperial a cornucopia of subterranean scenes, blend like Bailey's and cream, as a boy with a beer glass embedded delicately in his face boldly refuses an ambulance as he floats painlessly on beer, battery acid and testosterone, then falls flatulent and flat at the fatigued feet of a paramedic, like a drunken fish. And I dive through my back door as the pre-dawn clouds, black & blue as a boxer’s brain, change hue to glaring bright blue, and I escape the segue into day.

Sunday Mourning. Sunday Mourning. Sunday Mourning. Sunday Mourning.

credits

from A Suburban Bukowski Solo at Sally's Sound Hole, released August 16, 2021

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Suburban Bukowskis Sydney, Australia

Upbeat, folky, funny neo-beatnik tales of failure, fun, and excess in the wild inner-west are trademark of the narrative poem-songs (or pongs) penned by award-winning playwright and poet, Benito Di Fonzo. Accompanied by veteran bassist Mike Sheehan, drummer Justine Wahlin, and lead guitarist Pete Fenwick. Rhum.org.au called Benito's writing, "Clever, witty, sharp and surreal.” " ... more

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