Bite me!

The Laws of Attraction must state in their fine print that my pathetic, girly skin is a fair target for mozzie mauling. That's one thing up here. The bastards are breeding like it's the last water they'll ever see and they suck not just the blood, but the life blood out of unsuspecting victims.

Sandflies, however, roam in another realm of disaster.

AND I HATE THEM.

Unequivocally, with passion, and a body covered in carcenogenic bitey beastie protection (ie. RID upon DEET upon Bushman's. And none of this natural twaddle. Sandflies laugh out loud in the face of natural balms.)

So, here's my poem, to honour the sandfly sufferer and mark said sufferer as a legend of the maul.

Superbad Bities


Four am in stillest night,
in the tent with stars all bright,
full moon out which lights the sky,
far from shore and high and dry,

I am woken by a ping!
Something like a little sting.
Not a mozzie, all is silent.
What on earth is this here tyrant?

Sitting with an itchy butt,
wiggling it around a lot,
cannot seem to make it cease.
Looks like I’ve got worms, good grief!





Then I feel it on my arm.
Hairs spike up in great alarm.
I rub on my funny bone,
right up to my armpit zone.

Suddenly they’re on my knees;
right, then left, then right, oh please!
Then upon my heel and toe.
Twitch about all do-ce-do.

Little finger, largest thumb,
then again upon my bum.
Undies not protecting much
as I scratch that such and such.

Silent evil, little din,
next they are upon my shin,
on my ankle, in my hair,
up my nose (how’d they get there?)

Here a knuckle; this is rotten,
then I scratch my belly button
for as long as I am able
to thus gaze upon my navel.

Ouch! My eyelash. Ludicrous.
Rub my shoulder, scratch my wrist,
Itch my back ‘til I am sore,
scratch my ribs with bites galore.

Hair and scalp, that bloody menace,
every nook and sweaty crevice,
bits the light has never seen,
not wish on your enemy.

Tummy, toosh and cheek and lip,
palm and wrist with bony bit,
hip and thigh and calf and jaw
underarm and chin, what’s more,

reeling, feeling rather grotty,
next another on my botty,
now my lips and just for fun,
open wide, it pings my tongue.

In between my fingers now,
then upon my right eyebrow.
Forming now a crazy nexus,
how’d it get my solar plexus?!

And by now I’m scratching mad,
nutcase spinning superbad.
Midgies, give yourselves a clap.
You lot win, but take this – SLAP!

Headtorch on and hunt for keys.
Scrounging round upon my knees,
find them in the mess of stuff,
bit to ‘blivion, had enough.

Eye the zip and spy the ute,
count from three, two, one and scoot.
Beep, unlock, jump in, and slam!
Lock the doors from this here scam.

Hoon away into the night,
past the dawn to bright sunlight,
far away from Cleaverville.
Camping there? Don’t be a dill!

Four weeks on and I still count
scars of which did well surmount
one hundred and forty eight,
done and dusted, well too late.

So, if you pass me on the street
you will know me, hard to beat,
I’m the one who still looks rotten,
…scratching on her itchy bottom.

Elise Batchelor March 2011

Shower leaks, roof leaks and WikiLeaks. Yup. Everything leaks!




From the 24 News Desk, Southbank, Melbourne...

 

 Making headlines...


International news of the year was that Lindsay Lohan, Lady Gaga and Sarah Murdoch all managed to make doofuses of themselves, to a greater or lesser degree. Of the three, I would invariably choose to be Sarah, as I am neither fond of dressing in wagyu beef nor donning my fingernails with the phrase 'f**k u' in order to be witty. I'm sure in some world, LiLo thought she was...And, like Sarah, one day at some function large or small, I am bound to be the one standing in front of a bunch of people embarrassing myself despite my best intentions. Indeed, this is the stuff of poetry and I applaud anyone who does it with flair and grace.

None of this made headlines in north West WA though, except that, by the end of it, there was an awful lot of mopping up to do!

Happy 2011 all! Thanks to the gang at ABC North West and the Pilbara Echo for all your support and may there be more embarrassments, sillinesses and stuff ups for everyone next year so I might continue to find fodder for this happy foolishness!


EverythingLeaks


A beer and a cheer for a Happy New Year!
were the words that were slowly spoke
by the guy near the log with his gumboots and frog,
yes, a flustered and feral young bloke.

His hair was crusty, clothing musty
his eyes drooped with sandbags hung
with stoic aplomb sinking on and on
like the folds of old cow dung.

This Andrew Collins nibbled stale stollen,
pondered on life here.
Taking time out from his soggy plight
to reflect on a whopper of a year.

Lindsay Lohan lost the plot and
finally had to go dry.
But it couldn’t compare to Marble Bar,
which ran out of beer, oh my!

Melbourne Cup ran hot to trot
with silks and ladies in hats,
but Pannawonica’s rodeo iconica
starred a wild OLD chap.

At seventy six, Jack had the tricks
to ride ‘em hard and mighty.
With his big, wide brim, he rode like sin
and the crowds went wild, alrighty.

Lady Gaga dressed in meat from her head
to her teetering toes.
But she’d nothing on those trucks which run
into beasts wand’ring out on the roads.

Sarah Murdoch looked like a right chook
reading the wrong model’s name.
But at Pilbara Girl, we were all in a whirl
when Synarrah Murphy’s came.

And Canberra scored a “strine PM”
with Kevin and Tony piffed,
but Karratha got a regional cabernet
and you should have copped a whiff.

Of plans for Pilbara Cities,
like London, Paris and Roma
or at least a new gate or at any rate
a brand new garden gnome.

And Julia showed us her fancy hair
which never ever seemed to relax,
but we pricked up our ears and jiggled our rears
when she fiddled with the mining tax.

And with Julia red as a blister,

you’d think HER the colour hog,
but WE had the red dirt festival
and in Dampier, the star - Red Dog!

NZ had the Bledisloe
which went pretty fast yo bro’.
But the Newman guys they took the prize
for the Cup that was pretty bloody slow.

And twiddling thumbs for decades
since Joan in ’75,
Hedland, cool, got its hospital,
so now if we’re sick, we’ll thrive.

Just in time for our summer clime
and the rain La Niña was bringing
and it poured and it drowned and it sloshed all around
‘til Carnarvon was hardly singing.

And he thought about the weather,
the craziest thing of all,
with forty degrees and irukandjis,
oh boy, they have a gall.

And Muddle, fuddle, sitting in his puddle,
sun beating down on his brow,
with his umbrella up and his dacks in the mud
Andrew’s brain was frazzled now.

And finding some shade he flicked on the radio

and listened to the news of the day,

with Julian Assange and his radical plan

for dobbing in pollies, but hey,

Andrew thought, well, funny that,
as the rain brewed again in our zone,

forget WikiLeaks, here it’s EverythingLeaks…

and with his year mopped up, went home.

© Elise Batchelor December 31st 2010