Photo By Jools Thatcher

Photo By Jools Thatcher

The theme for this week’s JVG Radio Method poem is “Summer Holidays“.

Last poem for the year, and that’s 2011 done. Jon and I pondered the vagaries of the season, and  some of the themes that we covered through the year.  Some of note  – Dawn, Suburban Trains, Washing, Outlaw Women, and of course O and Oh.

Thanks to everyone for the comments and emails. See you all next year when the show returns 2012.

To play this poem directly in your browser – just click the “play” button below:
[audio:JVG_Poem20111218.mp3]

Also have a listen to the tracks on the new EP “Once We Were Kings Of The World


Summer Holidays

“We’re all going on a summer holiday”
Cliff Richard likes to croon
All right for him, he’s a Pom
Their summer comes in June

Ours starts in December
In the Southern Hemisphere
Bundled, like a phone plan
With Christmas and New Year

Highways clogged with four wheel drives
One endless SUV
As we all desert the suburbs
For a suburb by the sea

Caravans and trailers
Mossie spray and zinc
Umbrellas, tents and pushbikes
Some cart the kitchen sink

Fishing boats and dinghies
Surfboards, rarely used
Jet skis for the Bogans
They’re easily amused

The beach, as packed as Swanston Street
You find a tiny gap
Then a family of fourteen
Plonk down in your lap

The father’s wearing smugglers
So taut they leave a scar
That cosy bears more strain
Than Dolly Parton’s bra

Twelve kids and their pit bull
Decide they’re playing cricket
No room to set up stumps
So they use you for the wicket

You think nothing can be worse
Than being turned into a stump
Till their pit bull sniffs your towel
And proceeds to take a dump

Your can of lemonade
Is so hot it burns your hand
Your sandwich is just that
It’s full of bloody sand

The town has just one restaurant
Blends pizza and Chinese
The queue goes round the car park
And it’s forty two degrees

The general stores cleaned out
The shelves are almost bare
Just Anusol and tampons
That’s appetising fare

You’re caked in factor thirty
A sunhat shields your brow
Regardless, by days end
You’re as red as Chairman Mao

Your skin feels like an ant’s nest
The colour of a beet
Tighter than Beyonce’s arse
And giving off more heat

You finally get to have a swim
That ends in disaster
Cleaned up by a surfboard
Spend the next two months in plaster

So stick your Summer Holidays
Vacations by the sea
I’ll sit under the sprinkler
Watch highlights on TV

From Lorne around to Portsea
You can shove your crowds and queues
I guess there ain’t no cure
For the summertime blues

© Copyright 2011 Ian Bland

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