That one time someone made the mistake of letting me on the radio.

Last night, a split second before I fell asleep, my brain managed to pull the ultimate asshole move and scream a half heard reminder to itself about something that it’s been meaning to do for a while but never seems to remember.

It’s the biggest dick move your brain can pull in bed outside of making you think you’re falling in your sleep. Then you do that weird full body spasm/grunty squeal thing that makes your partner wake up shouting to scare off the apparent intruder but it’s just you floundering about like a fish out of water.
Well, not quite the biggest. There’s also wetting the bed if you’re a kid. Only upstaged by wetting the bed if you’re an adult. Or other nocturnal emissions. Or surprise boners when you’re huddled together in a life or death by freezing situation with a sibling.

I’ve gotten horribly off track.

Last night, right before sleeping, I realised that I never got around to telling everyone about how I almost got a radio broadcast dumped.
Which I really only made mention of on my bookface page so I understand if you’re reading this with a slight bit of confusion.

A few weeks back, the poetry group that I attend put an urgent call out for a performer or two to go onto a local radio show for a breif spot because poetry was in season at current.
There was a festival somewhere, plus the chap and chapette who run the monthly event found an in to get some free publicity.
Since moving to Tasmania I’ve rekindled my ‘Fuck it lets see what happens.’ Attitude that served me so well years back.

Leave my job to be a stay at home parent? Fuck it lets see what happens.

Start a part time job doing manual labour despite having only ever worked white collar? Fuck it lets see what happens.

Perform poetry regularly to a small group despite having no clue what it really is? Fuck it lets see what happens.

Tie her to the stake, recite the incantation, dunk her feet in a bucket of goats blood and set fire to the church while she’s inside? Fuck it lets…. actually ignore that one.

Back on track again, so they called out for a performer or two to plug the monthly event and read one or two pieces. I put my hand up explaining that I know NOTHING of the Tasmanian poetry scene, or the festival that was currently on, or just poetry in general.
Anyway, the next day I’m sitting in the office of the ABC chatting to the girl that would be accompanying me on air. A delightful Dutch expat by the name of Nina who’s gorgeously melodic voice combined with her accent made me sound like a paper shredder full of aluminium foil that had gained sentience and was trying to shout ‘G’Day mate! Throw another shrimp on the bar-bee!’

The rest was pretty boring to recount so I’ll just say this.

With radio, they have a 10 second delay between studio and broadcast. Just in case some vulgarities escape into the airwaves. And should they escape their oral prison, these vulgarities can be removed from reaching a new home by a process known as ‘dumping’. Which, much like its colloquial counterpart, is the literal process of removing shit. (See what I did there?)

Apparently my poem was a bees dick away from causing said dumping from taking place.

I linked a podcast of the radio show to my bookface page but it was only up for six days and that was like, a while ago. More than 10 I’m pretty sure.
I promised that I’d post the poem up but I forgot, then life happened and also I got distracted by other projects. Then my stupid brain reminded me last night right before going to fucking sleep and we’re back here again.

So, ladies and gents, I present for your amusement,

You shook me:

I’d sing you lullaby’s
  but I don’t know the words.
So I sing to you AC/DC
  low tempo.
You settle one night.
Your mother gives me
   sidelong look.
You know that one sounds 
  like it’s about a hooker
I smirk.
‘Makes sense, if she doesn’t
  go down i’ll be up all night.
I poetically disappoint her.
& you
  shook me all night long.

You know the best part? It’s a poem about me trying to setting my daughter of a night!
I even said that’s what it was about before I read it.
Got their guard down then alluded to hookers going down on me and my own erection.

I hope that was worth the wait.

God I love poetry.

– Jacob

One thought on “That one time someone made the mistake of letting me on the radio.

  1. How very Bukowski. Too bad you didn’t habeas a sound sample to throw on the blog. There’s reading the author’s thoughts, then there’s hearin il them in the author’s voice. Good luck. Don’t let them run you off with pitchforks. Unless you’re into that

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