Damian Balassone: Four Poems

Larkin was a Larrikin

Larkin was a larrikin;
Larkin was a toad.
He liked to take his lady friends
to Cemetery Road
and share a pot of English tea,
way back in nineteen sixty-three.

Larkin was a larrikin;
Larkin was a hoot.

He boogied with librarians
behind the library chute.

He shimmied like a giant squid,

he did not mean to, but he did.

On Bail in Bali

I’m on bail in Bali.

I’m waiting for my trial.

I’m cruising on a Harley

across the tropic isle.

I’m on my way to Kuta Beach

to practice what the locals preach.

I’m on bail in Bali.

I’m chatting up the chicks.

I’m cranking up Bob Marley.

I’m gonna get my fix

before the judge instructs the guard

to throw me in the prison yard.

Barry Gibb

Barry Gibb,

the sole surviving Bee Gee,

sold his house

and booked a flight to Fiji

and swapped his disco parodies

for Melanesian melodies.

The French Teacher

My teaching style was what they call laissez-faire;

success was not to be a lay down misere;

a snotty nosed kid turned my class on its head:

“We’d rather do Rambo than Rimbaud,” he said.

Damian Balassone