This was the original Jabbernoir piece. It was written on a hot afternoon in Surry Hills and performed that very night at "Token Word" at Knot Gallery. It was performed with a backing tracking that was a loop from a track by Andy Lane (with permission).It was the beginning of a short and ugly friendship to misquote Casablanca, but the literary form would survive.
A recording of this track, with Andy Lane's backing, now appears on Going Down Swinging # 26)
A YouTube version appears HERE.
“Jabbenoir e Lychee Whine”
by Benito Di Fonzo & Gemnastics
B - It was a bold and rambling night, and I walked in faux suede blues along the streets of insecurity, my wet tips wimbling in the brine.
G - He’d left me in the twitters of a shallow fizz. It was lonely, I was bone, as hands scrambled madly for a suck of the dribbly teat.
B - I sorted through my bowels, and counted twenty rude-peas, and then I stumbled into a neon slumber by the name of Shard Fooki’s Udder Face Bar & Diner for an ampersandswich and limoni-whisky-bint.
G - I’d narrowly avoided the stump and thrizzle that could have meant toxic eye, luckily the hams I’ve ate renoodled me, and things were coming along veganly.
B - I sauntered like a jew-fish in a pool of purple jelly through the red green vinyl rotating light, and firmly pushed a stool into my behind, whilst lighting a cigarette in the back of my mind. It was then I smelt her across the room, her eyes steaming into a bowl of apathetic lychee whine and toady smack broth that bubbled across the booth as she snip snapped her pretty nostrils around them with a ‘clup, snuby, snide.’
G - I was clup snuppy sniding my flap wappies in peaceful contemplation, ironing the wrath from my snaggies, and then I frapped him. Smelling me across the room, libs winking like deep sea furnaces, spit drivelling into his apathetic lychee whine.
B - The Martin Borhman brought me a lychee whine, his tears still fresh upon the salt encrusted rim. Lychee whine?
G - Lychee whine?
B - He brought me my very first lychee whine. It was crisp as an imminent tsunami, and wide as the mouth of a whily retart. I simpled it with growing minimence, and rose from my stalk, turning towut her.
G - Strugidly I wimpered a restful figment. Pendulum dinged in my cleave badgery, I tamed it in horror as he eye-wiped me from the bar. I had to admit the way he flap-wassled my lychee brine gave me a twang bout the frip. A gizzly twang. I lapped a digit in suspense.
B - The band fired up about her, and she swined rimlessly to the beat, as they broke into a rendition of Einstein’s Theory of Relativity in G Minor, and as the Martine Borhmen reminded them that Minors were not allowed on the premises, they changed into a Masala Dosa in double time, and I began to Delhi-liciously Bollywood across the room toward her lascivious booths, bouncing in red leather armchair emulence, and snapping like angry mimes.
G - Throats were cooking. Munts were shunting, I felt myself heave in the general flatulence of his erection. I knew where this was going. I primed my booths ready and steadied my thong against his clavicle. He hurled by way of reply, drenching me in feasible rot juice, which I lubed with all my pole.
B - I licked the love juiceless sick from the underside of her tremulous fingers as a shaved poodle flew across the room, landing blackly in her drink, and she tittered like a rummed nun as the taste of hound blended with the lychees, and I played Dostoyevsky on her black keys with my big toe from behind. Just then the janitor broke into a solo, slightly to the left of the drummer’s pension cheque, and as she licked the table clean of all delusions, her nipple skimmed swiftly in the afterjoy, and the janitor went blind.
G - I reached around and with one glift swiff of the arm I plugged his bratwurst with my dignity. He regally complied, one leg on the band stand, the other in my left ventricle, as the cherries rained, and the sparrows fried, we blended like dog and seaweed cream coffee Broulee, and the crescendo thop throbbled and my holly bip dritted and we caked and minced and pie’d and snotted and whined and yollered, till the ceiling rained third-world infants. Then he licked me in the eye and said –
B - “Let’s get out of this euthanasia dole face, I got a pad of paper we could scribble in, I got a good mind but I left it behind.”
G - “Baby, you got everything, let’s try the high mile, pina colada style, show me that pad scribbler, let’s take it all over the page.”
B - And at that stage we left;
G - Pectoral upon clavicle,
B - Pocket upon surly purse.
G - We slutted on out of that pube forsaken doily bin,
B - Leaving a filmy frottage of rude fluids and lychee whine.
G - The rest, as they say…
B - Is antihistamine.
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