The Water-Rat Gazette is proud to here present for your enjoyment

the winning poem from the Kurilpa Poets innaugural annual Super Slam held on December 2011, a proud paen to his native land by noted Ipswichian poet, Cameron Logan. Cameron is also a member of the League of Extraordinary Poets.

Slam Winner Mr Cameron Logan

Slam Winner Mr Cameron Logan




Pearl of cities! Depending of course on the value of the pearl in question, whether the value of the pearl is greater than or equal to the value of Brisbane!


Oldest city in Queensland! Old that is from a human perspective but taken in the grand scheme of the universe and everything in it is barely greater than a speck of dust in the desert!


King of railway! That is assuming that railways have kings! Dynasties! Royal families! Courtly protocol! The Feudal System! That is assuming that freight trains are the proletariet and passenger trains are the bourgeoisie! Perhaps the trains are all actually Republicans!


Home of an excellent art gallery that is both artistic and excellent and possibly a number of other adjectives also though one must not be too specific when it comes to art!


Home of a thriving cafe culture! Though that’s not to say that cafes have their own languages, customs and migration patterns!


Home to many great bush poets and also a few bad ones!


Home of the free, and home of the brave, and also home to those who are both, and also home to those who are neither, and also home to those who believe that freedom and bravery are subjective variables, and also home to whoever it was who stole my car tires twice!


Where the pubs are heritage listed, to ensure that future generations can get drunk and say they are contributing on a cultural level!


Home of a shopping mall that everyone pretends to hate even though they really don’t ’cause it’s trendy to complain about urban sprawl!


I like Ipswich.

-Cameron Logan


Jan2013 Kurilpa Cup Slam winning poem

Shifting to from December to January, the Slam had now acquired a cup and became dubbed thusly, “the Kurilpa Cup” . Tony “Fats Parameter” Kneipp was the eventual winner, with guest feature poet, David Hallett acting as judge. Tony is perhaps best known for being the brains behind the infamous “Pig City” single that helped define an era in Brisbane sub-cultural history..

2013 Cup winner Tony Kneipp

2013 Cup winner Tony Kneipp

The Sleepwalker

I dream of hope

I dream of tomorrow

I long for yesterday

Insect intelligence

Urge not even uttered

Legs moving, not thinking

Feeling, not feeling

A hard case

One of millions

I need to go back

Where I know people’s names

Some love me, some hate me

But at least they know my name

I told you, I told you

I don’t have to say it any more

I just don’t care

Nothing left to say

It won’t change anything

We were talking about

What we used to do at parties

He likes sex, all right

I said, take your pick

They’re all great

Plain girls are beautiful too

That’s my quota of fun for the night

Once a month is more like it

I’m busy trying to get

This damn pipe going

This was a bet, wasn’t it?

I really didn’t have a clue

How things worked

Thought I knew it all

A real bastard from the bush

Thought I knew it all

Wheels within wheels within wheels

I wasn’t a bloody wheel

Just a tiny little sprocket

A babe in the woods

A spanner in the works

The voice of the public conscience

Never had it so good

Better than a kick in the guts

Doing pretty well

It ain’t as great as it seems

Keep the wheels moving

Same old, same old

As per bloody usual

It’s one of those weeks, I’m afraid so

Let’s just hope it all pans out

I have wasted years

Like spilt milk

So few to follow

I don’t even know who I am

I remember my name

But each day seems the same

That’s why I try

Not to remember

We go to the counter to order lunch

Ham, cheese, and tomato

With mustard

When I see you in the morning

My day comes alive

I’m afraid to say I love you

In case I break the spell

I don’t speak of it too often

It’s not a lucky thing

to speak love’s name in vain

Waiting for the storm

Your perfect dream

My nightmare

Let’s just say we’re friends

And walk away

You say you’re free

The new reality

Desperate for money

Would do anything

What do you think you’re worth?

I walked on water

And fucked your daughter

And told the truth

Like a lamb to the slaughter

There used to be lot of

Wildlife there

Where it’s all suburbs now

And we drink milk from a carton

And not from a cow

A serious altercation

I loved you, but you left me

Unsubstantiated report

Refused to leave

Unceremoniously marched

off the premises

She had locked him

Out of the house

Wipe that smile off your face

She doesn’t care

That’s her secret

She can dance

With no regrets

Don’t get too excited

Well, how was it?

Better than a poke in the eye

What to take and what to leave behind?

How can I ever get to say

Just what I really mean?

The baloney grinder, I call it

Oh, I can never, never fool you!

You’ve heard this before, often enough

Why don’t you look at it?

I’m going to show them

If you do find anything interesting,

Please let me know

You opened my eyes

I now realise

That what I was doing

Was wrong

I hit overload

Froze on the spot

No fight, no flight

Reflexes frozen into stone

Holding my breath

The faces in the auditorium

Sow the seed of fear

Sent the blood pressure rising

Still clinging to the same idea

Core objectives

Considerable angst

Powering ahead

Bringing it on stream

Independent survey

Full of apologies

Prove it to himself

Whining bravado

A little shaky

like bad harp

What an absolute load of rubbish!

An illusion of an illusion

Like a photo of a politician’s promise

I stood there agape

My mouth numbed by the

taste of past defeats

And even colder taste

Of past triumphs and victories

Oh, you bloody dill, how could you

make a mistake like that?

You bloody dill!

Feelings seem so far away

Though I remember them

Enough to pretend

I’ve been to hell and back and

I don’t care

Dark crystal

Diamond of despair

Mutant tunnel

Spin, spin, spin

Experts on spin

You think it, we say it


A wrong’un every time


Water scorpions and horseshoe crabs

Scuttling among the slimy rocks

A snail inching its way towards true sentience

A destiny of dinasoars

And very smart apes

While you were sleeping

The world moved on


Busy, busy

Going nowhere

Pearls before swine

I’m not some wind-up toy

All that is dear

Reduced to a tear

I could never please them

Lying was the only answer

Lies lies lies lies lies

Do you really want

To look at yourself in the mirror

And see yourself

In numbers?

Sewing little, reaping less

He’s never done anything

And no one remembers

And that old shaggy dog story about him…..

If they deviated by one jot

They might stuff up

And give the game away

Can’t get my motor running

A wolf pack of youths

Swaggers by, snickering

At our safe alfreso bubble

Their casual meandering

Masking a darker purpose

Coiled energy, ready for anything

Crime is the last adventure

In a robotic suburban world

Chaos is fun

Pure emptiness is the ultimate horror


Life in a man-made canyon

I need a bigger slice of the sky

-Tony Kneipp


The Winner of the Feb2014 Kurilpa Cup was DUSHAN BOJIC. His winning poem to appear here shortly..

2014 Cup Winner, Dushan Bojic

2014 Cup Winner, Dushan Bojic

Dushan Bojics 2014 Kuerilpa Cup winning poem, “this poem” presented here 4 yr Joy

This poem…….

This poem once looked like a painting of a chrysanthemum done by a man who does not know how to paint chrysanthemums. This poem really wanted to write more love poems licensed for online commercial usage but at the last minute decided to collect marriage certificates and use them for compost instead. This poem once stole all your laundry, sleeping pills and your excuse for staying. This poem is not a MacPoem, one to be slammed down, one that communicates its urgency to be poetic in a fauxhemian type of way. This poem once said to me – “hey do you know when you dance with snakes around yr head in a semireligious setting, that’s either a recipe for discipline or disaster!” This poem never got caught, apart from the time it unzipped its fly in public and was fined for lewd behavior and salacious typography. This poem radiates with bailed out verbs  and wants to get a tattoo of a headphone jack so it can plug itself into its own goddamn groove and then tattoo its body with judgmental Bible verses condemning those who get tattoos. This poems smiles a welcome mat hiding a key and inspires blank stares to draw their own self-portraits. This poem once paid its bills by a taking a gig as a ventriloquist in a strip club for the blind. This poem once had cabin fever with foreign exclamation marks at a time when punctuation was eating its young. This poem wrote itself at a time when Art was an epileptic trying to write its own praises with a stomach full of black ink and an empty tremor for its brush. Last night this poem went outside, where the half moon was like a phone off the hook busy watching vagrant satellites skate by, so it went back to bed and slept like boiling water. Tomorrow morning this poem will get up from its bed like a jar of dichotomies shower like a corrugated roof,  jangle down the stairs like a deformed slinky. And enter the bedroom like a bad smell where it’ll change clothes and drink coffee like a paranoid mosquito and wait for outdated praise like a bus stop. A computer-generated whistle will blew… and it’ll paint like it was in a knife fight for 8 hours, drink tequila like a burning building, and go upstairs like an argument next door. Next door the cat will smile like a secondhand chainsaw, my girlfriend will pretend to be asleep…I will pretend to eat, and smile like a rusty can opener. She will lay on the bed like a mattress,I will sit at the table like a chair until I inch along the wall like an overzealous sprinkle and enter like smoke from a fire in the next chapter and apologise like an e-bay toaster. The covers will not open like I was an envelope and she was a 24 hr teller. I will then undress like an apprentice matador with this poem’s bullshit on his shoes and go to sleep like I do when I think I’m about to slam a poem.

Dushan Bojic

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