How To Write Your Very Own Poetry Jam

Stuff Made For The Sake Of Making Stuff

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Every day I wake up and make stuff. Sometimes I might make a mushroom omlette. Sometimes I might make a hotel out of crayons and cardboard boxes. Sometimes I might make a sad face just so Mylie gives me a cuddle. I make stuff because making stuff is fun. That’s really what this regular column in Surfing World is all about.

Except that sometimes I don’t make stuff. Recently the fam and I went over to Bali to get away from winter for a while and I got so busy eating Nasi Goreng, having afternoon pissang massages and shredding perfect lefts on the magical Bukit Peninch that I barely had any time left to make stuff at all. 

In fact, the only thing I did make was a grisly morbid poem which was strange because, at the time, I was probably as happy as I’d ever been in my life. Then I realised that conversely, when I feel like shit is when I do all my over-the-top super cheesy positive art. I’m a walking contradiction!

Anyway, a few days after making the poem (which I love by the way) I tried to jump off a rock onto a wave and I landed so hard on the sand before the wave even got near me that I ended up with the most psycho heel bruise ever. And then I borrowed Jimmy Jazz Kinnaird’s brand new skatey and the thing got stolen. I also found out I have a condition called Popeye’s Elbow, which is a golf ball-sized puss sack that hangs off your elbow like a little set of monkey nuts. It’s been there for three weeks now. I’m having a shocker!

I guess the moral to the story is you won’t be seeing any more negative stuff from me for while, because now that I’m actually pissed off and angry it’ll be nothing but rainbows, unicorns, chocolate muffins and photos of this dog until I’m happy again.


By Ozzy Wrong

Worms bugs slugs and slime

Guts blood drugs and grime

Scorpions lizards bat skulls and sludge

Snails roaches rats with a grudge

Snake venom pigs puss skunk stink kid snot

Nailed to a train track drowning in grot

Remember you’ll die and your friends are all dead

Barbed wire head band worn tight on your head

Brain ooze is flowing from behind your eyes

Infected flesh wound sucking you dry

Some days are horrible others much worse

Long to be driven to my hole by the herse

Better yet burn me turn me to dust

Chuck me to ground with dog crap and rust

Flies can swallow me and I’ll return a maggot

Rubbery despicable lousy cult faggot

Generic lowlife contributing zilch

Shit shooting butt hole surfer of filth.

Ozzie Wright