You walk into town. Your eyes are greeted by the swarming masses of moderately obese tattooed men in singlets and their dead inside wives parking up their 2006 Holden commodores and you groan. "Sunday market is on today" you think to yourself. You walk past the Sunday market, which is set up in a dilapidated parking lot and you strain your eyes against the colour bukkake of tarpaulin marquees. Against your better judgement you decide to go inside. A skinny man with arms like pincushions and a scraggly goatee takes a deep drag of his cigarette and unzips his bumbag in anticipation. "Entry is five bucks mate" he proclaims. You reluctantly hand over a crisp five dollar bill and enter the market, knowing full well that the only thing you will be leaving with is a sense of disappointment. Disappointment, and disgust. I give you the sunday market experience.

You’re walking down by Kananook creek/ When suddenly you need to take a leak/ In your haste to fix this situation/ You resort to using the comfort station/ You enter, timid like a mouse/ Frightened by this brick shithouse/ You were on your way down to the beach/ Now all you smell is taxpayer bleach/ Come on down to the comfort station/ It’s the finest in the nation/ You, your wife, your sons and daughters/ Can relieve yourselves by South East water/ In the jewel of Frankston you’re never alone/ Be it the moaning junkies or the draughty stone/ Poised at the knife edge of sanity/ Just want to have my piss and tranquility/ Piss (x32) Just want to have my piss and tranquility/ On the floor some witless flunky/ Its clear to you that he’s a junkie/ Yet past the needles on the floor/ Even worse is yet in store/- At the entrance there's a guy selling molly/ His gear kept in a Woolworths trolley/ He scrambles on the floor for ciggy butts/ Then lifts his leg and drops his guts/ On a scenic day in Port Phillip Bay, It’s clear things just ain’t going your way, A sunday drive, interrupted, By the threat of your bladder bein’ ruptured In the jewel of Frankston you’re never alone/ Be it the moaning junkies or the draughty stone/ Poised at the knife edge of sanity/ Just want to have my piss and tranquility/

that's the difficulty of growing up too young when your brain's on your sleeve and your heart's on the tip of your tongue it's no fun being the only child running wild through Frankston scabbing darts freestyle home is where the heart is or that's what I'm told or that's what the books said trying to capture my soul but it's hard to look ahead when teacher's holding you back then you sy 'fuck it' drop out and then that's that a year later you're 16 milling about not much to do in Frankston when you've got no clout mum and dad still fighting maybe they'll get divorced at least you've got your boys with to talk shit and covort dry wall peeling off curtains sagging like they got lame yellow wallpaper from the smoke stain room's been a mess since I got a D in eighth grade worked hard even studied but it was in vain come around here every week/ mum and dad argue while we eat/ little brother gets the best toys/ never any soft serve for the boys/ kinda hard to look ahead/ when I can't even make my bed/ life's a game of tennis back and forth/ i get served at Mcdonald's Frankston North city falling down in the dead of night/ car alarms gonna make me feel alright/ break another windows by moonlight/ sirens too far off to put up a fight/ wrote a hook the other day but I got no fish plenty more in the sea that could grant my wish but I've been stuck in this dead-end town since '96 wishing I could move away to find some better rhymes to mix but it's hard to look ahead when you're stuck on the dole can't even get a job stacking shelves at Coles they want a bachelor degree to let me dig a hole and if you think I'm going back to TAFE you're bout to get told I got no time for school when I'm out on the street because Frankston's the university of thinking on your feet like going down to 7/11 get something to eat and if you can't afford it just pinch it she'll be sweet I'm spitting game like 50 when I get on the mic and when I play at the Pelly there's infinite hype like a star in the sky my future's shining bright just hope it don't get cracked like Dad's taillight got my license the other day, honda civic in the driveway/ now I can go anywhere I pursue/ but only one place has a drivethru/ it’s kinda hard to look ahead/ when I can’t even make my bed/ life’s a game of tennis, back and forth/. get served at McDonald’s Frankston North/ out of the house before my parents wake/ a little bit of love is all it takes/ saw a man in a hard hat take his break/ they're gonna gentrify this whole damn state/

Used to score out by Frankston beach/ Behind the showers got a gram a-piece/ But suburbs change, and so do we/ I now pay twelve bucks for a cup of tea/ If you tidy up the apartment blocks/ And start turf wars over kebab shops/ I could write my own version of Ulysses/ Cause living here is an Odyssey/ So let the sun beat down on me/ Odyssius the brave has nothing on thee/ And Police cars wail in the land of the free/ To catch the Sirens of Frankston Beach/ A jogger kicks up sand when will they learn/ But there's nothing to fear haven't you heard/ The council cleaned up the bay, ain't it so/ They picked up all the needles years ago/

Dropped out at 17, life’s too short for a classroom role/ Mum and Dad they screamed, yet another kid on the dole/ But I got this strategy, a big ol’ plan to make the world my zone/ Gonna get my Cert 3, in landscaping get my bank balance grown/ Back to school sales got the goods, got my pen and paper and an attitude bold/ First week of classes to the teacher’s dismay saw the whole classroom get outta control/ Then the guy sitting next to me opened up his mouth and the wisdom was gold/ If ya wanna be a real tradie, buy a ute and start datin’ sixteen year olds/ At the Jism Institute Of TAFE, I’m climbing up the walls/ In the classroom by the bay, I walk before I crawl/ Cos P’s they get degrees, but a satisfactory gets a Cert 3/ At the Jism Institute of TAFE, Education ain’t a guarantee/ And then in ten years I’ll be finding out/ Getting my own Cert 3 was my finest hour/ Mum was so proud and my Dad he cried/ Then I bought the McMansion, at least I tried/ Had to book in me for white card first, everyone knows it’s the golden key/ Of course even that one day course was just yobs causing anarchy Not that I'm above all that, I wear my Centrelink on my sleeve/ Cause if the real tradies are John Howards and I’ll be their Peter Reith/ And then in twelve years I’ll be finding out/ Getting my own Degree was my finest hour/ Oh, The girlfriend was stoked but my daddy sighed/ Said degrees got you money now I know he lied/ And just like that, You’re a rich man now/ With the high-school wife, And the hilltop house/ I tell myself, I’m the smarter man/ But brainpower means nothing when you’re shovelling sand/ Dig (x32) And in fifty years I’ll be finding out/ Getting through VCE was my finest hour/ Oh my sister was glowing and my teachers proud/ Then schoolies fried my brain my revenge I vowed/

Upon entering the sunday market you are greeted by the overwhelming smell of hot jam donuts and other diabetes inducing morsels frying in oil that should have been changed two hours ago. Your eyes dart back and forth in a futile attempt to find even just one somewhat decent looking stall, anything to justify the entry fee. Large dark patches of sweat surface on your shirt from this state of financially induced panic and you decide to buy a drink to cool down. Upon approaching one of the many "food" trucks present at the market, one huge man; fryer oil and kitchen filth 0covering his apron, approaches you and asks in a booming, pack-a-day voice "What do you want mate?". You calmly ask for a can of sprite and he bends down and grabs a slightly cool can from the struggling refrigerator. You reach into your wallet and hand over your second five dollar bill of the day, expecting at least two dollars in change.To your shock and horror, the man puts the cash in the till and closes it, and bids you a good day. A cyclone of rage, confusion and disgust swells inside you, but to leave the market now would be to admit defeat and being ten dollars down already you manage to justify staying through sheer sunk cost fallacy and stubbornness. After all, how is this any different to putting ten dollars on the more chili machine at the Grand? I give you the sunday market experience.

They say Friday nights are for the piss/ But Dan Murphy’s specials are always hit or miss/ When I want vodka the special is rum/ No wonder I steal my grog from mum/ Five drinks and I can talk to girls/ Ten drinks later the rejection doesn’t hurt/ In fifteen drinks the host is clutching her pearls/ And in twenty, I’m kickin’ goals like James Hird/ In my younger days I'd fight, to remain an intellectual kind/ But a two-for-one coopers slab, is a deal one just can't deny/ Graduate high school then, you’re thinkin’ life is not that hard/ But one thing leads to another, then you get a Dan Murphy's member card/ I got big thick books I pretend to read/ I got a high-school doctrate of philosophy/ I define myself by what I drink I read Shakespeare and pretend to think/ I have small sparks of genius from time-to-time/ I can quote Wikipedia and blow your mind/ I get my politics from a Youtube show/ There’s probably more to me but I don’t know/ Scotch or bourbon, my dad would ask/ But I couldn’t care less what fills my glass/ Cause earlier that day before my final math test/ Drank Listerine to take off the edge/ Never thought, that I would end up a pisshead/ Never crossed my mind it was ‘rehab or end up dead’/ Always thought that ol’ Dan had my health in mind/ But loyalty points can’t replace this liver of mine/ If a German guy once wrote, immediate desire is a living thing/ Is it mass murder if I indulge, in a slab of Furphy and a fifth of gin?/ Graduate high school and then, you’re thinkin’ life is not that hard/ But one thing leads to another, then you get a Dan Murphy's member card/ They say that the Anzacs had it rough/ But wait until you have to piss into a trough/ And the cops came round to shut us down/ We told them to get a real job and ran into town/ Breathless and tired we approached the Deck/ Slipped past security with a couple longnecks/ When the bar refused to fill our cups/ I tried quoting Oscar Wilde, and then threw up/ There’s probably more to me but I don’t know/

He’s got a 2012 Ford Falcon that/ He bought for a bargain at a Southeast Flat/ The Owner had no papers and the license plate was a clear white slab/ Registration out of date and VicRoads said/ ‘Drive around in that and you’ll end up dead’/ But there’s one place that my ol friend knows where every single day is a used car show/ Cars of all kinds pull up to the store/ A haven for blokes who think their wives are a bore/ A place where you can swap your personality/ With a bumper sticker that says something witty/ All I need, is for someone to see/ My sick new rims and my custom canopy/ Did you ask about my fuel-air ratio?/ Sounds like Supercheap Autofellatio/ If you've got a shitbox with custom rims/ And an expired membership at the gym/ If you've got decals that glow in the dark/ You'll fit right in at power centre carpark/ Where Bogans and private school boys alike/ Gather to talk shit about men on bikes/ They'll told me all their parts wereall top shelf/ And they start sucking themselves The regulars draw you in with their epic yarns/ They'd be dead before they shopped at autobarn/ A place you can swap your personality/ With a limited edition Jack Brabham plushie/ All I need, is for someone to see/ The skid marks I leave all across main street/ The only thing that lets the testosterone flow/ Sounds like Supercheap Autofellatio You can install huge subs and leather seats/ Jumbo cup holders and a side stripe sleek/ But wherever you go and wherever you roam/ You’ll find no beast fiercer than shoppers at the auto store/ From Manchildren with a Ford GT/ Soccer Mums with their backseat TV’s/ Even tradie’s with busted up utes/ Gotta buy motor oil and brand new loot/ The guy behind the counter cracks a wink/ As you enter for the fifth time that week/ Head hung in shame as you fish out the receipt/ To return a roof racks and a pink leather seat/ All I need is for someone to see/ My finest hour doing doughnuts in Chelsea/ The roar of the engine is as addicting as blow/ It Sounds like Supercheap Autofellatio/

I struggle at night as I prepare to sleep/ Troubled by thoughts of the High school footy meet/ They said “be there or be oval"/ they never told me game 1 was in Rowville/ It didn't seem so bad at first/ Little did I know it would only get worse/ I went to the lockers to put on my skins/ Checked my lunchbox and noticed I only had corn thins/ No trading for anything today, not even a lesnak/ Then in walks the footy captain, having a panic attack/ Well, panic is a strong word, he really just double dropped/ Musta been seeing red, cause well, there was shit to cop/ "Cunt who took my fucking darts?!" He proceeded to cry/ Little did he know, that I had been punching them on the sly/ I couldn't meet his eyes when he unleashed his primal scream/ A skill he learnt from dad, a genetic response after too many Jim beams/ But he was shitting himself scared, and I knew I had to pick up the slack/ Coz after double dropping, you know there ain’t no going back/ I told my mum I quit smoking, but that was a bit of lie/ I just quit paying for them is all, and pinch the ones my mates buy/ Told my mum I'd quit the piss too, just didn’t want to see her cry/ But the only reason I joined the footy team was for the free Carlton dry/ Well that's what my mate promised me, he said kick ons were pretty good/ Besides deep down, mum wanted me to be a bit more like Adam Goodes/ My family always were south Melbourne tragics, which meant they barracked for the Sydney Swans/ They couldn't accept the fact that south Melbourne was already long gone/ Anyways, after our first win, we went to the deck to celebrate/ When I saw they had Carlton dry on tap, I knew it was fate/ The years of studying began to fade away/ As the beer hit my stomach, and my senses gave way/ I was one of the year 12s that turned 18 early in the year/ And as a result I was usually the guy that had to buy the beer/ They said they would pay me back once their Centrelink payments arrived/ But then I realised they all worked at towerhill maccas, like all the other footy guys/ Coulda joined the chess club, maybe then I’d have a real career, something fun/ Instead I ended up as a sports journalist, behind a paywall, at the Herald Sun/

Some people worship the Trinity/ the father, the son, and the holy ghost/ but those guys just don't cut it for me/ I worship the things I value the most/ What I can steal, eat, drink and toke/ an aero, a smoke, and a vanilla coke/ So help me Lord ‘cause I’m going down/ A rabbit hole tryna of be profound/ I watched your films and read the Book/ But nothing makes up for what you took/ If you take my snacks I’ll start a fight/ Pinch any of my smokes left right goodnight/ Take a sip of my drink your jaw breaks in three/ Cause this is my holy trinity/ The father, the son and the holy ghost/ Apparitions I conjure from Winfield smoke/ I can buy my way to heaven with a loyalty card/ And get a free coffee when I hit the bar/ Can you believe the words written on the Sign/ No smoking here or you cop a fine/ Take my hand I’ll lead you away/ To a heaven I built with no ashtrays/ All manner of vice is catered to here/ No judgement and no reason to fear/ No gods no masters Ayn Rand would be proud/ It’s a paradise I built tryna act profound/ So what’s it gonna be?/ How can you live tryna act so free?/ Those sirens at night call you to stare/ At the servo deals from your best nightmare/ 12 bucks in the bank living like a king/ Can afford magazines that satiate your kinks/ Get spotted beating off by the midnight beat/ Cuffed and booked for the twelfth time that week/ Can you believe the words written on the Sign/ No jerking it here what a fuckin’ punchline/ Take my hand I’ll lead you away/ To a heaven where pleasure is public and you’re free to spray/ All manner of vice is catered to here/ No judgement and no reason to fear/ No gods no masters Ayn Rand would be proud/ It’s a paradise I built tryna act profound/ St. Peter knows I’m going out tonight/ Back of ol’ Francis Xavier makes me feel alright/ Gonna get down on my hands and knees/ Pray for prosperity and cheap ciggies/ Is mercury a god from the Roman days?/ Or the cheapest tinnie that’s on display/ I write, little rhymes in a notebook app/ And read ‘em to myself when I feel like crap/ I came, I saw, I drank myself to death/ I reached heaven with a half pack of cigarettes/ Rolled from the Cliff Notes of my unwritten memoirs/ It’s fun bein’ smart sitting in a burning car It’s all sarcasm and acidic tones/ Now even my parents leave me alone/ So I asked to get in to the pearly gates/ But the man told me ‘no freeloaders mate’/ So I settled for second best at RSEA/ Bought a hi-vis and a plastic ashtray/ Snuck into a CBD building site/ I build my own heaven now, I gentrify thru’ the night/

Well it’s been two days since I last had a puff on a dart/ Got a hunger and a headache that’s given’ me a kick up the arse/ My baby’s in a rut and I can’t seem to shake this mood/ Gonna walk down to Coles it’s my 12 bar Winfield Blues/ I’m holdin’ out for the nicotine/ Tell a young man he’s guilty and he’s so carefree/ Let the sun beat down on me/ I got my lighter in my pocket it’s all I need In the door I walked greeted by red shirts and smiles/ Beeline for the counter no time to buy any supplies/ Took a look at the price-board and my stomach began to turn/ The baccy tax got raised again and it’s gonna hurt/ I’m getting desperate for the nicotine/ Teach a young man patience and he’ll never stay clean/ Let the sun beat down on me/ Got a blade in my pocket it’s all I need/ Clerk walked up asking me if I needed a hand/ I said: ‘Have you got Winnie Blues’ and his face scrunched up real bad/ ‘We only got Gold left’ he said apologetically/ Couldn’t take it no more, grabbed the blade and made a scene/ Now I didn’t get the nicotine/ Tell a young man he’s peaceful and he’ll end up mean/ Let the sun beat down on me/ Didn’t have the judge in my pocket and he wasn’t carefree/ Breakin’ rocks by day and staring at the walls by night/ My brother got my baby and the judge he took my life/ Barwon got me feeling like I’ve nothing left to lose Now I’m stuck in here, behind 12 bars for Winfield Blues.

Upon further inspection of the Sunday market, you realise the stalls fit into two categories: Overpriced food, and overpriced new age spirituality. Feeling bold, you choose the latter; part of you hoping that throwing enough of your weekly pittance at dreamcatchers and organic kombucha could fill the void that gnawed at your insides. A void that had been looming during your entire career as a desk jockey at Slater and Gordon. A tie dyed yurt catches your attention, partly due to its vivid colouring, but also partly due to its peculiar mish-mash of various eastern religious symbology that littered the tarpaulin, and the endless loop of Enya playing softly from an unknown source. Upon entering the yurt, a middle aged woman with dreadlocks and a distinctive body odour approaches you and offers to tell your fortune for ten dollars. Already ten bucks in the red with nothing to show for it, you come to the conclusion that doubling down is the only logical choice in this situation, and slip a crinkled, ten dollar note into the woman's leathery palms. The woman shuffles a deck of tarot cards and rambles about astrology for what seems like hours, before finally spitting it out. "I see your future." The woman claims. You lean forward in anticipation, eager to hear about the exciting events and premonitions that await you. "Your future, and the future that befalls every one of your generations to come, is to return to this market every Sunday for the rest of your life." The news hits you with the force of a collapsing brick shithouse, and you slump back into the lazily placed folding chair, a defeated man. No amount of incense or ghee could heal over this cosmic wound opened by the wrinkled seer in front of you. Has the last twenty years of attending the Sunday market, week in, week out, been a product of your own free will? Or was it simply the strands of fate forcing you to dance like a marionette, swaying to the tune of tinny speakers playing the same three Hunters and Collectors songs? As you stagger back to the interior of your musty 1999 Toyota Corolla, you finally accept the truth that you've been denying for years. You've always been here, and you will never leave. The sunday market isn't just a weekly event, it's part of your heritage, maybe even your DNA. As the corolla flickers to life, you accept your fate and muse about swinging by Bunnings to stock up on office sized cacti, and setting up your own stall at the next Sunday market. I give you, the sunday market experience.

The art capitals of New York, London and Berlin/ forget to include the city of Frankston/ In other places art is made for pay/ But in Frankston it's made on hard rubbish day/ A day when all households be it unit or mansion/ Can take their neighbours couch for their home’s expansion/ Most of everything is thrown out for a reason/ But that doesn’t stop anyone, tis the season/ And the scraps that are left, the irreperable remnant/ Are usually what was left by the previous tenant/ The cracked Hisense and the busted couch/ A combo for which only they could vouch/ Frankston's latest installation/ will prove to be the finest in the nation/ behold a child's missing dolly/ and a pile of junk in a Kmart trolley/ A change in the demographic of our beloved town/ A rise in bohemians, a breed until now/ Was at best relatively sparse/ We’re seeing the emergence of a different class If you don’t like it well I guess it missed you/ Don’t be surprised when the art snobs dismiss you/ Taunting the poor builds up a thirst/ Gentrification is a hard days work/ (what do we call em boys!) YOB, YOB, YOB, YOB! If you want art of a more abstract sort/ then take the 901 bus to the airport/ you'll drive past the burbs where the artists hide/ their latest work left on the roadside/ They say one day that the pines will be/ A yuppy suburb, and that suits me/ A place where me and my uni friends/ Can sneer at the plebs as they try to pretend/ To understand the latest in abstract expressionism/ But these phonies don’t even listen to TISM/ If you wanna have authority when it comes to art/ Then get a double degree and hand roll your darts/ This is the new avant garde!/ The snooty artists’ write all the headlines/ And then when the hacks get bored of all the squalor/ They move on to the next suburb taking their dollars/ If you don’t like it I guess it missed you/ Don’t be surprised when the art snobs dismiss you/ Taunting high-schoolers builds up a thirst/ Gentrification is a honest days work/ This ain’t how I thought it would end leavin you again/ Someday I’ll be with you again, old friend/ I’ll find my old house replaced with a tower and car parks/ And where my, bedroom used to be, now there’s a leather couch and vending machine/ I drive on to the highway, past another building site, to find some escape/

I'm buggered, sorry.