Archive for the god Category

We Four Kings – A Gay Parisian Carol for the Holiday Season

Posted in Gay Paris, god, Horror, Southern Horror with tags , , on 24/12/2011 by gayparis

Sit on my lap . . .

We four dudes of Gay Paris are

Bearing booze we traverse afar

Beer in fountains, coke in mountains

Sitting in BZ’s car
O Bar of wonder, Bar of night

Bar with sleazy lighting right

Festive drinking, we’re all stinking

Guide us to her lusty thighs

Born a rap dude in the swamps of shame

Dub to the H it is his name

Drunk forever, ceasing never

Under-dressed and slightly crazed

O Bar of wonder, Bar of night

Bar with sleazy lighting right

Festive drinking, we’re all stinking

Guide us to her lusty thighs

Crazy legs to offer has Slim

He only drinks beer, he never drinks gin

Vertical snaking and stage a-shaking

Worship him for all his sins

O Bar of wonder, Bar of night

Bar with sleazy lighting right

Festive drinking, we’re all stinking

Guide us to her lusty thighs

Blacktooth arrives, as handsome as doom

Hair slicked back like ravens and gloom

Soloing, riffing, a little coke sniffing

Staying backstage and in the green room

O Bar of wonder, Bar of night

Bar with sleazy lighting right

Festive drinking, we’re all stinking

Guide us to her lusty thighs

Glorious now Six Guns does arise

Cigarette rolled and beautiful eyes

Has one shooter, three rums to smooth it

Now he’s drunk, so BZ drives

O Bar of wonder, Bar of night

Bar with sleazy lighting right

Festive drinking, we’re all stinking

Guide us to her lusty thighs


Totally Gay Dammit Tour

Posted in Gay Paris, gig, god, Southern Horror, Swamp Rock, Sydney, sydney band, Tour with tags , , on 13/10/2011 by gayparis

Holy Sex Fuck!

It’s been a big year for Gay Paris and their buddies, Totally Unicorn and God God Dammit Dammit.
Having each released a record this year, this triumvirate of venue wrecking, soul searing, party exploding bands has toured the hell out of the country, leaving pretty much no stone unturned in their quest to get naked (and get the fans to do likewise), get funky, get drunk and get the hell out of town before there are any possible legal repercussions.

As long time proponents of having great times while playing amazing music with the best dudes, these twenty men of varying size, colour and shape have decided to team up and run a savage burn down the East Coast of Australia, bringing together a mash of sounds that range from the best in Magical Animal Hardcore to Swamp Stompin’ rock and the kind of P-Funk that has to be prefixed by ‘punk’.

To make sure that everyone remembers this tour after it blows over, these fine gents will be toting the Totally Gay Dammit EP everywhere they go, featuring a selection of originals and cover songs by these three groups – get ready for some surprises, people, for as you may have come to expect, this is a group of musicians who make very strange choices.

More info in the links below!

25 November The Basement 243, Brisbane, QLD w/ Totally Unicorn
26 November Hamilton Station Hotel Newcastle, NSW w/ Totally Unicorn
2 December Roxbury Hotel (Glebe) Sydney, NSW w/ Totally Unicorn and God God Dammit Dammit
3 December The Patch Wollongong, NSW w/ Totally Unicorn and God God Dammit Dammit
16 December Old Bar Melbourne, VIC w/ Totally Unicorn and God God Dammit Dammit
17 December Producers Bar Adelaide, SA w/ Totally Unicorn and God God Dammit Dammit

No Quiet Nights

Posted in devil, Drunk, fantasy, Gay Paris, god, Horror, Nerd, Southern Horror, Swamp Rock, sydney band, WH with tags , , , , , , on 31/05/2011 by gayparis

Last night? What the fuck happened? The eggs tasted good and there was so much gin. Dreams of tongue kissing something that has an impossibly long face and huge hands. Dreams.
I wake panting, face down, burning inside and the feathers scratch my skin, the nettles and tinsel dance and tickle and poke and find their way inside me. Some kind of trash bird nest. A note blurs into sensible.
Don’t be sorry, you sorry bitch.
Gore full, my belly bloats out in front and my breasts are pregnant tender. Beak marks and teeth, ripples of red around the areola , bile in my throat.
I’ve gotta get out of this tree and back to the underground.
Down in the woods, down on my luck, down on myself. Who the fuck did I get down with? Go down on?
I’ll say sorry to the white owl king and start again because every night is a night out.
The PA shudders through the woodland tunnels:
Come on down with the wolves and the owls, get on down where they hoot and howl
Dance around in the skin of a sow
Get the spook piggies and a thorn covered crown
Ooh la la, Pom Pom le Rouge
Tell us what you did last night!”
There is fear in the halls. I’m stinking of it with every breath, like a recovering alcoholic, dream taunts and piss stank skin, bags under my eyes holding all the old knowing that will blow me wide open and leave me on the floor before him, spread-eagled and barren.
Flashbacks from black to brown:
What’s the dog doing wearing the head of a man?
Now I’ve got a burn in her gut and a bite on my hand, where are my rings? At least he let me keep my fingers.
I must remember to take the appropriate measures, kill the baby goat with copper wire and hot golden broth.
Visit the apothecary and make love to the alchemist. Set fire to the evidence as a form of penitence.
When it gets too hot, just remember, there are no quiet nights in the arctic.More from the PA:
“Down on your knees in my court”
He appears in his terribly clean robe, impossibly albino, erection jutting at a proud and awkward angle.
The Owl king hoots and calls for more whores.
“Who will spit? Who will swallow, it’ll all be the same and the night plays out like a rosemary stain!”
As usual he is dramatic at the moment he approaches climax.
I say “good morning” in the evening and give ersatz curtsy, dipping my chest low and feeling my nipples remember the chewing hounds, birds and men of yester eve.
He’s checking out my bosom and I’m playing his game
“Are you sorry, Le Rouge?” He booms and gushes and the small women faint and drown while the larger ones set sail to stranger shores.
I’m always absolved, so I never abstain.
Now I powders my cheeks and smear honest blood on my teats, swig absinthe in the latrine and laugh long and loud at the drowning dead, their spirits won’t sink as long as He provides the vodka, by barrel and burlesque, they are kept afloat.
I’ll Keep dancing with the dragon gone from scarlet to green and let great white wings canopy my bed, even if it means oceans and apologies and fear of the dark, a hatred of gears and steam and wires and clean living. I’ll say “M’lord, it meant naught, an honest mistake,” and false men in black with fuck my corpse at my wake.
When I wake on the morrow, I’ll say sorry again
Even if Hell freezes over.
Remember that there are no quiet nights in the brimstone lodge.

The Skeleton’s Problematic Granddaughter – A Tale of Southern Horror

Posted in devil, Drunk, fantasy, god, Horror, Southern Horror, WH with tags , , , on 26/02/2011 by gayparis


“Shut up, children, I got a story to tell,” says WH, drunk as hell and looking only half as frightened as he should.
What is downstairs?
He spills wine so red as to almost be black down his tight clinging shirt, his beard and chest hair a horrible briar patch – who knows what evils lurk within.
“A long time ago, before I was born, there was a girl, a girl . . .” his eyes glaze over, flashing a dangerous shade of void.
He belches softly and continues, voice all gravel and horror.
“A girl, she was called Deardrie Fell.”
“Who was she, WH?” asks a slip of a girl, her flaxen hair almost as fair as her skin.
“My dear, stupid child,” slurs the grizzled sonofabitch, “she was The Skeleton’s Problematic Granddaughter . . .”
The hideous fellow now leaps from his mouldy velure covered seat, spraying the children with the blood like droplets of his chosen beverage. Wheeling across the room, he grabs a poker from beside the fire and storms out of the room.
The children look aghast at me for guidance. Hush, I tell them, hush. Don’t make him get weirder than he already is.
We hear him, stomping down the stairs into the wine cellar.
A long silence.
The children whisper amongst themselves. They want their parents.
Your parents are gone, children. Hush. He may return.
There is a terrible clanging beneath the floorboards. Now screeching. A triumphant bellowing creates an ear jarring harmony. Silence. Not quite.
He is whispering.
The flaxen haired girl begins to sob.
I turn to comfort her.
“Now, children. Gather round. You. Open this.”
He is back on the mouldy, red velure seat, pointing a dusty bottle of wine at me.
The poker is covered in gore, resting across his torn black jeans.
His Chuck Taylors are likewise adorned.
With no other recourse, I uncork the wine and the room is filled with a wicked miasma.
“Milk of the cockroach teat!” He laughs wildly, spraying spittle, tongue green, teeth yellow and black.
“Smell that funk? It’s the swamp. Mangroves covered in ice and islands of glittering bone. You can almost see Old Black Louie in stilettos, walking up something’s behemoth spine when you get this stink in you.”
The children gag.
I have tears in my eyes as I fill his plastic goblet, encrusted with plastic jewels, stained around the rim, where his lips have touched it far too often.
He waves the goblet away when I proffer it to him and snatches the bottle.
He takes a rude swig. I hope that he doesn’t send me below to fetch more wine.
“Now. No more interruptions.” He spits in an ashtray.
“Deadrie Fell, she was a skeleton’s problematic granddaughter . . .”


I blanch some when he looks at me over the top of his grease smeared glasses, fogged up from his constant perspiration in spite of the bitter cold that the fire pitifully tries to fight off.
He smiles, yellow and black and red dribbling into red again.

“A long while back, before even I was born, there was a city made of glass,” he is whispering and the children gather close, they can probably smell his guts rotting within his ramshackle body.
“There was also a city where worms lived and a city where everything was already over. These cities were surrounded by the darkest of woods. The deepest of all dark woods. You don’t get dark or woods like that anymore.”
“Why not?” whispers a fat little boy of eight or nine.
WH glares at him and then softens, blows a long whistling sigh, spittle and wine.
“Night forgot what she was for, son.”
The fat boy seems happy enough with a response, though if he knew what WH really meant, I think that he’d leave the room crying, he wouldn’t sleep again, either.
“In the city of Ends, there was a woman, a very beautiful woman, by the measure of any time.
Men came calling on her, to paint her portrait, to make busts of her wonderful face. To ask her hand.
She sent them away.
She called them boring and to her, in the city where everything has already happened, this could only be expected.
She wanted the wild.”
WH creaks up from his chair, the children lean back; in terror or merely as a reaction to his overwhelming odour.
He drips perspiration about him as he performs a slow dance, gathering an old moth eaten black sheet from a pile of soiled linen on the floor.
“And the boy! He had wings!”
He swoops about the room, cackling and quorking the nightmares of rats.
“Who?” the children ask in unison, squeaky voices trembling.
“The Flautist ,little ones! The Flautist of course!”
WH leans by the hearth, pulling long from his bottle. Oh Morning Star, please don’t let him finish that before dawn.
I cannot bear to go below the floorboards, not tonight.
Not any night.
What is down there?
The drunkard is back in his chair now, left leg crossed over the right and a jar of whiskey in hand. Something is floating in it. I don’t want to get closer.
He shows the children and they giggle.
“My dear, look at this . . .”
I sidle over and peer into the jar.
There I am, afloat in an amber sea, waving up, mouth opening and closing, but voice too small to be heard.
He drinks me down and I swoon.
“Here, sit on my knee,” he says and I am powerless to do anything but obey.
I can smell him. He smells of what the night was about, even though that was before he was born.
“I’m far older by way of the innards, dear,” he laughs so hard into my ear that I want to be sick.
Can he truly read my thoughts.
“The Flautist was wild,” he says, stroking my hair with the back of his hand.
“He was born in a city made of worms. But rarely. Rarely was he there.
In the city of Ends, the young woman lived on an austere estate that her father had owned before her, before he left for the woods. He knew about the dark and the night and why stars can’t be trusted and what is was to visit with rats.
He built ships and played the fiddle where the nymphs danced, covered in white bugs that glowed like morning and cast no shadows in that light.
In a city of Ends, no one looks twice at a skeleton gentleman, as long as he comports himself in a manner befitting once of his social standing and, oh my, he was nothing if not conscientious . . . and dead.”
The children are as close as they dare get to WH and his voice is a low, dark rumble. I can feel it rattling through his body as he speaks. I don’t think that I could stand up if I wanted to.
“His daughter was a great musician, much as he was. But in place of the wandering fiddle, she took to the ponderous heavings of the cello. So many nights, legs splayed upon the stool until one day, she broke a string!”
I spill to the floor, atop the screaming children as WH heaves to his feet and hurls his half finished jar into the fire place.
The room goes pitch and the heat rises, even as the rain begs to be let in, clawing at the tin roof, chattering on the windows.
He is glowing, or rather, the darkness is not touching him.
“She went into the woods . . .”


Under the floor, something moans, impossibly loud and low.
WH is not in the room.
The children weep and clutch at my skirts.
I gather them to me and sing.

Entendez-vous dans la plaine
Ce bruit venant jusqu’à nous?
On dirait un bruit de chaîne
Se traînant sur les cailloux.
C’est le grand Lustukru qui passe,
Qui repasse et s’en ira
Emportant dans sa besace
Tous les petits gâs
Qui ne dorment pas!
Lon lon la,
Lon lon la, lon lon la, lire la, lon la!
La, lon la!
Quelle est cette voix démente
Qui traverse nos volets?
Non, ce n’est pas la tourmente
Qui joue avec les galets:
C’est le grand Lustukru qui gronde
Qui gronde … et bientôt rira
En ramassant à la ronde
Tous les petits gâs
Qui ne dorment pas!
Lon lon la,
Lon lon la, lon lon la, lire la, lon la!
La, lon la!
Qui donc gémit de la sorte,
Dans l’enclos, tout près d’ici?
Faudra-t-il donc que je sorte
Pour voir qui soupire ainsi?
C’est le grand Lustukru qui pleure:
Il a faim et mangera
Crus-tout-vifs, sans pain ni beurre,
Tous les petits gâs
Qui ne dorment pas!
Lon lon la,
Lon lon la, lon lon la, lire la, lon la!
La, lon la!
Qui voulez-vous que je mette
Dans le sac au vilain Vieux?
Mon Doric et ma Jeannette
Viennent de fermer les yeux:
Allez vous-en, méchant homme,
Quérir ailleurs vos repas!
Puisqu’ils font leur petit somme,
Non, vous n’aurez pas
Mes deux petits gâs!

The room is lit. I have no idea how or for how long.
He is in his chair, clapping, slowly.
Sardonic, discoloured smile.
“Very good, dear one. Very good.
Now, let us continue . . .”

WH and The Gambling Rats

Posted in devil, god, Horror, Southern Horror, WH with tags , on 30/12/2010 by gayparis

Last week, I think.
Well, it doesn’t matter when it happened, because it has happened before and it will just keep going. Shit, don’t let me get off the matter at hand now. I’m doing it again. I do that.
Last week (I think), I was up for two or three nights in a row, which isn’t too unusual considering that we have that family of ghosts doing what they do at all hours. They don’t sleep and can’t or won’t grasp the idea that I really need to, sometimes.
Anyways, I was up for a couple of days or so and I just had this rotation of bronzestone records playing at half speed and I was drinking geld cola from the bottle.
It was warm, but I didn’t really mind because every now and then, one of the rats would stop gambling for long enough to come out from the cellar and give me a thimble full of their brandy which is so cold as to make you shiver for about an hour or so after each tiny hit.
Now, these girls don’t slouch when it comes to running cards and dice all night, but sometimes you can see the cracks at the back of their red and black eyes. That’s where they keep their chances, I found that out one night when I was going all sideways and I slipped.
Next thing I knew, I was roaming around at the back of a rodent’s eye socket, chewing gum tack and trying not to tread on anything important.
The cracks had a lot of hot air gusting out and in the gelid state that the rat booze had me in, I wasn’t about to start complaining about something just because there was a whiff of sulfur in the air.
I’ve been around my share of dead rattus norvegicus in my time and I was fairly certain that this wasn’t a normal odour, but then again, what the shit was I doing at the back of a rat’s eyeball?
Eventually, I was feeling like I really needed to micturate and I didn’t want to mess up Hatt (that is the rat’s name, when people refer to her, she has never deigned to tell me what the other browns in the Mischief call her).
As gently as I could and with no small amount of trepidation, I squeezed into the back of the socket and the crack licked it’s lips with a smacking sound like flatulent thunder or wet cardboard tearing in a canyon lined with crystal from some gentleman’s club in the Far East and a long way down in the top hat dimension.
I’m doing it again now, and I asked you to stop me if I did, but now, I expect, I really need to let you know what goes on behind the cracks.
At once.

The Night Before Gay Parisian Christmas

Posted in Berserker Of God, Black Tooth, Blues, devil, Drunk, fantasy, Gay Paris, god, Horror, Nerd, Slim, Smokin D, Southern Horror, WH with tags , , , on 10/12/2010 by gayparis

‘Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the house

Gay Paris were drinking, but not passing out;

The booze was all lined up on the mantle with care,

Cuz eight bitches would soon be ‘ right up in here’;

Slim Pickins was dancing, both poppin’ and locks,

Cuz Slim is a B-Boy that loves to up-rock;

And with his bandanna on under his hat,

WH busted, the illest of raps,

Then from the kitchen, there came a great clatter
Smokin’ D emerged with a gourmet style platter.

“Quiet down, you bastards,” cried out Blacktooth,

“I’m watching Christmas Vacation, National Lampoons!”

The hos all arrived and exposed their large breasts

Belly shots of whiskey are what happened next,

And every one laughed and they drank and they ate,

Even Miss BZ, who showed up so late,

Driving a Benz right through the window,

With K. ‘Whoremouth’ Conroy and some powder like snow ,

Oh what a Christmas, Oh Lord, what a ruckus!,

They chanted ‘Wu-Tang ain’t nothin’ to fuck wit!’ ;

“Now, Hot Dick! Now, Slim! now, Blacktooth, WH!

When you throw a party we know they’ll be great!”

To the top it all of, they paid for the whores!

And drove away quickly, distracting the cops,

Who had recently received, an anonymous tip,

Most likely the Snowdroppers, who felt they’d been dissed,

Gay Paris though, had sent invitations,

Intercepted by Tenderloins, who had trepidations,

Of partaking in pleasures that veer to excess

They kept them at home, tucked up in their beds.

GP raised their glasses and drank it all down,

When down their Chimney came a wonderful sound.

Dressed like the 20s had never quite finished,

The ‘droppers arrived crying ‘Yo! Now we up in this!’;

A bundle of booze was strapped to their backs,

And Cougar and London were so high on crack!

Johnny and Pauly, were tell tale gin drinkers;

Their noses so pink, like prostitute nipples!

The guys partied down with their hookers and blow,

With beer, wine and spirits, did I mention the hos?

They all got crunk and down like South West,

Slim battled Cougar and came out the best;

Johnny and WH talked of some books,

But in between notes, they did bourbon shots.

Blacktooth and Pauly were so busy riffing,

They never realised the fun they were missing!

London and Hot Dick were mixing bad drinks,

And drinking them down before they could think;

Then God appeared and spoke of his works,

But WH said, “bitch, I’ll battle you, jerk”;

And running his hand up the face of a ho,

He smote God with fury and the dopest of flows;

YHWH, Adonai, Jehovah and Christ,

You created the world? Nah, but what what about science?

The Devil appeared and tried to make nice,

“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night.”

BRISBANE PT II – Furious Vengeance

Posted in Blues, Gay Paris, god, live music, Southern Horror, Swamp Rock, Sydney, sydney band, Tour, WH with tags , , , on 24/08/2010 by gayparis

Last we were up there, God tried to stop us with rain, now we return with unholy fire to help our horrible friends, The Smokestack Orchestra launch their album. When is ours coming you ask? Fuck, I have it right here and it is great. Much better than The Smokestack Orchestra’s (I feel safe in saying this never having heard their record, even though I do not doubt their skills or artistry, you know that when you are laying all your money on the table, bet big and drink everyone elses drinks).
Bring money.
Buy us gifts.