Thursday, July 27, 2006

Mum's the word

I screamed in pain as the brand seared flesh and blood into a boiling, sizzling mark.

Now you'll ne'er forget mister, the one eye said. Pain for pain.

I gaped and ached and clawed and snarled...but inside I knew he was right.

And I knew my heart was already healing.

Pain for Pain.


Tattoos aren't really THAT painful. I finally got mine yesterday. I did what I have been dreaming of and putting off for too long. And I remembered my mother with a love heart and Mum.

Halfway through, I noticed him colouring half the heart black. I didn't say a word, I hardly did the whole time, just slightly lifted my head to look at him.

He kept concentrating and said, I figure with a tattoo like this, you'd probably have half a black heart.

I just laughed and let him continue to burn me a million times over.

And now it's there I can remember. And I think that means I can also forget.

Wednesday, July 26, 2006

The Pit, The Stop

Just as the goat and the grass met the rocks and the mountains and he began to be elevated he heard the whispers of the wind that asked him to turn. So he did. He stopped on the rise above a cliff and he could see the distance he had travelled, that little running goat, in such a short amount of time.

But he could also see the forest. And the view from up high was devastating in it's beauty. The tops of the trees forming a green ocean of hands, gently waving to him. He remembered their caress, he remembered darting in between the branches, laughing and kicking stwigs (yes, stwigs, I'm making it up ok?) and and and and.

Silly damn goat. Silly damn goat.

He sat and stared and sighed and then.

You know what that goat did?

He smoked a goddamn cigarette.


I do have to write to stay sane. What a love is that? How divine, how deliciously, deviously divine. That I have a car today and I have tasks and next to me is a road that leads to the bush and instead, to keep myself sane, I find myself writing.

That is fucking beautiful. I think anyway.

There are a handful of people I have met in my life that I can openly talk to, on the deepest most honest level. And there are people to whom I can say nothing, just ogle and drool and remain in the bubble of my tongue-tied delirium. And there is a person who holds both of those qualities that somedays I feel I must never see again. Sad really.


Get up goaty. The forest is there but looking is torture somedays. Yesterday, hair and hoof, teeth and snout. Up and up and onward you fly goaty. Don't let us down, climb that peak until all you will see below you is the clouds. And maybe the ocean in the distance. Get up goaty.


Oh god that forest looks good from here.


I don't know if I could ever be a writer. I don't like it somedays. But I'm writing my book and trying each day to practice on here, I hope that's ok with you.

And inside me, I just can't tell if I'm a wild and crazy freedom fighter or a guy who lost that which he wanted the most.

Ah well. Life hey.

Tuesday, July 25, 2006

The answer my friend...

How's the newfound optimism treating you? My phone asks.

I'm grinning a lot, I reply, it feels nice. And it does.

So I start my day with coffee and a tart, always a good thing. And I just sit, well occassionally I stare but I try to make it subtle can't help it jesus fucking christ where did THAT come from.

Stomach skips and zesty lemon and a breeze that's warmer than it's been for months.

That's what I call optimism.


Deep in the forest the little Goat wakes up and blinking the sunlight softer in his eyes gets the smell of a green pasture not so far away. So up and prance, dance and skip, trot and gallop, hoof and hair, here we go. Goodbye forest, goodbye cave (oh god so good), goodbye shadows and light, and the fingers of God reaching from the sky to caress his snout. He wants the whole fucking hand now. The face, the beautiful gift of a wide open sky.

The forest will always remain, and it's a special place, frightening in its beauty, and the Goat travels there now only in his mind. Secretly, when no-one can hear his thoughts or read it in his eyes. It's a secret forest ok? Ssshhh.

But as soon as the trees become scarce and it's grass underneath not twig and root, he gets it.

Run Goaty, run run run run run.

And every other animal in the land sees his aura and laughs along with him.


Ain't nothing so good as the wind in your hair.


Outside the clouds just came but I feel too safe now.

And walking the streets of a suburb that knows your name is a gentle kind of good. Honkers and shakers and the smell of breadmakers.

And an appointment on the morrow of a long overdue tattoo.

Talking 'bout regeneration

In a blinding flash I realise: if you've followed someone else down a path of morbid malaise and troubled doesn't mean that you are like that. It just takes jumping off.

So I say everything I really want to say. Good stuff. Real stuff. Stuff that I truly feel but that has no damn relevance to the outcome.

And then I jump off.

Easy as that.


Last night I turfed a blind guy out onto the street. He had a black eye and was groping the women in the bar so I grabbed him by the arm and very gently coaxed that dirty fucker out onto the street. He was cursin' the whole way, threatening me with murder, telling me he was a Brunswick Greek and that I should watch my back.

I whispered in his ear, just a quick story.
I said what had happened and who I knew.
He started to cry.

He said, sometimes it's hard to live like this, and gestured to his defunct pissholes in the snow for eyes.

I said, I don't understand, but I understand, and waved over a taxi and said goodbye.


I could admit to you all everything. But I ain't. There's quite a lot to tell, quite a lot to tell.

Instead, as you can almost feel the season shift just ever so fucking slightly for the better/ and you can smell the skin of a new born or a lover / and I find a long lost song from a band I had forgotten about / and a new place to eat oh my fucking god / and tomorrow there'll be Pirates a hoyin' / and right where I sit now overlooks a girl in a tight red dress across the street / and old friends are reappearing and new friends are proving their worth and you get the idea right?

I got so drowned in shit that I forgot to be myself.

I'm a freaking optimist man, wild lothario, hands in the air, my soul is inside me you wanna come take a look?

So I carefully pack all of my clothes. Clean my room. Have a shower. Crank The Liars and smell the fuck out of today.

Everybody in life
needs a hobby
fills the hole
that work and rent create
Can you hear us?

Words are easy, life is hard.

heh. no shit fucko.


Um, perhaps I should wait until I can type more goodlier, but i think i have some positive shit to say.

Monday, July 24, 2006

The end of all that ending.

I wish I could write it all down.
Start to finish.
Maybe that would help.

But I won't.
I'll leave the story
for those who live it.


When you're down, over a period of time, each day starts with a decision. Do I continue to wallow in and examine the pain, or do I try to let go of it all and just get on with my shit.

Or do I get drunk.
Just one, can't hurt,
makes it stop,
makes me laugh and flirt
there it is.

I remember a time - a life ago, just one - when I could write of such joy. I miss it. And it's not like the world has ended, or I have lost my family as I once did, pain pain you want to know PAIN? It's more insidious than that. It's a slow burning ache, a malaise, a sad, such a sad.

Someone I love and respect said to me yesterday, you have a facade like no one I have ever met. And it's true, I do, though I know someone else who has one too. My facade is mattyb, you can meet him at the pub, or at breakfast...ha...that's about where'll you'll find him lately. In fact, my facade is everywhere and all times, except here on this page.

Or is it?
That's me too.
This is me too.
And it's the gap between,
which is impossible to fill.

Last night I gave a stranger this address. Hello stranger. And I remember whirlwind and jager and facade and now I'm not so sure I want to ever give out this address, like I want more people to know this shit. Right.

So what I'm going to try to do, is stop myself from writing like this anymore.

I'll go and seek adventures, and moments. I'll keep the self indulgent pity to myself, for when I am alone, and I'll follow in the footsteps of a dear crazy blonde goat and get out amongst it.

That's what I'll do.
Get amongst it.
That's right.

Start each day with an affirmation.


Today I'm going to play basketball and go out to dinner.

And I want to go to the drive-in. Maybe Thursday.

Start with the little things. Let go of the big things.

Got it.

Tuesday, July 18, 2006

Thought for the day: The bad thing about living with a cat is not the smell of cat piss everywhere, it's that eventually the smell of cat's piss is a gentle reminder of home.


Compliment of the day:
I saw a man. A very smart and intelligent man, although often considered a fuckup by others his many his talents outshine this clouded perception and would prove people wrong if they just look a little harder.


Monday, July 17, 2006

Love My Way

This morning I was handed the most difficult writing assignment of my non-existent writing career. And I was afraid that I would not be able to do it justice. That I could not find the words, the feeling to repay the honour that was afforded me.

I began to write, and as I did, I began to cry, and cry, and cry.

I will not tell you what is was or who it was for.

Afterwards, half an hour ago, I walked into the sun and literally shaking, headed for the beer that would calm my nerves and slow my heart and let me breath. And as I sat there, afternoon amber sun drenched, I realised I needed to come back here, and I needed to say what I had said in that piece, and I needed to say it here.

And it's about Love. In its purest form. Just the feeling, not the emotion. Just the ideal.

I will not reprint what I wrote, for it was a gift for one person. But I will try and open the gates again and let it flow.


What point of living, if not for love?
What do you think you are living for, if not for love?
When it all ends, will you think, I was free, I was rich, I was creative, I was famous?
What of that feeling, love, that you dream of, that you hold dear, that you hope for and pray for and that you cherish and feed and grow with and are constantly surprised by?

The meaning of life is love. The end. The whole point of our fucking existence is to transcend the menial details that constantly bombard us, that distract us and send us plummeting downward, that turn us sour and hating, that create war and politics and animosity. The point is to move one step beyond that, and love the fuck out of all around you.

Call your friends, your family, your lovers. Tell them you love them. Hold their hand, smile at them when events transpire against you, let go of the bullshit, travel into the centre of your fucking being and strip it all away until you are able to love. Yes! There are so many facets to our lives, exploration, explanation, examination and excitement. But does it all not dull in your eyes in comparison to love?

The very thought of love makes us smile. The very hope that it exists is enough to give us the strength to carry on, day to day. Would I wake up in the morning if I thought love did not exist? If I was living for the pay off, the magazine cover, the merchandise? Doesn't love get you out of bed? Isn't there hope for a fucking future as long as there is love? Am I being incredibly fucking cheesy? YES. But it is SO FUCKING IMPORTANT DON'T YOU SEE? Don't you feel me crying as I write this for if you do not understand what I feel, how can you live? I mean LIVE.


This is my God, this notion of love. This dream. This Earth. This is my religion, this is my aim.

More often than not, I find myself on a rollercoaster of expectation. Trying to fulfill a potential I believe exists within me, trying to live a dream within a dream and make something out of the circumstances that make up my life. Sometimes, I give up, judged a failure by the jury of myself, and sit at the end of the bar. Henry Chinaski, Archibald Rum, no love, no philosophy, just numb me, numb me, NUMB ME NOW. But if I don't get this out right now, this moment will be lost. And this lesson is far too important, TO ME, to forget.

I'll be embarrassed by this, I know myself. I'll be angry and sore and hurting and I won't understand the meaning of what I write, and I'll read it back and idiot.

But I'll be wrong, and I'll know it.

What fucking purpose to life, if not love.


I'm glad reading this back, that it does not have the power of the writing I did this morning.

I'm glad I was able to distill more succintly, the feeling, in the gift for my friend.

I hope I was able to convey to my friend, what I know they already understand.

And I hope it sticks, because, once pain has left us, it's so fucking easy to forget this. To carry on and forget the lesson. But the lesson is unrequited fucking love, and until we all learn that, we're fucking doomed.

Peace, beer and damn good sushi.


Saddle Up

Soundtrack: Primal Scream / Country Girl

Peaks and troughs, peaks and troughs, high road, low
Ha, it's good to be alive again. Thank fuck for that.


Act 1

Oh man there, just next to me. And people are talking but all I can hear is those eyes. And it don't matter how fucking long or how far the distance has become. It's always home. And I melt and form a puddle underneath the table and trickle slowly out the door and back into the gutter.



Act 2

The bender ends on a suitable note. B flat. He sure fucking is. It had the necessary ingredients, and lit up the torches that lay upon the mountains. Sending signals to all around. BENDER COME. And I, robot, went through the motions, all fuck you and fuck me until the despair enveloped me like a warm, familiar bathtub. And glub, glub, I slowly...sank...into it.

And now I feel better. I think I'll buy some new pants.



Act 3

I saddle up. Pull the straps tight around the future/horse's waist. I've done this before, I know how to schwing onto this baby with the confidence of an old stable hand. A carved piece of country wood I am, whitled by experience, except without the sharp point. Or any point to be honest. Does there need to be a point?


Kicking in we start the ride, over the fences, through the grass, into the treeline and up the slope. Underneath me, raw living breathing heat and animal sweat. And respect. A horse and its rider, not master. A horse with a name, though I know it not. Yet.

For now, I christian thee...


Thursday, July 13, 2006

You take the High Road and I'll take the Low Road

I know gangsters and I know musicians and I know artists and drug addicts and alcoholics and parents and teenagers and publicans and promoters and DJs and bikies and strippers and writers and the most beautiful person I know just works in an office.

When you feel, anything, it's damn impossible sometimes to differentiate between what is right wrong real fake running standing letting it all go...

Right now, the Low Road looks tempting and easy, and the High Road too steep to climb.

Dig deep, find Goaty Super Powers, and most importantly, surround yourself with the right sort of people.

I can't even write today.

Wednesday, July 12, 2006

Meanwhile in Purgatory...

It's so still I can't bear it. Nothing moves, nothing makes a sound. There is just an endless NOW.

Last night I stood at the airport in a dress holding a heart shaped cushion and watched a reunion of my two dear friends. And all around me there were people coming home. And everyone had someone waiting for them. And all I had was a dress and a cushion and a fuzzy babooshka hat.

I dropped my friends home and found companionship with a trapeze artist in a suburban strip club. And we drank absinthe and I tried to let it all go and hey there all of a sudden a bum in my face choke splutter cough laugh.

And I got home, and I was no longer carrying my cushion. And the cat was there waiting for me.

This now stretches on forever.


Woah dude I was all like in a dress at the airport and it was PACKED like never before and everyone thought I was CRAZY yo. Killer. Picked up the man and then I was all like fuck yeah, strippers! and there were Hell's Angel's there and boobies and we laughed and went crazy and a girl I work with wanted me to have sex with her and her boyfriend and I just laughed, this lothario laughed, and I got to use my new saying, menage a home and passed out with the cat on my head. Bitchin.


I don't have anyone to talk to at the moment. I am so many different things to different people I get lost trying to keep up with myself.

I'm going driving.
I need the beach.
Want to come?

Tuesday, July 11, 2006

For half an hour everything stops and you can feel the wind and the light rain but it's warm, so warm. You. Lothario. Live it for but a moment and forget that around you the world turns.

Let the story begin.

Monday, July 10, 2006

Lothario V.2

Bad writing was here. I need to fix it first.

In the meantime, I suggest Josh Armistead.

Or for something a little more up tempo, Death by Sexy, the new Eagles of Death Metal album.

Oh baby.

Sunday, July 9, 2006

Hell and Back: A comedy of errors.

All I can see, smell and touch. The height it gives me. The depth. The moments, the now. I miss the country, and can feel myself slowly dying without it.

What is it, that I feel I will lose if I follow the tracks and rejoin my Soul where it waits, out there, behind the rocks, over the hills, between the trees?

Friends. Companions. My lust for anything else has faded with time. For creativity, my one true love, will follow me to the ends of my days, and care not one whit if I am smuggled in a cargo hold room cast adrift in the big smoke, or dancing naked in a paddock, under the rain, beside a shed, beneath the moon.

What dreams do you aim for, day to day, here in the city?

Bored, I would be bored in a house by a river by some trees, someone told me in a pub the other day.

BORED? I'm bored, bored of sycophants and fast cars. Bored of choking every morning, bored of egos and cocks and make up and door lists. Bored of false fucking idols. Bored of chasing a dragon with golden scales and wings which push it ever further away. Bored of believing that the peace that is out there, is worth less than the chaos down here. Bored. All are bored. Choo fucking choo.

I dreamt of children and sacrifice. Mine not theirs. I dreamt of shedding ambition but looking back over 33 years, realised I didn't fucking care. I dreamt of stomachs stretched, and hands gripping and tears and laughter and tiny, tiny, shoes. And tiny, tiny, fingers.

I woke up and thought, fucking. Just, fucking.

All that fucking. From Hell and back. And how much it meant.

Zero. It all means Zero. That demon mist lust, three mouths, four, two cocks, or one.

It all means zero when you come back to Hell, and dream like forever, of a place by a river.

Saturday, July 8, 2006

In Between Days

In the laneways, the alleyways, in between the streets, behind the houses, I feel at home as I walk over cobbled rock and brackish mud puddled pools that hold their own reflection of what goes on in the world. It's funny, I'm in between again, in between moments, in between seconds, one phase shift to the left and I'm the only one who walks these parts, and sees these exact snapshots. Always carry a camera, I think, but the camera I hold is but my eyes and the hope that I can find the words to explain it all to you. Click. Snap. Publish. Never quite right but sometimes the joy is in the trying of things, not necessarily the successful result.

In the laneways, the alleyways, in between the houses and behind the streets, it's silent like the desert, like a 4am paddock, just the wind that rushes past you on its way to an invisible destination with no baggage, no briefcase, just voooosh, i'm late, i'm late, gotta go, gotta FLY. I laugh at the wind's impatience, but respect it's urgency, and its focus, its purpose. In the laneways, I envy that, as I am doing naught but floating and walking and staring and for as long as I can, staying in between everything.

But it has its rewards, the rust coloured doors and dangles of figs, escaping the confines of their owners, reaching over the fence like I as a boy reached toward the water as I sat on the side of a fleeing, flying speedboat. I tickle the wood, admire the leaves, marvel at the colours, run my hand along the fences and peer into the backyards. I step on the cracks and scoff at bad luck. I let the dogs smell me as they go wild with delight or suspicion or the need to let their owners know that they sense the boy who lives in between. And just for a skylark, I place an orange-green, oval shaped leaf in a stream that irrigates and dissects the bluestone below, and relive a childhood so far gone as my boat spirals and twists in the downscaled rapids and eddies. And when you live behind and in between, you can laugh out loud or even jump in the air and click your heels together, and the breeze through the trees creates applause for your one man show.

At the delta, the mouth which opens to the real world once more, if you're lucky you can see another opening, just on the other side. And if the gentle hand of fate covers all but you, no-one will see you cross the tarred road river, you can do it. Quick! Arms flailing, one step, two, three, escape that world, don't let it take hold, head down for if you can't see it, then it cannot see you, and all of a sudden the walls close up again and you're in, safe, and the next part of the journey begins. With all the sights and hidden treasures to boot. And you can even do a secret wee, on the back of someone's fence, and you can even watch that family sit outside, or that man work on his boat, or just enjoy the emptiness of a clothes line which you can see strung between the back of that house and its one and only tree.

Later, when the journey ends and I'm at the shop, or back at home, or someone's home, I hold the secret of my travels. And I know at anytime, I can go there, and hide and explore and be the lone cur, ageless and adventurous in a world between worlds.

Monday, July 3, 2006

Well you are all my brothers, and you have been kind

but what were you expecting to find?


You know what's beautiful? I asked.
Eyes closed with the answer.
The steel he held in his hand wanting release,
wanting me like no other.
His eyes narrowing
hating that I
had asked a question when
it was he who held the gun.

Not every minute of every day
or every second
but that moment in between.
In between the seconds,
that's when you can catch a fucking glimpse.
That's when you're alive,
that's what that out of nowhere mortality
rush is.
It's when you phase out slightly
and start living in between the seconds.
But you don't get that do you?

I don't have to get it
I'm the guy who gives it to you,

and pulls the trigger.


Last night I sat at the bar and we discussed the madness that had taken our friend our boss. We smoked cigarettes and I can still taste them now. We drank beers and they drove me to exercise for all night I was up and down the stairs to the outhouse far below. And we wondered at the nature of people. We mourned the passing of a man who ran a shop not far from where I type right now. Who took his own life and left a van in the Safeway Carpark. It has the tyres that I need, but when someone suggested I take them I felt suddenly like a vulture shredding corpse flesh and rubber from the man's last monument. His rusting white van. And at night it must be the only car there, and the lights would hit it just so, and in those in between moments, surely he lives still.


I smiled.
but it's just not possible to hit a guy
who is out of phase with the rest of the world.

And as his jaw hits the ground,
literally of course,
I whistle and walk away.

Na na na nana na naaa na naaa