Monday, December 17, 2007

Spread the ashes of the colors over this heart of mine.

This heart of mine.

I cut it out,
place it on a sheet of white paper,
on a table,
in the middle of the room.

I take a chair.
I have an ashtray,
a glass of red wine,
an acoustic guitar,
a suitcase of memories,
and a bleeding chest.

This gives me a time line,
to say what I have to say.


There are dreams like echoes,

[he's got a Hell of heart, he just might not show it a lot of the time]

faded watercolours,

[that's well and good, but why don't you care about ME?]

pages yellowed with age,

[I know Spring is your favourite time of year x]

dead flowers,
dry earth,
a broken stone,
a lie to one's self.
The most powerful of all.


I live my life for you.

[I'm bleeding fast now and dizzy]


But I don't know who you are.


You drive me,
inspire me,
ignite me,
excite me,


but I still don't know who you are.

And that's all I needed to tell you.


I'm never going to stop trying to find out
who the Hell you really are.


I smoke,
drink the wine.

I cry,
open the suitcase,
look through the photos.

I write,
pick up the guitar,
and sing.

I reach for my heart,
push it back in,
and read the patterns left on the paper.

it says:

Monday, December 10, 2007

When I meet you. Revisited.

I’ve lost count of the times
reality has shifted and faces have faded
and you wake up to a revelation
as dawn tongues you with gold and breath
and that first moment
when you open your eyes
is clarity baby, clarity

and all that you are,
have been
can be

is a single moment

and when your mind stretches that far out and each thought within you is but a ripple and you can forgive yourself and everyone else and you can let go of yourself and everyone else and really, the shallows of what we believe to be our lives are exposed under the light of the dream…Damn. It’s hard not to wake up with a smile on your face when you realise that all pain is an illusion and nothing is solid matter and this waking life is no different from the dreams we inhabit in our sleep. The trick is to join it all up, meld the past, the future and the now into a state of ethereal eternity and always live as an objective outsider holding in your hands the strings that appear tangled but which actually lead you further on, a million paths, converging to this point, right now. In your head, as in mine, a thousand voices cast a thousand spells, decisions, split second decisions a chaotic whirlwind of who you are and what you wish to be asks only that you make a choice, make a stand, choose a path and don’t look back, forge your destiny, make your personality clear so that we can all move on and understand each other and more to the point understand you, for how can I judge you if I don’t understand you? I need to know who you are because I need to know if I can CONNECT with you, if I can trust you, and even if I betray you, I need to know you will not betray me.

This is important:

In the End, every one has the capacity to read the mind of everyone else.

It’s just so frightening, that we all deny it.

Monday, November 26, 2007

The Artful Dodger.

On Sunday morning,
there was no doubt,
that I felt different.
And the country,
looked changed,
smelled finer,
sounded brighter.

See, sometimes
you don't even know,
that you're in pain
until the fucking pain stops.

But honestly?
I don't like politics.
Because I don't like the fact,
that it is all a dance, a game,
and popularity makes deception
more palatable than the Truth,
which more often than not,
ends up being served cold.

My games are different to yours.
Yours are savage and satire,
intellect and smarts,
mine is saddened wisdom,
feeling blindly in my heart.

So I say, leave me be,
and I will do the same.
You can play adults,
ruling the world,
leading the people,
choosing your teams.

I am just happy to play
in the sandpit
of my own

Sunday, November 25, 2007

Glug. Ayyyy. Woo.
Yay. Cheer. Voosh.
Zoom. Argh. Blah.
Pfffft. Grrr. Waaaa.
Zzzzz. Zzzzz. Zzzzzz.

Thursday, November 22, 2007

The business of me and them.

You fucking savage,
you arsehole,
you bastard.
You carry that scar,
like it's a goddamn silver badge,
a membership key,
and what are we?

Ushers and attendants,
opening the door,
allowing you entry.
Paying the price
of your admission.

And in the dark,
will you change?
Will you pay attention,
as the curtains open,
and thrust into the light,
my fear,
naked on the Fucking stage?

I don't know, I say,
I'm here for The Show,
the dance and the song.
So, pour me a drink,
and let it must on.

Tuesday, November 20, 2007

Everybody knows that you're insane.

I'm sitting at the bar listening to that blind Italian guy sing Con te Partiro. I think about that story, about the woman who gouged her own eyes out because she could see the future but with no eyes to see the present all she ever saw was the future. Some days I can't tell if I'm looking at the future or the present. Some days I just spend in the past. Some days I don't even fucking exist in your time, I just stand still, and everything happens around me. Faster and faster and faster. Some days I'm sick to the fucking stomach.

I'm sitting at the bar and my friend walks up to me and I say, hey, and he says, hey and that's enough. He's not an old friend, he's a new friend, but he doesn't make me sick. Some people make me sick. But that's my problem, not theirs.

We sit for a moment which might be a minute or might be an hour. Today it doesn't matter. We sit and drink and stare and watch. We just exist. That's what people do when they're not creating or destroying and right now I don't know which one of those I'd prefer to do, so I just sit and exist. Anyway, the blind Italian sings a mean fucking opera and that's enough.

My friend turns to me and says,

I was at the doctor the other day, routine check up, and she started asking me questions about suicide. I told her, yeah sure I think about suicide, who doesn't? Everyone thinks about suicide right? Anyway, it's not like I'm going to fucking do it. Anyway, she asks a few more questions and I answer her honestly and she says, have you ever thought about seeing someone? And I figure she means a shrink so I say, yeah sure, I'll see someone, because everyone has thoughts, right? And who knows if my thoughts are your thoughts or what the Hell. So sure, I tell the doctor, I'll see someone. She says, I think you should see someone this afternoon, I'm certain you need to see someone this afternoon. So I shrug and say, yeah, sure why not.

Anyway I don't really think about it I just get out of there and go home, it's a grey day, but I'm not going to kill myself. Anyway I get home and after a while there's a knock at my door,and there's these two guys there, and they've got an ambulance out the front with them and they say, hey man, we're here to pick you up, we'll take you to the doctor and I figure they mean the shrink, so I say, yeah cool, I'll just get my jacket, but they say, don't worry about that, just come with us, so I do, I walk out the front and get into the ambulance.

Anyway we're driving for like half an hour, forty minutes, and I lean toward the front, I'm in the back, and say, hey guys, surely there was a closer place to go, and they say, don't sweat it guy, we're taking you to see the doctor, you just relax, but I'm not relaxed, i'm starting to wonder what the Hell is going on, you know? What the Hell is going on? Anyway, eventually we stop and I see we're at this hospital, except it's not a hospital, it's a fucking Psych Hospital and I'm starting to worry here, I mean, I just went to the doctor, you know, routine check up.

The two guys walk me inside and all of a sudden I'm in a room with a doctor and I say, yeah um Doc? I'd like to go home now, what the Hell is going on, and the doctor, it's a woman, she says, I'm afraid that's not possible, and I start to laugh and she says, we're going to need you to stay here under observation, as we believe you to be unstable and irrational. I say, what the fuck? I just mentioned suicide to my fucking GP, what the fuck do you fucking mean I'm unstable and irrational? I mean, I'm really starting to freak out by this stage you know? What the Hell is going on?

She gets the two guys to escort me to the unstable but not as unstable as some Ward, which you know, is still pretty fucking strange for me and I'm scared shitless by this stage. They put me on a bed and then I watch them walk towards a woman who is looking out the window. She says, any word on my case? She says, ARE YOU FUCKERS EVER GOING TO LET ME OUT OF HERE? They say, it's time for your medication, and she starts to kick and they fucking grab her arms and drag her down the corridor toward the unstable Ward. I'm really fucking freaking out man, I'm really freaking out, you understand?

Anyway, they keep me there for three days. They give me some drugs, I don't know what. They ask me questions, they ask me what music I like, I say David Bowie and they write shit down. What are you writing down? I ask. Nothing, they say. What nothing, you're writing something fucking down, what? Is it because I like David Bowie? Who doesn't like David Bowie? Does that make me insane? You'd be fucking insane NOT to like David Bowie! They look at each other and write shit down. That's when I decide to shut up. From then on I just shut up until three days later they come and take me to the doctor and she says, well first she sort of sighs, but then she says, against my better judgement, I am deciding to release you. I don't say anything, but I want to fucking smash that cunt in the face, RELEASE ME? What the HELL is GOING ON? But I don't, I sit. I don't even smile. I don't even smile, I act like a fucking dog and just sit and listen to her bullshit until they show me the door and I'm out.

So what the fuck is THAT???

Dude, I ask, are you making that shit up?

Yeah he says, I'm fucking crazy.

We laugh. Drink a pot. Go outside and smoke and watch that cool change come.

A siren wails as the police scream by,
and I can see the terror in his eyes.

Tuesday, November 13, 2007

Tijuana meet me.

I've been waiting at this crossroad for a really long time. Every five minutes or so I light up a smoke and slowly draw back on it. Hold in that sexy death and release the drift which forms, softens and shivers like last night's dream, like the memories of her. Fading fast and silver lined.

I'm staring down the dusty road for any sign of movement.
I tap my feet. I can't whistle so I grab a lyric and make it my own,

You never hear me talk about
one day getting out
Why put a new address on the same old loneliness

Everybody knows where that is
We built that house of his
And when he's not home
Someone else you know always is

I count the cows that graze in the paddock, I give them names. Gregory the Cow. Heh. I'm so used to laughing at my own jokes that's it's not even sad anymore. I see the sun rise and set, day after day, and I do not move. From time to time I think, "am I standing in the right spot? I've been waiting for a fucking long time, am I even standing in the right fucking spot? Why did I choose this spot?", but those thoughts pass and I look around and see how beautiful it is where I am, and how much time I have to myself, to think upon the things that need to be thought about. To think about cows and songs and cigarettes.

Sometimes I think, "Well, I'll give it another hour and then I'll head home" and at that moment I hear a noise far down the road and I know that I want to be here to see it, when it finally comes, I will be standing, alone, the only one to see it as it comes, here, right to this very spot. Then the noise fades away and I am left again, standing alone on the side of the road.

Tapping my feet and singing a broken tune.

To pass the time.
To pass the time.

Thursday, November 8, 2007

Wednesday, October 31, 2007

Bukowski and I: A book review

I can smell Women
I drool over Women
I pick up Women
I toss Women aside
I like Women

I love Women

I carry Women to my room
I run my hand down the spine of Women
I spread Women open on my bed
And fall asleep, with Women in my arms,
to spend the night
dreaming of Women.

Though I prefer Ham on Rye.

Thursday, October 25, 2007

The gun.

I don't know what's going to happen, but I'm starting to feel ready.


What book are you reading?

It's The Wine of Youth, by John Fante.

Is it good?

Yeah, he's my favourite.

What sort of book is it?

Um. I don't know how to answer that. It's about the sentences. He has amazing sentences. But I can't explain it to you.

[reading the back] "he possesses a style of deceptive simplicity, full of emotional immediacy and tremendous psychological point"....


I like pictures. I used to read. But I really like pictures.

It's okay, I have to keep working now.

Wednesday, October 24, 2007

And ther's a hand, my trusty friend, And gie's a hand o' thine

One day a rain came,
but it didn't wash
all the scum
off the streets,
it rained a river,
and all that was
right in the world
sailed not
east, west,
or south or north,
but instead all the
right and
real -
sailed a new direction,
where nothing and no one
could follow.

What was left was you
and me,
just a touch of dragon,
and more than a handful
of rat, tooth and claw,
fur and fist,
and what was called:
a curse reversed,
for they who lack such,
the whale,
the bird,
the otter,
the bear,
the fish,
the tiger;
they who lack this
Intelligence are
truly happy,
where as WE,
the people,
believe that in the games,
the sport, the races,
the status, the friends,
the riches, the glory,
we may yet find the truth.

The truth is, we're all
a bunch of blind moles,
suckered in by so much
Temptation, that our
lack of Intelligence
is painfully fucking obvious
to the cow who stands in a
green meadow, staring at the sky,
and listening to the wind,
as it brings him the latest news from afar.

What's that you say? the cow asks.
Oh, really?
Well, good luck to 'em,
I'm staying right fucking here,
I have the sun, the rain,
the grass, the view,
and I'm far, far, away
from that fucking pack of cunts.

Here's a Cow Tip for you,
If you're going to lust, destroy,
consume, control, satire,
cheat, desire, repent, repeat...

Then fucking own up to it.
Don't pretend to be superior.
Don't pretend that "left" is better than "right".
Don't win by wanting someone else to lose.
Don't destroy, telling yourself that you are creating.

At least, do us a favour.
At least, be honest about who you are.

Say it:
We're a fucking pack of cunts,
doomed to bring you all down with us.
We're a fucking pack of selfish cunts.
And we're gonna take this whole place down with us.

What about Art & Music & Literature, Cow?
What about this Holy Trinity of Humanity?
You judge us on our deficiencies,
yet do not see, the unique beauty of humanity,
that our fear of death itself,
gives life,
precious hope,
fear drives our ambition,
fear of death, sends us further
and fuels our need to create.
Music, Cow.
Art, Cow.
What say you now, Cow?

I say Turner was an artist,
Mozart a musician,
and you pack of pretenders
have confused books
with literature for so long,
you no longer have any idea,
of which is which. I say you
must read the thoughts of another,
before you can decide whether you
liked and loved, and you need to be told,

I say Human Endeavor is Dead,
and your race instead is all for
who the person next to them is
listening to, or reading, or talking about.
I say you don't have a fucking trace of
inspiration left in you, and instead
reward the Instant, and Inane, and
the Ovine. I sir, say you are a fool.

And I say this, in all knowledge of the fact,
that though I stand here before you,
and utterly vituperate your very existence,
I am still sir, yes sir I am,
I am still sir, quite optimistic,
that one of you will still

Now fuck off,
and leave me to my meadow.

Very well, Cow.
But you will see.
One day a rain's gonna come.

One day a rain's gonna come.


I turn up Neighborhood #1 (Tunnels)
Really, really, really fucking loud.
Because, hey, what'r ya gonna do but FEEL.

Tuesday, October 23, 2007

Don't waste my time.

I always thought THIS was the coolest name for Chinese Restaurant I'd ever seen.

Until I ran into THIS place.

Not entirely sure I'd eat there thankyou.

Sunday, October 21, 2007

High ate us.

I'm going to climb a tree,

to see if I can see the future.
To get my head into the clouds.
And then over the clouds.

To get my head
over the clouds.
Over, over, over,
and out of the clouds.

So I can be proud.

I said,
I understand,
but I think I'll stay on the ground,
and look at the tree,
and I'll just wait for my unknown
to Fall, fall, fall
- on me.

I wonder what it will be.

(As they're both me.)

Thursday, October 18, 2007

Ever fallen in love?

I'm in a bar in the city, Manchuria, it's a Melbourne bar, there are booths and if you've never been there before you'll think it's cool for the first few times you go, you can even say things like, "oooh dark, sexy corners for those make -out dates" and people will think you are in the know and / or seductive. People are easily led. Especially when you're hot like me.

I'm in the bar with my friend Felipe, and we're scoping, that's right, scoping, we're scoping it out for a party that he's putting on with Di, and we're drinking Lagavulin which is a steal at fifteen bucks a glass and all is well with the world on this fine, spring Melbourne night.

So, blah blah blah, Luke McD, blah blah blah...

Yes, blah blah blah, something about something, Luke McD...

yes yes...

I fucking miss Lukey, I never really see him, but there's an unspoken thing, like with a lot of my closest friends. I ring him up, just for kicks.

*ring ring*
(I remember those, like another life...)



Ok. I miss you.

I stand on the corner of Russell and Little Bourke, and he's there in five minutes and we're on the West Gate in three, and there's never a need for catch up other than, any women in your life? - but I guess we both know better than to get into that. Besides, we're going to judge a strip competition. Livin' the dream, or so it goes. Sure...livin' the dream.

We pull up out the front and I shake hands with Whales, The Man. In another two minutes I'm in front of the stage with a score sheet, a beer and a shot of Agwa in front of me. There's five girls, and I mark them on Face, Body, Show, Music and Costume, with an overall score at the end. I don't question any more, I just focus on the job at hand, and when the first girl comes out in the shortest, bustiest, fucking gingham farm girl dress you've ever seen, I realise I've made the right decision coming out here on a school night. I want to give her 10. Actually I want to give her 1, but you know. I want to give 10, Luke stops me.

Just wait, you have to wait.

Cool, but I've never seen an actual good looking stripper before.

Just wait. The bikie's know what's what.

Yeah, no fucking shit.

She finishes and I give her 8. I'm a sucker for gingham, short. The next girl comes out and we see nip / tuck gone awry. She's jaw droppingly gorgeous, again, but her boob job seems to have produced some sort of Total Recall alien boob on boob thing and we Total Recoil and give her 6. I change mine to 7 because, well, because she's still hot, nude, and taut like tiger.

There's an intermission and outside in the beer garden I hear thumping behind the wall.

Do you hear that? I ask Lukey.

Don't go to the toilets right now, someone's being "disciplined".

Oh, ok.

I finish my smoke and go to the bar and what do you fucking know...6 years ago I owned and drove the most beautiful car in the world, a '61 EJ Holden and I let my sister's girlfriend at the time borrow it and she wrapped it around a pole and never paid me a dime, just left my sis, and disappeared and here she is behind the bar the fucking Bikie pub in Dumb Fuck West.


Matty....oh, hi.


So, what? I just get a drink, go back to my table and wait for the next three strippers.

The lights go dim and bang, she comes out, the next girl and I know nothing for the next fifteen minutes other than you, me, Mexico NOW. Or you, me, anywhere, now. I don't think, this is a stripper, taking her clothes off in front of bikies, I think, I'm mattyb, and what I think, happens.

I'm stupid like that. But it's endearing so shut up.

I score her 11, on all counts. I've seen people naked before, but now I know, there's a better sort of naked. I score her 11 on all counts and then I write my phone number and a short letter which I think is succinct and sexy on the score sheet and then I have my third shot of Agwa because obviously I'm thinking clearly now and know what's what.

There's another intermission and I'm outside having a cigarette when she walks out and stands next to me. Whatever you might think, when it comes to talking to jaw droppingly gorgeous strippers I figure confidence is the key. I say:

Hi, I'm the judge, and I scored you 11 because I've never seen anyone as hot as you, and if I didn't tell you it would be stupid, because I'm surrounded by bikies in a bikie pub and I figure courage is just as likely to get your attention as get me killed. I think I'm being kinda sexy by talking to you, what do you think?

I think you're being sexy.

She laughs, I laugh too.

Did you really score me 11?

Yeah, look.

I've got the score sheet in my pocket so I pull it out and show her.

That's your phone number?


Cute, you're hilarious!

Yeah, I know. I think we should get married and or have sex. As soon as possible.

Ha! Well, let me ask Whale.


Yeah, do you know Whale?

Well, I met him at the door, I don't think you should ask Whale, in fact, you know, I was only kidding, and I kind of like living and stuff, it suits me...

Oh it's okay, he'll find it funny, he' not really my boyfriend, it's just...well...I'm his, you know?

No, but whatever you say. I wish you weren't.

I like you.

I like you too. And, I've totally seen you naked now.

Hahaha. Here comes Whale. Whale!

Whale walks over and looks me in the eye and she's blushing and laughing and I wish she wasn't and I'm trying to look like someone who isn't worth killing.

Whale, matty here wants to marry me.

Oh really?

Um. Well. you know, funny ha ha...

We talk for five minutes and I'm sobering up pretty quick for the first few minutes until Whale and I start talking Bukowski and after that it's whatever. I tell him about Fante and he promises to look him up. My little stripper is happy and standing next to me and I don't care about nothing. Whale asks me if I'll come back and judge the final, and I say Hell yeah. He pats me on the back and then he grabs her real rough around the neck and pulls her away, walking off and staring at me, straight in the fucking eye. No Bukowski. No stripper either.

Get it?
Got it.

I score the next two girls, 7 and 8.5 and leave.

Tuesday, October 16, 2007

The Foundations of The Sea

To succeed, planning alone is insufficient. One must improvise as well.


It's a lot more difficult to write when you find yourself drifting on the tides of contented ennui. When after all the storms have been and gone, there you are, lying on your back under the terrible light of truth, just another piece of flotsam, at the mercy of the currents, with not a wave in sight, not a cloud in the sky, no reefs, no sharks, just you and the endless empty above...

There's only one way to go.
The place that frightens you the most.
Down, down, down, into the dark depths below.

I write a note, attach it to the raft.
It tells you I love you. And you and you and you.
I sign it with a smile, that I used to use when I was a boy.
I sign it with a smile,
but I don't read it back.

Then I prepare myself for the fear,
as arachnid night begins to crawl across the sky,
extending its legs one by one by one by one,
crawling over the seas, its underbelly
peppered by silver scars, each one a ghost
of possibility, far out of reach, if you're
afraid to extend yourself, or afraid of the web
which follows its passing,
catching each and every dream
and leaving them twitching, stuck,
feverish in the desire to escape,
the desire for freedom,
the desire to fly, fly, fly.

I'm afraid of spiders. But I'm far more afraid, of what lies beneath the deceptively smooth surface of a cold, grey sea. Because to look up is to dream, but to look down, to look inside, is to face the nightmare of the unknown.

Here I am,
on my raft,
which I have made,
which is my choice,
alone at sea,
far from land,
this raft and me.

Out here,
there's no one to see
me look young and doltish,
when I hold my nose and
close my eyes tight -
and leap off the raft.




Let's see what's down here.

Wednesday, October 10, 2007

You look great when I'm high.

Close the door,
turn the lamp down low,
light a smoke,
pour yourself a whiskey.

It's midnight.

When every wish,
is thrown away,
on the thought
of you,
dreaming of me.


Oh man, oh baby, oh darlin', oh son -
last night I let the maudlin
one last time,
so that this fine fucking day,
I could feel the sun on my skin,
lips hotter than thou,
embrace of a mother,
lion-like father,
video lover -
fuck me, fuck me, fuck you.



So I went up to the country, stayed with a thousand ghosts in an abandoned brick mansion in the middle of yesterday. I saw a shooting star, but I didn't have a wish. I no longer need a wish, I no longer wish that I had a wish. Now - the days are longer and though I spasm and shoot from time to time - electric jism - a spoof of intimacy - when it comes over me - I let the music take me when I would have let them - and the ice that melts in the soul when at the peak the whole thing soars - that's so fucking beautiful - and it's a one man thing which cannot be shared - how your sadness melted and turn to rivers which washed down the inside of your heart and began to give life to the green possibilities of tomorrow.


This half arsed
poetry shit is

You can do what
you want.

As long as you


The Truth is a warm, clear Spring day...and from it - you can see for fucking miles.

Tuesday, October 9, 2007

Wait until Spring, Barker.

Mathew is: listening to Molina, watching the sky turn dark, and letting himself drift through the past on a sigh of clouds.


This year,
I have slowly
cleared the land,
moving large rocks,
by hand,
which lay in the middle
of my block,
my patch,
my dirt.

Underneath the rocks,
the soil is rich,
but that's for later.
For now, there are
still a couple
of large rocks to
be shifted.

But what I'm
going to do is,
once I've moved
them all,
what I'm going to
do is make a
Zen Garden,
out back,
and those rocks,
which have been
a source of so
much frustration,
will instead become
my inspiration,
something to
meditate upon.

And I'm going to
be so fucking
happy about it.

I kind of
already am.

Monday, October 8, 2007


And the God I had cursed,
turned on his charm when
on the weekend I stood on top
of that mountain; his country,
where kookaburras and blue tongues,
kept me company, and the publican
tells me the news of a lost word,
cast out of the dictionary, a literary
Lucifer. Gleek, she says, was a
gathering of musicians, a festival,
a joyous happening.

Gleek? Fantastic.
I vow not to let it die.

At night, the town of St Arnaud celebrates,
its lonely existence with fireworks, the end of The Show.
And I'm at home, out there, under the stars, covered in dirt.

24 hours later, I'm just me again.
In the city, riding an impulse, just another
prisoner of Too Instant, Too Easy, To You.

Thursday, October 4, 2007


Fuck you

You made my friend
walk tall with his
arm and eyes
wrapped protectively
around his woman.

You let them see
the finish line.

And then, you
took it
from them.


You're a cunt.

What the fuck.

Tuesday, October 2, 2007


What the fuck?
You've gone all Zen!
What the fuck is
happening to Hell?

Hell's having a period of inspection,
where every demon is
on parade,
where the
catfights and
all fear for their life.

Except, The Devil,
it's hard to read
what's behind that smile.

Sunday, September 30, 2007


Hell yes.

Thursday, September 27, 2007


I tried to protect
the flower from
the elements.
When a storm came,
I carried the pot
inside, so we could
watch through the
When the sun was
unbearable, I moved
the pot into the shade.
When it was frosty,
I brought it inside and
left it on the mantle.
I began to fret,
and each day I was
certain that the little
flower in the little pot,
would finally succumb
to danger.

My stomach ached.

One day I came home
on the tram, and the
flower was waiting for me
on the step of my house.

If you keep protecting me,
I will never grow strong enough
to leave my pot, and we will
both wither and die.

I didn't know what to say,
so I stepped aside and let
my tears

Wednesday, September 26, 2007


Day and night,
hour by hour,
people are buffeted by
waves of pain and pleasure,
one after the other.
If they try to experience
only pleasure,
they cease to be truly
Then the pleasure evaporates.

- Japanese poem.


You think you're a tough guy huh?


You think you're pretty smart?

Yeah. Sort of.

What makes you so smart then huh?

Well. I've been able to answer all your questions. That means I must be smart.

You're a fuckwit mate.

Yes. I am a fuck wit. Good tidings.


At night when I'm walking toward the Ruins, I hold my book and look up at the moon and I talk to the drunks who tell me, Judd's signed to Melbourne - but you didn't hear it from us. I hope they're right, not because I care about Chris Judd, but because I hope that the drunks know everything before everyone else. The Underground. The Resistance. That's why they ask for money from some people - Friends of the Resistance, a gold coin donation? - and tell others to fuck off - The time will come, your castles turned to dust. Anyway we talk for five minutes or so because I'm feeling free, free of the constraints of others, free of the fiscal, free of the physical, I remember the transient nature of things, and really, on a baser level - we just make each other smile for a moment in time, and I can afford to do that.

Up in the sky,
the moon climbs higher
to get a better view.
And as I keep walking
street, I smile
at the thought
of what it can see.
The vast forever.
Step and repeat.
Patterns in you,
the flowers,

Tuesday, September 25, 2007


When I was child
I lived on a farm.
One day I stood outside
and saw a flock of birds
floating shape shifter
on the current.
The cool thing was,
my future self stood
beside me, and I heard
him say,
It's a Dragon.
If you want it to be.
And I did.
And it was.
And it still is,
if you want it to be.


While yearning to gain
the depths of the mountains,
I'm drawn against my will
to the places
where people reside

Wednesday, September 19, 2007


This from the High St Festival website.

"A gold coin donation will get you a money-can’t-buy sheriff’s badge"

I repeat.

"A gold coin donation will get you a money-can’t-buy sheriff’s badge"

I repeat.

"A gold coin donation will get you a money-can’t-buy sheriff’s badge"


Tuesday, September 18, 2007

Arse and all.

Last week in The Devil's hotel room, he said:
I've got a fucking right to carry a gun man.
One day I got home, and there was a guy standing over
my girlfriend, pulling the doona back while
she was asleep. I chased him away,
but if I had wanted to, I could have shot him.
That's my right. That is the right of everyone, in America.
To bear arms, to defend that which they love.

The only conversations I'd ever had with anyone
about things like that, were over a latte,
reading the paper, on a fine Spring day.
Never face to face, flesh to flesh,
with someone who
believed it. Lived it.
Bled for it.

I put up an argument. I said, but it's common sense,
isn't it? If you arm EVERYONE,
then there's more chance of things going crazy,
of people being killed. I'm not a believer
in Deterrence.

The Devil looked me in the eye.
Common sense? What the fuck is that?

I don't fucking know brother,
an ideal perhaps.

I laughed.
The Devil shook his head.
I leaned over the table,
and the last of my common sense
was blasted through my nose
and out the back of my head.

Monday, September 17, 2007


And I wish
that you would come on down
and get involved.
And I wish
that you would stick around,
just come on down.


[You can't live like this forever. You think that it's okay, but it's not. Fuck you.]


It's scary, but mostly sad, when you see the reflection. When you're back on the mountain and covered in mud, clawing your way higher to get closer to Heaven. Or in my case, to get away from everyone so I can find a better understanding of The Way. When all of a sudden you see the reflection of the world in the sky above, and there you are - an elemental spectre, seemingly climbing out of the sky toward the earth so that you'll pass each other as the lips of the mountains meet, you into Heaven, and the other you, back down into the Hell you're escaping from.

Well that's a bit fucked, I think. Stop climbing and sit and take in the view. No longer sure which way is up. Remembering A Thousand Cuts, A Thousand Kisses, A Single Moment, Eyes Locked, Skin on Skin, Tears In Their Eyes, Rips In Our Hearts, One Faint Memory...

[I don't even have a memory.]

I do.
I have millions.
And here on the side
of the mountain they begin
to fall
millions and
millions and
millions and
millions and millions
of moments,
none more important than the
next and each one brings
its own joy and
even the terrible and horrific
contrast with the
Light, to create a
form that is neither Black
nor White, but simply


Lord, let it rain on me
Now I know I'm goin' down
I've got a little knowledge, Lord
And I'm about ready now


When the rain stops I can see the river winding its way through the landscape below.

I turn around, and keep climbing.

Tuesday, September 11, 2007

Fuck World Peace.

The Fake Star Sign I was going to write:

Today you will be completely shocked to find out that your most far-fetched bullshit fuck rock n' roll dream actually has a chance of motherfuckin' happening. You will sit at work, stare at your screen and giggle uncontrollably at the Planets and how things work out. You were in a hotel room semi-naked with one of your rock idols not three days ago, use that as a platform to believe...make a fucking wish baby. Make a fucking wish and watch the stars burn bright.

Hell Yeah.

My Herald Sun Star Sign for today:

Whatever you can do, or dream that you can do, begin it now. Boldness has genius, power and magic in it.' So said Goethe a couple of hundred years ago. He could have been writing it with you in mind. The coming months are going to bring amazing possibilities, and today is a time where the initial impetus can easily become apparent. Take note of today's signs and omens, because somewhere in them lie pointers to your possibilities, particularly at the professional level. We make our own fortune, and today is a day where you can influence your medium to long-term future positively.


Crazy. Fucking Crazy.
A week ago I wouldn't have believed.
Now, I'm in the hands of The Devil

Leave, but don't leave me.

Everyone's so on the sniff for honesty that they forget to look for the truth. Honesty is an echo, reflecting, reverberating...honesty is just more fucking people telling everyone, everything, all the time, about themselves. Honesty is just as big a fucking lie as everything else. Like therapy, the modern confessional. You can act how EVER you want, you can fail in new and spectacular ways, you can fuck every one you meet over and out, and you can sit in an air-conditioned room and be told that you're INTERESTING. That you're making PROGRESS. And if you're stupid, you can believe what you're being told by someone who studied your behaviour in a book, and if you're smart you can just put that one hour a week away, somewhere safe, and anytime you look at yourself in the mirror, and catch your own eye, you can just think - I'll leave those thoughts for therapy.


Tell me
the truth.
My truth,
your truth,
or The Truth?
What will it be,
and will you see it
as I do?

The truth is,
you're only afraid
of death if there's
a chance you won't die.

Accept Death, embrace it,
let go of fear,
love, passion, regret
and you'll see it,
the Truth.
As glorious as the brightest star.

You can have the red pill
or the fucking blue pill.
Me? I'll eat
the Salmon Mousse.


Run, rabbit, run
Dig that hole, forget the sun,
And when at last the work is done
Dont sit down, its time to dig another one
For long you live and high you fly
But only if you ride the tide
And balanced on the biggest wave
You race toward an early grave.

Sunday, September 9, 2007

Don't speak (I came to make a bang)

Nights like these, I really wish I was more photogenic.

Wednesday, September 5, 2007

Monday, August 27, 2007

And you, you knew the hands of a devil.

What is that, the change, the breath of life which dances on the humid kiss of Spring? It's a torrent of possibilities, a tsunami of tomorrows, deep, dark and green blue peaks crashing through the canyons of Winter, filling yesterday with tears, today with life, and tomorrow with hope. Dreams sprout infant green (white blossoms) - tiny plans dart and dash about your ankles, coral colours of a deep blue, see?

Luck is here.
If you want it.
If you relax and let the tide take you.


I've got a good spot to sit and watch the world drown, up high some and dry so I can smoke. What do I think about Spring? It's the inevitability that all this will be forgotten. That nothing means a goddamn thing, that no matter what you do, pauper or prince, that tomorrow will swallow you whole, and though you were given the wings of an angel, or were cursed with the hands of a devil, you will be forgotten - perhaps a footnote, if you're lucky, or hungry, more likely not. That's how I see Spring when I sit on my peak and watch the cycle from above, sucking on my cancer, alone, again. It is not an unhappy thought. That we are all turned to stone and covered in moss, covered in new life.

Monuments to what exactly?

You tell me that Spring, what will you remember about those who Fall before you?


You have a chance now,
to try a different cycle.
To begin that road, there,
on another foot.
To look beyond these borders,
to find something deeper, further
to find something true,
to fucking run TOWARD
not away.

Run toward it.

I'll race you.

Thursday, August 23, 2007

The Fragile Soldier.

I haven't seen myself for a while, so when we bump into each other it's a nice surprise.

Haven't had much time to stop and think hey?

No, not really. In fact, stopping to think is possibly well overdue.



Well, I have something for us today.

Ok, hit me.

How long have we been on here?

Mm, almost four years maybe? About four years. A lot of the early stuff got deleted, you know, during the time with the oooh and errrr and argh. But I think it's four years.

Yeah, four years...

What about it?

Well, I've been thinking...I think we're always sort of projected a sort of fictional persona here, well not so much fictional as just...maybe a tunnel vision of ourselves, too afraid to write, and too worried about what people read, so much so that we've never actually just relaxed, had fun, written openly - never actually been ourself on here. You've got to spell correctly, be witty, not offend anyone, not hurt anyone, never reveal the fact that we're just freaking NORMAL. It's all a story, and we have so many stories it gets difficult to remember who the Hell we actually are. I think it's time to pull the curtains down, and just be us.

I agree. The funny thing is, the real us is actually quite sedate.

You don't have to bullshit me, I'm you.

Okay, well maybe not SEDATE, but really...oh fuck I don't know. Who the Hell are we anyway?

I don't know, but maybe we can start to find out now.

I'd like that.

Yeah, I'd like that too.


I hurt people. I hurt people because I don't like letting people know everything about me. Don't like letting them in. Well, most people anyway. My couple of boys are great because, they remind me that I don't have to spend so much time thinking about bullshit, it's okay to just hang out, play guitar, drink beer, plan and scheme. Not that they know they do that, but that's the gift they give me whenever I get a chance to see them anyway.

I don't mean to hurt the people that get close. My personalities have a life of their own, depending on who I am with, and a lot of the time I'm simply bored, and unable to connect with the brains around me. Sure enough, there's a lot of good brains out there, amazing ones too, but to find one that clicks just so, and that comes in a package that you can spend time with - male or female - and also leads you further, teaches you and gets taught and on top of that makes you happy...I've found those brains hard to find.

Or maybe, I've been at fault, and it's my closed off nature that has made them hard to find.

It's easy, on the internerd. You can write sentences, and someone will write a sentence, and all of a sudden you've got a buddy. A brain buddy. Good for daytimes when work be grinding and small talk's a tonic.

After work it's harder for me. There are people I have tried to make a connection with and hurt, there are people who I thought I had a connection with and lost, there are people who want me to sit next to them as they drink, or as I do, there are a thousand fucking people walking past every fucking minute of the day and who the Hell are they? I mean, I'm the sort of person to smile and wave at strangers, but if they actually stopped to talk to me, I'd probably cover myself in some sort of protective cloak, share a smoke, make a joke, grasp and reach for a leg of hope...

There are places I walk into where certain parts of my personality are expected to appear, and I hate nothing more, than being estimated, over or under.


I'm going to get this out. Because Spring is about to wake us up, and four years of writing baggage and bullshit on here needs to end. I am me, and it's about time I just fucking dug it. For thirty years before this blog, I walked tall, succeeded, fucked up, got trashed, got serious, lost family, found friends, wrote songs, and grew.

This shit here, spilling stories, love stories, sex stories, psychological meanderings and dreams of dreams - it's episode after episode of dirty soap, an attempt to cleanse which just ends up making the whole thing muddier.

Not that I don't like getting a little muddy sometimes. If you're going to write, you've got to expect a little dirt.

Pfft. This is no epiphany, I've written them enough times to understand their transient nature. And if you're me, you get to know the danger of letting hope in, of saying, things are going well this time!

Best to just be now.
A 34 year old Teenage riot.
An Optimistic Tramp.
A Walkabout Specialist, sitting on the stool next to you, with eyes fixed firm on the horizon.

So, sorry if I happen to look over your shoulder. I mean no disrespect.


You think you're better than this place don't you?

Yes, as a matter of fact, I do. I think we all are. And I think that's a good thing to think.


And fuck it, turn the stereo up today, take a trip back in time.

Ain't seen a night, things work out right, go by.
Things on my mind, and I just don't have the time, and it don't seem right.
Ain't seen a day, that I don't hear people say, they know they're gonna' die.
This may seem a little bit crazy, but I don't think you should be so lazy.
If you think you've heard this before, well, stick around I'm gonna' tell you more.

One just like the other, sin's a good man's brother, but is that right?

Wednesday, August 22, 2007

On a scale of 1 to 10.

Tell me stories.

Ok. I want to make an orange spongy fish hat.

Of course you do.

Yes, I really think I'm on to something. It will be goods.

Maybe you should make an entire fish suit?

No. That would be weird. I just want the hat to be a fish. A big orange spongy fish.

Oh. Ok. Well, maybe you should cover the fish in sequins and have a sequined fish hat!

No. My fish hat will be orange and spongy.

Oh. Ok. Well will it have anything special about it?


Yeah, I guess...

Ok, well, maybe I'll sticky tape a cigarette in its mouth, so it will be an orange spongy fish hat with attitude. Cigarettes give everything attitude.

And cancer.

Yes, Cancer and Attitude. A Fish Hat's Tale.

Hey, what about, if you built a string operated bubble machine which somehow opened the fish mouth as you walked around and bubbles came out his mouth so it looked like he was swimming under water?

Yeah. Mmmm. Maybe.

I think it's a good idea.

Yeah. Mmmm. Maybe.

Well, what do YOU think he should do?

Nothing. he should sit on my head and shut the fuck up and just be a big orange spongy fish with a man underneath it.





Tuesday, August 21, 2007

Monday, August 20, 2007

Born to give it away, I'll take it to the grave.

It was hard to love a man like you
Goodbye was half the words you knew
While you was waiting for me not to call
I sent my love
I sent my love


You can leave it all behind, if you think it will help. I am just your nightmare, grappling with you in the dark until the mourning sun interrupts and I wither under its gaze. I am but the Ghost of Christmas Past, the dark cloaked phantom, fading, fading, faded. The chill wind which tickles and tosses the lovers' hair as they walk hand in hand through the gold and gilded now. My song is The Forever March, soft, sad, wise, earth bound and ultimately - destructive. I am the End to your New Beginning. I am a memory.

Will you remember?
Only in the night. I will visit you in the night and
all the stars will be wishes from me to you,
and I will keep giving,
until your one wish comes true.

The Wanderer.
The Walker.
He Who Is Known, but Not.
The Shadow.
The Liar.
The Thief.
The Paradox.
The Dreamer, the Believer.
The Lost Little Boy.

But, hey.

There is always the gift of today and the promise of tomorrow.

Sunday, August 19, 2007

Well I've been bad, and I've been worse.

The fever brings dreams, Indian rhythms, Bare Ladies, cold sweats and a roller coaster of words and scenic sentences, punctuated by flaming rhetoric until the carriage returns and we come to a full stop. Two days I'm down and out, in Brunswick and Fitzroy - sick or well, I'm sicker than some, it's the bottom, the barrel, a room no view only bed sleep burn sweat freeze repeat. Later I wake in an ocean just as I'm coming up for air, and a familiar hand of a friend pulls me out of the water and says, tell us to make the sound of a volcano, and I do, and they follow. The lava sets beneath us and the drums in my chest turn the mountain to skin to a porn star all sweet honeyed wet who laughs and says, I don't so that sort of thing.

I am asleep for almost five days.


How are you?

Oh yes fine, and you?

Oh yes fine, well I must be off, goodbye...

Yes, take care, so long.

There's one in China, one lies in ruins in Berlin, I have a soft spot for the Floyd version, but it doesn't make it any less bizarre when you come up against one in the middle of the street where once there was none. So, when no-one's looking, I do that mime thing and climb over the wall.

Up ahead, Spring beckons me to shed the last vestiges of Winter.

And I've never needed an excuse to strip.

Tuesday, August 7, 2007

I want to ride my nonsencycle.

Suddenly I stop
But I know it's too late
I'm lost in a forest
All alone
The girl was never there
It's always the same
I'm running towards nothing
Again and again and again


There's the sun in front of me, up the hill some and slowly meandering toward the horizon. I race ahead and try to outrun it but as I do the sky begins to bleed such passionate violent red that I cannot help but turn my head to face the fleeing furnace but too late, it is gone - or I am, these days it is the same - and in its wake a thousand colours fall and flutter upon the world, dying from the sky as streamers at the Last Farewell Parade.

I blow one of those roll out paper party things to myself - bwwwwt - and let the dark envelope me. Maybe I'm sad, but I'm an okay sort of sad. A gentle sigh of wind on a cold and clear morning. And I love those mornings in the bush, most of all.

I'll get the fire going shall I? You can make the marsh mellow, a chilled out swampy blues soundtrack to match.



so you know how you like to get your dick out for various pornographic websites and whatnot? well i was wondering if i could take photos of you? not necessarily with your dick out, but im working on putting together an exhibition exploring the loneliness of sexuality. crazy right? i already have pictures of a boy with **** ******* round his ***** (which you're not allowed to tell anyone coz id be in bogus trouble) and now im thinking that this concept needs to go further. and, well, naturally i thought of you.

When have I ever got my dick out for pornographic websites? Just because I posted a picture of it on here about four years ago and told people to suck it. Or because I once got paid $150 to jerk off twice with a video camera filming me...oh, right. Ok.


Actually, here's what I'm thinking.
we'll get you in jeans and a top hat (sounds ghey but trust me) and you can write death fuck on your chest.
and what we'll do is well get a fake rifle.
and it'll be great. and you can keep your dick in your pants.


How come the other boy got to **** his **** in **** and I have to wear pants and a top hat.

hey matty?


say that again

what? How come the other boy got to wrap his **** in **** and I have to wear pants and a top hat?

yes. hehe.




If we can't find anything better by the time we're dead, let's put that on the tombstone.


ok now anway as I was saying:


*light cigarette*

Take me home, I want to go home.

Monday, August 6, 2007

So I split.

True Story.

I'm walking down Johnston St, it's a beautiful sunny day 'cept for the wind which always makes people kind of crazy. And everyone does that thing like, when you're walking and you're trying to make your hair look better but you don't want to look you're trying to make your hair look better, so you just kind of quickly brush it as you walk, all casual like. I pass four people who are doing that. And I'm doing it too. We're all fucked. The wind has the final say in the matter. Ruffles for you my friends, ruffles for you.

I'm walking down Johnston St and all of a sudden there's a banana peel on the street in front of me. I look around and oddly enough, there's not only no people to be seen anywhere, there's no cars either. The wind even dies down, so it's just me, and the banana peel. No, really.

So look, I don't know what sort of person you are, or what bizarre thoughts you entertain in a situation like this, but me? I'm a go for it type of guy. And I see this as a chance, Cause and Effect. Investigation with a capital I, even if it's in the middle of sentence like this: I think this is the perfect time to Investigate. Makes the word that much stronger.

So I take a few steps back, line it up, get the angle right and the pacing distance, and start forward. I'm keeping my eyeline straight, but slightly looking down to make sure I get my feet in the right spot. I do. I walk right on that goddamn banana peel and my feet slips and I go arse over tit.

Banana: 1
Me: 0
My scientific determination: 1

I figure it's a draw.

Sunday, August 5, 2007

Intermission: Epistle all over the bar.

We interrupt this accidentally depressing story to bring you this important update.


I think K is my favourite letter.

K huh? Why K?

Well, it's all cool and sneaky. Like when night arrives and says, Hey everybody, I'm night, full of mystery and stars! K sort of just sidles up next to it and says, Errr, sorry mate, but you're actually a guy in a shiny suit on a horse. And when now get's all urgent and shit, K just walks up and says, yeah yeah I know. Or when new is so proud of itself K is all, yeah, I already dug it.

You're very strange today.

Yes. And when you've got a really scratchy head because of nits, K comes and makes you mittens and a beanie.

Okay, K is kind of cool.

Isn't it? And its in lots of rude words, like cock, and fuck and suck, and it's in knob, and killer, and and and...

Ok ok, enough with the K. What about S?

Maaah, S doesn't even care. S is too popular.

And O?

O is cool. It's even cooler when it's twins or more. It dresses up in a sheet and pretends it's a ghost. Oooooo!

Okay, what about the other vowels?

I think the vowels are pretty happy letters. Although U is a bit weird.

How so?

Well it keeps following Q around. Q can't even take a piss without U being there.


And I think T is generally cool with itself, except when H is around. Then it gets all schmoopy and soft.

What about J?

J is gay, no doubt about it. Some people don't even say J. Because J is confused about its sexual identity. Is it a Y or a G? J has serious issues.

Let's have a drink.


Thursday, August 2, 2007

Chapter 4: You ought to know, why you feel so hollow.

Crawling round on all fours
Curl yourself into a circle
I will tear myself apart
If you promise to paint me
As a work of art


























I own it all.

For if I don't,

there won't be:



You told me you wanted to eat up my sadness

Well jump on, enjoy, you can gorge away

You told me you wanted to eat up my sadness

Jump right on

Baby, you've got to be more discerning

I've known never known what's good for me

Baby, you've got to be more demanding

I will be yours

Chapter 3: Round and Round (It won't be long)

It's raining. That's a bad sign. It smells like sex. The rain I mean. Sometimes the rain smells like the good sex, like with Archie or with Helga or with Anna or with Justine. Not that that's good sex, but it's better, it's my choice that sex. Other times, well, it doesn't so much smell like sex as sound like it. Drumming and thumping angry punches on my roof. That's the sort of sex that makes me have the other sex. The sort of rain that makes me feel dirty, so that I need the other rain to wash it all away. Do you know what I mean? It doesn't matter if you don't. For now all you need to see is the connection, that sometimes sex is exactly what you need, and other times you'd do anything to make it stop.

I can hear them drinking. Well, I can hear him drinking. The guitar comes out, he shows off to who ever is here and they all fall for it. It's a big hypnotic house, a great distraction. It's got a two-car garage, it's got a pool and a trampoline, it's got two dining rooms, tiles that go from black to white to white to black. And everything is so immaculate and clean. People should be wary of that, other people who are too clean. Because if I know anything, it's that no-one is clean. Everyone is dirty, everyone is trying to wash away their past, or their present. If I ever make it out, and if I ever have a house, it's going to be dirty, because I want every one who knows me to know that I'm dirty. Maybe I'll make some real friends that way. People who don't care, or even better, people who understand. Kind of like therapy, but without the bullshit. A support group of people who can stand each other's filth. And we can laugh together, about the worse kinds of things. God, I wish. The only time I ever laugh about it is on the inside, and it's a real angry, abrasive kind of laugh. Like a donkey choking on a carrot made of nightmares. In therapy they say you should face your demons, but that know-it-all bitch with the fat saggy arms doesn't get what I get every night, her demons don't pull her hair and push her head into the...then again maybe she does, or maybe she just loves to listen to it. Probably gets her off. Therapy's a fucking joke. And I'm just as much the punchline there as I am here.

Knock knock
Who's there?
You don't want to know...

I don't think you want to stay for this.

This is where it gets ugly.

Tuesday, July 31, 2007

Chapter 2: Last night I felt, real arms around me...

Out of the blue

and into the black

You pay for this,

but they give you that

And once you're gone,

you can't come back

When you're out of the blue

and into the black.


In the mornings they're asleep so that's my chance. I rummage around in his pockets and bags and grab what I can. The more I get, the better it is. For staying away I mean. I'm pretty careful with how I do it. Usually I'll only take a couple of gold coins. I'll only take a note if there's more than one of the same kind. I figure he must think, was there two twenty dollar notes or one? And that'll confuse him enough not to worry about it. He's rich, you know. I wouldn't do it if he wasn't. Or maybe I would. I try not to think about it, especially when I have to listen real carefully and be ready to pretend I'm just tying my shoelaces or something. I don't know, maybe if he wasn't rich he wouldn't be like he is. But he is, so the way I figure, he deserves it. And so do I. Anyway, I've noticed that the more money someone has, the more they care about it. I thought it was meant to make you free, money, but it seems it just buys you a bigger prison. So really I'm setting him free and punishing myself. That's what I think when I'm doing it. Thoughts like that make me smile. I'm good at telling myself jokes.

So I'll have some money and I'll be free, if only for that day. I'll go to school, not because I want to, but because I'm good at it. All the teachers know that. I don't know what else they know. I can tell they know something. It's in the way they talk to me, sort of softly, like they're sorry, but they don't know what they're sorry for. I mean, it's not like I have any marks on me, not usually anyway. I like it. I like it when they ask me questions, because I always know the answer. None of the other kids ever really say anything, I guess they like me for answering the questions too because they never tease me about it. They're a lot more cruel when they decide to turn on me. Kids know. They see the truth, bang, even though they don't know what it is. I guess I reek of it, and I guess that frightens them. So they take it out on me. That's the least of my problems anyway.

Lunchtimes when I've got money I'm happiest. I'll go down to the shops near the roundabout and buy some potato cakes and a can of coke and a packet of cigarettes. The guy in the shop doesn't even blink. He just hands them over. I guess everyone wants me to hurt myself, even him. Or I guess it just doesn't make any difference. I don't care. I'll take my bounty and sit on the grass behind the gym. No-one ever really sits there except for me. I'll sit there and read my books and I'll be gone, gone, gone. At the moment I'm reading Alistair Maclean. He writes about World War II, secret missions behind enemy lines, Nazis, stuff like that. Good and Evil. Black and White. I enjoy them for what they are, but I'm smart enough to know that things are different these days. Evil never wears a uniform, Evil just sneaks right up on you and you never see it coming. Some days I think the whole world is Evil, and I'm the last man who can see it, like this is my mission, to liberate everyone from everything. But it's one thing to know what your mission is, and another to know how to complete it. I don't think I'm the man for the job. I think I'd just have to hide, forever, and hope that someone else saved the world. I'd come out after that and we'd be friends. The guy who saved the world, and the guy who believed in him. We'd just hang out and talk after that, a couple of friends until The End of the World.

I do have one friend at school. His name's Archie, but he's in a different class than me and he's got other friends who live in the same street as him and they've got a whole thing going on and I don't want to mess it up for him. Not that he invites me over there with them, but he'll talk to me when he sees me, and this one time we both wore the same t-shirt, Joy Division, and it was kind of funny.

You listen to Joy Division?
I love Joy Division!
And I could tell he was excited about it too.
Maybe you should come over to mine and we can listen to 'em sometime?
Yeah, cool. Okay.


That was his friends, waving at him. He says see ya soon - let's do it soon! and lurches and swings back across the quadrangle. I still haven't been, but that was good enough. I usually wear the Joy Division t-shirt once a week now. I've got a few others, The Cramps, Sonic Youth. I don't have Nirvana or The Ramones, but everyone has them and my sister says they don't know shit. She's the one that gave me the t-shirts, she's the one that gives me CDs - my favourite is Neil Young, or maybe The Smiths - she gave me a bike, a skateboard, a remote control car, some jeans. She gives me everything. I know she knows. That's why she gives me so much stuff. I don't care about the stuff, I just wish she was home with me. Or even better, that I was away with her. But she's just as helpless as everyone, and sometimes I think she needs my help, more than I need hers. You need to be with with mum, she says, she needs you there. But there's something in her eyes, like, I need you to be there because I'm all used up and I don't know if I can face it. I know how she feels. But you know what? I'll stay for her, and I'll stay for my mum. I guess that's what I'm here for. Them. Everyone's got to have a purpose right? Right.

Secretly? Secretly, I hate my purpose. Then I hate myself for hating it. I think that's why I'm frozen, inside, because when you've got two different voices in your head, how do you know which is you, and which is Good and which is Evil? Not that it matters, I mean I might have two voices in my head, but that doesn't mean I've got a choice.

Besides, I've only got two smokes left and no more money. So I'll go home and take it like a man, then take it like a thief. A man's gotta do to survive and all that.

A man.
I sure don't feel like a man.
Not tonight.

Please, not tonight.

Sunday, July 29, 2007

Chapter 1: A dark day's night.

I have a friend

I've never seen

He hides his head

inside a dream

Someone should call him

and see if he can come out.

Try to lose

the down that he's found.


After school isn't my favourite time. Every one else looks like they've got somewhere to go. Every one except me. It's not that I'm jealous of them. I like that they're happy. I like that all the kids who aren't friends with me and who ignore me - or worse - have friends. World keeps turning doesn't it? It wouldn't be right for me to be bitter. So I tell myself I like it. I should like it. I like it like a dog that's been beat up by its master likes it, when the master picks up the ball and throws it into the bushes and far out of sight. I like it because it distracts me, gives me something to hang on to. To drool over, to sit in a dark corner and masticate. The ball the rest of the world is having. And me, trying so hard to be a part of it that I don't know whether to eat it, chew it, or hand it back to the Man who keeps throwing it away.

It's not that I don't have a home. It's just I don't want to go there. I guess that's why I've taken up smoking. I can sit on the fence of the flats across from the school, just out of sight, and I can watch the whole thing unfold, kids with kids with parents with cars with families with bags with moldy bananas with books with new shoes with friends with a life with a future. I don't have a future - so I sit quiet and alone on the fence and see if I can't freeze time with every inhale exhale on my cigarette, because even though I'm not one of them, I'm not ready to let them go home. I need them. I need them to be here for me, even though they don't know I'm here. Smoking and staring and thinking and killing time. Sometimes later, I see the detention kids, or the smart and studied library kids, or the gym kids, sometimes I see them leave as the sun goes down, and I'm still sitting across from school smoking my cigarettes. I'm afraid. No I'm not. Yes I am, but it's not the sort of fear everyone thinks. It's just a flat, dejected and dull fear, not even a terror. At least terror would keep me sharp. At least the people in the movies scream and run and fight and sweat. Me, I just sit with my cigarettes until the sky hangs low and mirrors the darkness of my face. My mind. Sometimes, on a good day, I'll tell myself my face is the night sky and my eyes are beautiful stars. Sometimes that gives me hope. Mostly I tell myself, that's gay.

If I've stolen some change and I've got a full pack, I can sit there until it's really dark, which is better. For going home I mean. I'll wait until it's really dark and then I'll start walking along and looking into the front rooms of the houses I pass as I walk down the dark and empty streets. If I get the angle right, and the light, I can see my reflection in the windows and it's like I'm in there with them, one of them, sitting at the table, having a laugh or talking about Geography or how maybe I should look at a Trade and I'm just another kid at home and I'm not afraid of watching TV or being in the room the TV is in when someone else is home. I try not to think that really my reflection just looks like a ghost, forever abstracted, a stark, pale portrait staring back at a coldly appreciative audience. I try not to think that. I smile, not because I feel it, but because I think people won't be suspicious of me if I'm smiling when I look in. And I figure if you smile you've got a couple of seconds to get away, in case, you know, you get it wrong or you look like a pervert or they just want to come investigate. I've learned that, I can usually avoid a beating if I smile, at strangers, people don't know what to do with a smile on me. It's like it doesn't fit. They probably just think I'm crazy. What do you think of that? That I can't even smile without people thinking I'm crazy.

Still, I try and smile as much as I can. Sometimes it's all I've got, that smile. Especially on the walk home. I'll get to the edge of the big park not far from my house that I have to cross to get home and the moon won't want to watch, it'll slink behind the clouds, a voyeur, a rodent, and the trees will start to whisper their tales to me as I cross through the park or by the river. You should see me smile then. I probably look like a skeleton taking a turd or something. I smile so hard I even chipped a tooth once. I smile and I try to look straight ahead so I don't see a rape or a murder or worse happen beside a tree. My grandma told me, she said that Australia never really had big wars or anything, but in the soul of some trees there were dastardly acts of cowardice and murder. That's her words, not mine. Lots of black fellas got it, too many to say she says, but a whole lot of white ones too. Jumped and beaten and cut and killed, behind the trees, and so the murder sticks to them, they eat it up and they bleed it, that's the sap she says, but she makes it sound a whole lot worse, and that's murder what you can hear them talk about when you're on your own out in the bush, or in a dark, cold street walking alone. I believe her too, I've heard 'em. They talk to me. Sometimes they even laugh. As though they know what's coming. To be honest, I run past trees a lot. At night anyway. Sometimes I'm the fastest kid in the world. Then I remember what I'm running towards. And usually, I slow down.

Most nights at home, the suspense is the worse part. Other nights, it isn't. Every night, I wish I was stronger, but every night, all I can ever do is pray. Pray to a God I wish more than anything I could believe in, and who never once answers me or helps me or makes it stop. But I pray all the same, because I'm frozen inside and I don't know what else to do. And that's what makes me cry the most - that for all these thoughts, I still don't know what to do. I'm sixteen, I'm frightened and alone, and I don't know what to do.

Our father, who art in heaven...

I'll pull the covers over my head. I'll hear the stereo get turned up, and I'll hear footsteps.

Look around it, have you found it

Walking down the avenue?

See what it brings,

could be good things...

In the air for you.


Monday, July 23, 2007

A Knight is the Order of the Day

[I am a double agent conspiring against myself, doused in complicities, awash in brigandage, a Ronin, masterless and free yet yearning for meaning, alive and hiding, though the mission is lost, or even more dejecting - forgotten. Every turn takes me further from the objective, each crest gives sight to a vast vista, an expanse of ennui, more onward, more tomorrow, more hope, more reasoning as to what exactly the quixotic itch is that throws coals in to my heart, and fixes my eyes on the horizon. It's no engine, it's just a loco motive, a deranged dynamo, a maniacal motor gasping for fuel, consuming in its greed, a phoenix that has never taken flight, merely existed to stare sorrowful eyes at passers by before self combusting, colours red gold green and grey of smoke and ash and yet even the beauty of that moment is taken, as though the death of the phoenix were but a single flash bulb in a stadium of photographers...]


You can worry about the hard times, but you'd be missing the point. One of the greatest moments in cinematic history was when the Wizard of Oz went from black and white to colour. It's good to remember that. Man, a while ago I thought a misjudge in character on my part was the greatest tragedy of my life to date, which is hilarious, when you put things into perspective. And shit, I played the fucking part. Broken, I said. I ain't broken. Goats don't get broken, they keep moving, keep checking the scenery, eatin' some, then movin' on up (ok sure, occassionally there's need of a Primal Scream, but really it's always high melodrama...)

This morning I realised however, that if I hadn't have made the mind fuckingly stupid decisions I made over the last four, maybe five years, I wouldn't have devoured Bukowski and loved his poetry more than his books, wouldn't have discovered Henry Miller and understood what he was actually TALKING about in Tropic of Capricorn , I might never have thought to follow my own trail to pick up Celine, and Sherwood Anderson and, and, and...well, you know?

You don't have to suffer for art. But anytime you suffer, if you come out of it humbled and smiling, you'll find a cornucopia of rewards. If you're hungry, that first eye fillet is your first and final meal, if you're sad, those three chords and perfect lyric will show you a light, and those shivering, heart breakingly wise words will give you a brother in arms, even if they lived a hundred years before.

A few posts ago, maybe a month or so, an anonymous commenter said,

listen, buddy, in about ten years you'll realise that love is not such a black and white binary. it's not all or nothing, it's not pain or perfection. it's everything you can imagine wrapped up into a kind of dull package. and maybe you just take what you can get. and maybe near enough is better than the whole damn head-over-heels caper.

And I kind of agreed, I said, yes, but it's not as fun to write about that pragmatic view.

But really, I don't agree.

Love is all or nothing, Love is pain and perfection. And if I don't think that then what the fuck is worth shit in this life? Have poems been written, wars been fought, paintings been born, all in the name of compromise?

A toast, to True Mediocrity! May you live forever, in a general sort of pastel tinted niceness.


I choose to be a Knight, a believer in passion and explosions of the heart which both create and destroy in equal measures, a dreamworld, a mission motherfuckers, and if it's the most brainless, cockamamie, loony, kooky, imbecilic dream that Love can conquer the World and that one day a different society may exist through the simple power of positivity and romantic dreams, then leave me my Quest and put your stock in the devilish erosion of the body politic, a double for a doppleganger, and I will fight silently for the magic within as your Ruddy White Hero slays ancient forests with his Plan for Change. As you vote bane for bane, cancer for contagion, I will pray softly that they all drop dead, poisoned by themselves as scorpions.


In the meantime, it's keeping me and mine safe from harm, and eyeing a bold, white steed.

An escape.

*kicks boots in*

Sunday, July 22, 2007

Death of an Operator V.3.0

Yeah, I'm on Facebook, Myspace, I used to have like, three different profiles on Adult Fuck Find, I think I still have one on though I haven't looked and couldn't remember the password if I did, There was some other profile somewhere on some other site a few years back that led me to walk up and down the laneway in front of Bond Bar because someone I chatted in the sex way to said she was the bouncer or door bitch there, I walked up and down the laneway, said hello to her, she was about ten foot fucking tall and dark as coal wrapped in chocolate in the bottom of the deep dark sea. I was freaked the fuck out by the cold hearted nature of the whole deal. I think the site was called Adult Friend Finder, which of course is different than Find Adult Friends or Fuck Adult Friends or Fuck Friends Let's Just Fuck which is probably still the most popular. I have, I think four, maybe five email addresses, I don't even know. In the drawer beside my bed, I have a couple of old phones and a few sim cards. I have four different business cards with my name on them. I probably still get sent mail to three, maybe four of the 38 different houses I have now lived in over 34 years. I have an Ebay profile, a Mess and Noise profile, I bid on auctions at Gray's Online, I've got some profile for a music website on the Lower East Side of New York for fuck's. I'm on The Scene, I listen to Ween, I'm a big fat fucking inhuman joke and a number, a cog, in your fucking machine.

It's fucking disgusting.

I'm gonna bunch that shit together, gaffer tape my identity, my soul to my old PC that sits humming and breathing nights next to bed, even though it hasn't been plugged in to a power source for six months, I know it watches me, listens to me, thinks about me, computes my next move, relays the data, cackles and sparks electronic dreams and giggles to the toaster, the TV, the Portable Everything Device which wipes your fucking arse and kisses your Girlfriend goodnight while wrapping your children in their blankets, reading them stories, making sure everyone is asleep, even having your 2am porno ready for when you wake up hard and human as Hell, it fast forwards straight to the scene which will have you demented and contented and stupified in 30 seconds flat, sedated and padding down the hall to bed, to bed, to dream of electric sheep.

You think your brain is expanding, you think you've opened up new worlds of friends, a network, like minded people with amazing brains who write a single fucking word that has you wet and shivering in awe of a mystery who hides behind a screen, a photo, an image, and it'll suck every single fucking one of us unless we remember what's what and who is who and what the wet grass smells like without having to take a digital photo, or think of the words we'll use later to describe it to everyone here, in the Land of the Undead.


I want the country, that growth, that feeling of being ten foot tall, of being real, of one on ones and easy smiles. This shit stinks like Death. Of you, me and everything we've ever known.


You know, a few years ago I couldn't give a fuck. Ask my man G, he'll tell you, whatever we couldn't spell, couldn't write, couldn't design, didn't know that Religion was alive in a High St Boutique...we would forget to use apostrophes, we would use bad grammer, we would shock fucking horror, spell IT IS like ITS.

Insert Vampiric Music Stab. Mozart I think works best.

You know then I met some people, some good people, and everyone was chewing cud and grazing in the fields and agreeing with each other about the importance of grammar and spelling, and how it really showed the measure of people, and puerile syntax and worse still, ignorance was scorned or from a great height with a broad, generous heart...pitied.

Because words are Golden, right?

And you who do not have the touch, Midas well give up.


Status: This may go on all day.
Mood: Happy as all Hell.
Music: You and me and the Devil makes three...
About me: I like profiles. They feed my vanity.


Time for a bonfire.

Monday, July 16, 2007

Question of the Day

From behind my desk...

I wonder if there's a Doctor Hoo in China?

Only the Good Stuff here people.
Now let's get back to remembering the naked people in our dreams.

Sunday, July 15, 2007

Part 6.

On a winter's night The Devil
finds himself a Young Man,
not: he seeks one out and is successful,
but he looks at himself transmogrified,
a Chrysalis.

He beats his wings,
but tenderly,
as if to say,
don't forget who's boss.
Because he's still The Devil.
Maybe that's why she loves him.
Who knows.
There's questions dancing like stars
across the pitch of night,
far into the distance
flickering faster
the further out.

On a winter's night The Devil,
well read,
holding a flower,
high above the city,
well lubricated,
a hooded eye,
a bubble,
a haven from trouble,


If there is still magic buried
in this tamed and broken World,
then it's about damn time someone
began to dig it.

I dig it,
she says.

He laughs,
I know you do.

Part 5

And of course,
the real treasure is
The Truth.
No X, no map,
just Moles in the Dirt
blind and grubby,
following their noses,
because it's the most
trustworthy of the the five senses,
and you can be attracted
to the most ferocious of smells.
And I guess the thing about Truth is,
it's different every time you come up for air.
But I'll tell you one,
I'd rather a Shepherd's Pie
and a warm embrace,
than a threeway, a polaroid, and an OH OH face.

Part 4

You swap self protective tales,
plans for the future
the desire to travel alone
to focus on or find a career
your friends
their friends
stories from years gone by
the funny things you did
when we were kids
the trials and tribulations
of having parents
or not, as it may be,
because you're both a little unsure
about what today and tomorrow will bring,
but the fear is okay.

It's an engine that fear,
it keeps you running.

and you both like that, don't you.