Monday, January 29, 2007

Up down, turn around, please don't let me hit the ground. Tonight I think I'll walk alone, I'll find myself as I go home.

In the small country town which exists within my mind, the whispers grew stronger and windows were silently but firmly bolted closed and doors were locked and blinds drawn until the empty streets resembled naught but long lost memories. On Main St, I stood alone on a corner and waited, and the breeze blew caution that caressed my hair and the roads that intersected began to draw themselves in, until the horizon itself was but a handspan away and I could touch the very end of the world.

What do you think I did? I lit the fuck up. Drew that first breath in and held it. Exhale.

Here they come.

The heat smelled of summer storm and sweat and the sound of thunder grew louder as the Horsemen approached from the East. I could taste fire and it burned blisters in my mouth until I spat scorched earth. Scorched earth laced with determination. Bring it fuckers.

I closed my eyes and let myself drown in the sounds, I smoked some more until I heard the winny and bray and snort and hustle, and I knew they were upon me.

These were MY four horsemen. This was my day of reckoning.

Dig my action fuckos.

Hey, I said, staring them back. Smoke?

Fear, Guilt, Anger and Insecurity, all on horseback, all come for me.


Two things are hard. Being a friend to someone with whom you have a deep, emotional connection, seperating yourself from selfishness in your dealings with them, offering objective advice and love though it may hurt and may indeed, be at odds with your own hopes for the future. This is a choice I guess. A choice to stay, a weighing up of the worth of a friendship, of a connection. A seperation of self from emotion. In a similar way, this applies to my dealings with myself. I've always been an emotional fuck. I cry at the end of stupid movies like Almost Famous, not a shrieking sob, but a slow gradual leak, like taking a piss on ecstacy. I've always held that the emotions are the TRUE reaction to things, the passionate way, so therefore the road more worthy. But that's bullshit isn't it? Emotions are like the past, they give us valuable lessons, but they should be studied and held dear, not allowed to rule the present or the future. I'm beginning to realise that this may be the lesson I am here to learn. My best has always been a cooler objectivity, an understanding of things, without the terrible consequences of letting them affect me. My best has alwas been Harry Haller, the half wolf - half man Steppenwolf. My best has always been: following the path that leads to a quiet studied SELF. My worst comes from letting the moods of others get in, and believing I must make other people feel better about themselves in order to feel better about myself. My worst is the Chameleon, flitting from clique to clique and playing mascarades wherever I go, and wondering why it is so hard for people to see through the bullshit to the real person inside. This writer. This brain. My best will be leading, as my friend has asked me to do, but leading only by quiet calm, and finding a greater understanding of everything that spins and whirlygigs around me.

I've been kicking myself for years over the smallest moments in time. Wishing I had acted like this, or not said that, or blah blah blah. Quite useless really, when all it takes is one slow, simple breath, and waiting for that strong, confident voice to speak above all the others that clamour and cavort in the back of my brain.

I know which one is right now.

It's a good.


Fear, Insecurity, Anger and Guilt. They hold their ground, confident in their power over me. But in the end, I don't even bother writing about them. I don't even give them that.

You ain't worth it, Horsies.


Friday, January 26, 2007

5 Songs.

Jesus, don't cry. You can rely on me honey, you can combine anything you want. I'll be around, you were right about the stars. Each one is a setting sun

It's nice to open the blinds and see the streaks and rivers of rain paint patterns on the outside of the glass, framing my first view of the outside world on a morning full of promise. A promise of this: let every thought come today, and let each one craft shapes like clay, wet in your fingers, under your nails, caked on your skin those thoughts which live under it. I remember my High School Ceramics class, laugh at the thought of it being applied to a philosophical paragraph, and let the thoughts shape themselves. Don't press too hard, let the momentum craft the thought, let the rotation take you. Feel the grooves. Heh. I line each one on the window sill, and leave them to dry.

Two nights ago I sat opposite my oldest and best friend and watched tears well in his eyes as his frustration and passion burned in his speech, telling of that Inertia which curses the intelligent sometimes, the meaningless and loneliness of not feeling a part of the world around him. There was beer, vodka, jagermeister and cocaine. And it was plain to see, the way through for him was to numb numb numb birdy numb numb the helplessness.

And then a sentence I never thought I'd hear from him:

YOU lead the way. LEAD the way. Show me the way.

And if it was anyone else, I would've laughed and shrugged it off with a half arsed witty remark. But the bastard made me think, made me go home thinking, and made me feel an obligation, to both him and me. Okay you, okay. I fucking well will.


I'm so glad that my memories remote, 'cause I'm doing just fine hour to hour, note to note

The first step, I am finding, is almost Buddhist in nature. Learn to understand the moment, and live purely within it. A busy brain is oft a curse, and you live two or more concurrent lives as the physical life becomes one dimensional and the life within your head takes you elsewhere, anywhere, always somewhere else. The moment suffers here, don't you see? You no longer see the artistry of the water cascading down the glass on the window, you use it as a conduit to drift aimlessly and the streams of water trip streams of memory or hope and your eyes are glazed now and the facial contortions which come along for the ride blind you to what is real. What is real, is where you are right now. All thought is deception at that moment. So I exercise this, and stand out on the grass in the rain and let my feet feel the earth and my face feel the water and watch each drop float like a snowflake, a chubby snowflake, and from inside the house comes the sound of 5 songs, soundtracking my now. Fucking beautiful.


I don't know i didn't try with you, now the moon is bleedin' dry, the sun is weepy eyed, how did it come to this

Regrets, I've had a few. And here I almost write, "teehee" to lighten the meaning in that sentence, but I've grown some, and want to take it a little more seriously. Regrets, I've had a few. In the moment, face to the sky, arms outstretched, that thought slides by - a comet, and with it each and every regret trailing behind cold and dead across the universe within my mind. I feel each one and the pain within them and I let it go past and I leave my face turned up so that the water can work its gentle healing once they pass. Forgive yourself and every one from your present and past, or risk being locked within a prison of regret, and never able to move forward. I want to move forward. My friend asking me to lead the way, reminded me of exactly what I have. And the responsibility that comes with it.


Well, once we had an easy ride and always felt the same. Time was on our side and I had everything to gain. Let it be like yesterday. Please let me have happy days

Do you shave your pussy?


Can I see?


Mmm, hot. Now you too, I want to look at both pussies at the same time, one bushy and one shaved.


Wonderful. Good times...good times....where have all the good times gone? Yeah!


Washboard Lisa, wash away your sins, let them go down the drain. Every time you move your dirty little hands, takes away our fears and our pain.

Nothing will ever change, all of this will continue forever, there is no moment of enlightenment, there is no drastic transmogrification from one form to another, a butterfly from a moth, a birthday or new year signaling a new beginning, there is only a straight line, from the beginning of you until the end of you. Of me. But I like me, and my unique trip baby, it's a fucking rollercoaster, it has the ingredients, it has the will, it's got the blues, it's got the most certainly has the self indulgence...

Fuck I love the rain. I hope you can hear it where ever you are.


voices whine
skyscrapers are scraping,
your gravelly voice
is smoking
my last cigarettes
are all you can get
turning your orbit around

Wednesday, January 24, 2007

For every trouble that you found, there's a drink to lose it and drown.

I've lost count of the times reality has shifted and faces have faded and you wake up to a revelation as dawn kisses you with golden breath and that first moment when you open your eyes is clarity baby, clarity and all that you are, have been and 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 intrinsically shallow nature of what we believe to be our lives is exposed under the light of the dreams that we truly are...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.

Woah, another drink then?

Yes please.



How do telephone numbers know where to go?

I don't know, it's weird isn't it. And look, look how thin their little wires are, between the poles, and think how many conversations are flying down those wires, and each little conversation knows exactly which wire leads to what house and...and...I wonder if the conversations are actually stretched across the wire, like elastic, or if they are a million little darts shooting across the earth...

And what about mobiles? HOW DO THEY KNOW WHERE TO GO?

Yeeeah...and how the fuck do we never hear anyone else's conversations, if there's all these conversations flying around the air, knowing which mobile to go to, how come we never pick them up?



That does my head in, I need beer.



I think every one has the capacity to read the mind of everyone else.
It's just so preposterous, that we all lie to ourselves and deny it.

Tuesday, January 23, 2007

I am the world's forgotten boy, the one who searches and destroys.

Dance fucko. Dance around the fire of your own creation. Dance and let it all sweat out pounding beat and rhythms and heat / dance in your heart let the beat beat beat push push push, out and about and feel it flow, circulate, course, emerge, exudate, flood, glide, gurgle, gush, inundate, jet, ooze let it ooze don't ask what IT is, just do do dooze, just dance dance dance.


The questions are different, but the song remains the same.


I'm gonna take a little time...a little time to look around me...

I'm dancing in the shallows lately, letting the tide slide and slither and tickle the dirty toes of my four year old shoes. The deep dark frightens me now, it's where the creatures live, it's the unknown, where a man might swim gaily, a blissful ignoramus of all that lives below (INSIDE), and besides, I'm a certified motherfucking deep sea diver, and I don't have to do it anymore thankyou come again goodbye.

I'm gonna read between the case I need it when I'm older...

So it's Ninja steps, gentle, heel to toe, heel to toe, don't split the Rice Paper Man, don't split it with your negative waves, just inch down the corridor and eventually you'll arrive, silent, unannounced. Eventually, you'll arrive. That's what I'm telling myself. If I catch myself listening anyways. These days, I listen a lot. It's just choosing which voice.


I haven't been to work for three weeks now, I think I'm going to call them, right after I speak to you. I think they should hear from me. I think I should let them know why.

Why? I ask. (It's not me, I have been to work thank you).

This one's just gone on for longer than I expected it to is all, I know you know, I know you understand. Can you believe we still go through this?

Highs and lows motherfucker. It's never ending. Besides, I'm keeping my head above water, it means either you or my sister must be going through a rough patch. It's the way it's always been, twenty fucking years now.

Twenty years...

Twenty years.

Christ. Anyway, I'm gonna call them, I'm going to try and explain that the reasons I can't come in are...philosophical in nature. I don't now, what's the worst they can do? Fire me! Fuck 'em.

Fuck 'em.

Yeah, I'm gonna call 'em. And then I'm going to drink this $150 bottle of Brandy I just bought. Come over tomorrow, let's drink it slow and easy and talk shit. I need to talk shit.

Okay, brother. I'll come over tomorrow.

Cool. We can get...




Inside, where no one could see, even those who profess to know me, inside my head January 1st 2007, I made a pact. It's a pact between me and myself and no one can read it and no one is allowed to know what it is and screw perception and psychology and screw the tracks of history and screw every fucking science that lays clues like breadcrumbs as to the nature of being. My pact is my pact and it is this:

Friday, January 19, 2007

Thirteenth Night. A poem.

I'm not going to make the list. I mean, when the earth is up, over and out and we're all sweating about it, watching the news twenty four seven and there's no Smallville, no Cricket, no Wassup Australia in the mornings, just words silently drifting right to left calling the names of the Chosen Few and that dead pan delivery as the Anchorman becomes fucking St.Peter himself, ticking the list of those allowed through the pearly steel gates and up, up, up into the clouds and beyond. I'm not going to make the list. Of those, allowed into "heaven". Funny huh, in the end, even Heaven will be sold to those who can pay the price, and the Meek, yep, they'll inherit the Earth alright. Bye bye meek, heaven awaits. And it'll all break down, the system will shut down, without those bastards and their money and their wars, they'll take it all with them on their shiny fucking Ark and they'll never look back, they'll study long and hard, immortality in a far flung galaxy, the best of the best, the richest of the rich, survival of the fittest, fastest, foxiest. HA! But the fucking joke my friend, oh the fucking joke just SLAYS me. The joke isn't that in the end their hatred consumes them, it's not that they take their pain with them, that war breaks out amongst them and they never find Heaven...the joke is this: After they have gone we the meek shed tears of grief loss anger and we fuck fuck fuck rotten and desperate like scared animals grasping tight our final fear moments and living our last hours and we drink DRINK YOU FUCKERS THERE'S NO TOMORROW so we drown in drink and dribble until we are no longer afraid we are open we are raw we are doomed doomed doomed HA! finally we are doomed and that is our reward don't you see, We The Doomed, left on a dying planet by the filthy rich and catflap cunts. The meek shall inherit the earth shall inherit the meek. And baby / kids / countymen / PLANETmen / while we sleep and dream our doomed infantile visions our tears shall envelope this dying earth and bring life to deserts, and they shall swallow the skeletons of the poisonous regimes the cold iron stacks and acid stench swamps and baby, you'd never fucking dream it you'd never fucking dream it, except I did, I dreamed it...I dreamed that this this is the salvation of the meek and fucking loser lost. Abandoned, ridiculed, all doors closed upon them, left behind. That's when it all comes clear. Once the fucker arseholes have left, once they're looking into cold empty space and their hearts have frozen cold thoughts and ruthlessness and what's done is done...our joke is final, that's when we're allowed to grow. Allowed to heal, ourselves and the Earth we're left with.

And it's imperative, that we fuck like mad.

Monday, January 15, 2007

You can give them to the birds and the bees.

When you ride a speedboat across a secluded salt water lake under a dark red sun and charcoal clouds choke the air and your every breath is cinders / acrid / soot / smoke and fire, when as you climb into the car that you hitch a lift two hundred kilometres in and as you close the door you notice a giant Goanna laconically clambering beside the road where you were standing not ten seconds before and it flickers its lick spittle tongue backwards and forth lashing leather lips and scaled google eyes, when you're driving through forests built of tall ghostly dancers still as eternity and blackened by lightning and scorched by the caresses and gropes of red and yellow fingers...when you do all these things but the only thought in your head is hatred of the fat little cunt sitting beside you eating hamburger after hamburger and barbeque shapes and mars bars and your stomach is a bear, an animal, a growling boogie man eating away at the lining of your intestines and the only thing that keeps you going is the mantra, I hate you fat little cunt, I hate you fat little cunt, I hate you fat little cunt...well, that's when you know being broke is a bitch.

I made it to Bairnsdale though, through the fires, back towards Melbourne. I made it to Bairnsdale with five food stops for the little prick in a two hour drive from Cann River. I made it with my eyes burning holes through Catcher in the Rye as the incessant noise of an eight year old boy chewing chewing chewing drove me to insanity, reading the one sentence over and over and over: I sat at that goddamn bar till around one o'clock or so, getting drunk as a bastard. And every time they stopped and asked after me, are you sure you don't want something Mathew? I kept my cool and smiled and said, no thank you, I'm happy with my book, words are nutrition for the mind you know! Honestly, I said that. I sat at that goddamn bar till around one o'clock or so, getting drunk as a bastard. And at Bairnsdale I looked for my Uncle's Insurance Company but I couldn't find it, well actually I'm pretty sure I did find it but I just couldn't bring myself to go inside, to go through the door into the fluoro world of Insurance, and besides I could see through the tinted glass and inside hovering over the barely legal mega breasted receptionist was a carnally challenged cheap suited office gorilla, his hands on the back of her chair, breathing hot mutton lunch down the nape of her neck. Man I walked past that window five, six, seven times, but I still couldn't bring myself to walk inside. I was covered in black dirt, my hair smelled of ash and rotten fish and I had the gaunt look and wild round eyes of a starving Hyena and if my Uncle was inside I would've scratched and clawed at his polyester and spat beggar desperation at him for half a sandwich or something. So I just kept walking past that window right side left side until finally I sank to new lows of hunger driven desperation and played a game with myself of wondering which corner, which street I would have to turn down to find that shiny twenty dollar, ten dollar, five dollar note. I was laughing to myself, at myself, but I had time to kill and the walk took the edge off, I mean, I didn't ask anyone for anything, and that's what counts right? And I had cigarettes, man those babies are a sucker's best friend. And sitting there, with the black fellas outside the train station, they knew my cousin, he used to run with them out here out East, and watching the Stuyvesants slowly burn one by one, and waiting for the train with the thought of peace at the end of the line, all I could think was, it's going to be embarrassing, but fucking write it all down. And two days later drinking champagne over scrambled eggs at Mario's, it's all a fucking dream, until that evil shit burns your hands and disintegrates and dissolves before your very eyes and the beautiful cycle of life keeps rolling on and on and on. So I'm looking for work, again. And late tonight I can take the stuffiness no more and I write a cover letter to go along with my application,

Dear The Future,

Your ad was so wonderfully written and exciting in an F. Scott Fitzgerald meets Harrison Ford meets that lady from Bert Newton style of presentation that I could not help but be swept up with enthusiasm. I mean, this one time, I wrote and art directed a comic for Nike, and so they gave me a penthouse party on top of the Mercantile Mutual Building, All I wanted was a pair of shoes, but it was. It was fun, I wish you guys had've been there. However, I feel this pales in comparison to the wonderful and exciting picture of the Buchanan Group you have painted within your advertisement. And I'm pretty sure I have absolutely NO chance of getting this job, but I'm very cheeky, and extremely sharp, and I think you'd like me a lot. It really sounds like a wonderful environment to learn new things. I'd like that.

May all other applicants disappoint you or contract rare disabling diseases.

All the best, I anxiously await your reply.

I'll let you know how I go. As the Magic Eight Ball says: Outlook not so great.

Monday, January 8, 2007

Everyone's so lonely I dig it, but I'm afraid I can't share this with you.

In front of me as I walk to the shop, a small Indian man gets out of his car and as timing would have it walks four maybe five paces in front of me. I don't change my pace as I sometimes do in this situation, I simply continue to stride behind him feeling his nervousness at having someone so close behind him. The first time he turns, it's under the pretense of checking on his car, he looks over his shoulder, judging both the distance between us, and the type of person I am. Am I a danger? Am I about to speak to him? To ask him for money? To take it forcefully? He wears a denim shirt tucked into blue jeans. It is the uniform of a slightly successful, feeling casual, middle aged man. It reminds me of my Step Father, and how he always used to wear the same leather jacket, collegiate style, though built for the paunch of the well fed rich man. I laugh out loud, and this makes the Indian man nervous. He picks up his pace and I decide to choose left or right to walk past him, to end this charade. I choose left, the fence side, but as I do I get the feeling he is about to enter a house so I slow down again, wondering if I should tack to the right to overtake but not wanting to walk in the gutter, just to please the paranoia of a stranger. No gutter for me my friend! I walk the footpaths of the world, proud and purposeful! He turns again, and seeing me, actually stops dead, waiting for me to pass. He is totally unsure of what to do, and all I did was walk behind him.

I raise my arm as though I were about to hold him around the waist, but simply to acknowledge the distance between us. I pass him by, and I smile as I do.

These are the moments.


My goal is to make decisions that have no bearing on a life other than my own. But it's almost impossible. I am no exile, nor do I wish that. The island I live upon exists solely within my own head, but surely it has room enough for others. In my brain, I sit in judgement upon myself, and I have no desire to draw anyone else into my cobwebbed cold cell. But I do dream of warmth, of a light that will shine into every corner of the room, of a startling passion that will only giggle at the self indulgent affectations of an old soul who places such importance on itself. Jesus Christ, it's not all so bad hey, there is fun to be had, and life to be gripped and swallowed. It is just, the many voices of a busy brain often complicate things. To find which is real, which is personality, which is advice, which voice allows the truth, and the true way forward, this is the battle.


Every thought that once had a sound
We'll have to hide 'til no one is around
'cause there ain't no room in the city today
For explanations that you just can't say

"Don't listen to too many sad songs" is the advice I am given and it's good advice. But truly? It ain't so maudlin, so suffocating, it's the sound of beauty and emotion and passion, and I'm always going to be a sucker for that. I'm always going to live within my heart and soul, though madness overcomes me somedays. I just have to remember to smell the goddamn flowers. And today, the earth has cooled and the breeze tickles softly those hairs who have long since fallen behind evolution, their sole purpose to dance under the soft kiss of the skies breath. It's enough to make a grown man giggle.

If you're on Limewire try this:

Artist: Sebedoh
Track: Not too amused.

Maybe it will explain better than I can.

For now, I'll let the mood swings come.

Wednesday, January 3, 2007

Black tie living room couch professor, when will you be through with me I'd like to know

Sun burns and blisters a syphillis upon the earth as my bare feet mirror its pain and ache for the cool shadows one, two, three houses down. It's an old game, running from patch to patch, feeling the bubbles of boiling skin reach that unbearable level then slowly recede, a low tide of relief exposing the tiny grains of asphalt which barnacle themselves to the bottom of my feet. It's a concrete desert here in Brunswick, nary a tree to filter the light, barely a patch of green now that summer has bored the landscape, greens to brown, oranges to yellows, jet black to office grey. It's all fading, and I've faded with it. There are choices to be made, decisions to ponder, but the sun makes them all for me, and I drip a sweaty malaise until the middle of the night, when the only sound other than late night walkers, is that of my beating heart, and the terrible twins that live inside my brain. Good and Evil, it ain't no joke.


You're a cunt, a liar, a thief, a drunkard. a waste, all potential, no action, no results, no evolution, no change, forever spinning, you're on a merry-go-round, a carousel, a spiral, when you gonna get off, boy? WHEN YOU GONNA GET OFF, BOY?

I "guh", and my fists close involuntarily. On the stereo, the last verse plays over dual, distorted guitars:

So don't make me a captive.
I don't feel like talking your shit.
I nod my broken head.
I'm not too amused with humans.

It's a good song. It's a powerful song. And right now, Sebedoh soundtrack the fuck out of my life.

But I'm thinking, not drinking, and that's a start. Like rejoining the human race by collecting piece by piece of identification. I'm starting to exist now. And as I collect reality around me, I slowly shed the pieces of fantasy that I have held close for so long.

It's a start.


The heat wraps a blanket around the bricks that stays until well after dark. It doesn't help, but who the fuck had help anyways? The beginning has begun to begin, on the very eve of 34, and this time I'm going to ride the momentum, flip the roof off, cruise in 5th downhill for a while, just let it roll, and let this fucking road finish for once. Let the road dictate, instead of trying to build it wherever I traverse. Maybe I've never done that, or maybe I chose roads that never led anywhere in the first place. All these years, all they ever did, was lead to roam. And that's what I've done, circle after circle. And they were right, it didn't take a day, it took fifteen fucking years. So now in the heat, I'll find out which bridges are built solid behind me, and which ones will flame and flare, flash and flicker. That way, at least the roads behind me will begin to make sense. Even if the one ahead leads down and dark to who knows where.


My escape plan disappeared as they always do. I shot my mouth off, I got excited, I wanted it, but I wanted it for nothing, and I've never got shit for nothing. Everything comes with its own pound of flesh. So what's it gonna take this time? An arm and a leg? Yeah, they all take an arm and a leg, and that's all these days if you're lucky. But now, I got my ruthless streak on, and if they want 'em, they can have 'em. I'll grow more, I'll be the man with a thousand limbs, always out to lend a hand, to put my best foot forward, and I'll be their leper if that's what they want. Take 'em, they're yours. But I want out. I want OUT.


It's my birthday tomorrow. And all I want is to make my own present, make my own luck. No more wishing, grabby, grasping, greedy, hoping, hot, itchy, keen, longing, lustful dreams. Just what is and what will be. And all built on a foundation of stone. Asphalt kisses on souls of the earth. Solid, you fuckers. Solid.

Hope yours was a happy one.