Wednesday, April 25, 2007

Forest for the trees, back in County Greenbo

I remember the first girl I ever kissed made the air smell like a melting Kit Kat. We were outside in the driveway while the adults sat and drank and drowned in loquacious posturing inside the house. I remember they'd left the porch light on. I remember they'd left the front door open but the screen door was closed. And I remember t'was the kissing hour and the sky blushed as the sun sank behind the soft haze mound of the horizon and pretended not to watch us as we clambered into the speedboat that sat on a trailer parked in the drive. Behind the house was a drive-in and we laughed and throttled our way toward the adventures beyond the fence and far away, deep into the celluloid fantastic. I don't remember her name, I don't remember what she looked like but I remember taking off her red sweater, unwrapping her and gently pushing apart her trembling limbs and I remember how she breathed and the sound of her lips opening and the whole world turning chocolate and expectation and dizziness.


Conversation from last month that is in me today for unknown reasons:

Hey guys.



You know, hic, what?

No, I don't what?

If you weren't such a shit fucking sweetheart, more people would like you.

Yeah, sure, thanks for the tip. I'll keep that in mind. Good to see you. I guess I'll go now.


Every morning nowadays, I wake up happy and clearheaded.
I don't need anything else.
And knocking down walls between those closest to you isn't a chore.
It's a tender objective.

Monday, April 23, 2007

Strange Fruit

Feel that? The trip tickling tantalisingly tempting taste and traces of a dying summer. Arousing in its death throes, libidinously fresh and crisp in its ardent desire to travel around the globe and leave us breathless with sleep and ready to curl into flannel sheets - deceptively seductive as they are - as outside the reign of frost begins. And today...the sun is but the warmth of a lover after they have left the bed, a fragrant indentation and companion to the doe eyed loner left behind. Clarity is so fucking sexy, you can smell it on days like today. Days where the air dances electricity on your goose-fleshed arms and every hair stands to attention, marshalling the senses to a near orgasmic readiness. Everyone's alive, everyone's working, everyone's a busy beaver, and damn it feels good to be an animal, smelling, foretelling, hunting and killing. Days under a cold bright sun, nights a mystery behind closed doors, in front of a fire, with sated hearts and bellies and further down still. And if your toes could talk, they'd say...hehe, come lay by the fire, the fire with me.


And in perfect synchronicity, my Boss informs us all, that he has learned the Art of ejaculating up his own spine. Initially I picture him doing an "over the shoulder" and catching it on his back like those childhood wooden toys with the ball and string. Or perhaps he bends it down and around in some sort of gymnastic Holmes-esque ritual...but no. It's Tantric..and the office is nervously awaiting his offer to workshop us all.

Sunday, April 22, 2007

Don't say aaah, say ZAAAAA.

I feel toxic.

I once heard another person say that to me. I didn't know what to say to them, and I don't know what to say to you. It's a horrible thing to hear from someone you care about. Especially you.

I was always told I'd never amount to anything. I was always the Blimp. J-Pops, the Blimp.

You're not a blimp J-Pops, you are so lovely, and caring, and stubborn and great and fun and beautiful.

I feel toxic.



I love you Bum Fluff.

I love you Fluffy Bum.


In the end, my sister is the important person in my life. The one person I can always count on. I don't mean to say I can't count on my friends, but I mean, no matter what, no matter when, I can count on my sister. It has always been so, and so it shall remain. When I'm faced with the thought that one day she may not be there, for her dalliances with danger pose this insidious threat on a constant basis, I freeze inside. No human for you. I don't know. Maybe I can be more callous than anyone else on this planet. Maybe I can just frown and chisel it into myself and sneer and swear and drink and fight and curse and that way I won't feel. Won't worry. Won't...miss. I don't want my next tattoo to be another love heart with a name on it. I want my next tattoo to be a love heart across my lower abdomen with the word Heartbreaker in it - and maybe some skulls and eagle wings - so that "all my chicks" will gaze in awe at it while they are otherwise pre-occupied and somehow finding themselves at eye-level with my belly button. Class, pay attention, this stream of consciousness shows how easy it is to begin a paragraph with emotional honesty and finish it off with a flourish of head job references.

And if that just ain't my personality in a nutshell...


At the aquarium, I realise that much like shouting at foreigners helps them to understand the English language, fish are like all other animals in that they respond to coocchie coochie coo, hoo's a KUTE widdle fisheee type vernacular while you wave your little finger like a delicious wiggly worm.

And I think it's a really, really, REALLY cool place.

And so does my sister.


Tuesday, April 17, 2007

Glub glub glub, there's some room in my tub. (Don't touch my nub) (Oh okay, do)

I didn't realise, but from where I work by day in the green woods by the river, I can see the clearing beyond, where the castle once stood. I walk toward it. I, investigate. Nothing remains but remains. The remains of remains even. No wall, no crowd, no noise but the empty whisper of the wind which hurries by. I listen for a message and there is none. I hold my hand out and feel its impatience as it shoots across the sky toward somewhere, anywhere but here. This is a dead place. I died here.

My head sinks and I crouch down, to touch the earth and remind myself of what is what. I caress the grass which disguises the past. I build the castle wall in my imagination, but the image shimmers and disappears, diving into the pool of my subconscious and leaving slight ripples which fan out to nothing.

Something glimmers and I walk toward it. A rock, a single stone laying beneath a haircut of green and I pick it up and read what is written and I close my eyes just for a moment and let it sink in then fall behind me forever.

It says: you did this.

Well, I think, it was a little more fucking complicated than that. But it stabs a little all the same.

And the wall that once was here is now a scale model around my heart, though each day I feel the gentle tides of the ocean wearing it down to nothing, and look forward to the day when the water breaks through and envelopes me.

And I toss the stone in my hand and catch it. One, two, three...and I throw it as far as I can, beyond the horizon and toward the sun and behind the mountains and far, far from sight. It tugs as it flies, pulling taut the web which connects it to me. But it flies away just the same.

I think quite clearly; Love has destroyed far more than it ever created.

Walking home I make sure to walk new paths new roads new views new scents new new new and as I crest the hills there it is the ocean, and its welcoming arms stretch across the horizon and the reflection of the sun upon its face is a happy so real I simply laugh and run toward it. The web still tugs, but I can't feel it underwater.

Think I might just grow me some gills.


Some people are avoiding me, and I'm hiding from the world, and some people think I'm avoiding them and the whole thing's a fucking dance, especially here, in my SIB*. But all I know is, eventually if you want to and if it feels right then you start to do day to day what's right for you. So home every night, two months now, skin looks good, brain is working, chipping away at what needs to be done, though there is always more. Write some songs, read Nabokov, watch Top Model, do everything you need to do, just to stay happy. I'm staying happy. I'm helping myself. That's not self-important. It's just important. Stay off the net, don't look back, don't worry - don't fret, the sun is rising and with it a new fucking day. A new fucking era.

And somewhere out there, someone will read this and say, you're a cheesy fuckwit.

Laugh out loud. Roll on the floor. Smiley wink face. Random Access Memory. Keyboard, blog, website etc.

And I care so much I may just cry and every fucking moment will pass and fade as tears in the freaking rain.

*Self Indulgent Bubble.

Thursday, April 12, 2007

and I got shot in the head by a skateboard gun too.

I meet the guy who paints these pictures. I meet him for the first time, though we've known each other for years. I meet a man who asks me, do you have a band? I say, I used to have a band now I have half a band - hopefully soon I'll have a whole band. He's not listening, but I don't mind, he's so high he's dancing in unseen currents high above the earth. He draws back good on his smoke, turns his head to look at the crowd gathered in the tiny gallery and exhales long and strong as he swivels back to stare me in the eye. No-one's anyone 'less they got a band, he says. I laugh, and so does he. For a moment I realise how funny everything is. His girlfriend the sculptor wears a necklace made of skulls. There are people dressed in baggy trousers drinking tinnies on the street. There are good looking girls in low cut dresses. Everyone looks happy to be here. My guy and I both wear ties. He has a jacket, I have a shirt and we're both lucky men if you look beside us. Maybe I'm the luckiest, I think as I take a long deep gulp on my beer and light up.

Later there's steak but that's my business.