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 RedHotSexFuck.com 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.

Part 3

Later still,
you both say the words
and you both feel a little empty
and you both feel a little sad
and ESP is a beautiful myth,
which binds the dreamers,
and the lonely...
but if you hold hands in the
dark and silence,
it's nice enough to listen to those
as they echo in the deep ocean

Part 2

you find out how old you are getting
and how soon will be the time to
extinguish the fires for good.
As it was always "after" that you
reached beside the bed for your ventolin.
And now it's "during"...

Part 1

We sit and laugh
in the dark back corner of the Bar.
We drink whiskey.
The piano player plays to polite applause.
Her long stockinged leg stretches out
and points playfully to the man who
sitting two tables over,
fixes his stare on the barmaid
not as a lech,
but as a lonely old father
and a romantic fool
dreaming the soft musk
of his past conquests,
unsure whether to compare the
olive skinned student
to his daughter or his mistress.

And your friends all come a' running, slap you on the back and say...

I was walking down the street the other day when Sting ran up to me and said,

ah doo doo doo, ah da da da, that's all I want to say to you...

He ran off doing vertical Helicopter arms.

I kept walking toward the pub.

Thursday, July 12, 2007

LOL eat 'er

I have to use this photo in an ad.

Do I just have a filthy, weird mind, or is there something really wrong here...

Wednesday, July 11, 2007

Mess & Noise.

Whatever people's personal opinions are of The Palace, I have a lot of special memories of that place. Watching it burn to the ground yesterday was weird. All those memories, turn to ash. But as a bystander said, perhaps it's more fitting to watch it go this way, than to watch it destroyed by the wrecking ball of progress. Or as my spunky buddy put it, it committed suicide. Funny, it was probably about 27 years old too.

Gigs that I can remember having seen at The Palace:

Nirvana. Already on tour before Nevermind was released, they hit Australia just as they went Galactic. Beautiful.

My first ever rave, on my first ever trip with my first ever girlfriend. Must have been 1992 or something. Shannon and her friends invited me to a rave and gave me a trip, I had to look cool, but I was so nervous I snuck into the toilet and only had half, flushing the other half a trip down the sink. We danced to Cosmic Baby, fuck knows who the Hell that was. But it was my first techno experience, and there were lasers and there was my little blondie love smiling at me, and I felt...home.

Jesus, I can't even remember...

Queens of the Stone Age. Still, both George and I agree when we are drunk, the Greatest Gig We Have Ever Seen. When it's so good you want every song to be the last song, but it just never let up, two freaking hours of losing your mind. I saw them there twice, I can't remember which one it was. I think it was the Songs for the Deaf tour.

The Cramps.
Bad Brains. Why? I don't know. My stoner reggae friend took me...
Kings of Leon.
Eagles of Death Metal. HELLO.
Monster Magnet. When they were good, after Superjudge I think.
Jesus Lizard.
Jon Spencer.
Sonic Youth? Did they play there?

I'm racking my brain, there's got to be a whole stack more, but I just can't remember...

I got to see The Pixies there. A perfect send off to an icon of my youth.

Oh, and I met the owner of the place once at a Swinger's Party, but that's whole different story...

Bye Little Palace. I don't care what people say about you. I loved you.


PS: I just saw the Herald Sun headline, DISCO INFERNO. God that'd be a fun job...

Sunday, July 8, 2007

Send them again, and you die.

As exciting as it is to know that seminal Sydney punk band, X, have released a wicked double CD including live recordings from the Prince of Wales from Way Back When, and as great as it is to hear the rumble and shudder of Ian Rilen's bass playing...4 o'clock on Monday Morning is not particularly when I want these facts to be force fed into me.

Let's wave our hands in the air Tomorrow People style, and travel back in time a few hours shall we?

To: The Land of Nod.

[scene] B's bedroom, it is 2.30am Monday Morning. I have my arms wrapped around a pillow. The air is cold but my flannel sheets and doona are a cocoon, a haven. I am singing the last letter of the alphabet.

[enter Circus. No, really, the Circus]


[B opens his eyes and mutters to himself, what the fuck, as all of a sudden RODRIGUEZ begins to play at 747 volume. SUGAR MAAAAAAAN...]

B: Nooooo.

[There is a banging on B's bedroom window.]




Trapeze Artist: That's mattyb! MATTYB! MATTYB! WAKE UP MATTYB!


Circus: OOOOOH!!!!!

Trapeze Artist: I'm going to go and wake him up!

[B grabs his wakizashi, the short samurai sword he used to use when studying Ninjutsu at Kevin Hawthorne's Ninja School in 1988. His bedroom door opens.]



Trapeze Artist: Awww mattyb, I'm sorry. Ok. Oh, mattyb?

B: What?

Trapeze Artist: Do you have any pot?

B: You know I don't smoke pot.

Trapeze Artist: Oh I forgot. Ok, BYE MATTYB!

B: Argh.

[B's bedroom door closes. There are noises outside. RODRIGUEZ changes to MILES DAVIS.]



Trapeze Artist: TURN IT UP!!!


[This continues for two hours. Finally at 4.30am, B hears the music turned down.]

B: Thank FUCK.

[There is silence. Until, five minutes later. X appears on the stereo, and there has never been a louder noise in the history of noises. Even the man who invented noise thinks, wow, this one is a particularly big one...B has heard this sentence before.]

[Outside the window, B hears the entire story of Ian Rilen, his time in X, how he wrote Bad Boy for Love, other facts which are interesting, but ultimately keeping B from his MONDAY MORNING FUCKING SLEEP BEFORE WORK]

Time travel: A few hours later.

Scene: An advertising Agency

Boss: Good Morning B, hey so we need to work on the ANZ account and if you could just work through the copy and blah blah wadda blah googly worble blah blibble tiddly po...

B: Whaaa? You want a coffee?


B: *cries*

Tuesday, July 3, 2007

Sucks to be you.

Hey B.


How's it going?

M'kay guess.


And you?


What's up?

Well, it's my new girlfriend.

Oh you have one? Nice.

Yeah but, she's kind of young and...

How young?

You know, like 19...

That's not much younger than you...

I know, but my last girlfriend was a lot older and...


And well, this is the second time I've gone out with a girl younger than me, and I'm starting to have this theory...

What's the theory?

You're not going to like it.

Okay. What's the theory?

The theory is, FELLATIO IS DEAD.

Horatio? Alas, Yorrick knew him well etc.



I'm SERIOUS. NONE of the girls my age even think about doing it anymore. What's going on?

I don't know, but my house mate said a similar thing a few weeks ago, and he's dating a girl your age...

YOU SEE! This is terrible...isn't someone meant to be teaching this?

You mean, like, in Home Ec or something?

Man, now they're all like, computers and globalisation, what happened to scones and head jobs?


I'm serious. Something needs to be done.

Well, I can't help you I'm afraid, but I'll have a beer with you if you like?

I can't.

Why not?

Because I promised to make dinner and clean up the house before my girl comes over.

Monday, July 2, 2007

Augury. Hip. Burn.

#1: Augury

In the middle of the night, when the moon begins to wane, turning its face from the chaos it has created, unabashedly looking elsewhere for trouble, you suddenly wake, sit up and say, something amazing is about to happen, lie back down and fall asleep.

The dreams give you two moves.

You do not forget them in the morning.


#2: Hip

You walk in to your studio and it's your old friends, the Originals in tight black jeans, taking too many varieties, it's in your blood, ooh darlin' let me in...that's what greets you, and through the window the caress of the gentle winter sun kisses your desk and the upturned teddy bear with the underpants that is your mascot looks at you, winks, and you wink back and there's laughter dancing on the suppressed eddies of a changing current. Hip.

Oh yes.
So Hip.

That's the first thing to go apparently, in old age.
The hips.

I'm looking forward to that.


#3: Burn

The Engine is alight, and you with your charcoaled face and quixotic ambitions can just reach out your hand and see the fires and flames, the whole damn explosion, the whole damn thing fit nicely within it, dancing blue, gold, red, rust and light. Your Universe. Your writing. Your eyes which frame the scene. It's all yours, if you want it. One smile, one flash, one dream, one yes, one moment and the differences come back, but this time you lay them out, the gilded robes of today's adventure.


It's that fucking easy.

Sunday, July 1, 2007

Urge to dance, rising.

And then, reasons to like people.

Red, Red, Sun. Or: Of Faith and Harder.

Happy Premise Number One: There is no Giant Foot trying to squash me.


You know, you let someone else's perception of you dictate how you feel about yourself and you might as well just lie down and give up. Especially when the person in question has a whole set of truths, and only deals out a card at a time to the sharks and gambling whores who can't get enough and who circle and feed at the table eyeing off the big score. And the Queen of Hearts? That baby stays in the sleeve, though it's the name above the door in Big. Red. Neon. Lights.


Happy Premise Number Two: No more showing Mister Winky to the Laker Girls.


For a guy who has written and thought about Love quite a lot, I've finally come to accept that I don't deserve it, or maybe will never find it. A guy like me, I'm Fuck, not Love. And I'm either Fucking or Getting Fucked. So it has been, so it shall fucking remain.


I got fucked alright.

And so did Love.
A Rouge of Lust,
a Masquerade of Kisses,
a Chasm of Farewells.


Things turn, as they always do,
and quickly enough a Wish becomes a Joke,
the Stars, or Just That One,
take it upon themselves to conflaglate your unnecessaries,
to kindle the past, to combust, ignite, everything in the way,
and all of a sudden, you're a comet, your life leaves a trail of fire,
ice and ash, and you pick up speed and gravity and people point
and you burn then freeze burn then freeze and circle and circle
year after motherfucking year around and around and when the
Dead Fuckers stop you in the street and say, what are you doing now?

You say,

Fuck you, I'm burning alive.