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.