Wednesday, February 20, 2008


remember that?
2004, and before
because you deleted
much more
because of that...



And now you're having
way too much fun,
but maybe today -
just one:

Sonic Youth tonight.
Makes me think of
the Bear - Clare,
and that black and white
photo from the Metro
which sits in my drawer,

And how everyone had Goo
t-shirts except me.

But that was fine
because they'd always
wear them on the same day,
and I'd laugh.

And Teenage fucking Riot will play,
and I'll say -
this is for you Davey,

and all things that we have done and seen and smashed and smiled
and drank and cried and laughed and that thing inside which everyone
has, but which I've dedicated my life trying to chase.

Fire fire - set me on fire - and I'll burn for us all.


Tuesday, February 19, 2008


All I want to do, is reach into this fucking screen and choke you.
Stick some fucking dynamite in this joint, and blow it all to Hell.
All I want to do, is shred you, dead you, spit on you, slap you.
All I want to do is show you, that your rules don't apply to me,
that they don't even apply to you.
All I fucking want to do, is find out why it's all so fucking DEAD.

Fucking jerk off,
Self Indulgence says,
just pull it out and hit that shit,
you fucking jerk off,
you piss weak excuse,
too cold for guilt,
too righteous to be ashamed,
hit it, pull it out and fucking hit it

And then I try but it's dead too.
And the photos on the wall stare at me
while I stare at the
dead eyes on a dead cow filled with dead fucking meat.

So I pick up the guitar and it's all fucking A minor and D
and I'm starting to see,

not that it's the first time,

why they just wanted to smash it burn it treat it like a junkie whore
who's clawing desperation is up in your face - give it to me - and begging for a fix,
the second instrument to
betray your investment
this fucking dead cat gut on a dead fucking tree and my dead fucking fingers

So I walk outside and it's raining and I scream at it,

This whole fucking world is dead.

Bu the rain doesn't care,
it's either trying to bring it back to life,
or wash away the evidence.

So I go the pub
just sit there and drink,
and someone says,
hey, we haven't seen you for a while,
what's been happening,
and I say,

just work, brother, same old...



Then I say,

Fuck this, let's have shots.

And we do,

and the fuel starts the fire
and the fire makes me hungry
and the hunger makes me restless
and I forget to care
about me

and I forget to care
about you.

The Honesty of Selfishness.

And it's the drink,
they'll say,

it's always the drink.

But you've got it all wrong.

It's not the drink.

It's never the drink.

It's everything fucking else.

Monday, February 18, 2008


I'm wrestling with Frustration on the floor of my lounge room,
waiting for Inspiration to arrive.

This is a fucking waste of time,
Frustration says,
let's go out.

And worse,
dangerous even,

I can sense that Boredom
isn't far off,
and I know what usually
happens when those
two get together.


But I've got something to say,
it's just that
I can't work out how to say it.

What is it?

It's about the Stars,
and it's about other things too,
Secret Things,
and I feel like,
if I can write it down,

if I can just write it down...

As I'm thinking this,
there's a knock at the door,
and I smile thinking Inspiration
has arrived but when I open the door

Honesty and Simplicity

and they sit me down at my desk

and make me write and I write one sentence...

Why reach for the stars,
when the earth beneath your fingers
feels so fucking good.

Sunday, February 17, 2008


Death stood silent in the doorway while Archie paced the room.

This was not part of the agreement,
[angry = frightened]
this was not part of the fucking agreement. DAMN YOU TO HELL YOU FUCKER, I'M NOT FUCKING READY.

Death was a great believer in the beauty of silence. Had always been of a mind that silence somehow made his job more


This noise always...

disappointed him somewhat.

And the sweat, something which always repulsed him. The way they began to sweat, when they sensed him closing in, when they felt his presence, when they felt his breath on their necks, his hands on their shoulders, his eyes - his eyes - his eyes - the terrifying depth of his eyes
[forever, do you want to see forever?]
meeting their eyes. Their eyes
[I can't - I can't]
always beginning to leak. Which was weak, Death thought. Which was weak. Everything leaked.

The savage stink of sweat and pores
[and more]
all the tears, always tears - termites those tears,
[scratch and skrittle]
a crippling tide and torrent of self, awash with fear and soaked in selfishness
[me - me - me]
not to mention the piss and the shit and the begging, screaming, desperation
[anything, anything, anything, please]
to avoid him, as though they had spent their whole lives forgetting that the first time they opened their eyes was a GIANT leap into the unknown,

as though they had never dived beneath the sea,
as though they had never walked into a darkened room,
as though they had never stood before a blank canvas

and searched for something
- a beginning -
when faced with a NOTHING.

said Time,
who had been watching from
the corridor,
I'm thirsty.
Let's do this thing
and get out of here already.

That's the thing with Time,
Death thought,
always bloody


that's the thing with Death,
Time thought, laughing
always taking his job




Saturday, February 16, 2008

Art. [Beat]

My writing and I found ourselves
standing in the queue,
at the door of a popular club.

There were others,
some had brought
their art,
their photos,
their sculptures,
their poetry,
their illusions,
their tricks,

there were even critics.

It was a happening,

I'm sorry,
you can't come in like that,
said the door man,
gesturing at my writing.


Should I change?
My writing asked.

No, I said,
fuck this guy.

Don't change.

I like you,
you make me happy,
and that's all that matters,


So we walked
down the street
found a nice quiet bar,
and drank whiskey together
until the sun arrived,
the pretentious stars

from the sky.

My writing and I.

Wednesday, February 13, 2008


What I want,
she said,
is for you to write me
something for Valentine's Day.

I thought.

Well, how's this...

Once I wrote a eulogy,
for my friend's mother,
a woman I had never met.
But my friend was dear
and sad and knew
that I understood,

so I agreed.

So I got all of this information,
on the mother,

about the mother.

There were letters and notes
on my desk,
on my shelves,
on the floor,
on my bed,

there were photos
stuck to my wall,
inside my books,

even a photo of

the mother

on my desk at work.

But I still couldn't write a single fucking thing.


with one night to go,
I realised that
I didn't actually
have to write about
the mother,

and then it all came flowing.

And I was actually fucking laughing,

while I was writing this thing,

this eulogy for the mother,

I was laughing because I had a captive fucking audience,
who would listen to every word,
and who might just be in the mood
to take it in,
the message,
the message from the mother.

So I told them to hold the hand of the person next to them.
I told them to go home and tell their partners they loved them.
I told them to
smile at strangers,
surprise their friends,
quit their jobs,
do something crazy,
be different,
take action,
be bold,
be free,

be free everybody,
you have to be free,

because it's all going to be over,

[and you never know when...]

so smile in the meantime

and let's all be goddamn free.

That was the eulogy I wrote.

she'll say
(and I know her)
but this is not the Valentine
I was hoping for.

And I'll avoid and evade,
for that's what I do,

but the fact remains,
that I love you.

Tuesday, February 12, 2008


At the End,
when I stare into The Eyes of
the last face I ever wish to see,

we'll talk about it.

About what it meant.

And I'll say,

I never cared to be known for my writing.
I never cared for gratitude when I gave a gift.
I never chased money that I had lent to a needy friend.
I never worried...

Yes you did, The Eyes will say.
Not the first three,
but the last.

You did worry.

And I'll smile a tired smile.
You know me.
I did worry.
I did want.
I did hope.
I hoped that everything would change,
that everyone would understand,
and I hope that still.

I guess I'm about find out,
I'll say,
what it's all about
in The End.

And The Eyes will begin to weep,
and the tears will fall on my face,
a final futile attempt to feed and fix,
to tie me down, to hold me here,
don't go, the eyes say, please don't go...

And I will cry my farewell,
and smile
at the last face I ever wish to see,
and hope that they say,

He died of Hope.

Monday, February 11, 2008

Nostradamus. [Revisit]

Archie sat at the end of the bar rolling a cigarette with one hand, the other wrapped softly around his glass, a gentle reminder of a slightly possessive lover. Everyone knew Archie at the bar.

"Hey Archie, tell us our future!" they would cry out, laughing and slapping him slightly too hard on the back.

He joined in.
He always did.
It was a life of sorts, or more to the point, a slow, easy death.
A gentle break up.


you're all going to buy me a beer!

Stock standard.

"Hahahaha, amazing! The man who can see the future!"

Superior drunks, dressed in suits, laughing at Archie.

Their joke. Their loser.

"What about me Arch?" the Bull-Man asked, his club fists gripped tight on another round of Tequila shots.

Well mate, keep drinking like that and you'll be asleep in the gutter in a puddle of piss and a pillow of vomit.

"Haha, you're alright Arch, you're alright..."

Doesn't take a fucking soothsayer to see that, Archie thought.

The pub would close, Archie would walk home, passing the Bull-Man who lay rotting, rank and prone.

He thinks:

When I was thirty I was given the gift of hindsight. I don't know who gave it to me, it just arrived. Unwrapping it I began to see the paths behind, criss crossed and dusty, paths followed and routes lost and choices - the pain - I should or could have made. I thought it may well have been the worst gift I had ever received.

I was wrong.

When I was thirty four I was given the "The Gift".

The future, my future.

Spread out in front of me like a map.

A chart, a terrifying goddamn fucking chart.

I read it and wept.

At first Archie had laughed it off as an over active imagination. Until it was too right, all the time. Too real. Too horribly fucking despairingly real. Every single fucking step, every word, every meal, every drink, every fuck. He'd seen it coming. He'd seen it all, and he knew, he fucking knew what was still to come. He fought, oh fuck how he fought it. He went back to college, mature age, studied for a degree, goddamn accounting. Wore a suit, got a job, fought fought fought fuck no please no but soon enough the job was gone and the path was there and he'd known because that had been a part of it. He started a band, opened a shop, learned how to paint anything everything please god is this for real? He married no please no please no and when she announced her pregnancy - in the kitchen over wine smell of lavender he knew he knew of course he knew every fucking detail - he had to run had to build that wall as fast as he could because oh god he could see what was coming and the pain was too much. But no wall could defend against the armies of despair that followed the announcement three years later.

Driver escapes with minor bruising, mother and daughter killed.

His flowers, his angels, who stung with a kiss and had floated away and left him be.

Gone and he had known and he had nothing - could do NOTHING - to stop it.

So eventually, he gave in.


There it is, there's the typewriter. By the window with its dirty venetians looking out the dirty window to the dirty street below. And trams and cars and trucks and dogs all form a symphony beyond, the soundtrack to what I must accomplish.

So I drink milk from the carton and settle to my destiny.

At least the gods gave me my milk.

Tap tap tap, I write it all down - like they damn well asked.

Sunday, February 10, 2008

The Ring.

It's my own hypocrisy,
that is killing me,

I tell myself.

That I can sit
on the bonnet of my car,
beneath the stars,
watching it all happen;

The way the wind
teases the trees.

The way the trees
dance in appreciation.

The way the stars
give us something
to believe in.

The way the moon
lights the magic of the night.

The way the cool stones
from the dry river bed,
fit so perfectly in the palm of my hand,
and vibrate ever so gently,
a song,
if I am in the mood to listen.

It's killing me.

That I feel and see all of this.

Then grow cold and aged,
day by day,
in front of a screen,
a rat race
of the English language,

writing ads
for the man next door,
so that he can buy himself
a new fucking Volvo,

and pay me just enough,
that next weekend,
I can drive to the country

where I can sit
on the bonnet of my car,
beneath the stars,
watching it all happen;

The way the wind
teases the trees.

The way the trees
dance in appreciation.

The way the stars
give us something
to believe in.

The way the moon
lights the magic of the night.

The way the cool stones
from the dry river bed,
fit so perfectly in the palm of my hand,
and vibrate ever so gently,
a song,
if I am in the mood to listen.

Thursday, February 7, 2008


Don't try to use a word
you think is right,
because it's longer,
or because,
you'll look smarter,
or you want to be different,
or you want to describe one thing
as being like something else.

I worship,
the flower of her.

Yes yes, but

I buried myself in her wet fucking pussy.

Are you afraid of the Truth?
Or is she?

Will you win her with words,
scattered as petals across the room?

Will your very essence
be on display?

Your sensitive soul,
which blossoms into
at the very thought of her?

Or are you a fucking liar?

Who wants to be blown,
and fed,
and held
and caressed
and admired
for being yourself,

without ever really telling us,

who the fuck you are.

Standing on the outside looking in [REDUX]

[Last Year, maybe September, October…]

You got a smoke?

Sure mate.

I reach in to my pocket and open the package, hand one over. I’ve had a rough time brother, he says. I’m not going to make it. I know I’m not going to make it. Too many charges, I’m going inside, and I won’t come out. I’m not doing so good man. I’m not going to make it. I’ve been taking it out on the dog, I don’t know what to do. I’m not going to make it. The dog, small, white, sits obediently beside his terrified master and reflects the sadness and horror in his eyes. Another victim, two victims. Scars still scabbing brown and black blood form a relief map across the curves – the ridges and ravines – of his face, the map of his past and the route ahead. It’s fear and resignation and death, a horrible fight against death, that light, the spark behind the off milk eyes and he spews curdled and panicked words at me in the hope of one last show of kindness, or more importantly – brotherhood. Proof of existence. Proof of humanity. Who writes this man’s story? Who stops to mark his passage as he becomes a shadow? I don’t know what to say, so I speak the truth for what greater crime than to lie to a doomed man, I say, I can’t help you brother – but don’t be hard on that little one – the dog – he doesn’t know, and he’s your mate. I’m not going to make it, I’m not going to make it. I shake his hand, give him that, and keep walking. I flick my cigarette aside and it’s forgotten, swept far away, out of sight.

[Today, about three hours ago]

I’m standing on the crossroads, having a smoke and I’m just staring and I’m thinking and I’m tasting that sweet fucking poison and it’s my escape from the day to day / escape from the grey / escape from the fucking non stop decay, and there’s a road in front of me, I don’t doubt that, but I need time, I need time and I need the money so I have to stay, that’s in my head, the trap, the trap of today and tomorrow and each day dies a slow death when all you do is stop and stare and smoke and think.

But I have a plan and that’s okay.

I’m not even present when his shoulder hits me, I mean, I still don’t get it even as he starts to spittle and spite and the menace is dulled by the instant insanity -


The spider right there, dead ahead and closing fast, and me trapped in a web of daydream and confusion and I just look weak, I look..

I look like prey.

I’m sorry what?

And he charges and that’s when I recognise him, when it’s too late and he pushes me, the fucker pushes me, and I’m thinking of how much it’s going to hurt and I’m thinking stupid things like, FUCK OFF I’m having a bad day already, and I’m thinking, where’s your dog? Where’s the little fucking dog that must have been on the receiving end of this fucking shit so many times and what am I? The replacement, the poodle, the fear in my eyes and the yes master, no master, just stop it, just stop it master, and then I’m back in time I am the dog and it’s too close to the bone I remember this at home and there’s no words to stop the hate, there’s no poem that can block a punch, there’s no place for the daydreamer, in a world ruled by brutes – violence – fear.

You fucking faggot,
he says,
and off he goes,
down the street,
surrounded by a wall,
cemented by despair,
and fortified by hate.

I’m shaking when I think,

If I just had a pen,
I could’ve poked him in the eye.

Wednesday, February 6, 2008

Writer's Block.

Instant fucking poetry.
Instant fucking crowd.

Just for now,
just for tonight,
let’s write,

like there are no rules,
like no one will judge,
what words we choose,

and if our timing is off

or our rhymes
too late,

there’s nothing to prove,
nothing to lose,

Is there?

Do you care?

Where are the rules?

Which say,

if I feel it,

then what fucking right
do they
have to say




And whatever you do,

don’t fucking think.


How do you feel?

Here we go.

I got caught in the rain, I got soaked, but fuck me, I felt alive.
Yesterday I was in a park, and a girl stood in front of me and I touched her breasts and she kissed my neck. We didn’t fuck, but fuck me I felt alive.
Last night I wanted to write, about how when I saw my mother’s dead body – coffin, Gold Coast, displaced – she was so YELLOW. So fucking YELLOW. But fuck me, I felt alive.
Today, tonight, I didn’t care that I couldn’t write, that I had nothing to impress people with, that in my room, with my cigarettes, with a glass of red wine, with a piece of bread, with a dead cat, with cold skin, with slow burn, with eyes dead ahead, with no direction, with restless hands, with an open window, with a song in the wind, with a head full of heart, with dreams of tomorrow, with nothing but hope, with a piece of conceit, with a bird in my hand, with nothing but shit, with no point but this -

fuck me,

I’m alive.

you click,
and you think:

God, what rubbish.

But fuck me,

it’s raining,

and I feel alive.

Monday, February 4, 2008


(I was censored from a writing website, I replied)

You call this a jungle?

All I see is grapes,
withered and bittered
and whining wallflowers,
drooping and soft.

No canopy collective,
just aged invective,
ten years
behind and
you hide
in your bush
sniffing out
the cans

The Hunter,
or say you say.

The Murderer,
I call you.

And baby,

you're right.

I am a Gorilla.

The Ape.

Beating my chest,
and screaming







but that doesn't matter to you,
does it?

we must not use,
the nasty




Can we?

You can't.