Thursday, November 20, 2008

"When did I break up with Tallulah?"
"When," he says, "and how."
He's trying to look interested, this one. I'll give him that much. It's getting so I don't even fucking know these guys anymore. Every day another fucking guy. And when I fill up that guy, they send in another and another and fuck, how many years have I been telling this story now? Maybe five years? Or maybe I'm dead and I've been telling it over and over and over for all time. Maybe that's my Hell. To tell it to these guys who don't even care. Who have no notion of personal service. Don't these guys even care about personal service?
At least this guy tries to look interested.
"I don't know when I broke up with her man. May I have a cigarette? I can tell you how though. It was always the same man. Always the same. They'd ask me something like, what are you looking for, man? And I'd stare out the window and I'd think, I don't know, and I'd say, I don't know. And I'd smoke then like I'm smoking now, you get it?"
He nods and I blow in his face.
"Sometimes I'd say, you're fucking perfect, baby. And then I'd watch as they laid out their imperfections, list all the things that were wrong with themselves, how they'd fucking tear their skin off and expose their bleeding fucking heart just to be as fucking messed up as they saw that I was, to tell me that the whole human race was flawed, that everyone was fucked, that no one was perfect. Then I'd smoke again, see. And I'd say, well maybe that's it. Maybe I'm looking for perfection, baby, and maybe this ain't it. And I'd smoke and then I'd blow in their face and then I'd walk out and I'd never look back."
And get this. The guy in the fucking suit in the tiny white room sitting opposite me - you know what he does then?
He fucking smiles at me. We have a fucking moment, I swear to fucking God.
I see a doorway. A doorway far away, maybe over a desert on top of a cliff, over a lake of fire filled with the teeth and claws of an unknown terror - but I see a fucking doorway nonetheless, and I've got the time, nothing to do but talk, so I start walking.
"Oh man, but Tallulah, you want to hear about Tallulah?"
I ask him in a whisper, soft and secret, and the way I say it, I know he wants to. His little fucking eyes go narrow and wet while the pupils inside grow wide - just like Tallulah used to, I think. I'm real fucking funny to myself sometimes.
"I don't know man, you know what they do to me in here if I talk about fuc-"
He clicks off the recording machine. This guy is fantastic. This guy is my white fucking knight asleep on his steed while the horse blindly storms this castle I'm imprisoned in. He even leans back on his chair. Tilts it, you know? So I give it to him.
"She used to let me slap her. I don't mean all the time. I mean when we were fucking, she fucking loved it."
That's got to get him hard. Stupid fuck.
"Yeah man, I'd grab her by the fucking throat and I'd pound my cock into that bitch and slap her face and she'd be screaming, do it again, do it again, man she fucking loved it."
The guy actually clears his throat here.
I want to laugh but this is important.
"You know what she used to say...?" I could be reading from a fucking Playboy for all this guy cares. "She used to say, please may I worship your cock, Master."
"Oh yeah. And I wouldn't ask her to take her clothes off, man, I wouldn't fuck tell her, I'd fucking order her to take her clothes off. Oh god, Tallulah. You would've fucking shat, Man."
I smoke here. Slow and deliberate.
"Those fucking legs, long and white and slender and honey and they tasted like teenage dreams, baby, and they felt like the most dangerous promise, man, and she'd be laying there, squirming and aching and I'd just stare at those legs for days, for weeks, and fucking time never mattered, man, it was her fucking wet and how long I could hold it, you know? And I'd slide my hand over her knees and she'd reach for me but I'd stay just so far away and I'd push her back down if she tried to rise and I'd use my nails so gently on the smooth moon of her thighs and she'd cry and I'd sigh and lift her legs oh so high to show her behind. Before I spread her wide and slid my fingers inside and she'd die the tiny death over and over and over before I'd even taken my fucking clothes off, man."
And it's time, here, now, with his eyes glazed over as he leans over the desk and I sense the spectre of his fucking hard-on in the room with us.
"And when I let her come for my cock, oh god she used to - hey man, you got any more smokes, man? I need another smoke, man."
He looks confused. "Uh, sorry?"
"Another smoke, chief? I get to talking, you know, I get to talking, I need a fucking cigarette, helps me talk, you know?"
He's hilarious. He's squashing the empty packet and looking under his files and tapping his pockets and he says, be right back, and stands up and I almost get poked in the eye with the tent that he's pitchin' but he doesn't even know, he just opens the door and runs down the corridor towards - I don't know. Towards somewhere. Towards somewhere that is not here.
And the door slowly, slowly closes.
Almost.
And I stand there with my foot holding it open and I can feel a happening here, baby. I can feel a happening.
The door has never been open. The door is open.
I look around and there are no guards, no signs, no demons nor devils, no flames or wires or guns or tridents. Nothing. Just a corridor with a door at both ends.
I think about the poor sucker and start to laugh as I see a newspaper with the headline - Stupid Man Defeated by Dick.
And I laugh
and laugh and laugh
and laugh and laugh and run
and run and run and run and run
out the doors one by one out the doors
one by one out the doors into the fucking sun.

Wednesday, November 19, 2008

"Alison Carr never let me say what was on my mind. She was always first to speak and last to shut the fuck up. It used to drive me crazy. I'd wait for a gap in her trap tappity tap ribbon of dribble to appear, but it never would. So I'd just zone out and stare at her and hate her stinking fucking guts. I guess that's why I killed her. Fucking cunt. I can still hear her voice at night sometimes when I'm awake. Wa wa wa wah. Tap tappity tap. I'm thinking about digging her up and breaking her jaw in half. Dropping one half of it into the ocean somewhere. Somewhere deep. But you know what? I don't think that would shut her up. I think she's going to haunt me as long as I live.
Yeah well, her and all my other friends.
I fucking hate them.
Greg Stoneham, yeah, I can almost handle him sometimes. Because he's quiet, you know? He likes driving, like I do, just sitting and holding the car in your hands and getting out, getting out, and if we talk it's like, pointing at a mountain, or laughing about what it would be like to be chased. And it wouldn't matter to us because at least, I don't know, at least we'd be in control.
I reckon I'd be pretty good in a car chase. I reckon I'd be pretty good in a lot of situations.
Anyway the only thing I fucking hate about Greg fucking Stoneham is that he's always burping and farting and blowing his nose. And you know what, when you're taking a drive out to the beach and you're looking for some piece and quiet and some fresh air, and you want to get away from the voices of all your friends that ring constantly in your fucken head then the last fucking thing you fucking want is some fucking retard who constantly fucking stinks up your fucking car with a crap load of fucking nose juju and stink and I just want to grab him by the fucking hair and smash his stupid face into the dashboard and kick him out the fucking door.
Greg Stoneham. I guess he's one of the better ones. I don't know anymore."
I light up a smoke and look at the doctor's stupid face. He looks exactly like Greg Stoneham.
Boy that makes me laugh. I fucking laugh and laugh and laugh and he just sits there staring at me and sweating and writing some shit about me and he thinks I'm fucking crazy but he doesn't see.
I'm the one that's free.
I'm the one that's free.
I'm the one that's free.

Tuesday, November 18, 2008

"There's a beautiful war going on up there", he says.
And I say "Yeah", because I want to ignore him but I still turn to face the sky and together we watch as great grey cavalries of clouds gallop fast across the emptiness above as beneath it all I sit and smoke and pretend to be cold, and heartless and tough. As though the death of the sun means nothing to me. As though I don't want to grow wings and join her up there, to die beside her with honour. As though I can't see the black battalions looming on the horizon, rotten reinforcements ready to roll, to move in, to occupy the night after her death. And when they do, to hurl their rain as a dead army upon me, the lost brothers of my tears returning home as they spin an erratic dance, falling to earth and collapsing on the road in sad, silver pools.
So I sit and smoke and pretend to feel nothing.
"The darkness always wins," he says.
I can tell he didn't think when he said it. I can tell he threw those words away. More waste to sit upon, more junk to pass the time. That's all this is, isn't it? To him, to them, to you? More fucking junk, a bottle, a paper, a word, a feeling hurled as venom or spat as spite. I smoke. My stomach starts to roar and when it does I smoke to keep sane, to feed fire to the demons which scratch within, to keep my hands busy so they won't do what I am afraid of them doing. And in the meantime I watch the crimson courage of the sun fail, and the beauty of her death, and feel her warmth leave us behind, to be reborn in another, better place, and I listen to his drivel and for a brief moment I believe him, the darkness always wins. I believe him and that's what hurts the most, or does it, or will it, or god the stomach pains have started, which means, I'm confused - and you're in danger. The darkness always wins? 
I decide to clench my fists. The darkness always wins? 
I'm shaking as I take the last few drags from my dying cigarette.
Dying, dying, dying sun, dying smoke, dying boy, dying day, dying hair, dying, frying this fucking lying prick who sits beside me. THE DARKNESS ALWAYS WINS? 
What are you trying to tell me here, that I am naught, that we have no Hope? That all this light is for nothing?I look around for a stick but I can't see one. I look at my hands, and they still haven't healed, but I don't care anymore, because, what is it you said? The darkness always wins? No redemption? No matter where I turn - no matter what - I lose, you lose, we all lose? Is that what you meant with your pathetic throwaway one line wrap up of fucking life? Your one fucking sentence, you fucking cunt, you fucking want the fucking darkness to win? 
I feel my eyes go white. And I can feel him turn toward me and I don't want that just yet. I want to begin with a little light. My idea of a joke see? Why I think I'm funny. A little light amongst the dark to make the point - you see?  
"Look!" I say, and I flick my cigarette.
He watches the sparks tumble down the hill in cartwheel celebration and he sees the light and as he does I turn and punch his fucking face over and over and over. He cries in shock as I punch him again and again and again. And there's a light, alright, there's a light tonight that'll frighten you bright, and it's funny I think as I kneel over him now, on the grass, beside the sea, my knees on his elbows, keeping him down where he belongs and I'm punching that fucking ugly fucking face in for all he's fucking made me do, and all the times he's complained, and all the times he's been weak, my pussy fucking friend, who has nothing to say but, the darkness always wins? And I scream, I'll fucking show you, you cunt, and each time I hit him I notice his blood dances and leaps and sings around us, it's fucking musical man, it's beautiful man, your fucking blood is a fucking musical man, and I try to hit harder, in time, a rhythm, don't you see, to jump higher to the song that I hear, you'd like it if you could see it from this angle, I'm sure. I wish I could show you, you know? I mean, I'm not crazy, I just want this moment, this golden tune, this perfect musical now, I want it, I want to hold it, to cherish it, to kiss it, to fuck it, to marry it, to smell it, I want to UNDERSTAND IT, shut up, no I don't, YES I DO, I want to know why it's silver, why is it silver? Are we in heaven, have I risen above this never ending Hell, are we in a cloud, my angel, are we singing a song on silver harps with notes that land as drums beside us?No, wait, it's the rain falling around us. The curtain, the end, oh god no, I'm sorry, it's me, isn't it? 
My fault and the rain to show me. 
A weak, snivelling sky, emptying itself of its remorse, as my violence does, so I scream goodbye as I beat him one more time.
I want to punch your fucking face, I want to punch your fucking face.
He's crying of course.
So am I, of course.
I want to punch your fucking face.
I want to punch my fucking face.
So I can find my fucking way.
The rain falls heavier. It beats upon my back with no thought of me.
I hold my hand to my face and feel the blood and cracked bone.
I roll over and onto the grass.
I fall asleep and do not dream.

I never, ever, dream.

Friday, November 14, 2008

Yagyu.

Reptilian melodramas
come thick and low
across the dust and fire floor
of the cold furnace
caves
here in
Hell.

Selfish salamanders
that try to tell a man to
strive to build a life
to
grab on for dear life
to
roll over
roll over
down the steep slopes
until all scale is lost
little lizard
all scale is lost
as you roll over
gather speed
and forget
that the drama
was in fact a melanoma
a piece of arse
on your nose
a fucking consience built
cavern
no beatles
just a ring
to box yourself
within.

Oh
it was bad
alright.

Coming from behind
your neck is whistling
steel tunes which hum
tiny light slithers of danger
notes of caution
upon which to meditate
until it was time
and you remember the lessons
learned in the watercolour mountains of Iga.

Each cloud which hung with purpose

to allow the space in between

the fog

to breathe

a void empty breath.







Then

Draw and cut, the head in front, now turn to slice the belly beside and then the master stroke behind to catch the danger unawares, to spill his blood, as your concern, survey the room, assess the damage, let every sensation come

and pass.

Then clean the blade and seat yourself.

Return to the void and empty breath.

Always ready.

Ready for Death.

So life can live.

Little lizard.

Thursday, November 13, 2008

The beginning has begun to begin.

Out at sea
creak and sway
a little further
every day
to sight a land
long lost to me
a place where eye
have never been
feet on earth
but
no dirt
on me.

********

Awareness without action is an unforgiveable crime. Being smart enough to act stupid enough to hide the smart enough is a shot in the vein of pity's deadly charm. And you don't know where or who to turn to, because you no longer trust yourself enough that you can talk without causing more sadness. More sadness.

Jesus, this Hell has been a self fulfilling tragedy. Beyond the comic, no longer a tonic, merely a notepad, filled with the gothic masturbation of an emotional and social retard.

But I'm not here to hide. I'm here to stand and face the enemy. The inner child who has lied to himself for all these years to try to avoid the trouble that the lies themself create.

Oh god. Awkward.

Yesterday I sat with a friend and brother who listed the people who have invested in me and continue to do so. And blood was shed as a family wine, drunk deep in the summer sweat, and bonded beneath patchwork memories where golden hearts light the darkness that you may see in the deepest trenches of the night. And if those hearts are stars, then my night is a glittering outback glowing with distant dreams that I might navigate a way from loss to leadership.

In the cold, I don't light a fire. I rub the earth upon my skin and feel the warmth of it and hope to Hell it sinks in between the pours, another yes another, beneath the poor, I'm working but stranded as always, as always, beneath the pores, beside the bones, to grow a thicker skin, built of the Earth, and as patient, caring, understanding and wise as the old skin always promised to be, but was never able to deliver.

Do as your closest tell you to do. Focus only upon yourself. Fix thyself, jester boy. Fix thyself that you might return the favour one day, however far that day might be.

Shed the snake. Become the goat.

And when you do that, the mountain seems a challenge, not a threat.

Wednesday, November 12, 2008

Today.

Truth is, after years of threatening to, last week I finally cracked. Everything broke inside and everything caught up and it was all I could do to just stand there, wide eyed and smashed, and wonder if this was it, this was how it ends. Oh, I was working long hard days, djing four nights in a row, but it wasn't an exhaustion thing. It was just, The End.
So there was an escape route, and I jumped on it. A brief moment of another life where I could find a centre, breathe, do the thing that people do, get up off the canvas, make a list, be like the squirrel.

The ghosts came too.

They came with me, round the corners, up the roads, chewy and bitey and remindey and guilty, guilty, guilty, you don't deserve this, you don't deserve a god damn thing. That's what it said, where ever I went. That I don't deserve a god damn thing.

How do you answer that? To yourself, I mean. How do you answer that when you say to yourself, you're right. I don't.

You don't. You just keep moving. And be grateful of that.

Anyway, today's the first day. Today comes after last week, when I killed myself in the hope of rebirth. Today comes in a mosquito heat with an unforgiving sun which punishes me like I want it to.

Thankyou, master.

But rebirth is a falsehood. I came back the same person, down below the same mountain, with the same fucking heart and the same feet which ache to touch the earth but always seem to hang dangerously over the edge of a precipitous calamity.

I came back more lost than ever.

Was I ever found? Do you remember a time that I was ever found?

So here's the thing. You wake up in a forest. It's dark but you can see the light of the moon. So which way do you go?

I always thought up.

But thinking's the trouble.

Don't think.

Just walk.

And your feet say down. Down towards water, water towards the sea, the sea towards the horizon, the horizon brings tomorrow, tomorrow brings hope.

And hope brings happiness.

I hope.

I'm sorry. I'm sorry to everyone. But there's a time when sorry dies and what's left is either regret or determination. And today I've got to find the latter, the ladder, which will help me find the answers, the grey ghosts which bound through the forest of my own making.

I don't know what's going to happen now.

I don't know what's going to happen now.

I don't know what's going to happen now.

Tuesday, November 11, 2008

And all the ghosts came running.

You are moving fast. 
You are
in the woods
yes
the woods
the American woods
not the Australian forest
maybe even
the Bavarian woods
yes, that's it
colder
foreign
and yet
god
so familiar.

You are in the woods.
And you are moving fast
and there are things ahead
but that's not it
oh no
it's not the ahead the fire in your feet
it's the behind
the behind
the 
run, matty, run
it's dropping silver crumbs
which leap from your heart
and pour from your eyes
unbidden and unwanted 
this trail left behind 
betraying your position
so
run, matty, run
I'm tired
don't stop 
run
SNAP
run
MEMORY
run
GUILT
RUN
FEAR
RUN
FUCKING
RUN
WHAT
RUN
THE
RUN
FUCK?

[it all 
goes
dark]