Brisk Walk Away From Arguing Neighbours

The Smell of Dead Roses, Stays…

Your former lover is a bitter bile memory,
As you listen to chillout Jazz in the dark.

Sometimes tears spills from your eyes.
As you wonder
When,
You went wrong

Click a lighter to the
Dried leaves in your mouth.
Ambience mixes with alcohol.

Washed out rain water skies
Remind you to put the chain on the door.
You don’t want it
To blow open.

You’ll be staying inside tonight.

Can You Do Us Fifty Bucks? I Just Need Fifty, or Sixty.

He’s Up There Somewhere

The First and Last Season

Each Summer day brings a
Blue sky
Kiss,
White cloud spit
Lulling in the corner of it’s
Lips,
Hot wind breath blowing
Along our
Hips,
Sticky condensation
Dripping from
Armpits,
Till finally we wipe sweat from eyes
With burning
Finger tips,
Saying wait till tonight
It’ll be
Bliss.

Card Hunt

Damn Tinned Food!

Blind Drunk on Being Love Starved Street

Held shut lids to forget what fluids he’s lying in,
When the paramedics say,
We gotta move him.
While the designer cut crowds say
Get that embarrassment to being publicly pathetic
Outta here,
Now.
And he says…

Sorry for being in your way,
Keep on walking
Forget me.
But the ambos gotta know
What he’s had?

Unfortunately all he can remember is downing
A six pack
Of premium premature melancholy
At dinner
While looking into the eyes of
Somebody who cares, but can’t
Anymore.
Then moving to a couple of pubs,
Where soda and sour submissions
To failure were sculled
Ten short glasses at a time.
With chasing shots of So Long
Fair Well.
Finally before the black,
Schooners of Self Doubt,
And standard sized bombs
Of I’ve Lost Everything
Washed consciousness
Away.

Not a bad night really,
For being abruptly alone again
By the end.

‘…And Then So I Said…’

The Wax Baby Learns To Walk

?

Courier In The Rain

The Last Hour Of The Convention

Attempting To Tie A Tie

Male Hairdressers

Rabid Fairytales Presents Rabbit Pie

Fish Dinner And The Wishbones

Twig twine fingers cracking and gristling along the 925 sax keys, sixty seven year old Fish Dinner forgets the Deal for a moment. With the beautiful death of the last sixteen minute song, he begins to lash into a little speech before the next.

‘Keep on licking your wounded lips, cats and curls, cause we got one more song to go…’

Laughing, hands slick with the sweat of upcoming sex and sock smuggled dope clap clap clap and no one bothers to rest blisters cause Ol’ Fish’s just warming up.

‘This one’s called The Girl Violet Was Mine.’

‘Was, Fish? I bet she still is, man!’ Yellow teeth amongst the smoke yell from behind an empty scotch glass.

‘Hawhawhaw.’ The crowd.

‘She’s still out there, whether she’s mine, yours, nobodies or anybodies, that’s an answer to a question I’ll never know.’

Liquid light runs down his arms, no more talk now. Tingling lips, he blows slight, emptying his head, and a string of satin sounds only he can make, twirl dancing hair tied by angels into the ears of all those assembled in the boozy Saturday night chapel of Crump’s Lounge. The Wishbones know when to leave him go alone. And he does.

They all turn into lovers. Into riverboat dreams of nothing more than sun and the boat below. Behind him, the Wishbones’ worn piano, trumpet and double bass begin to fill in the rest. Of baked dinners eaten in never ending Christmas care before they knew what the Final Sleep looked like…

After eight minutes, Fish brings them back.

One note, then another, two more then three, six, twelve, he starts to rain hot black ink on the ivory picnic blanket spread in the room, just before their fresh cheesecake desert was to be served. The Wishbones sit slumped.
Jaws lock as the brown powder stops working, and the women stop moving their feet to turn, cold. The liquor churns. Glasses smash. Fists…

Fish, he doesn’t care. Cause this is the same song he’s been playing forever, only now he can play it perfectly. And the Wishbones, they’re used to it anyway. See, he’s made a Deal, yes, when he bought the painting of the Goat from the elderly eyeless woman at the exit ramp market. The Deal? His essence in exchange for eight minutes of Violet’s heart beat in his ears once a night until his own stops.

Fish Dinner has no regrets.

Slugs On Drugs – Mother Memory

Drilly Sunks

Tar Taking Flight Nomore

Like love planted in a tea cup, eventually their flower died. Reflections of this swished louder in his head than the crick crack yeahs of backyard cricket games and crisp crunchy sausage smells of the neighbourhood park, as his lost walk met roadside footpath. The sound of his souls with worn holes hitting concrete chewed up by the ocean crash of passing cars…

The Shopping Bag With The Grog Broke.

He Mainly Plays the Cheap Drunk Joints

As the thick tunk tunk tunk plod of the polished patrol policeman’s boots punch up the dry rot of the stairway, the maniacal magician realises his tricks are now unstuck. Rabbits are running away, smoke’s thinning, mirrors shattering and the rubber swords and saw are nothing but blunt. He has no escape, for his disappearing box has disappeared. Drats! He gasps and reaches for concealed pouches of itching powder and hopes his hypnotic powers are up to scratch. Throwing on his Carpathian cape of control, he passes a few ancient words of curse under his breath. Knock Knock! Bang, bang! Come out you black magic bastard, we have got a range of violence with your name attached out here! But due to a freakish coincidence caused by mass precipitation at the reptile house, fat full clouds are gathering overhead, and a rain of toads, snakes and other misrepresented beasts is preparing to splatter storm down. Crackoom! Here they come! Splashing slithering waves of squirming life come smashing in through every hole and crack in the budget hotel. So as the cops contend with nature’s worst, the monstrous conjurer escapes down the fire escape, screaming laughter into sprayed repilia as he lives on to scam hundreds more crumpled dollars from the idiotic nightclub crowd’s pockets.

Time To Leave Alone Again

Gaston Glock’s Girl

Speed Texta Dragon

Walking Through Shopping Centre Argument

Public Displays Of Affection

I Just Wanna Loan, Mate!

The Greatest Exploitation Film Of All Time!

Got up early
Sunday morning
To write
The greatest exploitation film
Of all time!
It would include
Dirty dominatrixs with
Never emptying machine guns!
Homicidal redneck hillbillies
Feudin!
Bearded ladies chomping down
Chewy raw meat
With steel teeth!
Chainsaws would definitely have
To
Be in there
Somewhere.
And chubby corrupt cops who
Sneer,
Saying
Fuck you punk,
A lot.
Some toxic accidents wouldn’t go astray,
Multiple mutants!
Then topless tattooed girls
With a shiny silver switchblade
In each
Hand,
Couple in their belts
Made from flesh!
Oh, and escaped mental patients,
And fresh from the can
Cons!
Everybody will need to be
On
Dope,
Or swilling from
A big bottle of
Moonshine!
Rounded out by
A mad metal
Soundtrack!
But then I couldn’t think of
Anything else to write,
So I had a cup
Of
Tea
Instead.

Old Crims, Got It In The Blood

‘N the burly bushranger with the busted trigger finger and the bullet fragments in his cheek tips back his sun burnt hat amidst all this bush and comments dry mouthed –

She ain’t ever comin’ home, you gotta realise that. Not least till the hot place burns cold.

‘n the other says with no sense of self irony, but a heartfull of liquid lead hurt.

I know that, you think I don’t… Love of my-

Love of what? Your life? Fuck, that’s ebbing outta you as we speak.

I’m shot no less than you.

Haha she won’t be back.

So the second skinny old boy, he’s a rascally rip roarin’ rapscallion robber since they come from the ships on old England, he can’t give much more than a dead ducks spits worth what the one knows. He knows she may come back. And may’s a lot sooner than never.

I got hope.

Well good on ya. Good on ya mate. Now is Hope gonna show us the way outta this hole?

In the burning black spotted light of the sun, nothing comes for hours. The troopers, God’s own from the colony, have long since left these two shot up rejects out to bleed while the bull ants feast on their bloodied bones.

You believe in punishment? Like divine retribution?

Yeah. This…this little caper makes me believe strongly in it.

God’s nothing more than words on a page. If he exists, he’s so strong, then he would show ‘im self now.

Busted trigger finger, who goes by the name of Byron Bliss cause he makes the ladies sweat before he takes all husband’s gold, can only answer…

God’s never been in my life. Why now? He’s up there somewhere dealing with universal affairs. Think he cares about two dying bandits who only ever done bad?

He should. The scriptures say he has love for all, and he’s everywhere at one, all powerful. He could atleast pop up now.

And do what?

Stop this bleeding. Grant us a vision. Bring the lights on. Fuck’d if I know?

But he’s not coming. Or we’ll see him. Or his counterpart.

Shut your mouth. I really don’t want to think about that…

But Lead Heart, who took on the moniker of Sir Gumtree Grease after tying his victims up in the bushland and providing a means of escape, laughs, not worried, as he thinks of what he’ll say to the lord of the evil that has been so much a part of his short, fun life.

Hahahaha.

You think this is all in fun?

Shut up. Let me fade out in peace. The fireworks are coming. Oh yeah, that parade, such a damned parade ahead for us…

10 Minute Train Tract

The early morning getup standing on a packed train buckle holding facing a sat mid aged business man who resembles a former prime minister but for the scar atop his head. Looks like a car crash slash and wonder if this is why he catches the train now? Somebody behind sneezes on my hand. Dawn born criminals sneer at the surrounding suits thinking if we were to rumble you would surely lose, the suits stare back and think without me you wouldn’t have whatever service the suit is travelling in to provide. And society doesn’t crumble, cause all they do is sneer and stare. The cattle train continues, digesting us in the process. More stoppers and sleepers dive in to doze aboard, crooked tin coloured ties flopping from funeral coloured button undone jackets. Some sit slate eyed drooling out the texta scrawl nail scratched bug splat glass at unfinished future developments, some swimming in their own reflected eyes. Black bagged regrets and hatred for not working nights, or for being wealthy enough to retire. Some thinking they might give the gym a miss today. Others considering digging the bike out of the garage, again. The driver’s dry voice spits alive over the line and dulls out information of a possible track closure due to unforseen circumstances. A rail suicide springs to mind as the cause, but nobody will know until the newsprint dries tomorrow, or the electrodes and radio signals fire mid afternoon. But his voice is not enough for most people to take the hip hop electro classical bomb blast beats from their ears, believing a volume increase in order. Click clack click click almost there avoid uncomfortable eye contact. My stop stops us all. Depart with no farewell into the grey morning grind.

Worm Party!

More For Less, Less For More

So, so, so,
Is that the most you can do,
The least you can do?
Another five dollars more.
Or another five dollars less,
Fuck ya!
But that’s the limit man,
Or mate,
And if you get more,
It would be
Too much,
Or too
Little.

Dry It Out

Put it in the microwave. That’ll zap it dead. Well, the oven then. Nah, unpredictable. The grill? I’ll give it a go, but you know an air dry is the best. Fuck that, a wait of six or seven days, I wanna smoke now. Nuh. Fuck! You shouldn’t have bought wet. Well, he said he’d chuck in a coupla extra grams. By the time you dry it, the weight’ll be gone anyway, idiot. What? Nothing, your sister’s got a hairdryer hasn’t she? Yeah. So, go grab it. Rows of wet weeds lie in lines like leeches on newspaper. Bright pink barbie hair dryer sits sucked in the socket. Here we go! Duuurrrn. Up the heat! No! Up the heat! No! Give it ‘ere. Heat volume turned up to maximum burn. You’re too close. We’ll be smoking soon. Unfortunately aligned at this time is little sister’s wet paint on the end of the dryer, blowing chunks of dry newspaper and an overloading temperature circuit. And…this is how flamethrowers are birthed, dope is destroyed, and casualty beds filled. Become one of those idiot criminal stories at the end of the news. The newsreader laughs, and there’s something yellow decayed in his teeth.

One Man’s Death Story In Minutes

-nd even my microbes conspire against me. Hideous little amoebas twisting within the damp walls of this fetid squalorous shack. I am the last one to stay in this crumbling building. And I will not leave. I cannot leave, for this four walled dungeon is all that stands between me and the soul’s final skid row. Unfortunately my tastes do not extend to forced famine, now let me explain how this situation was birthed, not many moons ago.

Tertiary education, that being any education after the put upon years of schooling, had only ever short places for my brain to rest. An abject and genetically ingrained DNA code thirsty for distilled liquors and a constant headache requiring piling handfuls of prescribed pills destroyed any concentration I had. So the philosophy courses, full of what you can and Kant do, gave way to law, in which the only universal law seemed to be make the maximum amount of money, to the art classes, where a pencil was not picked up for the first six months, to finally literature, where we discussed more words than read. In this time I met no one, talked to no one and became isolated in all discussion save for how much more medication I needed and what side dishes I wanted with my fried food meals. Eventually this loneliness killed my hunger for knowledge as information, except escape plans, are useless in a vacuum. My final day was spent sobbing locked in a library toilet, with no pretensions as to what was left. This was not my place anymore.

With family favours filled and educational entitlements now non applicable, I had become somewhat, useless within the realms of what is, society. I left all of my belongings, my toothbrush and some textbooks in the hall of the busy dormitory, unnoticed, and pushed open the brown wood silver metal exit door. Freedom for a second.

Work comes easy at the chicken factory. Each day I have to ensure the main machine never becomes sticky, or overly jammed with feathers or flesh. Section Three Cee. The final stage. Beginning with One Aye, the preps, then Two Aye, the stun stages, the finally Three Aye to Cee, the execution stages. Chugging along they come to us, in Three, hung upside down in rows. Knocked out eyes sometimes shut, some times glassy, not dead though, because maximum tenderness is sustained by the freshness of the kill before freezing. The laser eye reads and adjusts according to size and weight. Then moves a thirty kilo blade through their neck, at the speed of one hundred and four kilometres an hour. That is Aye. Then Bee, Bee is where they attached sucking plastic snakes to the new hole, where all fluids, gizzards and leftovers are pulled into a vat for gravy. Then finally Cee, we bisect them for supermarkets, or mince for nuggets. There is no love here, no small talk, as far as I can see there nobody meets outside the sheds for any reason. We are all simply here for our forty hour week survival handout.

Silent and disturbing work, but it has worked for me for the last few months. Until the rotten batch shipped in around three weeks ago. The initial stun did not work in only aggravated them. Even with amps twisted to instant kill levels, they clucked and squirmed in the bonding clamps. So after some chief of calculations pushed some sums around, the decision was made to skip Section Two. Move them down the line to us in Three. Wet lipped protests arose and hesitation of humanity, until a promise of overtime for normal time was arranged. We gathered to watch the display. A gloved finger pushed down, starting it. The blades moved across, and across, and across. High pitched clucks and twisting almost out of their sockets eyes. Black rivers, with the slow run density of tar, sprayed ultra violently from stumps due to steroid cursed heart. We shut down the machines. Turned off all power via an emergency switch. As I backed away into the roar of the sirens, the red lights of danger alarms, I felt the still steaming inky blood running down my cheek, and into my mouth.

Twisting in this old eaten away abandoned armchair now, I can say with an earnest mind that the Earth now longer has any abode, nor medical miracles, left for me. Five others came into contact that day. Three are being bisected in a government controlled madhouse in the city. One is a crying, walking skeleton on the run upstate, and the other suffered little due to a fantastic fiery cocktail of whiskey and a car crash. So, life may have been better I admit, more fortuitous, but at least I will perish freely here. In solitude screaming through a hole in the ceiling at all of the fresh aired stars in the sky for an answer, we both now they can never possibly give. Just please, make it quick. Make it quick. Good night.

She Has The Deepest Cuts On Her Knuckles…

Hungover Thug = Shaving Accident

Belief

A Day In Grandma’s Garden

Nothing will ever hurt you in the undergrowth at Grandma’s house. The spiders won’t sink fangs, the snakes will slither round past, and the birds will not swoop because grandma gently tends to the garden each day. Early in the morning she pulls frost covered weeds from all green corners, leaving only the most productive plants to thrive. And with her rough gloved hands she spreads fresh blood n bone along the rows of baby’s breath and pink and purple petunias till they’re fed. White roses and cherry tomato vines are trained to spread up the wire links to keep the outside world out. By lunchtime the barrow is full of glistening heads of all natural, all organic cos lettuce, shiny spinach, so that a mixture of vinegar, pepper and oil can be dripped on top. After the feast she brushes her woollen clothes off, and pulls back on her white hat and black gumboots, breaks branches, old bark from the centuries old ghost gums. Other snipped stems are dumped into the yellow bin to make way for new suckling saplings, ready to flower again. Finally when the Sun rests its head down on its orange misty bed, the old grey pine of the verandah creaks as grandma, gin or fine white in hand, quietly smiling surveys what she has made today.

White Boys On Acid

Don’t Worry Mate, They’re Harmless!

The Return

So the Superman Saviour returns!
By Christ Almighty He’s here,
With the astounding ability to turn
Water to whiskey
And
Sugar to smack
For the masses
Television to reality
If you’re into that kind
Of thing.
First day on Earth and he’s already
Cured all disease with
A click of his beautiful
Fingers.
Forget Ford, He’s churning out
All new improved human
Beings
From an assembly line in the sky,
And easing pain as he sees fit.
Line’s already down the block,
Round the street.
The once hostile homeless now sleep at
His feet.
No more tears on this planet,
Sweet everlovin’ existence is
Back again
For ever
And eternity.
Time to get changed
Again.

Post Metal Gig Melee

Flashbacks of The Ozzy Gig

What the fuck is in this vodka? It smells like nail polish remover. The taste is pretty spot on too. Been sitting here staring at a wall and an hour melted into a minute, like that. Anyway, I went out last night as Ozzy Osbourne, the Prince of Pitch Black was in Melbourne. Caught the train and wore a white shirt. A mistake? Fuck it. When I got there, it was, as expected with fat glutton guts, big spike beards, tight arse titley group gropies with back tatts pointing to quick sex spots, people with night coloured shirts sprayed with fuck this and fuck that mottos chosen specifically to showcase small ink stains, fifty to seventy dollar slave labour shit shirts, expensive spiked sugar water poured into plastic cups, small quantitives of greasy grease edible materials and all the usual specialities that make metal gigs the best. Hear the screams. It begins! Gotta hurry. Tip back brown beer bubbles into bloated gut. Crush the thin cup. Finally find the tiny seat row ZZZ of aisle 245060. Multi million dollar visuals of the Prince plastered into famous TV shows followed by a crucifix projected dropping curtain. Then there he was in all of his elder glory. The originator of metallus symophonics. Dispute it if you like, maybe there were some before him, or maybe better after, but he is the prince, no, the king of suicide songs and metal melodies pushed from vocal pipes. He’s had some brain beatings from slushy substances, parent groups and legal wranglers but he was having a good time. You could tell, despite the TV shows, and the T-Shirts, and the other movie cameo bullshit, this is what he was produced to do. And he’s aged gracefully, he never cut his hair, he only just quit the substances (Not long ago?), he still swears with ferocity, and he jump, hop and skips around a fuck of a lot. War Pigs was in there. And Ozzy just laughed when he tried to get the audience to sing along to one tune, and nobody knew the lyrics. Unbeknownst to me until lights were spotted around that the beater of the strained skins on this occasion was greylocked Mike Bordin. The power beat basher of Epic, We Care A Lot and the full FNM repertoire. Then it was revealed that the thick ladles of bass being laid out were plucked by Rob Zombie cohort, Blasko. This is truly fucking all-star thought me. Zakk Wylde played and sprayed fingers like a madman on his black and white spiral strings. And they finished with Paranoid. Yep. Hands were shaken and people agreed to meet again at the Black Sabbath reunion. Smile smilies everywhere. When I climbed down from the mountain seats I smelt like vomit. Tried to kept moving away from people at the train station thinking that it was them, but it was me. I never vomited. Good night, and as Ozzy would say I fuckin’ love youse all!

Study Of Heart Flesh Smothering Something Shattered

Study In Nerve Endings Responding

Discarded Diary Entry From Another Time And Place

The alarm goes off at seven thirty aye em but I was already awake. Hit the snooze button. Glasses on. Contemplate breakfast. Alarm again. Hate the sound of it. Turned off. Get up. Heater on. Sniff the yoghurt. Pop twist open the eyeball jar of crimson sour cherries. Fill a bowl with specially designed to give you less cholesterol wheat flakes. Spoon in the cherries, some juice and then the yoghurt. Put them away. Mix it. Resembles pus I saw in a zombie movie. Slunch all it down sitting on the bed in front of the heater. Rinse the plate, the spoon. Shower. Some kind of mould growing in here. Dry. Clean teeth. Check pimples. Need a shave. No time. Undies. Socks? None clean. Have to recycle. One blue and one white. Recycle the shirt. No time for ironing. Pants picked up from crumple. All assembled and belt tied. Slip on leather black shoes. One has a cut the size of a finger in the side. Check keys. Wallet. Smokes. Phone. Lighter. Music player. Off we go.

I think I forgot to lock the door. Go back. Check it. It’s locked. Off we go.

A walk to work in summer is a beautiful thing. In the middle of winter, it just makes you start to think. Why am I here, doing this, to myself? I could be in bed. Broke, but in bed. Sleeping till ten. Dreaming of things or nothing at all. Either of them would be preferable to making my cheeks break veins and go purple, freezing rain dripping off my nose, walking through thick cutting tornados blowing against me. Why do I do it? Because it’s worth it. I’m making ten dollars an hour here. A good wage if I was younger, still living at home and it was still the nine teen eighties. Ah well. As long as I spend half my wage on rent and a third on taxes and another ten per cent on goods and slaves tax Gee Ess Tee on everything I buy, I can feel proud. And eat. After that I clear about five bucks a week. I could rent a DVD? The latest gore slime filled revenge thriller featuring the undead versus erotic vampire cops. But, ah fuck they’re six bucks a night. Think I should just save up to a get another bottle of that vodka that smells like fuel and makes you eyes stop working. That was good stuff. Work. Five minutes late.

You may ask – why don’t I just kill myself if I hate my life so much. And that’s the thing. Hate is a strong word, besides I figure being dead would be even more boring. And what if there’s a Hell? Not saying I’d go to it, it’s likely, but what if that’s just the same as here? Only you don’t get paid. It’d be filled with no empty space carparks, and never ending shopping centres but you’ve always left your wallet at home, even though the stuff in there would be absolute shit anyway, and they’d be rotting bimbos yelling on phones, and walking into poles and snotted up screaming children, and elderly sick people hocking purple phlegm onto everybody’s shoes. There’s no seats. The toilets are wallpapered with fluids. The food halls are just rows and rows of no mannered chewing mouths slopped open. And then finally you’re be able to leave, if you can remember where you parked your car, after sixty or seventy million years of being trapped in this heating box of a nightmare, only to have to go back to work again. See what I mean…

Work. You know what I figure with work, unless you’re doing what you love. What speaks to your soul. And makes you enjoy just getting there. It’s all the same. Like eating a can of tuna, that reminds me I gotta get some more, if you’ve eaten it once it all tastes pretty similar. I work offices, I don’t work outside. Tried that once, and it and me don’t mix. And if I’m going to be hungover, I atleast want a seat. So there’s things to type, there’s humorous emails to receive, I might need to scan something, somebody needs to be called, something needs stapling. Fill in time and hope the clock passes fast. The golden gates of lunch gets me through the first half, home time the second. There’s always a middle manager floating over your shoulder. The voice of the little sheet wearing angel and the little pitchfork clutched demon mixed into one. They’ll scorn and scowl and um and repeat themselves and make sure you’ve done pointless things until snapping point, then come the quick praises, the humility, the we’re all in the same boat and like, hate the same things, people comments and quips that make you relate. But really you can’t. They have seven letters in their title that I don’t have, and that makes me inferior. It’s worse pay and all that at the bottom, but there’s a comfort there. Nobody really notices you. You never get any say in big decisions, and if you make a mistake, then there’s no where for you to be demoted to. Still I wouldn’t mind moving up the ranks one day. Hasn’t happened yet though, anywhere. Look at that. It’s time to go home.

Same walk home. Except the sun has twisted shut the blinds. Get to the flat and just lie there. Don’t want to leave again. Gotta cook. Kettle on. The saucepan scrubbed with steel wool, soap and warm water. All I can cook with is boiling water and microwave buttons. Noodles, pasta, rice. Vegetables in plastic packets. Grab a possibly cockroach run over bowl. And an oily fork. Wipe up. Things dumped in the sink. Man I have to take that garbage out soon. Sit in a chair silent for awhile. Should shave and iron. Later. Before I forget better set the alarm for tomorrow.

What A Useless Tortoise Toby Is.

Standing In The Final Dirty Circle, His Heat…

Comic Book CutUpX