The Sour Milk Suck Experience

3. ASSEMBLE

Dead dragonfly on the drain. Young girls trying to look old. Good boys trying to look bad. Old girls trying to young. Bad boys trying to look good. All round blown out stomachs. Strip searches conducted in public. Keep new car stolen sungazes on indoors. Shopping centre containing fat heads and no taste. Food courts. Sneeze guard buffet bars containing chewed olive pits, brown lettuce and dandruff shaved semen sprayed crouton creaser salads. Stand on the death trip mechanical riser steps. In front lips are shaped and sucking like leaves tearing in the wind. Disgusting tongue juicy sluice sound bouncing off mirrors reflecting us moving up. She’s got a broken nose. He’s in a neck brace. They push bacteria ridden lips together, apart, then back again. Smearing her red orifice paint across his dirty slash mouth. Bodies lumped like an eighth graders fucked up pottery project. Then the warm spot falls on her head. Yellow runs down her hair, across her powder punted cheek. Look up to see a flash of bright green pop back over the rail above. Before the slobs break, the gob rivers down onto their lips. Slammed shut love locked eyes open sudden, sudden, and turn upwards in a childhood retelling of chicken little. The sky is falling. FUCK! Whip wiping heads the couple rush up. Looking for the culpable culprit. Good luck. Rising from the quicksand stairs and she’s smile standing next to a sign saying super sale on stained slash smashed stock. Can’t. Believe it. Hello. Hello. How have you been? Alright, you? Had a good sleep. Looks like it. You’ve gotten, older. You’re just as stupid. Fuck you. And still as disgusting. Whatever. Hungry? Only for one thing. Don’t start. Want to hug but can’t. Her hair has gotten greener, less hot anger in the corner of her eyes but more real stuff in her semi clenching hands. Few more and few less piercings. Eating something purple and shaved in bread. There was a priest, he’d come and read Biblical messages each day to all the sleepy heads like you, You were asleep for two and a half years. What happened to mum and dad? They changed names and moved, after the events. You still see them? Sometimes. Did you get a job while I was under? Yeah, one but I got fired. Why? Some bullshit, but really it was cause I went to the doctor’s then came back and got caught looking at rare disease victim pictures on the net, the manager got scared. Fair enough, anything wrong with you? Nup, just like looking at them. You want to go get drunk? I shouldn’t stay out to long. Why? I just shouldn’t. Soon swigging from a bottle of Merchant’s Machine scotch I pass it to her. She says no. Then swigs from her own bottle of vanilla Vikaran Vodka we march out into the open guts of an imploded, collapsed building with a cartoon character mouth painted outside. Start to pass out. The smell of sulphurous mess rises up from outside. She says something about never dying. I ask her if my favourite band still exists? Think so, I hate their music, they’re just third rate copies of a second generation clone. Well, a trend is a trend, is a trend, is a trend. Yeah, that makes sense. It does, snide sarcasm aside. Ye -. Suddenly sneeze tuna everywhere. What the fuck was that? Looks like fish. That is the most disgusting thing ever! Momormore slap burning slosh drinkson down. Night. Ugly drunk language. Twisted face splatter slurs a drool of Hell’s English. Nacken sla sla. Nuba non nel? So trit blim da. For a second we are both beautiful, not just her. Forgotten. Fufuhfalllling Blublublublack.

The Sour Milk Suck Experience

I remember two dreams the most. They are nightmares. The dry rot eyed lady backed by the rollercoaster. Framed mid shot from the mid section up. She is laughing and talking to me even though all is silent. Maybe one day I will understand what she was saying. Who she was. Her eyes are cleanly scooped out, and she is happy to see me, like someone, maybe her, used an ice cream scoop on them. No blood. Split tennis ball perfection in sockets. I scream. And scream. Don’t recall spraying the bed. She came back a few nights that week. And then never again. The other was the first erotic dream I ever had. The pig faced girl in the bank. We lined up waiting for monetary, met some instant and I see that she has old fashioned stocks on. The type tomatoes and melting fruit are pelted at. She had a nice face. Except for the wet dripping pig up turny nose. And the hocks. They were thick slopping too. Twisting. Reaching. Doesn’t talk, just mute gurgles, sneers. I liked her, and even though I’m only four or five years old, feel a weird warmth. Ashamed to be turned on because she is a monster. Not only the slime, but some how I feel, can tell, she is greedy, and taunting, and -. I woke up and was forever fearful that she will one day become a reality. She wanted a kiss, and to be mine, and me hers. The repulsion was also the attraction. I never think about these things. Even though they are my first memories. Sitting here on seat smeared with tomato sauce swinging back and forwards into memories I remember her number. So after checking several pay phones for change I finally find enough to make the dial happen. It rin ring rings for a long time. Then answer. Hello. Hello is that you, how are you, it’s me I’m back I don’t think I died! You have reached me, please leave a message if you have something to say otherwise don’t say anything and hang up. Sigh, meet me at the plaza tomorrow, I will be there. Slam down the public phone cause it’s fun. Freezing sharp rain plitter platters on a drowned daily newspaper showing that some famous blonde waste has made headlines for saying another famous blonde waste looks like a prune. Soggy stale sanitary napkins set sail on the street. Black white mixed skies sweats egg smelling water. Bug eyed man walks past in a crumpdumpled thready suit feeling the wall despite the fact his eyes appear to see. I follow him until the light turns red for cars, moss coloured for us. Roads run everywhere. Being abused by the universe. Two girls in shirts with One Drink I’m Yours, the other Pollution is Bad. Welcome to Greasy Meat, new government policy demands that we have to warn you that you will eventually die if you eat here too much, what would you like? The menu pictures look so fat and wet. What’s a Slider? That’s a double beef patty wrapped in bacon, fried in succulent ham fat, and we’ve taken away the distractions like buns or any salads, tastes and feels just like eating a little pig. You’d recommend it? Yeah, that’s what I get on my break every day. Lean closer, look closer for signs of health decomp. None obvious. But notice her nose is snoutishly turned up, and the eyes looks slow squidgy and pushed together. What else you got? Well there’s the Triple Meat Mystery Meal, It’s pig, cow and a mystery meat, could be chicken, could be kangaroo, could be crocodile, could be anything really, very popular with gourmets and tourists. Nah, just give me a Chunk Chunk Burger with some fries and a Stretcho. Large? A third chin reveals itself as she syllablises this. No, small is fine thanks. Microphone pushes pollution into the oxygen as she calls the order. One minute ten seconds later I have a Chunk Chunk burger, and a recyclable cup of Stretcho. Just waiting on the fries. Yep. Look around the restaurant. Everyone looks paper mache paste pale. Chew chew. Masticulating with no rush. It’s a sea of heads up down chewing. Not talking, watching the screens set up showing repeating images of a nicer outside. Fluoro sits on colon brown walls. There’s a line to the toilet. Pink ice cream melts on the floor. Gherkin green things tile the roof. A group of teenagers sit staring at each other fingers digging into nostrils, only talking when they find something interesting. A mother breast feeds her crying child thick yellow milk. Forget the fries. But they’re almost ready, forty five seconds away. No! Move towards the double door exit. Hand the chunk to an creaky old homeless guy near the door. Pulls away the wrapper and starts biting. He coughs, blood flecks out. What’s the meat today? Think it’s dog rat, but that’s part of the mystery. Lose loose gut change onto the fake grass painted cement. A busload of badly dressed tourists video it. Screaming eat at Greasy Meat! And they do. Forced early sleep next to a road sign that says something crossed out with black paint. Dream badly.

The Sour Milk Suck Experience

Drag the eyball tongue done the row. Perfect houses with nauseous nuances. A wheel barrow broken wheeled being ridden by rot mould faced gnomes. Stripped cherubs holding pots of well manured gerantiums. Fresh watered cement. Still stained fresh washed clothes noosed to the line. Keys hidden in stronoplasti fake rocks. Slam the fist down in comic thymic fashion. No answer. Another random choice smashed back window. Searched bedroom drawers. No cash, no jewels but other sunken buried treasure. Stink and sweat into fantasy. Crushed under vision of delightful diseases and dangerous decisions. Hammered by spurting life. Too thick in the morning for raw flesh on the TV. Push black button off. Walk around this ghost house barefoot. Mist floats from the shower stall where the good husband showered to go to work to support the good wife while she shops away savings on plastic. Soaking towels hung up neatly. A graying pube’s curled on shaven down soap. Toothpaste speckled mirror reflects a steam ghost. Bent bristles on brushes worn down. Back into the bedsty. Stained pine needle sap dresser sits bored with memento hair. Sticky hold a photo up. They look happy but a body language expert might say contrary. Exhausted grey panties crumpled on the floor next to dead grey socks. No signs that lust lives here anymore. Flat battery hidden white mini vibe in the bottom drawer. Husband’s or wife’s? Put the plastic xxx discs back next to it. Sudden canned laughter ejaculates into my ears from down below. Feel thin strings tighten around my throat. Fridge slams shut. Fuck! Trumping up stairs. Hidden in the clothes cupboard behind dust smoked suits and shirts. Black button pushed on. Grunt grunt pig pug pump grunts smack splash from the stereo speakers on the set. Patchy pink pixels flicker. Then the buzz. Electric eel like whine. Sounds of timber being pushed through a buzzsaw. In. Out. In. Out. Start to stretch the pants. Getting brick barred before the sight is even revealed. Know already what it is. And what it means. Sex is lush slapping from the brains. Hard fuck cock hit the bitch what the fuck is wrong with my brain. Want to see more. Want to see. The angle is badly placed. Buzz buzz bar bar. She’s really pushing it to the limit. Device turned up a notch as the vibrosaurus maxes. Silence apart from the crank speed and the violence growls. No moaning lisa moans from the recipient. Just zzzzzzzzzz. Hand down the loosened pants. Push it to the limit baby. Yeah. Fuck this. I can run so gotta see now. Suit crumpled in a rubbishy heap. Then the toes. Man toes curled. Cornish growing man feet. Oh fuck. A six pack. Not many women have them. And this one doesn’t. We look eyes. He is frozen. I am frozen. Antarcticus is not more solid than this moment. Look down and see the insertation. My stomach bucket empties on the bedside. He gets up. I run. Flash through the house. Almost kick down the door to get out. He never says a word. Stops at the door. Keep running. Try to forget what it looked like being pulled out. Try to forget. And just laughing now. There are worse things than a self inflicted prostate exam, but not being caught administering it. Hahahahaha. Wipe the remnants from my lips. Food needs to be free for all. No money. Find a park. Sleep on a swing. Get told to move. Wander.

The Sour Milk Suck Experience

4. AROUND

Toilet cubicle, stolen mobile phone. I gotta remember her number 798237523785786 . Nah that’s not it. What was the first digital? It was 0. Then 4. That’s what they all are. Then it was 2. Yeah 2. Then 4. Yeah 4 for fucks sake. A song asks me if that makes me feel better. And yeah it does. O424. Then what was it. Write that down. 0424. Then it was…Turn the metal cubicle latch. Pocket reaching. Feel the lifted can of Smashface Male B’O Dorant. Pull out the sandwich bag. Shake shake shake spray in. Then more. Fill it with chemical fog. Put this over my facial orifices and innnnhale, quick then slow. Colour veins fizz behind my eyelids. Head and neck floating. Sit back on the shut seat. The main steel wood door whines open. Slipped into bastard fucked up fantasies straight from devil’s brain and Sehgoh’s great lips. Trounced and trawling the floors of massive messy inner red hive skull. Wish I could escape. Wish I could scream away all the panic. Wish I could be gone. Back in flesh again. Back in the eyes again. Echoing boot step. That must have been a real big smell in there. I try to tell him to shut the fuck up but my vocal box has gone seizey and dry. Twist the metal cubicle latch. But he has gone. Either in or away. Listen to a sad blues solo play up and down my arms. Drag sloshing feet over sloosh and slagging spit. Out into the fresh non smell and heat of sunshine. Smatter smuck smash the door down drunk. Pearl colour clothes line raided shirt stained by a violent stomach fight. Nauseous wing headed stare into the sun, which is dying slow and open mouthed in the sky.  It’s too late to wish upon a star. To late mish upon a plar. Felling the sky fill up with slashed up little promises for better. Where is she? Could be looking up at the same stars? Or just looking at the neon picture glow. Metal meets sulphur taste in my frothing mouth. Something destructive snuck in today. When I was sitting by the drunks in the old park one asked me for a suck. I told him no. Started thinking about the diseases crawling his body. Moved away. Sat next to some chess players. One had a bright coloured orange hat on. The other a dripping grey beard. What’s the time I asked. Didn’t answer, kept slapping clocks. You like music I asked. But they slammed their clocks even harder. Forget this I thought. Kept swilling from the brown bag that I got from the shop filled with vinegar wines and beautiful spirits. The man asked if I had money. He pushed the bottle forwards and I took it. Dropped a five on the counter. It’s seven! So took out a coupla bucks I begged for from this girl with a nice dog and barking open umbrella. Yep, that’ll do it. Take the whiney wine and start sip sip sip sipping it. Then skull it. Fuck em! An old Aboriginal elder asks if I wanna donate to the cause. I got nothing. Move on then. So I end up the paved barbeque pit next to these chess rummies. Bottle of wine later, asking for harder. Smack? Nah. Go away, we don’t want no druggies, druggos, here. Alright. Where is she? So bored. One bests the other then the other threatens a beating to the death. Black meets eats white. So back to the road wander. Want to hold her from behind. Want to say I’m sorry. Want to sleep. Power. There’s nothing like it. Not here. Not in space. Anywhere. Gods. Aliens. They all wish for it. Power. Man what a fuckin’ trip. He’s been drinking next to me for an hour or so. Just sloshing it down. No care for liver or lover. Splash fucking it past teeth. Decay. You got any power bruvver? Nah, I got none, can’t you tell. Nah, ‘cause it feels like you got some, but not sure what yet. We keep pump slumping the wine into us. You ever felt God? What? Ya know, felt him crawlin’ round ya bones? I’m not sure? Man, he’s in me, right now. Sure it’s God or the wine, both are powerful, if the exist in your system. Nah, bruvver, it’s the – . But he falls asleep into his elbow. Snores canoe slapping water like. He mumbles I’ve created my own universe you’re not allowed in, not as shallow as this, not as deep as that, so fuck off! Wander the park, shaking from some three dollar wine I stole from a wiped out wino. Sick. Wishing I was here, there or anywhere but in this flesh. They’re gathering around now. Looking for rape and stealing opportunities. It’s gettin late boyo, and I ain’t eaten since this morning, ya know, helps ya get drunk quicker. Staring at the stars next to a shattered silhouette with barbed bearded bag wine breath. Ya not shayin much. Sit silent. Ya know, we all got dem little ghosts floating in our heads, you thinking bout a girl? Yeah. She screwin someone else? I don’t know. Anyone ever tell you the story of the little emerald jelly? – Nah. You probably don’t want to hear it, but, there’s this little jelly, he’s just a harmless little fella, made of gelatine, clear like glass, so he just sits there all day wobbling. He’s looking down now. Using his slivered, dirty hands to shape the story. –cause he’s thinking of this thing he will never get, and everytime he does he turns green, and people love green jelly, ya know cause it’s lemon. Lime. Whatever. Yeah. And everytime he does, up comes one of the people that are around, who live in the house or castle whatever, own the fridge, whatever, and they get out their spoons, and dip in and take a big bite out of him, and the pain of being eaten distracts him for a while, and he goes back to being normal coloured, but it’s not enough, he starts thinking again, then he goes green and so on, so on, until he ain’t nothin’ but this little hunk of quivering bland tastlessness, and he realises that, well, ya know the moral, jealousy eats ya up and – . That’s when I decide to murder him. I understand the point of the story. Even appreciate him telling it. But I decide to kill him. He doesn’t know me. I just want her. Soon others move in and I never get him alone. They’re all laughing and letting red grape juice drool down beards into cloth. Slow sleep on an oval alone, shivering, hands hammer jammed into jacket.

The Sour Milk Suck Experience

5. AWAKE

Cockadoodledoo. He who did not spare his own Son but gave him up for us all, how will he not, also with him, graciously give us all things? Ajofh I-owh;tl ejkbr? Itsy bitsy, Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything, by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to G-. And the peace of Him, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Kriste Jezus Rabid Tooltus. Where do…Sign this. Verse 18:19. Rumababababababatumba. It says the service is unavailable at this time. Suck suck beep.…S.oun.d d.rinks in through the static cream – poured into ears. X shaped tape torn – off eyes. Blink. Light drips down over – bleached spheres. Blink. I have a trunk – pumping little oxy cleaned oxygen up, through my n.nose and into, my, crying crueling lungs. Drag it out, and feel, the little spikes bite into, my arms again. Somebody has shave wiped and clean drooled my face, up. No flowers around. This is not heaving heaven. Nor looks like burn blast furnace hell. Still alive? Thoughts not clear but can still think, a bit, smoky though. Where is she? Her. Toes pin tingle. Moving, can still slow move lift, shaky arms and legs. Swing over wrapped in tissue dress. Sit up and look down. The flabbergut’s disappeared. There’s a small white clock. Tick tock tick. Notice the pudding on the side table. Dip and finger in and break the warm skin. Lick it. Vanilla. Heart monitors monitor the heart. Pull it off. The red line, it flattens. Beeps. Must get out. Put the little monitor onto the face of the clock. Then submerge the clock in the custard. I still have brains. I still have weight. I still must escape. It’s so quiet in here. Nobody must be paying attention to anything except the clock. Click clock. Click clock. Click clock. The guards’ long gone. No alarms sound. The white halls. The white doors. The white lock on the white handle. Outside. Wandering through snow, deeply lost in silence. Nothingness is free and beautiful once again. The open space. The natural icy green carpet runs straight into the high blue orifice. Forever and ever. Remove from my pockets three items I procured from the hospital. One litre of anaesthetic. One syringe, butterfly point. One small ashy tear packet hygiene wipe. Don’t know where to start. Hold the bottle and think of all the sinking sleep in it’s possession. Twist the lid. It sticks at first. Red knuckle twist. Schlink. It’s open. Lift to nose. Taking sniff, sniff, light headed, sniff. Pass. Out. Nauseous. Free.

The Sour Milk Suck Experience

6. AGAIN

Crush that cut halved lemon into your squished up maw. Slick slack your tongue up into it’s guts. Suck in hard so your mouth twists into an exit orifice shape, your eyes roll back into your head. Drink that juice cause it’s so good. ‘Cause of the vitamins, nah, but because of the evil tang. Oh it’s so fucking good you say. It’s so nice. But you don’t realise that it’s acidicly emptying you. And you just keep drinking it on down. Until it’s empty. Yolk yellow, empty of all juice. Pick up the other half and squeeze. Squeeze again. Bath in that stinging juice. Let it run down your throat, down your lips and onto the ground. Keep doing it until you puke or run out of lemons. Then buy more. Pour down the vinegar, the soy sauce, the chilli powder, fetus filled eggs. Get a carton of fresh milk. Tip it down. Skull that whole thing until no drops come out. Let it settle and fester in your guts. Let it all mix mix together. Kiss and curdle. The biting lover touch. Hold it until the right time, then… release! But smell it. Taste it as it appears again. You know why. Cause you’re addicted to it. Yummy addiction in the sunshi-

The Sour Milk Suck Experience – Author Introduction

This is the second part of
The
Tasty
Trip Trilogy.

Following straight on down from the events of
The
Infernal
Sugar
Dive.

Started when I was in badheadspace a few years ago.

Hopefully putting this out on here may make me finish the story.

Or go insane,

Once more.

Wish me the
Worst of luck
With it.

Hope you enjoy the
Happy meal.

James
Andre

Two Thousand n Ten

The Shortest Tail of the Wandering Grasshopper

So out and finding a way to become sober again with no luck apart from people saying drink coffee and this and that and hot water and cold water on the face until it all sounds like it’s just better to stay drunk and risk the price of eating an over priced satay and maybe getting punched and pulled on the train by some fuckin punks who want something until it feels like it’s better just to stay drunk here till closing hour and get a taxi but then again it might lead to disaster and extra long routes taken cause I forget where I live so maybe it will be better just to walk home but that could be a bad idea and so I decide to just stay on this seat until I cannot move anymore which is now nothing left to do but fall off this chair and fake death until the ambulance comes cause hospital has fresh sheets and meals brought to your bed nah the floor looks pretty hard I’m outta here which ever way possible.

Mallow

Streaming down towards open eyes sticky yellow sleep in them that feels like conjunctivitis wiping it away with a hanky like so many other bodily fluids until I can open them again and them up again to too much light coming through the window blinds and then up feeling nauseous again no idea what to have for breakfast that will cure this so have a cigarette and feel worse and something compels me to eat some sugar straight from the packets, white at first then brown and caster, then eat a packet of gelatin cause it’s all that’s left until I find myself looking too jaundiced for work so apply some thick white pancake makeup but that is not enough so I climb into the bath but fall asleep and shrink to a tiny size and when I wake up again I am puffy and spongy and edible so soft I have become a marshmallow.

Brains Trust

The escape plan was formulated whilst we slunk in a coffee shop that served flies in the nineteeneighties newspaper smothered window and greasy toasted cheese sandwiches so bad that a nearby concerned mother got up angered to complain about halfway through. The triple chinned manager had a trembling look of terror in his eyes and her screams of sanitation safety seemed perfect to cover the most fiendish parts of what we were discussing. Recently I had inherited a sum of money, that whilst not enough to cover any kind of house, sports car or retirement, would be enough to finance atleast the setting up of a small cleaning business in a much nicer town than this one.

My accomplices would be Phil Frankel, renowned for keeping his mouth shut, the precision execution of anything criminal and being a sucker for the one armed bandits. Japan Jimmy, who was not really Japanese, but had been married twice to Asian ladies who had sucked him dry. He was also the oldest, wisest and most scarred of us all. And finally, Wayne Katriakis. Wayne was known as somebody who managed to live like a rockstar on a tight budget and was always up for another adventure to tell to his non-existent friends. Phil had just finished dry retching his cheese sandwich when Wayne had the idea that we should wear space suits. That way we’ll look like aliens, or some kind of fucked up astronauts, think about it, it’s never been done before. Jimmy’s eyeballs bulged heavy, and with a string of tasty suspended between lips and wholemeal, singularly brought the idea down with his booming silence. Well, like, how about we, like I don’t know, like…then Wayne went into a spiel about something nobody paid much attention to cause we could all see he was smoked off his face. While he was talking Phil stretched out and grabbed a napkin. Despite being new, it already had stains on it. How about this? In the background, the mother was finishing her rant now, pulling her embarrassed on the verge of puking child out the door. Phil pulled a pen out of his pocket. It didn’t work so he drew some scribbles on the napkin, which quickly tore. He threw the pen down. I give up.

So it was up to Japan Jimmy to finish the final details. We can run the money through a baker I know. Wayne came back to our parallel conversation. Matt Baker? Shut up Katriakis, the guy owns a bakery up on that strip along South Spring Street, you know the one? Phil had soft recognition in his eye. Yeah I know the one. Yeah well he’s pretty dirty, knows a whole lot of people who can run this cash clean once we get it. Yeah! Wayne sparked a cancer stick. The manager eyed him off but was not keen to cop another earful so sat tight behind the counter continuing with the daily paper. Ashing on the floor, Wayne was not to be swayed. Can you trust him, huh, can you trust this baker? Well I can trust him more than I trust your choice of eating establishments. This joint wasn’t my idea, it was his. They all turn to me.

Being new to the criminal game I thought this place would be suitable. Seems not. Why did you pick this place, Paul? Well I thought it would be suitable. Why? Not sure, just I’ve heard bad things about it, so I thought no one would come here. And you want to kill off your recently recruited gang in the process? No, not really. Phil waved Waynes’ smoke from his face. We should have met in a titty bar? Thought about it, but none are open during the day. What about night? Japan Jimmy pursed his lips before he spoke. I need to be home early. Why? It’s personal, Frankel. Go on tell us. No. Goooo on. Alright if you must know I need to talk to my next wife on the internet, she’s over on the Phillipines…the time difference. Where did you meet her? On a site, some find a wife site. You pay for it? Monthly, yeah. You seen a picture? Yeah. Any good? Yeah, fuckin’ model. And she speaks perfect English? Yeah, so? You’re being stooged, man. What? Some nerd fuck in Albania is dick teasing you via horny e-mails and a pic he probably stole offa Google. Jesus…nah she’s real! When she coming over? Next year, she just has to look after her sick fath-fuck you’re right, you prick. Can we get back to the plan?

Sure sorry Paul. Yeah, sorry mate. It was around this time that Wayne spun quickly to a spinach shade of green. He ran to the toilet. Jimmy looked concerned. He might be lactose intolerant? Phil believed it may be possible. How about we meet again to discuss this another time? Both said yeah, yeah, sounds good. Suddenly I decided to take the money for the plan, and blow it on black at the casino a couple of towns over. Seemed a lot safer, and least I had a chance. I won once, twice, three time, then lost the fourth time. But for a few manic minutes I was rich, which was a nice change.

The Night Ends

The squeaking of her weekly rented wheelchair wakes him from the cheap mists of whatever he was drinking the night before. Slow opening his lids to the sight of her twisting the fancy link gold chain up from her neck and over her head. Dangling the cross that hangs from the end of it in front of him, she says please go and get me more wine, Stan. He says just let me get my glasses on, love. He reaches for the greasy specs and twists them over his ears. How much should I get today? Just ask them for forty, that should hold us till Thursday, it’s pension day then or is it next week, my memory’s not so good anymore. It’s this week, love. Forty will do then, and ask them to hold the rings until the week after please. Ok, do we need anything else? Smokes. Alright.

Stripping in front of the mirror, Stan notices nothing has changed since yesterday. His own gold cross still hangs from his saggy throat, the blue and orange inked tiger he got in the navy still smiles from his forearm, the white scar from a knife fight in the seventies still sits quietly under his rib cage. He’s old now, but he always thanks God for letting him get this far.

Dressed and brill creamed to the sides of the bald patches, with a shirt and pants ironed to perfection the tram clicks along through Collingwood, where a brawl breaks out and drugged knuckles dislocate as sun shines through the windows and even the ticket inspectors are hesitant to make much of a fuss, then through Clifton Hill, where it’s all road and it seems to dry out after six o’clock, then up the hill along High.

Stan stares up towards the sun with a smile thinking how it’s gotten busier up here now, nicer too. Out and into the pawn brokers. Quietly waits as all the other deals are done. Someone sweating screams and stomps out. Finally he makes the exchange, and promises to be back in for Rachel’s rings soon.

Untangling the green eco bags from his pockets, Stan heads to the discount grocery store. Stocks up on wine and smokes for her, some light beer for him cause he doesn’t drink too hard anymore, then straining back to his lover and his home before the real heat sets in. After a few, he again thinks things could be worse, so thank you lord for letting me get this far.

New In The Country

First, they put all their power into building the mudbrick house on the hill. The grit getting into the cracks of their hands. The grime gathering in their cutilces. Cursed, and called hippies by both sides of their familes, the Gaughtons wanted nothing more than to exit the formula that had kept them in the city for so long. Planting unborn lettuce and potatoes in a bed of rich dense soil, the couple reached deep into themselves for something forgotten.

Benjamin Gaughton had never handled a rifle, so the first time he loaded, cocked and shot a wild dog was a moment of sadness. But this passed when their sheep were left alone again. The summer was boiling. They crafted simple funiture from smashed up limbs. They put barbed wire on top of fences. And all this time, wound up city slicker springs uncoiled the tension from their brains, necks and backs. Katy Gaughton often found herself sucking in deep mouthfuls of the light, untainted air. Soon glowing with a swell, she found she was due for an Autumn birth, which she announced to Benjamin under a virginal morning sky. Embracing, deep hot rain fell together from their eyes. They had never been as close as they had been since they had moved out here. And slowly that was growing every day.

Tasty Salt and Sticky Wet Wounds

Some summers ago surrounded
Spinning in a bar, sipping scotch
And soda, by
Spice soaked men talking sports
And sex
On the rocks I
Stopped for a short while to consider
What may or may not be
Special on
Our speck in space.

Boxing bashed by on the box below
The bottles of Bacardi
And Baileys, with blow by
Blow accounts being
Beaten about by those
Who bragged about being better
In a brawl.

In this concussive state
Conclusions or calculations were not
Completely easy to
Come by.

Decidely the best decision was
To draw another dollar
From my deeply drenched pockets
And drag another drink down
From the dapper dazed
Barman. 

It had been an easy earn
From my earnest equine racing
Employers and equally so,
An even easier equation was
To empty my entire pay envelope
Entirely on
Getting empty.

This is how horrid hangovers
Happen, how haunting hikes home
Happen, how hatchoo colds
Happen, how half eaten Halal kebabs
Happen, how the hell did I get here-s
Happen. How about another drink? Make it
Happen…

Don’t Need A Car At The Moment

Coming back from the corner shop with a half litre tub of imported peanut butter icecream through the heat and hungover eyes I spot the boy with the broken bottle. Bout eight years old. Ripped black sleeveless shirt and dirty faced. Two jagged spikes at the top, the neck’s been snapped off. Tense up. He drops on a pile of bricks to the side of the street and holds the bottle out staring into my eyes. I’ve got no change, keep walking. Headphones in. Eighties classics. Rich kids with interstate license plates yell muffled abuse with feet up on the dash. Keep walking down the hill. Clear view of the cities smog over suburbia. Beautiful. Pink. The ice cream is getting squishy. Strolling down the street with a hat over my eyes. Look in the stores cause I worked here for a year, but been avoiding it if possible, and see if anything’s changed. Nope. Arrive at the video shop for a surburban thriller. Not sure if my membership is still valid. The cashier sighs as he watches a giggling grapfruit haired girl deliberately swapping movies on the shelves as she see fit. She puts The Exorcist in comedy. I always have trouble filling out the deals in these places. Now she puts The Blues Brothers in Sci Fi. Find three films I want then pick three others just to finalise things. She puts Jaws in documentary. Most likely won’t watch them, but gotta complete the deal. She leaves laughing. Go up to the store clerk. He rolls his eyes and eats a jaffa. Asks me if I’m still at the same address. Lie to save time and say yes. Fine. Walk through the scanners and then out the door. Realise I should have bought the ice cream last.

My Granny

A chocolate biscuit and a doll left over from my cousins were the first gifts I ever remember my granny giving to me. I was about four years old, and wouldn’t stop bawling my eyes out. My parents had left me in her and my grandpas’, a kindly intelligent war vet, care for the weekend. It seemed to trouble them at the time. But she managed to hush me up with bright eyes and smiles until they came back again.

Even though they were on the pension, and had little in the way of possessions, my granny always kept a lush garden. Her favourite things to grow were tomatoes, and plums. When summer would set in she would get me to climb the trees to not only pick the fat purple fruit, but also knock them to the ground, being careful not to bruise them. Aim for the dirt was the main idea. I was instructed to skip the ones the birds had picked at, or were infested with bugs. Then we’d bag them up and take them into the laundry. There we’d wash them, ready to be boiled down into jam. She told me she used to make wine with them, quite some time ago, but the bottles would always burst. Through the three other seasons of the year, jars were collected and saved from any other source available. When the bittersweet sludge was ready it’d be poured into jars. Then the wait began. By the next time I’d visit she’d have spread the mix onto fresh brown bread, then the cream was poured on top. Nothing ever tasted as sweet as it.

Over the years my granny became my best friend, she looked after me most holidays while my parents were at work. Often I’d stay there the whole break. During the day, there was a small deserted playground across the road, and in it a hedge maze that seemed to make no sense. There was an entrance, but once in it there were multiple paths with no ending. Sadly revisiting the overgrown clump when I got older, it had somehow shrunk and barely came up to my waist. I could see the whole design. It still made no sense. At night my granny never slept. We’d watch sports at all hours, and we’d eat whenever we wanted. We’d have tea at two in the morning, often some of her famous mince on toast and a cup of strong red cordial. If I couldn’t sleep she’d sing to me, ‘Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag. And smile, smile, smile…’ Then soft sleep would come, everytime.

Aged fifteen and early in the morning, we were about to head off shopping in Sydney when my mum received a call from the hospital. I didn’t know what had happened, but dad drove us out as she cried. When we got there, the smell of disinfectant and soup floated strong. The place felt sticky. We went to the eighth floor. There was a closed curtain in front of the bed closest to the window. Behind it shadows, and we all walked around. A nurse was pulling the gown down over a full body stocking. She pulled the sheets up, whispered an attempt at reassurance and left. Granny was in the bed. She was sick. She didn’t say hello or smile. She couldn’t move anymore, she couldn’t talk anymore. She could move her eyes and that was it. She tried to say something but all she could do was moan. I think she knew who we were, but I’m not sure. There was a slight glint in her eye. She’d had a stroke that morning. I asked if she’d be alright. Mum said she might get better. Mum and dad went to get a vase for the flowers we’d brought. I’m sure she was out crying somewhere though. I sat on the bed and held granny’s hand. I wasn’t sure if she knew who I was anymore. I hoped she did though.

After a couple of months, they moved granny into a respite care facility. There was slight recovery. She could sit up, if assisted. But she was still completely paralysed, and never regained her speech again. Somebody stole her wedding rings in the home. We never found out who. My mum said granny was probably enjoying a rest, after having cooked and cleaned for sixty years. Sometimes I knew she knew who I was, I knew it in her eyes that she remembered me, but there was nothing either of us could do to express it. Then once when she was seated out with the others in a communal area, the Sunday band started singing ‘Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag. And smile, smile, smile.’ Through my own tears, I spotted mum quietly crying too. And I swear I saw granny smile, one last time.

Cream Coats Fantasy

They spread the
Sweet street kiss disease
Through inflamed infected
Hormone eyes.
Triggered by strobes and
The stringy chewing
Of violin strings,
Pores eventually develop
A consciousness
Of their own, until sensation
Streams billions of screams
Overwhelming the main brain
Into total submission
For pleasure, forever.

Doggy

The week before I left town I got into a fist fight with some friends and told my boss she was no good. Soon after I was packing my bags with a bruised jaw and an impending final paycheck. I sugar soaped the walls of the house I was living in. Sticky taped up all I could manage. And rolled up the rugs. The was a dropped iron stain which I had to pay extra money to get cleaned out of the living room carpet. And the girl was going to come with me. My girl of the time was coming to. I asked her on the phone one day when I should have been packing boxes, not trying to catch a sleep in the storeroom, and she said yes what a good idea straight away. By this time I no longer talked to many people I once knew, and my parents while sad, where probably glad to see a little less of me for awhile. The main concern was the dog.

Sure, he ate the couch we left in the shed, and most of the garden, not a good thing when you’re renting and not supposed to have pets, But he had a big heart and clever eyes.
He was a strong breed, a Kelpie X Mastiff, that had survived fires and abusive owners and seemed to be settled with us. He could not go to Melbourne though. The place we had lined up could barely fit us into it. At first we tried to leave him with the neighbours. They had a kid, and she seemed to like him. He would stare through the fence at us. Everybody said just ignore him, he needs to adjust. Then one night he broke through the fence and as I put some dishes in the sink, he was sitting in a patch of moonlight in the backyard and staring in at me. For once he wasn’t barking, just looking in. I called out to the girl and we all looked back at forth at each other. We opened the door and let him sleep inside with us that night. The following morning the neighbours said we could have him back. Things weren’t working out with him and the kid. So now he was back. Time was slipping closer to the moving date, and the poor dog had nowhere to go.
The thought of sending him to the pound could create nothing but dread, but we could not just release him onto the streets.

Free to a good home ads were no getting any responses, while friends and family had seen what he had done to the backyard and politely shook their heads at the offer. Then came the call from a farmer who had a property far out in NSW.
He was young, but needed a good dog to take roo hunting. Sitting eating dripping ice creams on a statue that meant something to somebody we waited for him to arrive. The phone call had sounded so optimistic. The dog ran and chased birds and people all round the park, he was happy to be free. The he finally arrived. He’d brought his girl too.
Within minutes he’d taken the leash and the dog loved him. The man had no mean spirits in his eye. Despite being young, he could talk tough farming and he’d never hurt an animal unnecessarily. His girl was in love with them too. Pictures of them with a family and the dog by their side filled my mind, and I could see it in my girl’s eye too.
The best thing of all besides the fact he owned land, was his brother worked the slaughterhouse and brought home off cuts. The dog had it made. He went home with them that day and never looked back at us as they drove off. I hope he is still doing well.

Various Cornered People Without Connection

There was no honeymoon period for them. No instruction manual provided. No expiry date is marked. Only the obese pause as they listen to their clothes being churned hot in the rip-off laundromat machines final cycle.

Well what do you think? Lucy wishes she had a breath mint right now. A musk stick. Anything.

In limbo, Jarrod is wondering if his favourite Fubu T-shirt will shrink if he puts it through another spin.

What?

Whatdyamean what? What do you think about having a baby?

I dunno?

Cause like, ya know we’d get five grand from the government for the kid, then we could pay back Thommo n’that.

Dunno. A baby costs more that five grand to raise.

Yeah, we could figure that out later. And we’d get our pensions bumped up a coupla hunge a week anyway for it too.

Fuck that. I mean it sounds good, but we owe Thommo what, almost two and a half grand?

Yeah that’s less than five, dummy.

Yeah…I dunno.

We gotta do it, Jarrod. Time to start acting like a man.

Hitching up warm, air in his lungs for a quick exhale, Jarrod tips back his black NY hat. He wishes his T-shirt was all he had to worry about. Now he picks up the scent of burning plastic.

On the other side of town a sweating injection is occurring. Nothing major, half a cap cause Len the injectee could only get twenty three bucks, with two on tic. It’s just enough. He gently releases the ripped sheet strip from his arm, pushes the pick into a small toothbrush case and lies, bruised, back into the long crab grass.

Man, I coulda been a doctor. I coulda been a cop. I coulda been in the army. I coulda been trained to kill, blowing cunts heads off all around the world. But fuck it…I’m not killing anybody.

Heavy black pillows down his eyes. Smoke is pouring into the sky from somewhere. Bile. Sirens. He’s in love with how much he doesn’t care anymore…

The final sentences on the disability discrimination incident report read -

I am not ashamed to have Cerebral Palsy, and would like to remain employed in my current administration position. Unfortunately if the behavior of Robert Sentic continues I believe that this will be impossible. I would appreciate immediate action on this matter, and would prefer not to have to contact my lawyer.

Signed, and there is a scribble.

She’s a trouble maker this one, huh Rob?

Oh yeah. One of those free spirited types. Reckons she can do it all, Gary.

I blame television. Makes all these bloody cripples think they can do anything.

Oh yeah.

So what are we going to do about her?

Don’t know? She called me a pig.

What? In front of the other staff?

Sort of, under her breath. Only I heard it though, I think?

We can’t have that. And what if she climbs the ranks in the department here? Then she gets so entrenched in the system that we can’t fire her.

Yeah we have to bust her dow-Is that smoke?

Where?

Over in that bakery?

Both flabby coffee chewing suits step to the window and see the heat. There is somebody trapped on the roof. They don’t care.

Thirty cents here. Dollar there. The knuckle tattoos and black gapped smile make it hard for Saul to approach people without them clutching their cash tighter and moving quicker. Maybe find some leftovers in a bin, next to it is even better. His father had a good saying about how to survive this world, but he’s forgotten it. Best keep walking, working this strip of rich street. Hopefully get enough for a large fries before nigh-A blurry firetruck crosses the yellow line up the centre, millisecond stops for a look at the lights and pushes through.  It’s only eleven o’clock.

Acquired Knowledge

Recently whilst on my lunch break
I walked past
A second hand bookshop
With a wire basket outside
That had damaged goods
For a dollar.

In it was a bent book
That promised me
The meaning of life,
But I didn’t have
A dollar.

The Last One

Breaking as I step from the doctor’s office, the storm empties buckets of electricity all over the city. Clapping cold thunder all around, there is nowhere to shelter. I must get the alcohol and black tape before the all in one market closes otherwise tonight will be dead. The water steams off warm skin. People are using newspapers to run through it. Not just due to my injury, I have no reason to run. It’s nice. Once there I get one lemon, a packet of painkillers, a six pack of Peroni, a bottle of Vat 69 scotch, and the tape. On the way back I see the fruit shop using high pressure hoses to spray out it’s delivery bay of a horrible red fluid. Store owners and customers have dragged chairs outside to watch the rain. It’s been a while coming. Then I get out from under the roofs and back into the steel making slippery shower.

With a beer in hand, I iron my baggy orange white striped shirt and black Calvin Kleins. Frequently spraying more mist onto them to get the creases right, I remember what my grandmother told me before they sent her to the high security aged care unit.

Knocking em off ain’t hard, it’s getting rid of em after that that’s tricky.

She was right, off course. Most grandmas are. She was like a mother to me for so long. Once listening to an addict neighbor loudly discuss her upcoming abortion as a recreational choice, as a right choice, which I did not disagree with, I became convinced all life is not much more than breathing correctly, letting the blood flow right, and keeping the brain healthy. An organic thing. Any spiritual notions of conscience and soul didn’t add up for long. Yeah, Grandma was like a mother to me. I wish she had’ve finished it cause then I wouldn’t have to now.

Seeing as this is a revenge story shortly to end, I haven’t much to say. I will spare you any long explanations or convictions for our side’s case. Let’s just say that this feud has been going on for many years, decades forming up to almost a century. We were farmers, so were they. They stole some of out livestock. Three cows and sixty sheep to be exact. They denied it, as they would. But after a few industrial accidents on each sides, people started getting seriously maimed. Then they started disappearing. Our families broke out into war. It’s no longer on the farms now. They were all sold during the recent droughts and depressions. There’s a few left on our side, but only one left on their side, John Jenkins. A rotten bastard who has recently developed a opiate habit over the other side of the city. He’s forgotten his family code. Couldn’t give a fuck about honour, just getting high. Me, I’ve always known those who were right would win this war. It’s almost ten o’clock, and I’m done taping up the knife’s handle. The train will be rolling out soon.

Drunk but alert.  The locks on his apartment are only three pin. Bad neighbourhood here. Behind the dirty white blinds the blue light of pixilated sludge drips and flickers without changing. He’ll be pinned by now. If there are others in there with him, they will have to be dealt with. It clicks open. I twist the handle.

Soon with a wet tea towel dripping over his sweaty forehead, he wakes. His armchair stinks like rotting fast food. This place is not fit for flies, let alone humans. Black pupils continue between dilation and shrinkage as he contemplates the blade in my hands. He can’t be sure if he’s dreaming or conscious. I wet whisper first.

You’re going to die tonight.

Spit in the corners of his mouth, he wipes it with the back of his hands as he tries to remember his final speech. Looks like he he’s well prepared, and yells his piece.

So! I have nothing to live for and nothing to say, a skull for a head and crossbones for arms, I would be considered scum, but at least scum ranks somewhere in the universe’s food chain. So just go on and fuckin kill me now! I’m smacked off my fuckin dial mate! Do me the favour and end it now while I’m high. C’m-

Wah!

What was that? Who’s baby is that? Where is she? Where’s the mother?

Fuck you cunt!

You know who I am?

He focuses, and gets a better chance to eye me close.

You’re Peter Baker…

Yes, yes, your killer. The baby!

The girl, Melanie, she’s in a cot down near the window next to the bed. Her mother, she’s not here… She’s… dead.

How?

What?

How’d she die?

I killed her.

So why aren’t you in jail then, you junkie cunt?

‘Cause I buried her, out on our old farm.

Who was she?

She was your sister…

What?

We used to be together, lovers and that when we were both twenty three but then my dad found out. He cracked my eye socket real bad, and then he made me pick her up in the ute one day and…together we got rid of her.

I stumble some steps back as tears spill salty from his bloodshot eyes. He crinkles them tight shut. He has no more answers for me. He’s shut off. Death is in the room now. And this time it’s specifically staring at him. Breathing thoughts, this is the last one. He is the last one. He is the last one!

Drip. Silence sits, tap worn washer in the kitchen. Drip. The knife still shines with perfect weight in my hands, the tape has moulded to a good grip. Drip. Revenge, this will be easy. Or is it just easier to just throw the blade down and walk away? Drip. Do this for myself, not my family, all of whom lie locked up Drip or rotting in the ground after being stamped out. I owe her, Drip or myself? Drip, drip. Which side of the family is he on? Is should kill hi Drip m? Frozen midway between the door and him is where I stand, Drip, Still, Drip.

Enter The False Skies

By melting silk sand from the Sahara,
They build Heaven out of glass.
Standing seventy nine stories high,
It is filled with those who can
Afford.

Swimming with white plastic ferns,
Cream coloured funiture, and a
Never ending scent of vanilla,
Their eyes adjust fast for there is
No need to go outside again.

Next,
Shiny scalpel plastic surgery turns
Any, all genetic defects
To Grecian works of perfection.
A mirror ban stands for fear of nihilism.

With pure Prozac injections
Any mental conflicts of descent
Turn to flights attuned upwards, aided by
Synthetic electro muzak, and rubber
Bottles of vitamin fused honey fluid.

Soon, a golden day dawns.
Sweating, the temperature control hits high.
With DNA spliced wings, the angels
Flap and lock lips under fluro.
The future is conceived, quick and dripping.

Sitcom Suicidal

A reasonable girl once told me
How her friend
Wrote for sitcoms
And situational dramas,
And how he eventually ghost wrote
Scripts
That involved
The main characters dying
Horrible deaths.

But I would do
Much worse than that.

I would write
Inter racial development
Within the close knit
Nice white society.

I would integrate, and move
Aboriginal, Indian and Asian Families
Into the mix,
Then leave it
For let the professional writers
To
Sort
Out.

You don’t see
That
On network
TV too
Often.

Better Keep A Bottle Opener Next To The Bed

Start tying one on about lunchtime. Throw back a few pints of the pale ale and a pizza, at the brewery and start to think yeah this ain’t so bad. Fuckin hot though, like forty degrees hot, but the rain clouds are building and occasionally bursting. Short slow walk to the bottle shop after, although this Italian grocery has nothing to offer but beer and wine. Really want a bottle of scotch. Yep, unfortunately the closeset thing is wine. Not my style. Look at the bottles, and can’t tell the difference between a cab and a sav, a vino and a pinot. I just want a red. Gotta hold the bottles up to the light to see what’s in em. Don’t want a white, way too thin. Why do they have to fill em all the way? This one has a red lid. And it’s a screw on. Bonus. Nine bucks forty nine. Must be top shelf? Get it, and bottles of random organic German pilsner. I need something for dinner, but my arms are full. Forget it. Pull out the profits from my first book sales, thirty bucks. Home time.

Four thirty and unscrewing the lid. Put on Bad Lieutenant, not the corrupt coke cop movie, but the album featuring Joy Bernand Division Sumner. A couple of the tracks are cool, but it moves into too mellow territory. I need big bold sounds. Put on some Arthur Brown. Covers of classics, and white funk delight. Glasses washed out with steel wool, a stained wine and a short glass. The Pils pops it’s head everywhere on the carpet. Not to worry, another quick grabbed mug catches most of it. On my shirt, that’s cool, still get a couple more wears out of it. Now I’m not gonna get wild tonight, gotta work tomorrow, but I’m already smoking hard and that’s a bad sign. All a man needs is alcohol, airconditioning and freedom.

I Put A Spell On You pops up and it’s time for another wine, beer cause this song brings out the best, worst of whoever performs it, listens. More red drops on the carpet. Damn. It is my resolve not to clean up till I have to move. It’s been two months now, and another month or so to go. The roaches are already up to their necks in junk. But damn them, they can drown! Try to call a number that’s been disconnected. No good. Then an overseas telemarketer calls me. They must sense loneliness. I hang up, slamming repeatedly. Only this morning I was so nice to another one who called me. I have become a monster! Calm down. Breathe and inhale some more of this sacrificial grape juice. Drinking it tastes like a blown lobe headache. Should I put the bottle in the fridge or leave it out, and aren’t you meant to air it or something? Forget that, it’s going in this fridge, just like it’s cousin, Ribena.

There you go.

And after another smoke I remember I’m tying one on.

Ain’t nothing like it.

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

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!