Awkwardly Organic

There is something unhealthy about people who only eat health food. Little labels labeling nuts organic leading to off-coloured gums. Chemical free grown apples making eyeballs pallid. And a general lack of grease leading to paper leather skin. No, a hamburger, fish n chips or a fryup must definitely make a diet appearance weekly otherwise bad things may occur.

This was the case of Moonbeam Maharti Jones, the son spawned from guerilla vegans. A total TV ban, given a cold odd shaped rock as a pacifier and constantly regaled with meat is murder man! meant he never stood much of a chance. Laughed at and smashed at school, bullied and berated, the only thing he never experienced was other stingy students stealing his lunch as each day it was the same, a ziplock bag of sunflower seeds, pumpkin sandwiches and raisons. Then one day someone spiked his sandwich with deep fried meat. It didn’t end well.

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

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