Sunday, October 31, 2010

oh yeah

oh yeah I said, and we were there, level two, or three I think, and he's all going on about something or something-or-something-or-something, I don't know what, but he was just talking absolute crap, I've never heard so much-

-like what?

-oh man, I don't know, it's like, it's like, uh yeah, nah, I don't know man, are we doing anything? Oh, yeah, that's right, so yeah he's telling some story about some girl he knows or something, and, he's such a god damned liar, he's like, she's like, oh, you single? You're ugly! and I couldn't believe what I was hearing.

Saturday, October 30, 2010


The Writer had tried to be distanced and cool; flippant and detached was ala mode, yet a heaving earnesty longed to break heroically free in long, drawn out, breathy sentences, that flourished and flounced with the most flowery of language. Cripple with fear. Cripple with gin. Cripple with harsh, alcoholic, medicinal swill and break your goddamned legs walking away so you'll never do it again. Don't look forward so far, your eyes will bleed, the sharp sting of what is not cuts like failure. Howls and bowls and twigs and bags stuffed with stones and leaves weigh him down, but only to the outsider of it all, inside there's freedom and it isn't prescribed and everyone else is terrified of it, so much so its frowned upon. So get new again! Take off all your clothes like you're just born! This second! This day! Rejoice that punk is a hollow shell and that the Empire has fallen centuries ago, time kills all, but we have now, oh god do we have now!

Wednesday, October 13, 2010


Where have I been? I think I lost myself in the last few days. Weeks. It's a dense woodland and its easy to get lost within bureaucratic academia. I can see light up ahead, but I still have a bear trap around one leg which makes my trundling towards it laborious.

Monday, October 11, 2010


Mister Fry is absolutely and positively correct, as always. As a reader and writer and speaker of words, I must admit that the ones and the uses I enjoy most are those that push the boundaries. Even horrible bastardisations of words and language have their place: l33t and txtspeak are just new ways to communicate. People however are just very lazy with them, utilising them as a substitute replacement of proper communication as opposed to dabbling with their potential in tandem with what is already known. All my favourite novels have pushed language: Kerouac's 'Doctor Sax', Burroughs 'Naked Lunch', Ackers 'Don Quixote', and Joyces 'Finnegans Wake' and 'A Portrait of the Young Man as an Artist'. Misuse isn't wrong, its delightful exploration. Its riding a bike on its rear wheel, doing a handbrake slide in a car in the middle of a paddock and jumping over fences and park benches.

Wednesday, October 6, 2010


I tried to tell a story,
I forgot all the words,
I forgot the word 'axe'.
What kind of
was I telling?
Well, you know,
a traditional one,
a fairy tale,
the kind that would have that sort of thing in it.
So I couldnt remember the word 'axe'.

So I asked:
1: what is that thing that people use to cut down trees?
2: chainsaws?
1: no. you know, canadians us them?
2: I am pretty sure canadians use chainsaws.
1: no, its not chainsaws that I am thinking of.
2: regular saws?
1: no, they are like a baseball bat but have metal at the end, vikings used them.
2: axes?
1: yes.

Sunday, October 3, 2010

flicker in and out of being

-by the stars that flicker in and out of being, denying the laws of reality to hold them, set your compass to the three most likely directions at once, sail with the breathe of the Hare and the flea, blowing tiny, microcosmic gusts into your sails outside of their knowledge, advance with systematic stochasticity, cautiously yelling for no-one to hear, our uncertain quivers will guide our hearts, our shoes abandoned, our feet feeling air underneath them, oxygen supporting our weight, the Way crooning to our ideas, lurching is long forgotten, doom existing only as an idle threat that delivers no danger, just continuation.