Burger starve

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Burger Starve

When you go to the burger bar place and you are starving- you ate a sandwich at 2pm but that's the only thing you've eaten since 8pm the night before- and you're in the queue and you're waiting to place your order and then you see them- the most beautiful human being to ever grace this philosophically inexplicable little stain of a planet and they look up at you while they're eating their burger and they smile and say hi and you start chatting and they ask about the paint all over your pants and they ask are you an artist and you say that you are and they studied art history and literature and would love to see your work and you tell them that your studio is just around the corner and they ask if now is good and the spontaneity is exciting and you know that your eyes are sparkling, and your heart is thumping and you are happy, so you step out of the queue and walk with them to your studio and you both look at your work together and talk about music and poetry and you never got your burger

What happens if we don't make it? Back from the shops? Back from exchange? Surgery? Lunch? Dinner date? Bachelor degree? Work? Vacation? Pet store? Bank job? Book club? Supermarket? Comic con? Prison? I wonder if I left anyone behind that I don't know about. There are plenty of people I've left behind that I do know about. Exes, police officers, nurses, teachers, friends, enemies, toxic acquaintances, parents, pets, cousins, grandparents, strangers, dates. I wonder if they know, against all odds, that sometimes I think of them, with wonder and fury and sadness and defeat and fear and happiness and regret and thankfulness. Existence is obscene.

I heard you got sick

I saw your mum on Saturday. She asked if I was going to church. I said no. She said I should. Your mum told me you were sick and that I should come to church and pray for you lol. I told her I'd pray for you that night, but I was lying.

You Fall Asleep

You fall asleep. It must've hurt more than you realised because the person next to you on the plane said you sobbed in your sleep for an hour.

Waking Up Tired But Not Dead

Most days I wake up. Few I don't. On the few that I don't, I am glad that I dont. Most days I am glad that I do. There are few that I do that I am not glad about doing so. Fewer than those that I don't and am not glad that I didn't.

#writingprompt: you open one eye.

You open one eye. Not/Then the other.

#writingprompt: john bring your knife

It was a crumpled piece of paper. At the top of the page 'john bring your knife' was written, and at the bottom 'that one your brother got you and we used when we went camping'

I feel really weird about Everything

Hello. I feel really weird about everything. I know that I shouldn't, but i do. Especially this. On second thoughts: maybe especially is too strong a word. Perhaps I simply meant 'including'. Yeah. Everything is weird including this. Nope. I didn't mean either of those; I meant both of them: everything is weird, including this, especially.

Get dirty and be comfortable with it.

Everyday we muddy ourselves a little bit more, either through the addition of more dirt to the mire, or the slooshing and sloshing of preexisting dirt in the swampy cessness of self. There's no getting clean. Not now. The cleanest we feel is when we are comfortable and accepting of ourselves and our dirt and mud and our squelchy mess. 

The Problem with Winning

The problem with winning is there's no longer any torrent to fight against.

Trying. Failing.

I tried washing my hands today. They felt like they were covered in face grease. Saliva. The thick sweat you get under an armpit or deep between butt cheeks. Warm. Deep stickiness. Melty, napalm-marshmellowy levels of magnetic adhesiveness. I tried again. Still failing. Still failing while trying.

The longer you live, the more people you know die

Wake up all smothered by sweat cause you live in a heat sink
Hair is dead as soon as it leaves my scalp
Cast tongue tunes over room warm whiskey in pencil cup
Heads throbbin', processes slow, channeling the missing link
Straingten up get, sit up, grab the cup, and have another sup
French fries on the floor, more clothes scattered than carefully folded
If mess is the devil, I'm the father of the anti-christ
damp on the edges, corners are col-o-nies all molded
I'm far from purebred, my birth was faked, my genus feist
Barking is my past time, anger is my Christmas
This was not the first bit, not the encore, boredom for the sake of it,
She takes a drag, smokes inside,
I don't, heads and windows I cant, yelling without noise,
The red wine she wants I'll get before the evening.

New country sad sacks, get your scrotum pinned back you ugly Russian,
Thats about the thick of it, all insults and bravado, empty threats,
There's a poltergeist of a thug, he's broken now, thank god,
The wife took the kids and ruined him, I'm glad.
Trouble is where trouble stays, has nothing to do with the neighbourhood,
Why anyone goes back to monogamy after threesomes is beyond me.
Rusty, rusty, rusty, we're always stiff and rusty,
Well I'm stiff, she's rusty, but we ignore the clarity because its worse than fiction.
Sometimes there's a silent, silent pain, silent pause, silent silence,
Actually there's lots of silents, so I guess it's more like all-the-time.

Not a metaphor

The day is bright but dark clouds brew above us. Its not a metaphor, these are the actual environmental conditions at the moment. I'm sitting and watching the people of Footscray walk about to and from the market, the occasional pairing of friends finding each other out and about on the street. They don't notice the clouds forming above. Not that they need to, but I wonder if later when it begins to rain, how many of them will be caught out and find themselves without an umbrella.

Unsanitary Lake

I fear the world is becoming more unsanitary. Yes. Unsanitary. Yes, I fear it just might be, and I don't say that carelessly. For example, just this very morn I was out for a stroll around the lake, and as the sun was rising and bathing the waking world in orange light, I saw a man masturbating in the brush by the waters edge. I assume he reached completion because he let out a long heavy sigh and shuddered, and then, without washing his hands or using any kind of sanitizer, took a baguette from his tote and began to eat it! I was positively horrified!

Incorporeal Predator

"Thoughts became the new battleground. To control the width and breadth of thoughts was the new military and political agenda. Preferences and likes became monopolised. Certain states jailed the victims and set the perpetrators free. Women were crushed under the heel of male oppression for years. Then Feminism. Then Feminism was quietly renovated into a harmless hobby-project to keep masses of women busy; their fight for equality continued but under the contained and controlled guidelines of revolution hampered by bureaucracy and societal restraints. Moving forward through thick mud. Conceptual structures preyed on lone radical ideas."

Let me be completely honest

Let me be completely honest. No truth dodging, no slight passing, no faux presenting, no charade showing, no facade propping, no lie bolstering, just truth. Pure. Distilled. Unadulterated. Crude. Truth.

I got truths. Too many to say. I've got truths stacked up in the back paddock. Up against the shed. Leaning against other truths. Some of them broken under the weight of others. Cracking and breaking. Bits from one laying with bits from another. None whole. None complete. All pieces. An entire cupboard of broken crockery. If you look at the stacks with the sun behind them, at just the right angle, at about 5:30 in the afternoon, or morning, they all start to kind of blur together. They're boundaries all kind of get a little less tangiable. On a hot day, on a really hot day, sometimes, they melt into each other unevenly. One piece of a truth starts the blend in with another piece of truth, and they both sink into the middle of another. Its a mess. Those truths are useless. They aren't even truths anymore.

I perhaps couldn't care less save for the fact that I perhaps couldn't care less

Repetition is the signpost of not caring. The opposite is assumed because strength is usually made up of greater numbers than one. A structure is made with more than one brick. A brick is just a brick. When repetition occurs, it isn't because the thought, words or ideas is so strong it must be said en masse, its because there is nothing else to say. The argument is weak. The repeated is never strong. It just stands on the corpses of its old selves. The repetitious is the majority. The majority is never strong. The majority is the largest target, and the easiest to hit, and the easiest to hurt. Nobody cares about the many. The many is bored and boring. The many is the same. The many is the majority repeated. The many is the repeated majority. Care is in the different and the rare. The few and the scarce. Repetition is the signpost of not caring.

a girl who wanted to be an animal

she had left the road
 literally turned off
 but had never been more turned on
 such freedom in being a little filthy
 a film of a blanket covering your skin
 all sweat and grime
 salt and whispy hair
 dried crusts and trapped crumbs
 skin creases
defined edges
cuticles
 fingernails as tiny refuse centres
so much more visible than they should be
for their size
and colour
and her
and hers
the lone wolf girl
her sex becomes manic and pedestrian
in the same way it is for animals
functionary and thrilling
empty and intense
leaves her without the hang ups
or ironing
of shirts and issues
the next morning
and after
paul says to her "whats your number?"
he genuinely wants to know
he'd like to see more of this dirty beast
she grunts at him
and lights a bent cigarette
the butt rests on her lip
chapped
 he doesn't pursue the request
out of embarrassment
and loss in the stakes of who can care less
because she doesn't
at all
or she does
but only as much
as cat
who doesn't

Today or Yesterday. I don't remember.

I walked to shops today.Or maybe yesterday. I don't remember. I bought some French bread and cigarettes from an stranger acting as shop owner. I camooed home. It was sunny. Sunny and dapply. I felt sad for the grass that had been reduced to husked hair in the heat. I don't even smoke. But I'm sure Arabs do.