Saturday, 31 January 2015

Even when the weights are lifted, weariness remains.

I looked for a new job. The bird in my head was dying. Trapped inside a birdcage skull, longing for freedom but too timid to try it.

So I went back to work. My whole heart was dying. Whilst I pushed the papers to and fro and wrote letters to pacify the whining.

I finished what I had to do. Instead of giving up on trying. But I left a little bit of me behind, my soul was slowly dying.

Sunday, 25 January 2015

Of Hope and Despair

Something's growing inside me. A feeling that overpowers all others. Where bitterness and resentment once stirred me to action - once stirred me to rage with no counterweight; now acceptance, defeat and weariness rise in equal measure and give me pause. They wrestle my anger to the ground, close around it, bottle it, cast it back down. Then onward I trudge, a being with no hope left inside. A shell. Wandering aimless. Going through the motions. Buttoning. Unbuttoning. Ironing. Lacing my shoes. And not knowing why. Until I shed it all and leave this pointlessness behind me.

Nothing is fun any more. Nothing seems worthwhile. Everything is a struggle, a fight against the tentacles of despair that reach out each morning and strap me to my bed. No amount of positivity allays them. No amount of blood.

Thursday, 22 January 2015

Lachrymose Latches

The window sits ajar; cool air pours in but no one can be bothered to close it. The dilapidated fibro walls perspire condensation in protest. Everyone is lazy, everyone is still. There's a hand-print on the ceiling in the hallway and everything is drab and uncared for. A single batten fluorescent light flickers sometimes in distress, bouncing light off the once well painted concrete floor. The locks are on the wrong sides of the doors and someone is crying.

Aunty Ataraxis

The desolate souls lined up on the floor, surrounded and helpless and crying and poor.

The puddles of puke that pour from their faces: mucous and tears and slobbering rabies,

Make a thick stretch of slime from here to the door, where loved ones are waiting fearful of gore.

All my friends died in Lassiter's fire

The muscles can't be bothered any more, and the breath can scarcely bother to draw.
A pain sunk in and made its home, for months and years around my bones.
My eyelids sink and draw to close, desperate for their long repose.


Weariness is wrapped around my ribcage.
Weariness has made myself its home.
Weariness sloughs off all my optimism.
Weariness is talking on the telephone.

Wednesday, 21 January 2015

Mental Toss Flycoon

Fatness feeds down. Fetid, fractured and forlorn. We lick our wounds and suck the scabs. Until grease pours out. Sanious, insane, yes. A phoenix in which we walk around. Reliving our burdens. Setting us up for failure. A lonely friendless heartbreak. Solitude and despair.

We cared so much. But cares mean nothing to nobody.

Sunday, 18 January 2015


I want to tear apart their faces with my fingers. Rip flesh from them in chunks, until their skeletons scream like newly birthed infants, freshly popped from a gore encrusted flesh wound. I want to hold them down by their face whilst they bite my fingers off in desperate protest. I want to bite their bones with my teeth. Gnaw away at their cheek bones like a dog snapping the neck of a rat. Grind them up and froth their putrid blood out of my mouth.

Tuesday, 13 January 2015

Campbell Newman: Another Election Victory against the Labor Scourge

He's got bad teeth. How can he lead anything, let alone the country, if he's got bad teeth? It's a disgrace. It smacks of laziness or instability, or poverty or heaven knows - a lack of a good diet? How can you trust someone to look after anything when they can't look after themselves? Humans are pus-filled sacks of sucking mucousy lips and dribble. All that separate us from worms are teeth. If we don't have teeth we slither and suck against ourselves like gammy gummy grandmothers. Germ-ridden and geriatric. Pulling at the pool fences that surround our prisons, too mush-brained or stupid to lift the latch up and release ourselves.

So here's to you and your lizard features, slicking your tongue across your horrible thin lizard lips; your scaly depilous head. Three more years of empty nothing head bobbing and meaningless cavity rich smiles. Three more years of stupidity and stagnation. Three more years of you pulling out our teeth and grinding us down into the earth, making us worms. 

Tuesday, 6 January 2015

Until that is, I brewed up a storm

I close my eyes and a gurgling green mess of liquid spills through the blackness. Shapes take form and fall away over and over, like oil bubbling from the ground. I see her outline, with her skinny shape and angry features. She stands proudly, unperturbed and perfect. I hate her soul. I would smash it to pieces. Drag it out of her, beat it to death. Burn parts of her body. Piss everywhere, enraged, with fists clenched beating against the ground.

It starts me screaming again. Screaming until I fall off my feet. Screaming on the floor. Grabbing my head. Grasping at nothing. Screaming until I can't stop. Until I pass out.

I wake in the hospital again, in the ugly lace-up gown. They've removed my underwear and there's plastic tupperware containers of food paste at the end of the bed. Every time I close my eyes she's there. So I don't. Not any more. I'll hold my eyes open, tape them open, whatever I need to do to survive.

Sunday, 4 January 2015

It was the smell of nail varnish and regret

She had smiled at me across the aching chasm that was the dance floor. A courtesy smile, one made subsequent to locking briefly into eye contact. There was no beckoning behind it. Yet I felt it grip me. I let it pull me toward her.

Loneliness and solitude seek solace in sin.

I danced up against her and she was polite for a moment, continuing to dance and merely edging away. I edged with her, grinding forwards as she ground back. She began to get flustered, to shoo me away with uncomfortable faces and slight hand gestures. Her friends tried to dance between us, but they were no match for my gasconade. I had planned to introduce myself, but now it seemed too late. Better to just walk her out the door when no one was looking. To spirit her away to a darkened place where spirits dare not tread.

To bang on the drum.
To stick in my thumb.
To tear out her plumb.
To watch her succumb.

To. feel. her. go. numb.

Saturday, 3 January 2015

Putting your picture back on the shelfie

"...what with all these planes falling out of the sky these days or crashing into buildings and what not. Imagine, say, imagine if our words were written down here, and someone was reading this in ninteen... uhh... two-thousand four-hundred and tickety-two! They'll want an insiders perspective. What it felt like to be alive in our time. What was it like in 1999, watching it tick over to 2000. What did we eat. How many doilies were on the chairs. What was it like on September 11, 2001. What was it like living through the Iraqistan war. All that. And they'll want to know because its all selfies these days. We communicate in selfiephore. All I see are creepers taking photos in front of burning bridges, in front of Sydney sieges, and any place else they shouldn't, Where's the posterity, the first hand accounts? In fact, I should take a selfie right now, in front of my manifesto!"

Virgin on the absurd, teetering his ridickulous

He texted and said he was, "on root".

I drew back a picture of a stick-man standing on a tree root.

He texted back to say, "sorry, on route."

I didn't bother trying to correct him again. I was 30. The world no longer cared about me and I no longer cared about the world. Life was dull. I was dull. The world didn't need 30 year olds to be cheeky. The world needed 30 year olds to get on with it and do their duty. Consume, pay taxes, work, provide for their families, subsidize the welfare system - the system keeping the dirty artistic 'geniuses' from scraping their stomachs off the floor. They get to play all day, shitting out dubious pieces with no artistic merit, whilst I slave away with morons who say "on root". Where's the justice?

Why do they use the word "works", "artworks", "work of art" etc. It implies there's work involved. Work is work, and creating is not. Especially when it involves creating necklaces out of dried clumps of poo and selling it on Etsy. It comes straight from her butt, Son. Straight from her butt.

A slutton for a glutton

I was crushed between her vagina and the deep pube sea,
And all I had to save myself were feline fetuses named Fi.
For I was up at midnight learning ways to die,
Instead of studying my janitorial coursework and trying not to cry.

If I could start my life over, if I was no longer twenty-three,
Perhaps I'd be a butterfly or perhaps a bumblebee.
Perhaps I'd fly above you and wonder what you'd think,
When you see me flutter-by, whilst rolling round your drink,
Between your thick and greasy pudding fingers,
The ones that used to stink.
The ones that touched up all the mingers, and twiddled at their pink.

Would your sausage fingers grasp away at my thorax?
Or would you get out the dusting gun and fill it with borax?


My love for you, is like a glue, made from snot. 

My love for you is like a glue, squeezed from a tissue, after coming down with flu and dying on the shitter. 

My love for you is like a glue, squeezed from a tissue, after coming down from flu and dying lonely on the loo, whilst pushing out a hefty fat turd. 

My love for you is like a glue, squeezed from a tissue, after coming down from flu and dying lonely on the loo, whilst pushing out a poo, shaped just like you.

Who knew, who knew, you slew me with your spew,
I was just cuckoo, for you, *coo coo*, my one, my true, my lovey dovey jebby-doo.