Saturday, 25 April 2015

Scrawling Messages to Christ

I'm putting up post-it notes on my wall. They're letters to Jesus in handwritten scrawl.

"Lord, give me the strength to go on. The dishes my housemates left in the sink are starting to pong."

"Jesus..... I'm scared, I wasn't prepared for her to have perfect hair. She had three uniform ringlets just hanging there, I tried hard not to stare. I'm not a lesbian I swear, so I hope you don't care."

"God, my housemates didn't give me their rent again. I overheard them, they said I was a four out of ten."

"Father, I sinned, I swore and I cussed, I'm probably pregnant and my heart's gunna bust."

"Christ, do you hear me? Do you care at all? I know in the grand scheme of things I'm pretty small, but I have nothing... nothing else anymore."

Sad Little Sucks

I sit there watching the days go by, the little children growing old while their grandparents die. The world spins around me all busy and fake, I'm totally ignored, motionless, like a buoy in their wake. I feel like I'm waiting, some part of me stuck, longing for a bite of happiness but only getting sad little sucks.

Friday, 24 April 2015

The Pongos

Death flew past overhead, but it sometimes crept alongside our feet instead. It always watched over us in our beds, and it would cradle us in its arms whensoever we were bled. We cried because we couldn't remember the last time we were fed, we fought over moulding lumps of bread, but it didn't matter. Soon we'd be dead.


When was the last time I saw a dirty ear? I haven't been up close and personal with anybody in years. All I ever hear are boos and jeers as I walk down the road mumbling all my fears. Even though I used to be a company man, licking boots and butts and shaking all the hands, now they're whispering and staring, telling me I'm scaring these kids? These kids are scared of life. They don't know the horrors of having a house and a wife. They can't even be bothered pretending to be polite. I'd make them pretend whilst I stick them with my knife.

Thursday, 16 April 2015

Agitation, frustration, flagellation and self congratulation

She strode across the road, sunshine caught between the golden strands of her hair. Her skin was fair, barely there, she swept up all my cares and left me standing there stupidly, dumbfounded, I stared at her as my heart pounded. We were surrounded, but all I saw was her. My chest collapsed as time elapsed, realizing I'd never hold her in my arms. She was beyond my mediocre charms, my ugly face, and my hairy palms. I could only capture her with my eyes, briefly. Her beauty made me despise, completely, my very existence. That even with the utmost persistence, she would always be resistant to my feelings.

She somehow made my life even less appealing.

Wednesday, 15 April 2015

Play Him Off Keyboard Babes

Life was a crazy rollercoaster and Jimmy-Jamz just wanted to ride it. No, perhaps that's too simplistic. He wanted to kick everyone else off, and wrap himself up in the rollercoaster until he became the rollercoaster, until he was the one hurtling and careening all over the tracks, barely holding on, and screaming in an adrenaline infused fury. That's why, when some old skeez said, "hey buddy, wanna buy this new drug?" Jimmy-Jamz punched him in the mouth and took all he had for free. "Life's fucking for free, man, you can't charge for things in life, you've got the wrong fuckin' headspace," said Jimmy as he walked away, flicking his cigarette stub on the crumpled whimpering heap that used to be a man.

Of course Jimmy smashed every last pill, because designer drugs are obviously named so since they're watered down for pussies and wankers and little teenybopper kids. He figured that he'd have to take at least 10 times the regular dose just to get one hit, but even the drug at the concentration appeared to have no effect. Jimmy reckoned he could still punch a bastard out in one hit. He tested the theory just to make sure, and sure enough he could. It was at that point he smashed down the rest of the bag and gave it 30 minutes. Still nothing happened. He decided to go back to that geezer and get a violent refund, but by the time he wandered back in the club the guy was gone. The puddle of muck he'd left was smeared in the direction of the rear fire exit, so Jimmy followed it. He pushed through from the buzzing hum of the club out into the cold and suddenly silent seeming alleyway. He took a deep breath and looked for more evidence. A trail of blood, tears and snot droplets were leading along the side of the building where they suddenly stopped. Perhaps he'd gotten in a car, thought Jimmy. He crossed the alley looking for any other evidence. When he turned back he noticed a ladder part way up the wall. Could that bastard have dragged himself up there after getting the beating of his life?

Jimmy was on the roof in no time flat, and sure enough there was the geezer, hovering shakily by the edge muttering to himself. "Oi what are you doin' dickhead?" Jimmy yelled as he approached. "Those drugs didn't do shit, I have half a mind to-" the geezer wheeled round and seeing Jimmy's face again gave him a shock that made him weak in the knees. He teetered backwards, waving his arms about as if flapping in circles. Fear and panic contorted his face into a look of horror. Jimmy instinctively reacted, grabbing the guys shirt front, sending them both over the edge. The geezer hit the pavement first, with a wet thud and no further noises. Jimmy landed softly like a ninja nearby, soundless and without a single twinged muscle. "Weird," said Jimmy, as he looked up at the rooftop they'd fallen from, "that was at least eight metres."

Soon Jimmy hit the road. His career, which until now had consisted of petty thuggery, took off in strange new directions. He started jumping off houses for a couple of bucks, but within 6 months he was in Vegas, jumping off the tallest building, landing on one of those giant oversized walk-on keyboards on a fake beach, surrounded by cheering bikini girls. Fireworks were going off as he landed lightly on middle C without a scratch. He was being interviewed extensively by attractive news anchors for his unique witticisms: "what's your message to kids that wanna be like you?", "well, if you wake up one day and realize you're just a dildo designed to frig pigs, don't try to be something you're not, just frig those pigs as best you can. If you wake up one day and realize you're a fuckin' star, then you can try to be like me, but it takes a lot of hard beatings, and lot of hard drugs to make it."

Tuesday, 14 April 2015

I thought I'd found the answer, but it turned out it was cancer.

The pain was with me always. By my side. Pressing itself against me. I could manage a smile at times, for a child playing, looking curiously upon my white skin and breathing apparatus. But that was all. The only smiles I had left I gave to them, and then I was exhausted. My family got my pursed lips, bells ringing, straws crooked into the side of my mouth as I desperately sucked, vomit, distress, panic and various other discharges of emotion and sickness. I crept along with wheels, hating life and desperately wanting it at the same time. Sometimes I heard bells in the distance, Chinese chanting... monks perhaps. I hadn't felt my fingers in weeks. My arms just stopped somewhere between my elbow and wrist. My face was a horror store mask, twisted and melting; the hair looked fake and barely attached, it came away in fuzzy tufts.

A child I'd smiled at came up and asked me about the tubes. As I was sitting there in a wheelchair with a blanket covering my legs, I told her it was scuba gear for mermaids. She laughed, said The Little Mermaid could sing under water and above water so she must have lungs and gills. She'd obviously thought about this before. She said goodbye and went on her way. Give it a week and she'd forget I existed. Give it a week and perhaps I won't.

Sunday, 12 April 2015

Orphaned little snippets lanced in the thicket

Wandering through life listless. Ageing faster than you'd like. Not having a chance to stop and think about what you really want, or where you're going, or what you're doing. Just waking up to a burst of occasional reality, feeling bewildered and lost as if you've changed planets, as if you just exited the Matrix. And then just as suddenly you're back in, lost in a messy world of thoughtless uninspiring entertainment. Billboards, concrete, plastic, neon-lights, screens, mirrors, glass. A world where time to ourselves, internal monologue and thoughtfulness is dead. When was the last time you took some time just to think? To gather orphaned little snippets and come up with original thoughts? My focus is bombarded by scatter shots of tiny distraction. Thoughts lost, slipping through the fingers of my mind as soon as they appear, never to be followed.

We're all either filling time or dying.

Saturday, 11 April 2015

Ptyalize ribbon round the old oak tree

I thought I liked her. I thought she was the one for me. I'd told my little secret to one of my other female friends, and girls talk, it got around. Out of the blue one afternoon after school, she came up to me and said: "you're a really nice person." I felt awkward and looked away, beaming on the inside. The other girls were egging her on, giggling from the sidelines. One of their father's came over and said loudly: "come on girls, stop teasing him," and hurried them all away. I was left by myself to wonder, under a stained statue of the virgin mary, whether it had all been a joke at my expense or if she wanted to be my girlfriend.

(she didn't)

I talked to her a few years later, a long time after our paths diverged. She confided to me that she'd slept with all her close friends. I felt sick to my stomach.


She was sour inside. Someone had used her up, taken all her sweet nothings and run away. Left her to dry up and acetify. All she had left now was a sour taste in the back of her throat and a bedroom full of regrets. Sometimes she dwelt. Sitting on the cold bathroom tiles with an empty bottle, slicing herself like a lemon. Letting all the sour out.

Tuesday, 7 April 2015


He doesn't respect me as a person. He doesn't respect the facts. Facts are meant to be respected. Spinning facts for your own gain is the work of politicians and psychopaths. But he isn't a politician. He doesn't think I add any value. Besides using me to measure his life against. To feel good about himself, looking at me and quantifying his success. He had his name up in lights once... When he put his business card on a lamp shade. He travelled the globe, altruistically giving alms to the poor... When he fled the country amidst bankruptcy and decided to shake down tourists for their last few dollars.

When I was eight years old, I went to church, and the priest read Jesus' words about forgiving your brother: "you must not forgive your brother seven times, you must forgive him seventy times seven." I snuck into my Father's office, borrowed his pocket calculator and did the maths. It really didn't look that big of a number. I wondered how close I was. How soon I could stop.

Monday, 6 April 2015


It's hard to be useless at something. It's hard not to want the world to end. It's hard sometimes not to punch people in the face, but we manage. We drag ourselves along by some miracle of perseverance, like an invisible hand reaching down and pulling us along by the shirt front, as our heads tilt back, lolling around like newborns, and our toes scrape through the dirt. We let ourselves be dragged for 60 or so conscious years, through unpleasantness after unpleasantness, all the stuff we'd rather not deal with, all the things we'd rather not do or have done to us. Then, when we get to the end of the line, the hand lets go and we fall in a pile and shit and piss ourselves where we lay. I wish the hand would instead reach down and spin the earth faster, so everyone I hate would hurry up and be dead.


When the Berlin wall fell, we knew it was over. All the dark years of constant fear and worrying had come to an end. We used to keep away, but now we could wander the cobblestones of back alleys, even at night. Touts had moved in, setting up shop and hawking in makeshift flea markets. I found one once, two young children selling wares, sharp knives, watches, heroin. Another man, perhaps their father, was taking a pick axe to parts of the wall that still hadn't come down, making fist-sized souvenirs for tourists. All of the soviet's power had come to this: relics and dust. He looked back over his shoulder occasionally, between bouts of hacking it all away. This was a new world we were living in. The 90's proceeded in a new way, without any super villains - the fascists were gone, the socialists had been routed, the world seemed empty of threats. Life became simple for the first time, until the planes hit in 2001. Until the shifting shadows of terrorism scared us back inside, to once again hide shivering under our beds. The optimism and spirit of the 90's didn't end with Prince partying in December 1999, they ended on a Tuesday.

Thursday, 2 April 2015

Dom's Favourite 5 Microstories Of Jemzbawls From 2015 Q1


Seal That Death Jar Nice And Tight And Get The Fuck Out Of My Life


Flushing You Out Of My System


Career Advice From Lord Lucan


Being Scared


Notes From The Trenches, March 2015

No Wings to Shelter Under 2: The Uncy Dome-ning

I'm a good man, and Mother always said you can't keep a good man down. Actually, she didn't ever say that, she was never around. But if she had been, then well, perhaps I wouldn't have drowned. I mean, I'm sure it happens all the time in a lakeside town, playing by the water's edge and no one hears a sound. I was grasping at the surface light, haloing down upon me like a crown, but I was sinking to the bottom as if I weighed a hundred pounds.

The stars disappeared from the sky - I smiled as I waved them all goodbye

Every day I come home tired, after spending 8.5 hours trying not to get fired. The aches and pains that creep across my back, will be ignored until my whole spine subdues and cracks. What's the point in taking time for oneself, when you can't even look at yourself, and you just feel like filth? Concentrating heavily on what a waste your life is, how ugly your wife is, and your kids being a massive source of guilt. You should never have started doing the horizontal hustle, because now your life's become the ouroboros shuffle.

The Meatman

My father was a butcher, and when I was young I would visit him in his shop and walk among the hanging carcasses on the cutting room floor. Surrounded by pink and white flesh, and the stink of a chemically sterile death, I would look inquisitively and help my father locate the choicest cuts. He let me arrange the window dressing and choose which flavour of seasoned rissole should be today's pick. He taught me to use the register, the eftpos, the meat grinder, and even showed me how to use the silent alarm. I remember those years fondly, growing up with a father - one who loved to share their life with me. Someone who put me first, above all things, even above his own wellbeing. And I was always grateful, though, perhaps he never knew.

When I became a teenager, my parents had split up, and I'd made friends who liked to hang out after school. I no longer needed a dad, and I barely dropped by his store on my way home any more. One day, after a few weeks of not visiting, I noticed there was a "FOR LEASE" sign hanging in the door.

After he died, all I see every time I close my eyes, is my father's naked corpse swinging from a meat hook, surrounded by all those carcasses. Sometimes he's whole, and other times he's missing pieces, sometimes he's a torso, barely recognizable, headless. Other times his head is attached, and it swivels to look at me, with sad world-weary eyes. Tears are welling up around his eyelids, and he mouths the words "where were you?" or, "I love you". And then his pupils drop to the floor, silence prevails, and he doesn't move any more.

James' Favourite Microstories Of Dom's From 2015 Q1

In alphabetical order...

Wednesday, 1 April 2015

We'll be back when we think of something new

I was sitting at your funeral, watching the blades of grass bend in the breeze. A million perfectly uniform little fingers, twinkling and oscillating. I couldn't bear to look at the faces. I couldn't bear to look at the scene. The pallbearers, the flowers, the coffin. They buried you on my birthday. You upstaged my birthday yet again. Everyone should've been wishing me a happy birthday and instead they were offering me condolences. For you. You, finally wearing that suit you'd never wear anywhere for me.

"Such a beautiful service..." "You and your son will be well taken care of..." "I can't believe he's gone..." "If you need anything just call..." the words leap frogged over my ears and were forgotten. The crowd melted away, their duty done, to leave me to embrace the misery. To leave me to pick up the shattered pieces of my life. You might've been useless but no one ever loved me like you did. And now I'm all alone.

Deep Down, The Venereal Me.

I pressed the knife against my skin. To open it up and wash away my sin. I put my fingers in, and pulled away and snapped everything within. My life was a fucking pointless waste of time. Running around invisible catching dimes and dying. Fucking ageing and silently raging, alone, no one ever visited me at my home. Once I thought I had a friend named Ben. I went on facebook and added him. The request for three weeks would just say "pending" yet his timeline feed said he'd been befriending just about everyone else. It made me hate myself. I added my aunt and it said the same, I thought at least I'd have that in the bag. I used to brag that she was like my mother, and she had two sons but said I was like another. And yet all I see is pending. I wonder if any of my time was worthwhile spending on this stupid planet for cunts.