Thursday, 30 June 2011

Travel Companion

There's a hole
a deep chasm
The meaningless flash of faces
that lift, hover
and leave
Leave you to crawl
into your own bones
pick at the outside
whither and bleed
Eroded and broken!
Grasping at fragments
of a life
flashing by


More and more, the young man would fall into despondency.
So much so, that when he wasn't in this state, he felt that
he was just in-between. A temporary break in the pit.
Much as he liked to appear strong, (and he did indeed crave
emotional strength) at his core, he was desperately lonely.
He would wonder, and wonder, sometimes into the very realm
of the nature of existence.
At the end of the wormholes in his mind however, there
appeared nothing but a bleak expanse. This expanse was
void of meaning and seemed to cry out to him, that there
was no meaning. Meanings are created. If you can't make one.
Then there is nothing.
That is why the young man felt so alone.

Wednesday, 29 June 2011

A Thought

As the ego I never knew
I had fades away,
a quiet kind of confidence
So that's how it feels..

How'd I get here?

A Beast By Any Other Name

Got a new housemate
I like him ok.
He had an interesting
far-away look
on his face
as he told me about
his Grandfather

- bayonet through one lung
playing dead in the corpses
As the boots
of the soldiers in grey
and walked by.

A Minor Complaint

Getting a little tired of
food going straight
through me
Getting a little tired of
heartburn 24/7
Haemorrhoid s
most of the time
Getting sick of
my half molar
falling away
nerves exposed

It was never this bad
when I didn't care
-time to catch up-

Needle in the hay

I once saw a movie
that played a song I had
never heard before. It
moved me. Then it went
somewhere in the back of
my head, but the melody
kept returning. I tracked
down the artist through

He stabbed himself in the heart.

His name was Elliot

The moth will soon be dead

What is it like for you?
Could it be near the same?
even though every frame
is different?

Just like snowflakes

All eyes are liars
do you feel?
Life is perhaps
Reality isn't real
-Not really

I walk through this city
and I don't understand
I turn on my tv
and I don't understand
I stare at the ceiling
and don't understand

But I like what I feel there.


I do..

What's it like for you?
Sometimes -
only sometimes

I wonder

Monday, 27 June 2011

Creature Comfort

Acid reflux awakening
I can feel dirt and sand
where there should be sheets
My tounge feels the hair
around the holes in my

Right now
I feel defeat
And it feels pure

Industrial Man

I'm not sure how my legs
held me up.
Some of those nights
behind the bar.
Days awake
tounge swollen
eyes darting
amphetamine, valium
THC and alcohol
locked in battle.
Not enough food to live.
Just to stay alive.

And I did



living vicariously through tv
is something to embrace.

But we shouldn't smoke
might die too soon
miss the season finale

And the air felt Electric

Did I want to sell my soul
to the devil - he asked.
He could organise it.
He had done it himself.
His eyes beamed while he
spoke. I sat with him
and smoked ice.
I decided to keep whatever
I had left of a soul.
We spoke about night terrors.
He told me he had recieved
Later his girlfriend of
the time would tell me
the same thing.


Removed from my
Let the past be.
to a sense of peace
Forget about fear
Re - connect.
Try humming
in a different key
Converse instead of talk
Listen -
Instead of pretending.

Let the world be.

Tuesday, 21 June 2011

City Life

Thicker than fresh
thinner than smog
invisible dirt


I'm too solid to be


the lady kicks the bin and yells
and yells.. she kicks the bin and yells..
and yells

She is not


And walk past
walk home
And breathe

Thicker than fresh
Thinner than smog

Not far behind..

Fall out of sight

? R E member

Ive learnt not to come on to magazines
The paper starts to feel a bit
Unclean, bit thin. Bit like a
suck eye
Ignite gasoline
is porn More
than poetry?

Thursday, 16 June 2011

There was a Wren too

The words are used up.
A few left caught
on the roof of a dry mouth

The dance on grey velvet

My mind my pupil
communicate I guess
with knees.. ankles.. legs

I watch..
I watch them dance over grey velvet.

Forget the rest
No plans now.

Just this..

Where are the ducks?
Where are the swans?
Where are the fitness freaks?

It's just..


The dance on grey velvet.

From here
to the jetty

Then home...


They .........................
put a band-aid on your foot
But let your mind bleed
Calmly becoming infected
some are noticed
Treated.. .. Defeated
Some are greeted with open arms
warm smiles - good intentions
But the traveler
will feel cold.
With the search for truth
comes the pain.
The beautiful tragedy.

this is a view
pass the time

Tuesday, 14 June 2011


Smell of my own feet and dirty festering
laundry mingled well with
soiled rags that have wiped semen off my torso
and been discarded beneath the bed
- it penetrates the air
The sex life of a slob without a partner
is not glamorous.

I still love my open window.
Car's are distant and the
tree moves in the wind and is a good friend.

It's peculiar
I wonder if it's an omen..
There is an owl that lives here.
We stared each other in the eyes.
We stared at each other for sometime

Owl's have big eyes.
Big black eyes that stare like they know more than I know


' Joan '

Timid or aggressive
both and neither
Dirt rug morning shower
Vodka tourniquet

I have every confidence in fear
this does not feel good
I get no satisfaction from this emotion

Over a long distance line I heard her die
It did not feel good
But I'm glad without saying it
I got to say goodbye

Timid or aggressive
both and neither
I have every confidence in fear

I have every confidence in fear

The Fan

Nuclear concern
Bahrain rebels
On the run..
Somethings shifting
Headlines on the screen
It all begins when the screen is gone.
Even I can see
The blades of the fan
And I...
Embrace the stench
The best I can

I try this:

Admiring the view
That's what I do

I try..



The mongrel is chained up outside of
the house and snarls with teeth
and eyes and hate and fear.
I keep my bare feet well clear of him
For a moment,
I wonder what he is fed

And I've made the purchase
poked through ripped holed
fly-screen door
And I walk back past the beast of teeth
cautious in my bare feet
Aware of the chain tightening

This dog does not go for walks
This is what he knows
I can feel electric savagery
I imagine him going for throat
As I walk past the burnt out commodore,
dodging broken glass
.. I wonder what his name is
I hope the weed is good

Out of the driveway and onto the street
I pat my pocket
And I hope the weed is good.
Pretty soon the barking stops
I forget about the dog

Sunday, 12 June 2011


Habits don't die easy
they like to stick around.
They make you feel guilty when you try to leave them behind
'Oh don't you miss me?'
Like a true friend they may stay with you for life.

Habit's come in many forms:
Some spend too much on shoes and go to the same chain coffee store
at the same time each day on their lunch break and order the same thing
and read a book by Jodi Picoult or Patricia Cornwell and feel very free.
Some drink too much and then drink more. Wake up and open a beer before
they get dresed, feeling happily numb and blessed. Some keep the bong and
chop next to the bed so they can smoke when they wake up to piss. Wake up
smoke some more and fall back into a hazy mist.

Some are at the TAB with eyes fixed on the screen. Intent, intent the big one!
Chasing a dream hooked on losing but still praying for a win.

And some sleep in guters. Some sleep in bed's
Some don't sleep for day's. Some are glued to the tv their entire lives
Some people eat themselves to death


And then there are others..
The needle, the spoon, the score
the prick, the rush, the wave..

and then there's the rest

Habit's come in many forms... ( some people like jigsaw puzzles too much)

After Beufort before the lake

After Beaufort - Before the Lake:

She teaches me about communication
There is wisdom in her words
skin near ageless her smile pulls me in
I do not fear abandonment..
Forest enters her mind and spirit
Earth, fingers, leaves, veins, connection
The many water-colours do not go unnoticed
Eucalyptus in the cold air
I hear nails against strings from across the continent
And feel her with me
My closest friend
My confidant
and so much more..
We were just hanging off beams and smiling
talking with our eyes
talking with our eyes.

And together,
laying naked in silence
my mind went still..

For the very first time.

Monday, 6 June 2011

The Good Old Day's

The Good Old Day’s
I woke up late in the morning with a jackhammer in my brain and a fat, ugly thing in my bed. My left arm was trapped beneath her snoring mass and had turned half numb. I removed it slowly, careful not to wake the beast, and walked outside. My piss was a thick, dark yellow and its pungent aroma steamed off the dirt and into my nostrils making my empty stomach churn. After Courtney left me I had gone on a bender, hitting bars most nights, drinking all day, every day and shooting crystal. That was six months ago and the binge hadn’t ended. It just seemed to gain momentum. If cash ran low I would drink cheap wine instead of whiskey or take dexes instead of shards. Somehow I still hadn’t lost my job, although I was certainly testing my boss’s patience.

Inside my apartment I lay on the couch smoking a Winfield and listened to the girl in my room rummaging around, gathering her things. She seemed to be taking forever and I was losing my patience. All I wanted to do was smoke some weed and fall back asleep but if I sparked up before she left then she probably wouldn’t leave and I might have to kill her. I was not in a tolerant mood.
‘Hey could you hurry the fuck up!?’ I shouted.
‘I have to get to fucking work you know!’
That wasn’t true, but I thought it might help get rid of her. She emerged from my room with her butt – ugly face morphed into a demented scowl and hissed;
‘You really are a cunt hey!’
‘Yeah I know.’ I replied under my breath and glanced at her indifferently.
Finally, around an hour later, she left with a giant slam of my fly – screen door. I thought about running onto the landing and yelling slut at the top of my lungs, but I decided not to. I closed the door, drew the blinds shut, and settled back down on the couch. I looked at my cat curled up on the coffee table staring at me.
‘These girls of mine hey Tubs.. What’s a guy to do?’
I found myself laughing out loud for a moment, but there was no joy in it. The weed was good enough to knock me back out, and before long I managed to drift back into a blissful slumber. I slept for about five hours or so and woke up as the sun was beginning to disappear. I showered and left the apartment block, took a left on Vincent and headed towards the train station. I had a guitar under my arm, and a bag over my shoulder that held my jacket and a large bottle of coke mixed with both vodka and gin. I felt greasy and drained but I fought this with the cover of dark shades and a lit cigarette. 

 For as long as I can remember, I have always found it strange that the busiest times of day on Public Transport are also some of the most quiet times (unless of course you are unfortunate enough to be surrounded by fucking kids commuting to or from school).  So many people, of so many different occupations, huddled (sometimes crammed) together, most of them silent, create an eerie image before my eyes. I often wonder how many of them are looking forward to their day at work. This leads me to wondering how many of them are already looking forward to coming home. Finally this stream of thought leaves me pondering the saddest question. How many of these people are looking forward to neither? As I sat on the train that evening, wondering these very thoughts, I cast my eyes up and down the carriage a few times, and decided grimly, that most of these people heading home were already dead.
A man sat almost opposite me but one seat to my left caught my attention. I slugged on my bottle of vodka/gin mix and watched him. There was something in the awkward way that he stared at the ground and shuffled his feet that depressed me. He was wearing brown leather shoes and his grey slacks were too short and revealed tight black cotton socks around thin ankles and shins. I noticed that every now and then he would pull down at the knees as if self-conscious of his trousers being too short and I wondered why he wore them. In contrast to his pants, the man’s shirt seemed at least two sizes too big and his bright red tie sagged awkwardly around the large collar that adorned his long thin neck and birdlike face. Even though he appeared to be in his early fifties, the man’s appearance made me think of an unlucky child, dressed by fundamentalist Christian parents and sent to school like a fucking lamb to the slaughter. It wasn’t just his awkward attire that inspired this rather cruel comparison in my mind, but everything about his expression and his mannerisms were just as awkward. He looked so damn uncomfortable sat with his knees together, hands on lap and eyes pointing straight down. Everything about his demeanour showed me an individual lacking any confidence in himself. Of course I could have been wrong. Perhaps he was a shy but highly talented physician with a beautiful family and huge income. Or perhaps he is a reclusive mathematician on the verge of some monumental breakthrough. I decided to check his hands for a wedding band. I was less conscious of staring at him than I had been a minute earlier as his gaze still hadn’t diverted from the ground in front of him. There was no wedding band. The greying, balding, nervous looking, middle-aged man sat across from me was single.
I decided I liked the idea of him being a brilliant mathematician. As the train slowed down for Esplanade Station, I noticed that even when stood up, his trousers barely reached his ankles. Stood in front of the doors, waiting for them to open, he still stared at the ground. As the train pulled away from the platform and over the glistening Swan River, I watched the expanse of water reflecting the last moments of light in the sky from the window and imagined an eccentric looking man, franticly covering a whiteboard with equations, sweat on his brow, closer than he or his students could possibly know, to becoming a genius. I liked that idea best. I looked up and down the carriage again but nobody else interested me, so I slouched in my seat and kept swigging at my drink. The train ride dragged on and although I tried to fight it, my mind went back to Courtney.

It had been a turbulent relationship that the two of us shared. Often we would be fighting one moment and fucking the next. Sometimes I would leave her in a temper. Sometimes she would leave me. I always came back though, and so did she. I just figured that’s how we were. Erratic and half mad, but totally in love. The last time she left though. Well that was the last time. It was a fight just like any other, probably about money as usual, but this time she never came back. I tried calling her for a while but it just proved hopeless. I shoulda seen it coming but I didn’t. I thought we would be that way forever. I sat on the train feeling miserable and remembered her soft buttocks and sexy thighs. I remembered the way she would talk nasty in my ear while I screwed her. I remembered her dark eyes and how they would stare into mine with intensity every time she came. Eventually the train pulled into Rockingham station and I stumbled onto the platform. By now I was quite drunk and I felt as if I could cry. I forced her image out of my head and called a cab.

I was sat on the curb for what felt like forever, nursing the last few mouthfuls of booze that I had left. Eventually the cab arrived and I threw my guitar clumsily onto the back seat and sat in the front. I told the driver to take me to the ‘Rockingham Hotel’ and he made me pay in advance. I wanted to tell him to get fucked but I thought better of it. Instead I stared at him and did my best to make him feel uncomfortable. It seemed to work. When he pulled up at the pub I made sure I slammed the door as hard as I could. He drove off quickly. I flipped him the bird and walked through the car park to the entrance.  As I climbed the steps I nearly fell, the bouncer was looking at me but surprisingly he left me be.

It was open – mic night and I was booked to play fourth, so I ordered a double scotch and jug of beer and found a quiet corner for myself. Some young guy came over and asked me what kind of music I played. I told him I didn’t feel like talking so could he please fuck off. I remember feeling deeply satisfied when he did. He actually looked hurt, the stupid kid. I downed the scotch and half of my jug in five minutes with a few valium I had left in my wallet. All the noise in the place seemed to blur together and I wondered why it was so dark. I had forgotten my sunglasses were still on. I felt invisible but not for long. As I stood up to find a toilet I lost my balance and managed to knock the entire table over. The glasses smashed first and then I did. I landed right on top of the mess and cut my hands up. For a moment I wasn’t sure what hit me and I lay there like a lowlife moaning and cursing.

What exactly happened next is a bit of a blur. I remember being grabbed by the back of the neck and shoved through the doors. I remember yelling for my guitar, and I remember kicking a parked car which made me fall again. Then I remember cold. I woke up laying on my side behind a large yellow bin in a car park that I didn’t recognise and I was fucking freezing. I began to cry and shuffled back and forth to keep warm. The air was fresh and felt like judgement. I turned my eyes up to the dark sky, and I wondered; How much longer can I live like this. The stars looked back and said nothing.


I sit in the overheated room and debate whether to call her
I really never meant to hurt her
The damaged one
I saw old hurt in big wet salty eyes
I could taste it in my own throat
The feeling of need
fear of being alone

What is the cure for lonliness?
A man sat himself on a wall and looked at life below.
A lizard appeared from a crack in the concrete.
'Are you enjoying the show?' he asked.
'No not really.'


this is sitting in Hyde park watching people play on homemade instruments and drinking tepid beer
this is walking through the dark night bush while stars flicker trying to find the caravan and hoping not to step on a tiger
this is laying naked with a beautiful girl and sharing a joint after fucking for hours
this is talking to a stranger on a train and feeling a connection
this is staring at the mirror gauging the first signs of age and being a little humbled
this is letting go, letting go, letting go      
moving forward
learning to grow

This is not..
this is not financial terror and burden haunting early hours
this is not seeking repentance each day like a fist about the brain
this is not seeking validation of conciousness to adorn the arm and warm the flesh at night until the next one comes to flight
this is not sucking up the static for hour hour after hour every fucking night in the name of winding down
this is not scraping out the hose with a picnic knife

this is not doing what your told

this is not doing what's suggested

This is....