Not right

Nothing that I do seems right.



If you’re Blind… why do you dress so nice?

The ad for artwork.

That is all. Design; describe, explain sell. Cost price that describes a nail. « Missing » image.

Oil on canvas.

Carl Ross.

Métal design, new Picasso.

But- Blind hookers, you’ve gotta hand it to them.

Find someone to fix the house.

Old poem

The idea that it’s just there

Just around the bend it bent.

Half-way yo discovery, and you sit and stare?

Lend him a pen, let the ink spend like love spent.

Splash, scribble, screw, scrawl.

Touch for a six pence.

Putting pen to paper, a panting pant-less crawl.

Swim away ideas, gullies guide defence.

Like hare, we thrust and leap

So many birds have left me sore.

At last we end up, in a heap

Flesh laid waste, ghost and spore.

Our big idea

With wit and rolling rhyme

Overcoming fear-

Butt half of the time.

Brooding, grooming oozing.

Get away! I Hyde from what you’ve heard.

Your beard is all confusing.

You aren’t my little bird.

The sun is out and up

Never tired, I’ve tried you know.

Drinking from this holy cup.

Sing little bird, let it flow.

Left grasping right

With only your pen-

hands out of sight.

unfolding as men.

Black coffee

Day off, for a treat.

Forgetting what I do.

Chocolate-orange punch.

Bitter tasting sweet warm blood.

I thought the fall, this test, would be harder.

I studied love. I thought it would be harder.


Content, mild themes.

Like this one cattle.

Down by the watering hole, away from parental guidance.


A rather miserable mood sets in. To do with food, fatness or flatness. Dancing, fighting and footy on Thursday. All the things, the things we do between hours. Rapid, withdrawn extras. Extasy and Tassie exes. Black coffee reliance; stimulate a need, a mood, a quiet column of white quartz. A pillar to rest ideas, a pillow to hide your fears. Handshakes between acquaintances are as if to say “yep, yep, you are real”. Arms length. Any closer a kiss. And further amiss. A stretch, sick sadness. Fists clenching, written in the sands and low tide. Reaching for you, washing away your name. This was the mans mood. No wolf in his heart. Empty functions devoid of meaning. A parable for most things, no caring gene like the IT guy. Called in, called on, used, demanded capabilities without thanks or real human recompense. A lost art. Heartless floundering furrows. ConfusedCONFUSEDfucking metaphors. Nothingness, just rage, just back, justJUTSJUSTINJUSTin just. Held back, a baby bouncing. Sleep and my bad vibes. Early early early blankets. Sodden softened unrest. Request help, say yes, die young, care everlasting is found in your favourite colour. Help me help me help me. Blind, open bee keeper. Buzzing at my ears. Soundly legs are broken, back bending, heart pounding. A tireless huh-huh. Fathoms below the perceivable surface. Changing colour


‘New York? I’ve fucked everyone worth fucking there, had to move away, let the old ones die, the bitter ones mellow and the young ones, well give them time to grow up and legalise”.

That was Winslow talking, without a doubt, I thought. Dirty bastard, too honest. He’d been away for five years now and was considering going back. Dirty bastard.

There you have it.

Uou stopped walking. There is was again, that laughter in the dark.

She was sprawled at the stairs, hair on end, skin slick with a head and eyes roll-nodding a scandalising consent.

The monument of both characters stuck stop-still. Eyes meeting, Uou’s refuge lay beyond, a steep ascent up wide old cement stairs. The cold of the night resisted the reddening sky. The paintings in the foyer behind shone with the after hours halogen lights, the blocking figure was a blur of shadow and purple.

A striking and unholy sermon plays itself out. Uou is lost between the interplay if supreme triumph and a new volume of tantalising self doubt. In a moment of clarity, weakness and tranquility Uou lives out a penetrating account of a youth capitalising on an unfolded moment of opportunity and weakness.

A provocative and outrageous invitation plays out. Of Uou and of subject both were soon entangled making way down the hall. As if prophetic, no doors opened. The 4.30am silence was earthshattering. How funny this disturbing surprise had turned out for Uou. This being precisely what Uou had gone out that night hoping for, now the future as moving to greet him, warm and inviting at his side.

Most had come full circle that night. Home, out, home- always leaving only to return. Sport anecdotes, a trail of breadcrumbs and string to tangle its recipients with “pointless inspiring versions of our own classification of subversive, life changing behaviour”.

Uou stretched with vigour towards the walls with an accompanying collective of likeminded thoughts. So close; step-step, step-step.

These Horrors

I know when I’ve drifted off. And it only happens on planes. My doctor says it’s the altitude, when if first happened I thought I’d was the food. I firmly believe that the food I eat is the key player in my dreams. I worry sometimes- the lady next to me is staring: that idiot with an accent two rows back on the left, i haven’t looked. “I don’t like flying”, “but it’s just a case of not thinking about it”, “don’t think about it”.

He’s quiet now. It’s mostly quiet in the cabin, I think I heard a scream and that’s what woke me.

40000ft and the earth at

Our feet, chasing the night from east to west and my headache has just got worse.

The light above my head is on, and the fan, and the assistance button. I look two people over and out the oval porthole – it’s purple and dark blue all across the outside sky. Like a new bruise. The night screams towards us, drumming with little jolts of turbulence. The wings exhale. He’s not in my vision now, people important to me aren’t in my proximity. Boggling ju-ju eyes slip behind lidded resolve. The shortest blink is the longest eternity. Black bringing with it a timeless clarity. Granular noise begins to infiltrate- like static my mind. Flashes, a blue body squirms, sweat soaking the sheets. Fabric clings to his body, as he tries to roll breathe into his lungs. They’ve filled with water as if underwater. I can’t close my eyes or look away, I am omniscient and all bearing. The blue red deepens, my chin shakes. A blister of sorrow has popped in the back of my throat. I can’t speak, only taste sick and watch. The last decompression was a minute ago, he’s stopped tossing back and forth- so peaceful now. All the space in his body now brims with the incorrect distributions of water. Cancerous? Psychosomatic- cause and effect? I look at my palms, shakingly they scrunch into fists. If I wasn’t Hesse, if I’d somehow never heard about it, then it wouldn’t have happened. Not in my mind, but here I am, and there flies the soul of my lost kin.

I’m screaming with 5 strangers pinning me down when I awake. Later they’ll tell me that I tried to perform CPR on the person next to me while they slept. They fear me as they should, I can’t sleep anymore, not since I lost him. My blue eyes remind me of him. An unsafe, dying colour. Makes me choke up, tears pool like the hypothermic lungs of the lost. Like all lost souls, they don’t stop wandering, from there they continue on, crawling, walking, flying away from me, from us all. The escape artist revealed in death. I was there for it all, watching the spirit flicker all the whole through unblinking eyes. All my tool for naught. Poison bubbles in my heart and the pit of my stomach. Hands cuffed to my seat, trying not to sleep, unblinking. Hopeless defeats pinned to me, to all of us. Our defunct bodies. Worms, pale sick and waterlogged.