M Day

Mixed meats. Migoreng. Milk. Milo.

By not writing one story, I show the rich and winding world clammed between pages.

The weekend was long, I lost poker. 2 pair. Ace Queen. Lost to pocket 6’s, 3-of-a-kind. My magic 8-ball lied to me. But that’s ok. I drank a 6-pack of beer, played articulation, then I played chess. I lost. my king to his king and 3 pawns. I could have played for a stale mate I believe. 25 moves is it?

I turned in later. I had a chat with the guy Harry. He’s a funny guy. Reminds me of Tom Port. Super okka. Ozzy identity. Plays up to it. Chatty. Gift of the gab. Recycling loadstone ideas of social classicism. Aware, interpollating, pollution of social realness. Acting. Jargoning, jester, flippant, bar-loweriing, self destructive. Safe. Chipper, chatter. OK.

A cold day, just need to go for a run to get going. I need to hold it down for two more weeks. I think I can do it. I might head to uni now.
Extinction narrative in 10:04 makes sense, or something that is allegorical with white privilege, dominant culture and hierachy of stemming from skin colour and the representation of art and cultural value.
Wait staff (the help). Helpers vs autonomy.

And then I slept on the couch. And I dreamed. I thought of Jon as my footballing coach. He was down and depressed. Miserable, I was angry. I thought about how mad he made me feel, I chased after him, running up a hill, chicken wire on the ground. We held eachother over a precipice. I said “this is worthy, two brothers, pitted against one another, this is real! I will forever be trying to get you back for this betrayal” – I rememeber thinking. We both held on to a wooden stake with one hand.

I was told that a girl has MS. We are all confused. Me especially by the symptoms. To make light of such a thing, is my way when indeed I do not know what i’m missing. Difficulty walking, blurred vision, muscle weakness, fatigue and changes in memory.

Its the worrying state of the world. I don’t know what it all means. Not one bit. But the extinction narrative drives me on. Driving, fast, burning up, neck choking, hot and heavy breath. My brow sweats. The streets go un-swept. Rain washed debris from one main to another out and into the greater ocean bowells. We have lost control. Refuse, refuses to receed. Errosion and regret eat at us like the cycle of the mood. We are refugees by night, dead to the world. By day we play at power games and the cynics roll dice and pray for better fortunes. At the bottom of every hill there is respite from the nausea. This boy in a rubber tire has turned himself inside out, lost control and most of all his love, his caring for others that make him human.

I followed, I chased my brother and I reacted. Only in the presence of others may we be judged. Alone we are isolated, inert. Safe, anti-sexualized. No responses, or serial for this race. Just me. No “I”. Alone and unresponsive. “You have plenty of time”. I’m sorry world. I’m so sorry.


“This Pen is so dry”Zia smarts, she passed me by- Three of hearts.

Have you ever had a crush? Bright eyes? Let me ask let me ask. And in the following lines of inquiry bask. Questions, power play. Play out. Comfort, normal structures under which we crush. 

Queerness of necessary identity. 

Her nose doesn’t constitute champagne drinking. – ABABY!

We all have, within us Capabilities of greatness. (May 20th. 12:59)

Terrorism as “anti-culture”. 

Boundaries of young people, scars and fear growing up. 

Alphabetised aisles at the supermarket.

Dora: An analysis of a case of Hysteria. Sigmund Freud…The Marriage Plot: Jeffery Eugenides… The order of things : Foucault.

So much work to be done. So little memory, my disabled mind. Not free to sit and do and chat. We try to sit around and talk to women with men but it crumbles with interest and faceted faces. Invitations excitement and remedy. Tense, untrusting. Blind people with seas-sickness. Housing. Babies. Marriage. Work. Tuna. Girlfriends(Naiomo). Work. People. Accomplished, travelling, languages, old friends, new, hospitality and so forth. Travel. Cairns. Work. Distance. Pot plants, reclamation, chairs, study, soccer, tea, queerness.

H day

How do you spell the letter H? 4player drinking game. Roulette.. Black cards add from 1ace to King 13. Red are minus (picture cards are give 1 drink, or skip) if the following card is higher by one or less by one you need to drink the total. Drink amount. The 3rd is included by the highest card. If It’s black they drink the difference. If it’s red they give the difference.

F Day

Fap. Flowers. Figs, fourteen. Four Fuji.

I would offer the term “wankers” as this provides the idea of self pleasure and gratification towards very little ends. The writing the writerly but in its act its readerly. Confused notions of nonproductivity. Boundless unchained privilege and ego. Something for everyone to aspire to be. A healthy dose of self-love.

Called by Kaito. He got 2 pork buns. Broke up with his girlfriend for work reasons and now he’s working hard. Mitch is fat. Kaito is driving. Where is all our time and effort going? Where is our inspiration. Binaries, chat, solutions. CONFLICT.

Conflated. What’s your address? Tell me, why are you so hard to pin down? And the kids, the people are lost. Why do I waste to spend my time. Friends. Family. Funruns. And to be a part. I am apart. A the first. F the seventh. AF – As Fuck.

Fitness, first. Family feudal. Frost. Final. Frank. Frail. Foil. Folk. Fall.
Full -graphic.

Shower, washitallaway. Royally tired, lying awake, eyes closed, mind racing, rolling in the dark swells of feelings. Systematic redress.

A woman in a reddress. The aftermath. Postchristmas. Unwrapped lids. A frozen head of my seven deadly sins. Coy. Cradled. Courage. Fear. Manipulation of many.
Aliteration attention. A1. Bullshit rankings. Ranging for loss and hegemony.
Yellow and purple tags lessen my love for all this writing.
LOGOCENTRISM. Hear my words resonate. Speak my writing and feel its power.
Missing marks. I fail the civic structure and surpass ideology.


That Eureka moment.
An E day. Eggs, Ecclet, Espresso.

I wrote a poem…
She’d say that. I’m sure it was great in her head. Eyes glazed. Face drooping. So, so stuck. Sadness strikes me. I know what rain is. No wain, only pain in those eyes. Untasted salt, I hold back at the gates.
Close as I am to feeling. Sorrow and sadness. Aliteration for attention.
A ducks quack, in the storm. A cyclonic feeling inside and out. The storm dissipates, but wars within. Stillness out, turmoil in.
I’m breathing still. Beating down on the iron roof. Remembering memories. Experiencing them for longer than the moment they were. Memory over and over again. Stuck on it. Like its the same wave crashing into a barricade. And my eyes run. Because my legs can’t take me from this. The moment has passed and I have nothing to give it but my thought. My writing shows the ebbing, the wineglass- blood red, salt water. Pristine thoughts no longer.
And I wrote you a poem. And it says to keep smiling, and loving people honestly, having energy and caring and talking and sharing. But you cant. You just cant. There is nothing to give you. I am the water in a wooden coffin. A babushka, missing a vital piece. Halved and halved again. My heart, middle seams are cut.

“how can I embrace the times?” I want to be the most normal individual. But all I see are boundaries. No freedom, working only. Eating, blind and blonde. Toothless, careless post post post it all. Nothing is going in.
Not one thing is going on. Brian and I lay down together, I miss the world. Going on outside and around me. And you’ve passed, and I know what the weather is and its not event as such but the waters aren’t drunk by straw, they aren’t saved or loved anymore. My nose fills. I self harm. Swiss swiss swiss. Train tracks to no-place. And a race against time, stuck, suctioned to an instant and all of the unanswered questions. Things taken to the grave. The image of sea-sickness on the boat. The restless mornings. All the things I have to do. And me trying to escape it, trying to wreck the memory. Brian’s black eyes penetrate, menace me. Obliterate.

My rush. Eureka. E day. F day tomorrow. What will be my F word? and all this F work. all the F things that strike me at my heart. The forgotten fun, the release, “how do I do this, how do I do this, how do I do this”. And its obvious. And I can’t read the book, I can’t find the book, I can’t buy things to make it better. And the memory sticks. And i’m suctioned to the spot. Worthless metal, and medals and memories hang around my neck. Bert and Ernie fish for birds spearing fish on hooks with looks of chargrin and sadness. Only glad, moderation makes it so I don’t catch them all. “here fishy fishy fishy thoughts”. Rotten sea water swills in the bottom of the boat. And my voice is rusted. Rushide’s shadow at the oars sarcastically mouthing something. I reply: “Ark Ark”. Seals clap, thunder claps overhead and it rains again.

Its quiet again.
I told Zia what to do in Haiku. She used the word UNWIELDY, she’d had too much coffee. Comatose diagnose the gaze. The gay life of it all. Groups of friends, travelling and sharkedly following your nose. Trying on as many scents as you can. Edamame and the nudity of it. Peace cannot be attained in our current state. No darkness, nothing eternal. Not so E.
In its stead we’re stuck on decisions and thoughts and B-waves and A-waves. lapping it all in, lapping it all up, seriously considering going back on the internalized promises. “hey you walked past before and I just thought to say you’re really good looking”. The look. The two eyes. And the cyclops, single minds eye. Focus and locks. And jaws and tongues and the high bar are nothing. Olympic rings, and trinity. No testing any more, decimate, deconstruct, destroy. I esteem, estimate and fluctuate. I give my poor father nothing, and he tries. And my mood sinks into despair for everyone and everything to come. The people I surround myself with, the conversations, the shallowness, its all for nothing, I can’t pick myself up out of this. I don’t place value in it. I’m shallow, and i’m unwilling to drink myself out of this glass. Thumbnail depths, and i’d rather breath the shot in and wait for it to burn my inner lining.

We circle one another. Naval, nasal and fog. The ships. Horns blurt and echo into the night. Looking looking looking into your eye, so close. lips, breath shared. Cared for post post post. Post human, anger. Fierce individual. Callus desire. Rage and rhapsody. Tribe of past. My hairs stand on end. My tonsils require replacement. My mind is raped for consequences. If I could i’d pull down the walls, the roof, the moon and the stars. Cover me in books, and briar. Light me on fire under a twinkling bedsheet. Arms spread like the crucified. In every image: happy or sad always pretending. Wishing to just, just be entertained. Shared. Rex of fur and reciprocated. Instead failing, falling forgotten by times telling. Assassinated.

And there is no moment. Just before, during and after. Inside and outside of time. The cell, the celestial cycle. Royal and degraded. Plus or else. Otherwise – a scrambling, shambling horror. Honorary otter. Other to the humanist. Twitching twisting lyric. Music of metaphoric. DJ. Me. Meth. Metamorphic method. Loaded with thoughtfulemotions. Potions, elixirs. People together and the right mix, laying or lying in bed together listening to the people downstairs having sex. Me wanting you, sickly loving everyone attached to the moment. I comment, it was a throw away, a release that they down stairs will similarly explore and experience momentarily. I am a cyclops. Holding you as spoons do. Smelling your straw hair. I’m in a large shirt and hesitant because of the comfort. Its a basic restriction. A pushing, grating. Grinding of teeth, livable, loved un-comfort. The self oppressed. I never knew it was like this. I will do otherwise now.

Run to work, always and that’s the beginning of it all.
I forgot who I was, forgive me.
patterns of life. Exercise and cycles of best fit.
Fitness for everything.

And the book I wrote? The sound it made when I opened, closed or dropped it… THUNK.

Enjoy the weekend.
Take a smile and a poncho-
wherever you go!

I’magine CD

The night for C. As it moves into D. Chocolate, could couscous curry chicken cup of chino cashews capsicum, cheese, cucumber and chocolate. How’s that for date night, Donoghue donuts. Devices of commentary. Shift of midnight. 

I’m awake, so awake. I’m wired, so wired. I’m alive, so alive.

Imagine if you could speak every single language under the sun. “Then you could be misunderstood by everyone..”

My mind is like an octopus, squashed under an army boot. Nobody wants to deal with and of it. A slick and slimy mess under a resentful rule of primarily primitive thinking. I am forced to submit. Tentacles reaching, helplessly. 

The future lies in phones: Phone apps for blood test. 3D printing. Food sent via phone. 

Truth lies art is what you can get away with.

My question to you? – having sex. You’re trying to get ‘there’, together, but how is choking for you? Fear sexdeath & natureculture. 

Some of the things in this world were not made for me. 

Dystopia. Dyscomfortable

The dollar bill. You bill people. Why they work for it, what they owe you. What you owe humanity. Debts are constantly falling to your feet. Bowling you over. The meaning of BILL. 
Bill. It was always my goal to write


Far you’ve come!

How close are we really? How privileged…
Looks like text, not you. 

Interactions in person. 

Everything is text- 

I get it. 

But I don’t see you here. 

Beside me. 

Or do I? 

Mm – in the text. 
We’re all alone in life.

No we aren’t!

Two significant women arguing their way into and out of my life.
Smells such as perfume, clean, “alive” are different. To be alive and clean, spotless, untainted, pure: White. 
I saw a guy and a young kid riding along. The kid was freely asking questions, the older guy, bearded, dark features, was telling him: “sure I do jumps, I don’t really get scared except of the ones I’m unsure about”.

Why isn’t that kids at play? Unsure of most things somehow expressing themselves through action?

Yesterday was an A day. Apple, apricot, almond.

Tomorrow will be a C day.

Pho- weddings. 

Noodle weddings. 

Dicks only?

Women, soup and juice.

Warm, hot. Renewal fresh
Faux- false. Breaking binaries. Boundaries.

Phone as portal.

Scratch and sniffs.

Physical deliveries.

Black whole. 

Toilet service. Crap into your phone.

Gas mask

Hypodermic needle

Nail file


Needle and thread.