Mettle may warp
Teeth may blunt
Backs may bend and
handle may break.

Hearts remember. Dianne Margaret Foley.
Holding hands when we cross the road.
Dancing in the rain at the shack.
Avocado or garlic. Cheese and tomato. Vegemite – All for toast.
Race horses; the hand-rolled cigarette.
Chocolate money & Mangoes in our stockings.
Bubble stuff, paw-paw and sparklers.
Television and goon.
Potato salad.
Late night low heat cooked bacon.
Sleeping on the couch.
Games of cards, pool, board games.
Terrible painting and sad simple poetry.
Writing and reading.
Shopping for the paper, tally-hos, milk and bread.

4th of May 1960 –> 17th December 2016

He was a sad young man. Clinging to each moment as is it should be his last.
Why was he so alone? What had cemented this feeling of isolation.
Afraid to reach out, should the strangers about him all possess daggers to open further wounds. The woods of his mind, hardened blocks of understanding, ran rings around his eyes. Deep dark, heavy set and somber looks asked of others and themselves: why does it hurt? What did I do to feel so trodden. Sandy eyed, with wrinkles and folden skin. In this trial I feel of one point of a triangle. Not knowing which type. Aware, viewing the past point and another far off but not holding assured the distance and difference between either.

366 days of suicide.

It was a leap year. Tinsel’s birthdday, he’d joke that he was only a quarter of his age and always rounded doewn.

In that case he was probably something. stretching out in bed he smoke lovingly, sarcastic lines of sombody else to the girl he liked. They’d laugh and canoodle into the afternoons. The expectaion he placed on himself were unbrideled by her company.

His convictions to stay to keep her. They he;d, chatting and lying to one another each and in return. No telemarketer, issue or act of good could interrupt the coupling.

A week of ths, they held fast together.


Clining like cats sometimes, or a dog on a rock in the storm. Each the others rock. Scraching and finding painful grips at times. But still they held firm. It felt like bliss. A birthday or christmas come easrly for the timelless Tinsel.

Travelling was a pass-time, of reading and writing. A priviliege blessedeexploration into the unknown. Lasting not perhaps. Definitely not, like it or not he’d move about in the daylight, head held high – happy- habitually meeting the gaze of glace of others (I amm all of you) he’d thinkkk.

He’d sicken himself over intellectualization. Moingering fears birthed of the foresight and the the furhure Banal, beige, grey scaled reality. Instead he’d hold his breath. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6. Mish his fications of future towards the ‘read- death’. The moment. IOlivia my love. A vein would pop up, his blood pressue shot a pulse in his eyes. Connceting – he’d call it. UP to date uptakeen, updated life intinerary, betther than books of plans. This’d make him smile. Some would notice, other would speak; of hthis he’d be careful. Csreful times to share. To shar wa naiieve to give freely was starrirring ino the sun. Blindingly bright. The mouth would taste of steak. Honest blessing to other’s of similar intent. Language spokn from Iris and pupil each.

To study one’s inner, to share a primative closeness of exchange always trumped any words he’d sometimes think. But still he’d smole. A knowing smile. Smile’s sharing bbecauase he could see the spark, evil and good alike in the greedy gremlin folks. He’d wander past, lost in the looks. Past loves and the company of footfals clapping him on his way. Pinching his attention a woman of indian persuasion jumped. I mean jumped, into his pathand put a fins silver chain over his neck.

He said nothing. only bowing and owing her, a nothing, a solitary smile nodding sultry to her. Heads didn’t touch in the real. Central to the binding, shing chain was a diamond perhaps. Encrusedd shapely mirror. But dark, as if of Onyx. He looked up at her, as his head was tilted down. On par with her, levelling as he’d usually stand aover. But from this he was unobtrusive, furtive he stepped around here.

Hilarius acquirements.

A car from the late 90’s with its front body torn up and off; looking mangling inaninto disrepaied putted past. A fresh coat of mud and dustt covering its surviving bodywork.
Sel walked on a few steps and then checked. He turned on his heels and retraced his steps. Finding the woman sittinga small alcove. A half pitched tent. Dishevelled and luxxurious wwas the upkeeps simplicity of goods. He patted her lighly on the upper most part of her west arm/ She looked up and he placed carefully and knowlingly a note into her palm/ Then squeezing gently her index finger which she had outstetched at him. Fixing her with his largwe odd, doeful eyes. Strangely he his baelful disposition, was washed away as he bent and kissed her wrinkeled gypsy cheel. Regaining his heels and sighing out his nose he turned onsighinoug out his nose he turned once again. Both ther cultures had given in. Submitting to the performative nautre.

Sel was giddy and light headed
A light head is a dumb heart his mother had quated him once. She was an old battle axe of a woman. Matron of the mobile heart, in her company it was seatbelts of death.

Write drunk – Edit Sober.


The birds knew logic, maths, the stars geometry science, poetrry and design. Their work preeminated Home’s illiad. They had an innate sense of direction and justice. Stronger links to nature and judgement of the truth of simple nother than any homing pigeoon. They had a fine sense of aart. Through and through, education, done and done that’s what they had had. The’d been the sort that other birds sought out, and what they had had in exchange was to be teased. Got got by others was the problem of coming clean. Fine sensibilites of being a bird indeed. Drawing, carving, jokes. performance, cartoons and creativity were just a part of the enless forte of achievement. They were boundlessly creative the did it all; before the simpsons did it. Homer Simpson was a character created by the birds first.


They woke me up. I don’t know why I’m supposed to host I suppos. to eto entertain .I have so much going on and its just anxiety but. maybe i’ll become less bleak if I sleep in, sleep it off. Haven’t I done enoughThere’s something in language when I ask something;:would you be kind enough to gem me a glass of water please
‘How rude’ I thought.

That sort of thinkg. Accidental cheapshots, haircuts, tattoos minor annoyances. Eyecontact. Is it truly that you come all the way here without a goal of aim? WHY ARE YOU HERE.
Rest, relax sleep in, see the city. Let me study, leave me alone, doo youer own thing, contribute buildy p.
You say I look like this, you say I look like that. High beam. objeectificed surface level. WHY ARE YOU EHRE?
Have a cold, I wat to introduce you to people and show you things, but you restrict and restrain me.

Blue beared lover.
Truth is madness.

Recommended reads:

Bills book of FISH.
John Barthes “fun House”

Tactical Thinking-
honours wise, apply the roe
asl difficult quesitons

Even if youstart,
mid year we are usually-
dancing with the stars.

That’s a cool idead, grounding reality blurred.
well executed.

Mistaken monster,
Claristy and consisousness
Fime image in our heads.

Nothing essmed contrived.
Spirited away: no face
passage that drags onNed explanation
coping with explanation
the layered reading

Read on face value
Chronically Allegory
Vampire & warewold

Hinting at a vamp,
I have a dawing- not good.
Wendigo – Native.

Vague cannibal thing.
Transformation, pass it on.
I don’t need to know.

Monnster guessing games.
Kelly link supernatureal.
I don’t write funny/


Basic area.

Icebery gemingway.

Old boy.
Compled form.
The notion of putting your head inhand in the air. DIVINE IDEAS EUREKA
The pleasure of having your hand up.
Erect. I want a clear mirror.
I don’t want to read the ripples.

Who are these characters? –
We arre weeds in theis story/
We need to be belded. Drawing drinking, growing, cultivated and shown.
Or else out needs and desires will become overgrown. we will become stranger.
You get to tell,
your own story. Colours. Importance. The scientist. Political.



Warm Core

Logic – 1-800-273-8255 ft. Alessia Cara & Khalid
A Mess
Aye? Eh?
Back in on.
About me. Shiit.

Shave and trim and listen and sleep.
Less is more and toilet paper with every gift.
Don’t you even know me ? Auto auto tune.
Run and turn and promise and the meaning of your words.
And lass the intention of my omissions. Cut blood, halved and hopeful peaches and red dresses.
Round rockstar.

Sinch – Schmick

Words that share similarities.

Letter branding, and lost meaning. 

Love = Loue , Pat = Pot

How mistaken we can be. 

Movie – Split

Stand up to sitting.

“I’ve been working, sitting in an office for so long now that I stand up to shit”. 

:the work life crisis. I hope nobody gets me anything because I have no money. What if they got you money? Then I’d have to spend it. On what? Anything!

Too much

I canneee hold her any longer.

Mistress of the dark,
lover of the light.

The molten man,
Crash landed.
His hand
Passed through the caravan

Palm face down
Flushing red,
Hot envy crown
Burning alive and dead.

The same flame,
Built into us all
nothing to gain with games.
noble angels fall.

Garden gaurding
Hopeful helping.
Groping good.
Helping hate.

And heated debates,
spate miscourage.
missteped arch,
into water we refuel.

Back to what we are made.
The chicken and the smeg.
Birds, food, cheese and wine.
Frivolous partook with swine.

Just enough rope,
to hang themselves.

Dearhearted dirt.

No drink. No bread. Jesus.
Cold wretched downhill jaunt. Juggling water, illness and nodding head. Oh yeah I know that and that. Thankyou for the girl. Wilting will. The mind controls the body, the body uses the mind. The concurrent conning. Donning of cloths and feelings that don’t suit. Strange lilac. What I want to do is rest and dream.
come over. We could walk. But rest. Sitting sickness. Blistered feet. Blew puss on hands. Tannin turning stomach “are you OK”.
Like a fly, you could. you COULD get to me. Horse tails flick and flight massages my ears. Jaunt and gaunt. I’ll hollow myself out before I let you get your way. My unnoted unnoticing uncomfort will flame your. Pissing in the wind. In pockets, empty and raw, undirected. Upteenth smile. Lips too high, lips too low. I’ll call, i’ll call i’ll call.
You should get help. I have help. Blood and honesty. Lies and grey and white wash. Family gossip, gifts and sorry. So sorry, but there’s nothing that you can give me. Let’s get serious for a change.

David was the closes and best firm memory the town had to name itself. The bay of David, he resided. A peaceful man. Wistful white curling locks. Hair that danced scraggly in the breeze, that thinned at the top and thickened in turning curatins that draped down. He’d sit bare footed and dangle his rod into the depths below of a summers day. The perfect situation.
Ordinary consitency, without loss or lack of contingency. His brother had been mauled by a fire traumatized bull a few days before – he’d read in the paper. His habitual behaviours structures barely warped. Perhaps he threw a few more rocks that day out by the bay. “Steady Dave” some said, jokingly. He’d never owned a horse to their knowledge so the joke didn’t really land.
He wore always a hesitant to fold yellow rain jacket, white zippered all the way down to his gumboots. Big dark green things they were, and in combination he looked like a slowly ripening banana with the hood done up.
His cottage had two rooms and a number of aesthetic rock gardens. Hammock in summer, ever boiled kettle in winter. Doors never slammed, it was an inviting splash of blue and white wood by the coast. Dressed the same in spite of the season – things were steady for David.
Ritual was a walk. Tea in a tin, scalding and steaming – never spilling a drip. Over green mossy grounds he’d pass strangers with the good graces to look away. His eyes he feared would break,confuse and anger the unprepared. Blue and blistering his gaze had become, living alone like his brother. Looking out over the sea. Endlessly he drew in the glare of natural light and it was magnified in sheen of his eyes. Chaotic and unforgiving as cold morning mildew. A shivver would rise up.
On this day swans had migrated to the central pond. Their evil majesty, regal as angels he thought. White as frost, sketching lazy circles on the water’s surface. Quick ripples reflected their gliding movements. Ease and finesse possessed by no human being.
David wondered how his rock garden was faring. White pebbled, he dreaded the thought of moss taking over as he rounded the central late. A late breakfast was sometimes due to these overlong distractions in his task. The paper. Hot drink no longer searing at his hand, a good gauge of time. He liked toast with the paper, the logistics of feeding and reading worked very well. Except on Tuesday’s when he’d have honey on his toast. Honey and butter, sometimes milk. Sometimes tea. 14 slices. 7 toast. 7 bread.
The high tide mark, bent backed and cross legged is where David would enjoy his second slice. The sun would be up and beaming or behind grey clouds. Spring meant calm waters, cold and clear. Oysters could sometimes be found along the coast line, along with fennel all sorts of washed up debris. He wondered about the changing currents, and mused on the variables of pollution, the seasons and the town’s Location.
Earnest hours would steal away. The creases in his forehead mirrored the receding tide as each wave lessened and lessened. There was no satisfaction in these thoughts of his as he crunched at the only once cooked bread. Wrinkling eyes frowned at the horizon, as he sat right hand out – the soft, wet bits of sand falling between his upturned pianoing hands. Birds would come to watch this display, gulls usually but sometimes others too.