You my facet are not worthy.
I believe we are all raised with the strangely doctoral gaze.
We are all different in seeing – as batman does in a hallucinogenic spell.
Bound up with lostness, ungrounded.
I often find peope talking about what they mean.
And its binding. Its terrifying.
Like she was terrific in bed.
My halogen mystery, ebbing-
stomach starving. Hurting, wanting, wasting.
Lusting. After loveloss, the cost of ejecting.
My churning lost daze. Mindblow.
Free folding wants and the wasted energyless closeness of everything.
Eyes that tell of my own disgust. A peasant of common ailments.
Mailmen of forbade news and cold hearted hypocrisy.
After you left, I became the cord in a propeller.
Pulling, pushing, finished finishing.
Finding a hole, curling lack and loss.
Stanger to my own body.
Loaded charge dispelled,
wrists ankles and fingernails shiver spasmodically and relentlessness.
I catch my fear and crush it between my hands as an orange,
Sun rising profanities of the easy life.
Withal forgetfulness, the superglues of society come unstuck with my fulfillment of naturally shamed simplicity. A coupling of smiles, seriousness and nourishment all taking from me nothing and everything.
What does this do for me?
What is up form here? Next?
You possess and propose to me alternative lives that I have forgotten.
A fruit basket of opportunity.
Cheese dreams of a cracker.
The fig gesture in hand.
Clutching barely to one another.
Heated as a stone.
Baked and branded.
Nothing yet built.
Only possibilities.
Joy wilts, a majestic distance of desire, success and untasted flavours.
And the lost women to age and abandon put poison in the kennels.
Animals and loved ones drop as flys, poisoned by the air we breathe.
Clutching throats and itching eyes of cancerous iron.
Coy bias of marketing allows us to walk in the yellow wafting smokes.
Immune only from practiced experience. The kids home, pockered skin of octopus. Slime and pincer. Under the sea all is blurred, blue and plastic.
A black bag over our head. Or perhaps the pervasive darkness was always there.
Now we sit, like an accepting Buddah, wise to our demise.
Drawing a line in the underwater sand.
Clouds rising, a slow dust in the rolling depths.
Deep peace sets in and still we wonder at the words for mother earth that have always escaped us.
Rest in peace. Dance between lives.
Bury me under the willow tree-
as Drummond never was.
Summon my ghost and revoke the pasts tragedy.
Your absence, my lack, here now.
Forever tied to you. Grounded and loved.
Provider and continuer.
Elixer of my eternal salvation.
Dissolution in dust.
Rolling in the deep, deep depths of our hearts.
We love and have loved.
Dearly, desperately.
Pleadingly and pledging-
hope, peace a golden fleece.
Where old is new,
trees grow.
Passions keep us from the storm.
At home in our heart you remain:
cared for, young and resilient.

This is my
–testimony.

Its here,
conversation.
and my lack of patience.
A presence of mind to think through it all.
Laden, heavy.
Weighed down with bread and all sorts.
A meal with the gods is shared.
The big toe of mine slightly sore-
dead flesh of the exterior grates as the outside of a wheel of cheese.
Hesitant.

If only I could say it all.
My emotion bubbles and I spiral in wonder.
Speaking first and experiencing later.
The import and rumination given to silence.
“yes yes of course”.
Killed dogs and talk of conversation being the same.
Samey.
I needed another angle, some additional depth.
It was mind numbing. Nothing but horror and horrible things.
My shit mind, lost in its cares.
Distracted easily.
Moving on quickly.
Joking if someone says something seriously.
Derailed.
Playful annoyances.
Guilted headaches, mark my fitness.
This unripe thought and imperfect brow. Lifted high above.
And the wholeness of the world’s catastophe.
The scope of my wonder at how bad it all as.
Shabby cheeked luxury and rotted fettid eyes cast from their sockets.
Set like fridged jelly. Brain numbed. Isolated instances of pain in my jaw.
The periods or rest and worry and work and practice.
Shallow hard-work, perhaps I should work smart and not hard.
Do your readings.
Don’t be distracted.
Love calling my name.
“I really like you”
spunk flows in our contract.
Money owing. Impatience, sickness, holding us all back.
A flipping mind of imperfection.
Infectious evils, sickness and an eternal holiday.
Working so hard that my investments might just paradox into juxtaposed ruination.
Starve yourself to success.
glee always into radical headache of lust, love, luxury and euphoria.
Lick your fingers and fuck me.

Who needs a bib?
I have a crumb catcher.
Onassis!

Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious
“Atoning for educability through delicate beauty”

Making amends for the ability to be educated in being intricate, fine and fragile high standard that appeases the senses aesthetically.

How are you Patrick?
“I am full of poison”
All smiles. All happy. All good.
But the context is off, is wrong, is rotten.

This mind and body look as today’s toxic puddle.

Half fill bath (warm), this means you can hop-in and slowly add hot water. Allowing for a longer and more intensely heated bath.

You never know when you’ll need an account’s manager.
YOU NEVER KNOW.
– (“wait” I thought)… yes you will.

I saw a strange woman put a cd into a buskers case.
I think it said “Earth Sheila”.
Pick-up lines and publicity.

“Cool” is the new conversation ender.

Powerfully , pouting, Putin, punchin, pleasant, protein, poutine, powder.

She said from her balcony: “Thankyou”
I waved away thinking – don’t use your language on me.

THE BIG BROWN BOWL.

A visitation of hai-kus.

A vision of horse
Blood fairies captured and killed
Nothing is resolved.

How did we get here-
Man? Woman’s tits, faces all-
joy. Issued spaces.

The arrival here.
engendered face, physically
rounded, fat smiling.

Cosmetic dicks are
grilling your expectation
Paint, plast, smoke, mirror.

What is CANIM ANNEM?
My dear mother.
MONA and the exhibition “the museum of everything”
Turkish detected, people with disabilities.
Literally insane, amateurish.

Compare and contrast = are the same things by their definition.
In A-ANG: Campara and catrast.
CAN & CAM. Saa and saa.
C as daffarant to Saa

T-ANG

“I’d love to overstay my welcome – but i’m not going to.” – Rowan Hutchison

Monochromatic is my art.
Black, white and blood.

ALL G
OG Destinations.

I have an idea!
And idea?
It’s more than some,
But less than most.

Life is fine
Enif Si Efil!

Getting to know someone from a distance.
Online dating. Shakespeare.

I dream that she comes back. Dad is a double. Short haired one and long haired other. He’s wrapping a book in blue paper, the sticky tape is jagged. Wendi asks if he needs help, he curtly responds “no.. thankyou”. I’m not sure which is the original. I think the long haired is old dad. The short haired is new dad.

Mum is by the sink, washing up a great many tools for stirring and scraping pots. I don’t really know/remember what she’d made. I’m overjoyed to see her but I don’t express this in action or word. She looks as me and tries to speak but her language is garbled, my heart leaps and she is all that I care about; smiling encouragingly and nodding. I say “its ok” and “sure, ofcourse”.
She hasn’t been able to tell me what she made. Her mind is gone, the language for what she is trying to say is gone. Simply gone.

The roof is leaking, the water is running along the flat of the roof like a gravity defying stream, down the wooden wall of the flat. I’m afraid that there will be a flood again. I remember that in the real world the drainage pipe from the gutters has been blocked for the last two big downpours. Its a real concern of mine at the time. Flooding. But then the weather dries and all concerns and the blockage remains.

Today I ate celery with peanutbutter and sultanas. “Ants on a log” Keone Dodd once told me. Its supposed to be one stalk at a time, pnb in the dip and sultanas dotten ontop. Neat and tidy. Considered. Instead I rolled all the stalks up in pnb, threw some sultanas at the mess and decided that the log was more lifelike and the ants were in disarray. Like when you place a brick infront of the runnings of the hive. The conga line of ants blew out, like a failed erruption of a volcano, blown out the bottom as the top remains the same.

Last night before bed, I heard a sound. Internal, between left and right brain. A high pitched singing snap. I had a headache, I beyond a usual switched on. I was uncomfortable and laying quietly in an angry state after an OK day with some people I know.

ok-er.
T-ANG tang taad.
“Thats a deaf touch, (during table tennis)” but i mean deft with a silent T. Deaft with a silent T is deaf?

Half a day without food in a group and your company is dire.
Insufferable- chilled silent, useless, strange and wasteful.
Perhaps I was trying too hard. Maybe you’re unwilling to join and jest.
I hate you, i fucking hate you. Everyone.
My strangeness stings, my bar, bad parking, wanton jokes.
You ignore my cheap-shots, smile and move on.
Your heartbeat quickens
Mine stays the same “normal”
How do we make the emotions work?
Stolen pavements. Headstones and criminal activity.
Flash lights and awkwardness.
Totally; my big brother.
And the rules? What about the rules.
Bat bat bat. Back and forth. We drive, we wish we hope and delay.
No wonder we don’t like crowds. We’re not brilliant; shameless or anything.
A non-event human. Interactions flounder.
Brilliance tarnished. Worn, lost.
Fragile returns to the homestead.
Plastered lostness. Queer stapled to our heads with friendly staples.
“You’re putting your foot in your mouth with ice skates on, getting all joker up in here…
Now i know how you got all those scars” a beautiful image.
And i tired, really instigated, economical. Body moving.
Hair of the dog in the back seat. My choices, my energy usage.
Weirdoes, talking about themselves.
Posturing, fighting, missplacing thoughts ideas, smiles and arguments.
No idea, like drowned fish in the rain.
Tails flopping, side on. Shy eyes and a captured spirit.
Kids, one and all. Over the banister,
Down the stairs. This is the place she bumper her head.
The corner, sick fear of my reaction.
Fixed fixation. This rock; tick tock.
Fuel, caring meaninglessness.
This is the sport we lost her. Blooded tsunami of the mind.
And my heart breaks.
Beer and all. The fall of the matron. Matriarch, mother.
Pouring guilt, loss and love and corrupted spirit.
Manifest hunger, tiredness, stress and psychopathic worry.
When will i break it all down.
And in the rubble rebuild.
For now a headache, fear and the joker.

I want to outstay my welcome but i’m not going to.

How can you care about other people’s opinions I said.
Broadcasting bollocks, opinions, noise over the radio.
A complete stranger. Making sounds at space and silence.
Empty threats of ideas. Not grounded in your sphere just-
just nothing. Saying and questions and wanton lack lack lack.
The quality isn’t there, the emotion or relevance. It goes.
Goes on on on. An experienced writer, or talker would have,
would have written, would have said it, differently. Diff.
Pesto. When you’re A-ing is PASTA. The words are the same but-
for their vowel sounds. So I tried and nobody got it. Left it.
“LAFT AT”

A-ANG Axampla af what at as!
B-ANG wath SABTLA. Farm maats fanctaan!
C-ANG wath 80% watar (parcantagas arant raal)
D-ANG. Tha vataman D. Avary garl, and gay.
A-ANG. At as what at as.
F-ANG. Any thang. Tha taath. Bata yaar lag. Pat dack an vagana.
G-ANG. Tha G-strang, chard, masac, clathas, antartaanmant. Hat tha spat.
H-ANG. Kall ma. Strang ma ap, wath a naasa and lat ma ga: “ha-ha, than: hang”
A-ANG. At as what at as
J-ANG. Walcama ta tha jangla! Play, danca and smaka/taka a jag.
K-ANG. Taa mach K, want kaap tha dactar at bay. K-whala!
L-ANG. Blank maans, lyang. Asn’t thas fan?
M-ANG. Yaa tha mang-mang, mang. Vace Caty rafaranca! Gamas!
N-ANG. Braak yaar braan wath nangs. Starvad far axygan.
A-ANG. Cantantaas jaka!
P-ANG. Bays payang far garls staff. Nat paaang an. Grass.
Q-ANG. Cryang, mayba standang an lane ar waatang far samathang.
R-ANG. Paratas.
S-ANG. Vacal chards an tha past tansa. Laakang farward taa tha shaw.
T-ANG. Laka a flavaar. Chaps. Laman. Lama. Gangar mayba?
A-ANG. Yaa gat at yat?
V-ANG. Lackang batwaan yaar fangars.
W-ANG. Warld af Warcraft symbal. Haad crawnad wath fangars an a ‘W’. Dack…
X-ANG. Wa asad ta ga aat, bat naw wa da nat.
Y-ANG. Am stall dacadang af thas qalafaas as a vawal.
Z-ANG. Anca yaa raach tha and af a stary and yaar tarad. Snaaza tama.|

We climbed the mountain. The view was great, 0.5 points for climbing Mt Wellington. Great, so good to be part of the community of hikers.
Then we walked 7/8ths of the way to the lost world. Shoes wet, hiking, sliding, eating snow. Then she packed it in, gave up, turned back. No rest.. Just “that’s it”. I understood she was sick, but it was a serious kick in the pants.
We drove back, communication; indeed words; are the worst! I thought to myself.
If I didn’t check in. Then I could have kept walking. But I stopped, I cared, and I was furious, filled with loath feelings. Getting over halfway and heading back. Up and over the hill and halfway down and then to stop, not rest… and turn back was the stupidest hiking activity I’ve partaken in. Madness.

Then home, my foolish sister in a rush, made cookies, burnt the bottom then took the keys to the flat. It was a riddle of insult and injury. The mystery of the universe in its ununiformity confounded me slightly. No savoy baths, instead the beach. We check out Alexander Battery; driving past the turn-off to Megan’s place. Then went for a walk. I smelt the flowers, Kat had a blocked nose.
I had very little to give. Light hearted energy, thoughts and basics were shared. It’d been a long time. I decided to broadcast memories akin to each location. Running with Jacob home, bogans, fireworks.
Breaking my balls on the play equipment at a young age playing chasings.
Carols by candle lights. Ideas for outdoor parties.
The winter solstiece swim. Nude, falling over near the other battery- the letdown of friends.
Walking, the sun set, a small jump, a splinter. The tide coming in.
I went for a swim. “Pink as the day I was born”. So cold.
A cure perhaps? Fight of flight. FEAR!

A reaction, make or break.
The lymbic, limbic system.
Makes you feel alive.
No snot, no sores, or pain.
Just clarity, joy and sharpness.
Pin pricks. Heat on the outside.
Hot, warm, skin thudding.
Rolling, searing, mellow.
Headstand on the pontoon-
diving in. Freestyles
Submerged, tired, backstroke.
Cold brain. numb. swishing hair.
Wave rolling. Paddling stranger,
canoe canoe. Mum, memory story.
And then the sand and the thoughts.
Clarity, pointless talk.
Laughter, wonder, “entertainment”
a walk, a worry and a silence.
Home, home, petrol and awkward
failing interaction with the guy
at the service station. He looked at me as if i’d said something, a question maybe that he’d missed. The moment conversation drops between you and you’re waiting: really on top of it and he just stands there wondering what was said and his eyes give him away and you know, so you repeat what you said but that doesn’t help because it’s improvised. But you don’t mind or really care, you could have been nice or middling or horrible for the same outcome. The loss is still there; in his eyes. You pay. you walk out, 18 dollars something. Lots of silver change and a gold coin.
Then you drive back and pick up Rhys who is walking to your girlfriend’s old place. Which is strange because you had a dream about her, and she screamed at you and said that she never wants to see you again… Which is odd, and off, because you never see or think about her. So this is some sort of powerplay.
Rhy is going to play dungeons and dragons. He’s sad that you’ve been back and you haven’t talked to him, you should be studying (like now) but fuck that.

In the back of my mind i’m trying to work out what happened to Julius the pidgeon. And I need to tie in Homer. But I haven’t read the book. Maybe that’s overdone. Its for children, its obvious. 4 people today tomorrow in 3 or 4 hours after then we’ll be cool and close and chatty and pizza and art and coffee and heath and what could possibly go wrong, except that energy fluctuates and crashing cars and rain and pain and no pleasure over bringing people together and all that difficulty of making strangers gel. Sharing for others.
The stories. 1 on 1 on 1 on 1. How do you all go in a group?
And I wonder. But games may not work. Money will buy comfort. Ease and happiness like the french, brilliant differance.

Daffaranca. A-ANG.

What do you think about running?

And what I think while I run. Murakami would tell us everything and nothing.
Relating our ordinary lives to the grander narrative of nothing mattering.

And the vanilla.
and the voices.
and the vegemite.
and vitamins.

COUP. COUP. FLONK.

And the working word of the day is flonk. And the fact that people don’t know what i’m talking about. And how distanced I am from it. The words, the meaning of it all.

Yellow shirt. Nod nod flonk.

Iamb

IAB

Utilizing an Ecocritical lens to identify social anxieties
stemming from “light-switch story”.
The repetition that’s seen in the post-apocalyptic dystopia and return to nature, is foreshadowed as an idea in Shane’s quip over the consumption problems that face humanity because of women’s inability to turn off light switches.
Education?

The Freudian association is made through the familial link relating to the reaction of women to this criticism: “You sound like my father”. This view is entirely problematic, patriarchy. Under the guise of a joke, which Freud again would suggest is an attempt at relieving anxieties about matters of “dire importance to the subject”.

“at least I tried” underpins in its entirety his own failings.

navigation of word and image that allows for a graphic reiteration of there being no safe place while emphasising humanity’s dependence on fossil fuels

The dire concern that “the world is run on fossil fuels” a regime of verisimilitude through which the reader is hailed.

Experting

And I hesitate, no headphones no need no direction.

Needing to write a story, the same story and it all just mushes together.

And it really comes down too- washing away the grit and dust. Security, hope and safe passage. 

A hovel or hotel to hang your towels. High and dry above the tide. Water mark memory. Sink or swim mentality erodes at us. 

One was once naturally occurring- locked away we fear and follow weather reports lusting after our demise. At all the doors and windows. Peeking in as we peer out. Licking at our scarves, washing at our shoes. No more removed as it taps gently, or howls at from the trees. Peeling down the hall, under doors, through keyholes. The wind of change, lazily blows through you. Ultimately.