Almost heart shaped

I, ate.aye my love. I sit, lay, upside down and up to no good. A beer to spare, shoe laces waxed. Hair is fair, attitudes are lax. I lay, I lie. 

Bitten about the back, shins and ankles and knees and wrists. Hands hold what they’do’not’see. 

My time is spent. Mostly little thoughts. The height of “I” the cross section double storey “L and T”. E is the subject. What is little? I is. But not capitalised. The transition, Capitalised yourself. Define- create- be sure. No nick-names. Only bIg. A growth. Three syllables for the word. More and more.

You buy me things, I fear giving you my time and honest company. I put a red onion in your bed, by your books, on top on your laptop. This is my layered look, vegetable layers, natural form in its most nourishing form- no tears. This honesty built of trust and respect. This- that wasn’t really mine, for long enough, is yours. I have given you my oddly, an almost shaped heart.


Quit quip

A future where we no longer feel guilty about energy.
It’s not binary-  Close your eyes and count to 1,That’s how long forever feels.

Empty lonely nothingness forever.

You are my delicate flame.

There’s less distance between between her pages, the writing on them and the meaning. Do your folks still still live in Hobart? 

Bill Gates – ‘I like lazy people’.

Travel Writing

Here I am. Here.
I am doubling up. Writing my old writing.
Travel Writing – first person prose accounts of adventure undertaken.
‘boat turn backs, unwillingness to settle’.
No weakening.
Travel -> danger etmology travail, french. Hard grind work.
It is a sad fact that most travell writing is limp, regurgitated pap. Awful phrases from the travel writer’s book of cliches.
‘Contravenes our human rights, the broad understanding that we should be able to seek asylum – not ingrained in international law’.

This is not a question of Justice. deterrance.
Michel Butor – Because travel is to read, to write is also to travel.
“How will you go about finding that thing in Nature of which is totall unknown to you” – Plato the Meno.
Nathan Englander – Don’t write what you know.
The Albatross – Bruce Chatwin.

Philanthropical – Parataxis Listing, Poetic.
The appropriation of these faces in a crowd petals faceless on a black bough.

Marooned. Respond – to this man. The legitimatizing what should only be endured.
The premise of Australia’s policy. Deterrence.
The Problem we should be faced.
The channels for asylum. Precarious VISAS.
Legal avenues. Primary decision makers.
Permanent residence.
Endorse. door. Access. Hope. Manus. Turn backs- procrastination.
Boats. Staob.
Cum cum cum. Black blood, sweat and tears of sudden sunscreen.
real risks. Academic outsider risk of hope and health. Flesh broken ridden hopeless. functional tragedy. Srilanka. Defunct process. Customs vessel.
Some of those people.
harm harm harm. Flee to elsewhere. Recognition. 1951 conventions.
On board these naval ships wouldn’t be particularly thorough.
run run run.
Bastard. Long term regional response. Turnbacks.

Creative projects:

The Blackthorn Door //
Economical use of facts.
Visions of reality.

sovereignty – supreme power and authority to govern oneself (one’s state).

It was a leap year. Sel’s birthday. He was stretched out on the bed. Idle and thinking if he had the energy to give anything. Sarcastic lines ebbed towards his lips.
It was so so hot. Electricity pulsed in the streets, if anything caught fire – it would all go up he thought. He was convinced, to stay to keep her close something had to be done. He felt thrown over, laid out on the bed. Overwhelming, he was seeking something. There would be cost for this way of thinking. In one financial year, maintaining this onshore detention of his feelings was equivalent to his headache.
All the balancing, the flatness of his heartbeat. Deathly links, liking his isolated sweats. A flood of sweat like many many people.
If only she were here, like a buoy we would cling to her. Holding fast, salt stricken.. Oh he wanted to hear from her. Clinging like cats to one another like they so often did. Nails, flesh ripped. Please don’t let me go, please don’t let me go, please don’t let me go.

He crawled under his blanket. Tampering with movement, stirred the room. The heat of the sunlight seemed to have noise. Dust in the sun rays blinked from behind the kicked curtain. Weakness flooded in, mistakes reeled from the night before – he was lobbied by his sensibilities. The night before, now gone. A few thousand faces. Peering, peeking. Eyes arriving on his skin as he swung on the high beam. Slippery wrists, writ on his face the platonic freedom, the right to fall or fight. Somersaulting head over heel up and down cobbled streets.

His regional collaboration, bursting heart. He was delirous. where was she?
Shifting Sel thought of explorations of the unknown. How do you think that! Where are our current problems located in our bodies? I need a just distribution – I need to stay in bed. Flatten out. Like pizza bread.
A break. A hole in his stomach rumbled. Like thunder though his body, he was empty – the line was drawn through him. The principle of his being, wrung dry. Grasping like dried bands. An apricot or rubber band.

Where was the current state of public opinion on his issue, the matter at hand.
And where was she?
He couldn’t move around in this daylight. The principle becomes meaningliss. He needed the weather to be responsive to how he felt. Popular public opinion – informed. Western Vagina. Habitually meeting the gaze or glance of others. He’d sicken himself with resources, the wrap up. time. thoughts. piano. That was Associate Klaus. Boundaries, papspear. Papsmear. Smart, smeared. episodes. Chat. game. lost benefits.

He’d sicken himself overintellectualisation mongering fears birthed of fore sight and the vista future. Banal. be anal. annals of time. cucumber. peeled. smooth. righteous. eous. yes. yes yes yes. Fuck me. Em. empty. emily gay. gym guy. grey golden god of gumtree. sell me sel that pussy. fuck me, tight hold me tightly. cold lips and hot cats. I was sweating, fevered. only waking to the moment when it was finally happening. I was thinking baout work. I was thinking baout all the things I could say, but swining from moment to moment was sick sad danger. Lust pissed hottly from my flesh. She tore at me. I sucked her neck; trying to pull the arteries from her neck and into my mouth. Undermined, pushed to the wall – deep. Shuddering push push pushing grinding rapid flexible back. 1991, never felt so good. Buy all of me. Take it all the love shudder. love the moment in time, effecting me. Upset, my eyes roll, legs would buckle.
fuuuuh fuckkk. yes—
And it held fast. a pleasure.
Saturday paper piece. dripping with semen. I hurt her. She stole all of me. I think it was love. My heart slowed. My dick dipped, ‘do not droop’.
I wanted to go again. Has the economics changed>? Are you on your period?
Bigger and spread out, i provided it all.
the bedroom infrastructure, international standards.
She wasn’t a prostitute, I think its relevant. She wasn’t a minority, she was small. petite (not french). I was alleviated. So stressed before. The quake, all the popualtion errupting from my physique. Popualtion 2.4z kicked back, she turned and kissed me with her cold lips. I fell back, starting to drift. She dripped on me. My own juices, hot. foaming texture. Listing sexual cliches, I stayed quiet. Finally absent from the moment again.
I thought of testers at the weekened market. I was flat. rolling-pinned. She perched prone over me, my bird. Eating small portions, wanting, waiting watching. Wraith of ghost licorice. She was sweet and natural. no process expertly fucking me to death. My crotch inflated. The higher prices, oh wahat policy we must overlook. I was hard.
Turning over in my mind, eyes smiling. I exhaled. Stomach flattening. Finding my qualifying angle. This angel, feasting on me. My energy. Blood rushing, body blowing, bowling, sick ruckless. reedling, turmoil, birds on the street screeching. Mezcal- leaking from me hottly foaming again. What a short lived built. My butt sank as if in sand. the beach without water, i was dry. Nothing left to supply.
I held my breath mix my fixations of future towards the real-death. The moment it really happened. A vein would pop up; as would his blood pressure. Connecting – he’d call it. Up to date, uptaken, updated life itinerry better than books or plans. This’d make him smile. Some would notice, others would speak of this he’d be careful.

To share was neievee, to give freely was starring into the sun. Blindlingly bright. New housing? Girl fuck me to death – please. my house, my style. Where are you? Bliss. Bills you prick. Bills. Fuck you.
Better than books of plans, this’d make him smile. Some would notice, others would spea; of this he’d be careful.

To share to share….

Honest blessing to other’s of similar intent INDEED. Language spoken from iris and pupil each. To study ones inner, to share a primative closeness of exchange always trumped any words he’d sometimes think. But still he’d smile.
Knowing smils, sharingg because e could see the spark, evil and good alike into the greedy gremiln folks. He’d wander past (beaurocratics) lost in their looks.
Past loves and the companyof footfalls, clapping him on his way. Pinching his attention. A woman of Italian decent. Commuting into his head and heart. His body a physical manifestation of the sould. Negative. Negative negative. He took another bump of greed. Gearing himself up. Shuddering, another orgasm of a different kind. The sweats took over, a flood of being alone in colour. Senses overloaded. Bliss jumping and crawling like a spider covered in hair. Abdomen drawn gently over him. Clambering hotness. His lips were clipping. He fell into slumber, less clear than ever. Such was the downward assertion of pressure. A hawk of the 1980’s, swooping. His patch.


Let touching. Leg. Weirdly not faint feeling. You usually are?
Not at home – I wasn’t in my head. I was in a rock in the middle of nowhere.
I lifted my ead up.

The kelp was green, Flooded. Needed a swim.
Quelled the bleeding.

She wore blue. Eyes to match. The sunset,
I wish you had a better speakers.
‘Oh hey, that’s it’
Sara’s birthday – arriving in hobart.
Peaching at 6.30. Preaching.
Weddings and red wine.
Gushing flowing veins and gowns.
growing men. Bellies and sunrises.
Listen, louder. Looking down- after probably have bigger boobs if you got fatter.

Look at you. Tapping away Lips parted. Smiling. Those two dimples below your mouth. And he stayed home – and his rent was paid. The cycle of violence.
2 weeks. artist residency. In town. Which is amazing.

All my sisters will be there. On the strip. It’ll be so good . That never happens.

bo bo bobob ibobo.

She kept me up with different skin.
Not flushed or pouting. Eyes were there’ that’s what they’re coming for’.
Stealing hearts.
Bold moments of cutthroat slam-duggery. How does one deal with their emosh.
Join. Joints. Cut lunch and luxury. Sleep – run rest. Hollow legs tugging at my mind. Limbs black and lagging in my mind. Unfeeling connectioins of muscle flag on the morning. A brief run. Lost heart beating loud, ticking hate and hench thoughts of fishbowl joggers bladder. fub-fub-fub.
Tame impala. Playing that yearly game. touching at things I don’t know.
That educated life ; makeiin everything better. That fuckingmistaken language.:: “that’s not col”

I’m ve got this feeling ins side my head and the burning car its all going oveer my head all wrong. I don’t care I love it.
but harting it all ismn’t enough this summer. Washing salty eyes.
And the big bug that died usually on the windscreen – Delay online.
So smart.
Killing the switch.
The big bug. The bug the bug. Loving it. Waiting louder.
Something primal. reductive thoughts over how much time and the rest of it all.
That planning for nothing. tititititiit.

Music to my eyes and ears. The most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.
Lets look at something today shall we? Love love love. Language describing a moment in time. FM AM.
FAM. Dick.
Tuning in. Lost

Well i need yaaa.
I got my head done when I was young. Its not my problem.
Its not my . Fucking case of fear or anything else. The bug the bug. Meta-
Meta morph.
Metamorphosis. What are you bringing? Questions – no succinct scrolling answer.
1997. Take me back in my bleeding heart to then/ Standing in the kitchen blaming dad. Learning to wipe my arse without an entire roll of toilet paper.
Papa! Teach, scare hit, love drip drip drip.
A short trip to the store. Milk and bread.
Breakfast of musketeers.
Rustic carrots cut shambolically. Irrespective. Irregardless.
Shocking language and words. Continuity

The bug – And i’m cycling.
It hits me in the eye.
I rub. Splatter. Fish smelling.
Lost flesh., baby and pregnancy.
Baby hurts.
The name, tears.
Running running.
bulging. red.
My own ineffective juices flowing.
Tomato juice. Are the legs on my eye?
Will it breed?
Is it behind? Rolling orbs.
Foaming mouth. Rocking back and forth.
Knees tucked into my chest.
My heart. My eyes. My love.
rolling out of me.
Rainbow wars and Clancy.


Just say hello. No more-that middling language of “good thanks” “yeah, good” “not bad”, “can’t complain”. 

The etiquette of it all. Changed “big football player so”.

Monday meeting no Acid will return me from my normalcy. Vacant seats- return and passing the buck of giving a fuck. Asking; “what do you want”? And just gettin it. In it. Lithium illness. 

Put the sails up. It’s time to change end, in the sun. No rooms in your hands. Similitude of the sun and your eyes. Blue ocean, sparking like used oven mitts. Committing social

shouldnt have had that coffee

back to being human.
A fancy wank-
you know expensive because you beat off into a condom.
They cost money you know. Poor people can’t afford them ofcourse, so you’re just beating off into money, for no reason. Expelling surplus energy. Saving society from it. A bit of self pleasure and leisure.
-You’re not invited to the wedding.
-Hierarchies exist

I once made a mistake of asking a dark haired woman about my age “what do you do”.
I thought it was general, friendly and open ended. She took issue with the question saying it was grounded in posturing and sizing one another up. Maybe she was right. I’d been invited over as a friend of a friend, a BBQ of sorts, a social gathering. She was making me squirm I think. I played along.
She turned out to be a cleaner at UTAS.
I said great that’s fascinating how disgusting people are, how wasteful and thoughtless people are. I said it would be insightful to realizing just how quickly things get dirty and the level of dust akin to growing on all things seemingly suddenly. Strange. She didn’t like what I had to say –
She’s a cleaner and she had a problem.
I should have asked if people like jokes. I didn’t realize that ‘do’ denotes or connotes profession. She took it to mean “what is your livelyhood? How do you get through the days and contribute value to society, and so on and so forth”.
She decided to take pity on herself. “Do you like Titanic>?”
-Will we all go down with the ship, or just the captain?
I hated her for her failing me, socially I felt that this fight wasn’t my own.
Perhaps it was, my question triggered illness.
She’s the sort of moron that pours bleach or drain cleaner into the sink and then before watching it bubble down decides the issue must be somewhere at the U-bend. Naturally the fix will come from pulling out the piping, unqualified the outcome is a face full of bleach eyes like drains. Bloodshot,smoking, milky or black. I had to witness the triggered blackness as a guest in a new hovel. Trying to strike up conversation and unhappily letting my good intentions be turned back like the metal prongs of a fork you’d use to feed a learning child.
-Perhaps this tirade doesn’t demonstrate my good intentions.
-Honestly though, good meaning aside one always has a false story. Lie and lie and lie atleast sugar coat. Distract, move on and change. With good humor, pleasures are ours and words are our tool. You poisoned my hear, my confidence and out beginning.
Then came the pale, beady-eyed, red haired partner.
That breast focused piece of waste. Agitator and past stuck slime. You’ll need all your cleaning talents for that, gloves on and you’ll still come out dirty. I pray that the house caves in and you’re out to return to realise that its not what’s inside that always counts. Sometimes the brave fortification is all you have and that’s the passable point of shallow focus that anybody as a guest will be able to percieve. I was in your home and you gave me gruesome strangeness and callous obscenities. Unassailable hate, lust, timidness and misdirection.
Anything can be politicized I call it ‘politicked’. Cast in a light of either good or bad.
I hope I’m invited to the wedding, you’ll have my blessing. The haunted house of inner disgust at self, shared with all that ask a question to crack silence, misunderstood sickeningly


Love is a shovel.
Tears are a drink
Pain is a pleasure
and jackets fend off the cold –
But the cold won’t kill you.

You just give up one day.
Lay down and don’t get up.
A full pain.
Heavy set comfort followed by the bliss of lightness.
The sweet smell of your own shit as you cark it.

Carcasses, warm, warbling wanting.
Pushing thoughts and informing meaning where there isn’t.
All applying, ascribing value where there isn’t any.
You are invalidated, wasted and unwell.
Cold, unjacketed and dying.

My love is a shovel.