Sea, Earth, Sky.

It came from the sea
From the cold lightless depths
Eyes in the chasm
A mouth full of teeth
Thrashing and churning
As the sea itself might
Oozing slime from a jaw
That would shut out the light
And an underside scaled
Thorny and black
Fish making homes
Of the bones hanging off
Thrusts itself out
And onto the quai
To make waste of the land
O, it came from the sea

It came from the earth
The clay and the mud
From the fiery pit
It shudders and roars
Crushing over the trees
A mountain that moves
A thousand bulging legs
All claws and all hooves
The eyes have gone black
Fetid and gazing
But the fiery maw
Sends out great plumes of smoke
Rising above the great forest
It moves mountains of dirt
An unstoppable force
O, it came from the earth

It came from the sky
Like some terrible angel
Screeching like needles
It swoops from above
Stalking the land
The great beast of prey
Shining and burning
In the light of the day
Clutching and scraping
With claws of white bone
Devouring whole
And ascending again
Those terrible wings
On an ill wind it flies
It will blot out the sun
O, it came from the sky

Through the snow.

Not quite sure
Who is?
But let it snow
And make your footprints
Through the snow
You make your footprints
Even if you're not too sure
Of where they'll lead you
Through the snow

It's okay, though
You can mess it up
You can backtrack and all that
Once a year
They clean it out
The place where your footprints sat

They whimper and they cheer
To see the footprints swept away
But that's not the way to do it
That's not how the game is played

If you're not sure
(But who is?)
Best let it snow
And through the snow
Seeing your footprints
Swept away
Just smile
Just smile and know
That wherever they lead you
Come what may
You wouldn't be here to complain today
If they hadn't led you through the snow
In their own special way

The End of the Line.

Empty bullet shells
A curse on my house
Fuck, hail Mary!
Burn the Devil out
Barbed wire
Salt and flesh
It looks like I've got
Nothing left

To lose my faith
Strange that I should
Stop believing in Him
When the Devil is at my doorstep

Empty bullet shells
Sabotage! He's coming now!
He killed them all
I hear his footsteps now
It's good they're dead
I couldn't bear for them
To see me become a beast
And fight the Devil off, for them

Let the Devil come
Let him come
The end of the line
Awaits us both
And I'll be damned
If he isn't too
And I will burn
And he'll burn too

Weak.

We're all so weak
And no one cares
I am unable
We're all unable
It's just enough
To sit and stare
Have a drink!
Forget your cares!

Am I disgusted?
Well, that's just it!
I don't even care
Don't give a shit!
Can I care about that?
Well, this is just circular
Going round my brain
Nothing in particular

We're all so weak
And so are you
And so am I
So through and through
All we do
Is drink and drink
But I don't care
I enjoy it
I think

-

But I actually enjoy it more than anything, that was just a nice ending.

Plath, Thomas, Eliot.

They say dying is an art
And if this is the way
The world ends
It took nothing more
Than a short course
A certificate in sacrifice
A diploma in death rattles

Grand old Death
Cloaked in stars and night
Grants a grand old death
The Earth whimpers
But doesn't fight
Rejoice to the end times!

Death's dominion is no more
And the poets in the next place
They weep there in the after-place
They become infinite

Yes, dying is an art
One that takes a lifetime
To learn at all

What an absurd analogy.

Curse the shackles

Of this bourgeoisie brain

Demands and wants

Curse it again!

Demands and wants

And what of the rest

The proletariat body

It does its best

Internals, organs

To pick up the pieces

Of the messy mind's wants

Lest the body deceases

Trampled under foot

Of the bourgeoisie brain

Reciprocal? Yes

But not an even domain

The insides must acquiesce

To whatever demand

The aristocracy gives

But should it disband?

Rebellious rapscallions!

The consequence outweighs

The demands of the brain

Move out, now! Gangway!

Pangs and pains

Even the balance of power

Neurons no match

Against the body, they cower

A gentle reminder

To the bourgeoisie brain

Its wants are no match

For the proletariat in pain

Better/Well and the space in between.

Better?

You know

I'd much prefer

Some peace of mind

Than pieces of your mind

But I suppose that's also fine

There's little else to do but steal

Pieces for peace is fine enough

Perhaps a weaker form of

Tooth for a tooth

'Eyes, you mean'

Do I?

Well.

Little White Card.

It's nice work if you can get at it

Who in the hell said that it's

Not even worth the cash

Coin's goin' out of fashion?

All the army boys are cashin' in

Gift baskets for their sweethearts

Workin' nights and workin' hard

For that little white card

Well, Lucky's got a sweet gig

At that big downtown hotel

He said it's worth the silver

If you can just manage the smell

He comes home with stories

Of the customers and folk

He just wants his little white card

Puttin' up with their off beat jokes

Coulda' been a somebody

Coulda' been a real man

Old mean Joe ain't got nothing though

Workin' the midnight paper stand

Was threatened just last week

By a guy down from the brickyard

He said "I don't mind the bruises

If I can just get my little white card."

Better off in the sticks

Workin' for a dollar here and there

Than talkin' to the jet black kids

Behind the counter of a fair

Shorty's wife just left him

He can barely pick up the shards

His life's in pieces, but man

He's drownin' in those little white cards

First World Angst.

So what the fuck do I do? I really don't know, internal monologue, I really don't know. Oh, how I wish I knew, what great relief that would bring, to have some neat cobblestone path to tread down. That'd be swell. A little white line to adhere to, with optional distractions never too far from the road to that cosy little slice of life I'll supposedly inhabit in the future. Supposedly. I don't know, is that expected? Work, mortgage, superannuation, etc., with occasional distractions to make sure I don't develop a healthy distaste for gun regulation and regular thinking? A trip down the thin white line with a couple of forays into the jungle of exciting things every now and then, just to prove to myself that I can. Well, that's boring, I'd rather live in the jungle.

I can't stop expanding. I'll die. Not really, but maybe sort of kinda. If I stop doing new things, and learning new things I will murder someone. The only option is to learn. I like learning. Nerd, wait till the jocks get at you. If following the accustomed route is like walking down a road then forcing myself to continue learning is alike to hacking through the jungle with a machete. A machete of knowledge and awesome. In the common case, learning is the distraction you take, awesome new things are there to slake a thirst that's meant for so much more than that. I'll stay in the jungle, and the thin white line will be the distraction, thank you very much.

That was badly phrased now wasn't it?

#firstworldangst

Accursed band-aids.

Tread the keys

Ivories to be tickled

Bitten fingers

Holes in your hands

Band-aids, go!

Wrap-arounds

Band-'aid'? No

Helpful? I suppose so

Damn it all!

Where's the feeling?

Fuck the band-aids

Rip, tear them off

So I can feel again

And it hurts as well

But I can hear it all

And it's all so beautiful

Beauty from pain

How fucking poetic

Make it rain, make it rain

Notes like acid raindrops

The King,

The earth is screaming

The moon is marching

What the hell is happening?

The sea is rising

The trees uprooting

The mountains are all shuddering

The fire's spreading

The forests receding

The plants and insects just accepting

The king is coming

The king is returning

The king is here for the reckoning

The stars are singing

The birds are flocking

The animals from their caves are leaving

The wild dogs bowing

The horses praising

Every able creature humbling

The cracks are opening

The earth is screaming

What the hell is happening?

The king is coming

The king is returning

The king is here for the reckoning

Pounding Headaches.

You've got, what?

All the right pills? Check

You've had your fill? Check

Images to stills, heck

Where did your brain go? Shit

Time's running slow, shit

All the right pills

For all the wrong thrills

Fait battre ton tambour!

Beat, beat, beat, beat

Through the bone

And through the brains

Through the stone

And through the rain

Beat, beat, crash, bang!

A thousand tiny nail guns sang

They're all right here

Right here with you

Les anarchistes.

I'm far too angry

And pubescent

Violent fake!

It's just fluorescent

It will all fade

In time, but I hope

I don't settle down

I don't learn to cope

If the world won't stop turning

I'll see it all burning

Light it up, a flick of the wrist

On that day we became anarchists

Hue-mongous pun efficiency.

Brown, no

Orange, red!

Golden amber

Waves instead then

Fire! Shoot!

Until he's dead then

Take his clothes

To a wiser man

Let it grow, let it grow

The son of man knows

Green, yes

Yellow, blue?

It's a rather

Alarming hue

Dead! Dead!

Blue skinned and bled

Take their thoughts

To far away ports

To a wiser man instead

Black, huh?

White and grey

Ashen chalk

Powder grey that's

Laid over blue

All in a pile that's

Too deep to dig through

To that most alarming hue

Set on golden amber sand

To be ferried off

To a wiser man

Come on, kid.

You should be working

You know that

It's right there

You stare

Don't even care

To bat an eyelid

Come on, kid

There's work to do

You should be working

Work to do, work for you

Come on, kid

Delicious angst.

Time is marching on

Isn't that disgusting?

The great lie is here

All you could want

Feel

Think

Dream

Wish

What is it, really? Useful? Ha!

Is that your childhood knocking?

The door of time is great

Too great for you, boy

Time is marching on

And it really is disgusting

Give him chains

And he will break free

And in the same way

Freedom begets chains

Everything must change

There's nothing you can do

Whew! It took a long time to say that

There's nothing I can do either

No fucking stupid words will work

Wordsworth... worth what?

Nothing, nothing you can do

Time is marching on

Fine, I get it, you get it too

But it's disgusting all the same

Please don't give me freedom

When I yearn for chains

Only in chains

Can everything then change

I hope this is finished.

6/8

fig1. Em - - - - Em/F# | G - - - - -| A - - - - -| G - - A - -

Raise a glass to the silhouette

All bloody on his rope

Underneath the redwood

He's losing air

But don't lose hope

Li dee di dee di

Swing from your rope

You hopeless martyrs

Li dee di dee di

Stoned and beaten

That's just for starters now

O, and how did he dance for us

Through misery and shame

How did he run, how did he sing

Through blight and torturous fame

Li dee di dee di

Stand on the cross

You hopeless martyrs

Li dee di dee di

Swing your firsts

Swing a little bit harder now

Now

Now

Now

fig2. C - - Am - - | C - - Am - - | Em - - - - - | Am - - - - -

Now don't lose hope

I'm sure they'll let you down

It's not alright to cry

It's even worse to die up there you know

Don't you know?

fig.1

Li dee di dee di

Swing from your rope

You hopeless martyrs

Li dee di dee di

Stoned and beaten

That's just for starters now

Follow ME, you little white fucker.

Having a string of rotten luck
An injured rabbit aroused my ire
So I broke both his rabbit feet
And strung them up on a piece of wire

Oh yeah?

Yeah, brevity is wit

So what?

Is prolixity vulgarity?

I'll drink you under the table

And overleaf

Across the page

As long as I'm able

Yeah.

1: Hey, where's Nick?
2: I don't know, I think he went out, but he didn't say anything, I dunno.

1: Did he do what I asked him to?

2: No, I did it after he left.

1: I asked him five fucking times to do it before he left!

2: He got up at four in the afternoon and said he had to go in a minute.

1: What a dick.

2. ikr?

OH LOOK, IT'S EVERY CONVERSATION THAT TAKES PLACE IN THIS HOUSE.

Lipstick

You can put lipstick on a pig

It's really easy too, y'know

Dress it up and give it a name

Give it something to hide underneath

Better yet

Hide it under something tame

Call it what it's not

A spade's not a spade

When all the trees come calling out

And kingdoms fall to serpent hordes

Even then when not a cell

Is there to ring the steeple bell

Thunderous and grey the skies will fall

Along with the clouds in scores and scores

Your lipstick pig will tidy up and say:

"I'm no Godiva for you, y'know

You'll not forget yourself and the world

Peeping Tumnus, get out of the cupboard

And look at yourself and look at what you made

My make-up's gone and I'm still me

I'm still a pig for all to see"

And crickets will be your only company

You can put lipstick on a pig

But it's best to call a spade a spade

Despite how easy it can be

It's still a pig for all to see

Wank words.

People claim

The words I use

Are just to big

But they're just words

Not a drop

Of the words I think

Escape my mouth

That's just absurd

Out they go

There goes the first

How 'bout a second?

Never mind the third

Words in line

Make you recoil

Don't forget

That they're just words

And all the same

I must enthuse

And take my pick

Picking words I like to say

Can never stop

And link by link

Words north and south

Of the lamp-lit way

Fly forth and flow

Slake my thirst

Keep them fecund

Hopefully they'll stay

These words of mine

Over which I toil

Over which I fret

The words I like to say

But they're just words

Nevermore

A whore's a whore forevermore

The doors are locked

The cabinets stocked

We've guns to cock

Get cracking

Nothing's lacking!

We've got it all worked out

There's nothing missing

So quit your slacking

Fucking, kissing

You name it kid

What didn't they do?

What didn't they did?

Step right up

Scandals! Scandals!

We got photos of the kid

Right down to his sandals

We got photos of the kid

Get a good handle

Get a good spot

Never set foot outside again

Never ceasing

Never stopping

A whore's a whore

But nevermore

I love this one so much.

Dear internet,

I'm sorry for focusing every single fucking thing I write on the Abrahamic devil.

As long as I apologise it makes it alright, doesn't it?

I really like this one. I think it's cute.

Fig1. C | F | C | C
Fig2. G | G | D | C

G | C | D | D

G | G | D | C

G | D | G | G
Or something like that.

Fig.1

Yeah, I get it

We done wrong in your books

Something not easily forgiven

Yeah, I get it

We're both going to hell

But that's just it

That's what I'm looking forward to

Fig.2

We'll burn in flame together

My little man and me

Right down here from God's good grace we fell

But we were willing

To put up with a lifetime of your shit

If we can spend eternity together in hell

Fig1.

The brimstone's creeping up quickly now

My love, but don't you cry

The Devil ain't got nothing on our sins

See the folks up there they figure

That we're better of to die

So we'll just burn up side by side until the end

Fig2.

We'll burn in flame together

My little man and me

Right down here from God's good grace we fell

But we were willing

To put up with a lifetime of your shit

If we can spend eternity together in hell

Fig1.

There isn't much I reckon

That could drag us two apart

In fact I'll wager there's nothing in the world

We found out there ain't nothing

In the other one as well

Our love's worth more than a thousand shiny pearls

Fig2.

We'll burn in flame together

My little man and me

Right down here from God's good grace we fell

But we were willing

To put up with a lifetime of your shit

If we can spend eternity together in hell

Cloven hoof.

An eye for an eye

A tooth for a tooth

A lie for a lie

A truth and a truth

A life for a life

By the cloven hoof

A drink in vain

And arms uncouth

Branches as veins

Launched, forsooth

A life for a life

By the cloven hoof

Raja

Ten thousand years I've waited

Underneath the wastes

Now I am free, now I am free

Seek the abated and the chaste

Wake the destroyer, Raja

Aroused of the single cell

Wake the destroyer

Await the masses, the hordes

Drown in a sea of sand

Hear him calling, hear him calling

By sword, by the destroyer's hand

Wake the destroyer, Raja

Aroused of the single cell

Wake the destroyer

Raja

Five for three.

That's a good idea, Jason. Sort of. Maybe.

Five lines/sentences on three images.

"Did it work? Are you functioning?"
"I don't know, I don't feel much different."
"You're not meant to feel anything. Do you feel anything?"
There was no real need to ask, the neuro-visual array was working fine: she was finished.
"Good, that'll save a lot of time and tears later."

It felt. It wasn't a part of the land; it was the land. It was every rock, every root, every pile of moss, everything slashed and hacked, and every stone unturned. It feels your footsteps and your fire; the trees its ears and eyes. And it felt them too, and they felt it, perfectly layered symbiosis pushing through ages, untouched.

"Fuck. Someone already started here. Dave? Dave!"
"What? Oh shit tits. Who was scheduled then?"
"Fuck if I know. I'll bet it was Linda. Trust that bitch to steal my cases."
"Trust. Look, we'll just find another one to get going with, okay?"
"Fuck it, I'm sick of Linda's shit, I'm taking tomorrow off. Tell Simon I'm sick or something. Fuck."

I don't know who Linda, Simon, and Dave are, but it's nice to think that they're cosmic creator beings.

Strata

Turning

Turning

Wheels are turning

Cogs are burning

Now unfurling

Roots and branches

Distanced so

Branched, insightful

Roots so frightful

Down beneath canopy

Beneath the mulch

Beneath the sea

Beneath the scum

And you will see

The molten core

But best not flee

For what's in store

Well, we will see

Branches parted

Shh, it's started

Get to the heart

Of the cold cold hearted

Petals burst

And shrivel thus

But the petals are not

What you came to see

You came to see

Beneath the sea

Beneath the mulch

Beneath the scum

You came to see the cogs

You came to see the wheels

Musical metaphor.

6/8

Fig1. Ab | Bbm | Ab inv.1 | Db

They fill the space

Between the lines

Shuffling out of time

And I must acquiesce

A harmony so out of line

It doesn't have to be

You try to fill the space

Between the places

Along the blurry faces

It doesn't have to be

It could be different in different cases

Fig2. Bbm | Ab inv.1 | Db | Eb

Whatever walls there are

Are only there to be torn down

Bbm | Ab inv.1 | Db | Db
And whatever walls we'll find
We'll tear right down

Fig1.

A perfect fifth

A minor third

We'll make it all

We'll show the world

All discordance

It must amount

To harmony

A unique sound

The cadence point

Will bring relief

From tension

In the harmonic briefest

Of times, in time

We'll show the world

Fig2.

Whatever walls there are

Are only there to be torn down

Whatever walls we'll find

We'll tear right down

How about that?

I want to play music for people so they understand me.
I want them to be able to feel my soul when I play just like I do.

I finally get it.

Short words.

Out in the barn, the Devil and his boys

Out in the barn, the prince of lies toys with you

Tooth for a tooth, fighting end to end

Truth for a truth, Lucifer sends for you

You couldn't help yourself could you?

Dance around the heathen fire

Fueled by whiskey and barbed wire

A flame mirrored in a burning sky

Trapped in his eyes

We couldn't help ourselves, but could we try?

The angels and the demons coming for you

But could you even tell the difference between the two?

A fight's a fight and a good one too
Each one of them will find you in time

Out in the barn, the Devil and his boys

Out in the barn, the angels and their toys

Tooth for claw, wings signalling the end

'You're not going nowhere's the message they send

AND JUST SO I DON'T FORGET.

Fig.1 Am - C - Am - C
Fig.2 Dm - E - F - G

Wheels and trees.

The wheels will get you

Wheels in wheels

Feels and feels

Like bone that's meal

Like bones that feel

Like knobbly knees

The bones will feed

The wheels will see

The trees will find you

They're burning red

You'll all burn instead

Fire in sin's stead

Like wine it's bled

It's pure and red

The trees will be fed

No more to be said

Why, vague and wildly under informed Biblical references are my specialty!

I will come.

Capo 3

Fig. 1: Am---|G-|Am---|Am---

Dance for me

And I'll make you feel holy

Dance for me

And I'll make it alright

Sway in my breeze

I won't desert you

Sway through the trees

Out of the light

Fig. 2: F---|G---|Am---|Am---

Down in the valley

Rising up out of the mud

Down in your heart

In every little thud

Fig 1.

The fires will come

And devour the living

The fires will burn

To make it all start anew

Lend me your self

And I'll make you feel holy

No fire, no light

Will ever tarnish you

Fig. 2

Deep in the mountain

In the crumbling dirt

Deep in your soul

Part of every little hurt

The heart's of men

Make a good hiding place

The wickedest of grins

Right beneath your face

Fig. 3: Dm---|G---|Am---|Am--- x3
Dm---|G---|F---|E--G
A simple traveler
Out on his way to the East
You chance upon him
And you travel for seven miles at least
No friend nor foe
Will you find in this man
He'll step on your toes
With a cloven hoof
Just because he can

Fig. 1
Dance for me
And I'll make you feel holy
Dance for me
In the cool of the night
Dance for me
And I'll make you feel holy
Dance for me
In the vanishing light

Rightio.

Looks like your average murder

Half a pint of blood

Thrown five feet and further

Seems to me your average crazy

Edged weapon, left-handed

Left a little hazy, startled

Look, he didn't cover his tracks

A footprint here and there and back again

It all seems just the same

Ending up on t.v.

A regular butchering

A routine atrocity again

It all just seems the same

I can't write introspectively anymore.

I think too fast. In the middle of a very long-winded piece where I try to nut out some serious dilemma the old noggin skips ahead a few minutes and finds the conclusion I was already working too. Underlying reasons are always so simple. Nothing is complex.

So what's the game?
Everyone has a racket

A deal, a bit, a thunder to be stole

We've all got our pride, boy

So what's your game on this big blue bowl?

From whence does your pride spring?

Everyone has a beat

And you know mine can't be beat

Sit down

Take a seat

You sure aren't 7 feet

But you could be great you know

You just need to outrun fate

And fate's a little slow

What's the game?

What's your game?

I'm proud of this. Just saying.

Can Penny Wong be in the right?
Should Devine right be wrong?

A right Wong's unrightly wronged

For they're the wrong rights Devine divines

But Wong's rights! What of them?

Devine, you wrong this rightly Wong

Divinely inspired, undivine Devine

I write to right the wrongs on Wong

That was so much fun.

Oh my. I'm giggling. Oh my, yes.

Context? Here you go.

The boon.

Unto thee I give this boon
A curse perhaps? We will know soon

What your person wants, what deserveth thee

Perhaps a curse? Soon we will see

Not to forebode a sticky end

The merest chance, it must be kenned

For the means to this blight we might upend

So what would warrant a sticky end?

Have you villains? Have you foes?
Tell us now that we may know

The boon sees what you will not say

Should you from good purposefully stray

The boon will rear an ugly head

Morph to curse, then you'll be dead

"How 'bout I break your face?"
A vulgar one with eyes like wire

And hair like plastic string

Pastels, branded, tracksuit madness

And you would dare to threaten me?

When even the concrete can't hold

The weight of your own stinking breath

And it breathes like the cold

Pushing forth of no will and stops

Resting on laurels that aren't even there

"Look me in the fuckin' eyes, cunt"

I'd really like to but I'd get lost

Just like you have in your own shallows

A pseudo-mind more like, which serves

To push you into greater stupour

Succour, my lord? You seem in need

I'm awfully sorry you mouth's not used

To using words

Create.

Hour's late

Why not create?

Visible fate

Why not create?

Fuck off, mate

Why not create?
Seething hate

Why not create?

Don't dare wait

Why not create?

Hour's still late

Better not create.

Muddied mane.

Bleed your own blood!

Keep well away from my veins

Down into the mud

Down into the mud

I've no care for your muddied mane

Stay away from my blood

You've not a heart to thud?

Bleed your own blood

Draw your own conclusions!
Mine aren't done yet

Steeped in seclusion

Steeped in seclusion

And what is this net?

A foregone conclusion

Some miserable infusion

Draw your own conclusions

Write your own verse!

It's sure to be nice

The writer's curse

The writer's curse

A most wonderful vice

Pretty, ordered verse

Write to immerse

Write your own verse

See your own sights!

It doesn't work vicariously

Shut out the light

Shut out the light

Ever so gregariously

Take in the sights

As a good man might

See your own sights

Orpheus

He came down from the branches

Good old Orpheus

With tablets of stone, "Well

What's in store for us?"

"Well, these stone tablets of mine,

Are for writing, chaps!

So get to it, get writing,

And you'll be famous, perhaps."

Mrs. Orpheus doesn't come out much

She prefers to hide in his shadows

In her husband's life, not her mediocre own

She's just beneath the shallows

But he's a superstar! Famous!

He's known all over the shop

For years and years he wrote and wrote

And it was good shit too, so fair cop

He wrote his way to the top

Orpheus floats back up sometimes

Back up into the branches fair

He leaves his tablets but he's got more

They say he's writing his masterpiece there

Or maybe he's fending off more Mrs. Orpheus'

From crones to baby-faced whores

Even still when we ask what's in store for us

He'll always have a little bit more

Ascension

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaangst.

There you lie, sit, stand

In your underwear

Suffering that blank stare

What the hell do you care?

A wear and tear feeling of distortion

It's a

Blank cheque you don't know how to cash

It's a ball, it's a bash

It's a sign meant for caution

Thrive on feelings maligned

Without a sign of redemption

You're a human exemption

Oh, it's all just fine

It just piles on the tension

Files not fit for mention

Oh, look at the time

Seems you missed the ascension

Here it comes

That old ennui

Forbids happiness

But hey, forbids tragedy

Forbids the movement of the mind

The neurons firing all in time

Euphoric apathetic semi-lethargic

Sublime state of mind

Whatever happened to the goal setting?

Just like a foal getting up to learn to run

You're not even done with basics

Who said you could start the fun?

Here it comes

That old ennui

I hope it won't stay long

Why don't you get up and act

Instead of wiling away

Your days in song?

Scarecrow

Scarecrow in the front row

Rags make riches

From the stitches

But he's not alive, it shows

Trembling in the ill wind

Buttons for eyes

Hands done in ties

Patchy hessian-skinned

As the crow flies

Away from him

Grease painted clown face

Smiling in vain

All without a name

Withdraw the human race

It's rather a shame

Even the birds can't stand his face

Scarecrow in the background

Plays the bitter anti-hero

Is that weeping that we hear? No!

Give it time, stick around

Watch him spring out of the ground

He'll dance for us, put on a show

Our lonely friend, the sad scarecrow

Our lonely little scarecrow

The Spiders.

Dewy wet caught in needles

Inward bound

Pitter-patter

What's the matter?

Not a sound

Four by four delicate limbs

Onward bound

Spin your web

In the flow and ebb

Silken spun around

Eight glistening portals

Outward mapping

A feast of kings

The spider sings

Ready for the trapping

Well, I'm just a puddle of sunshine this evening, aren't I?

This is actually quite a nice follow up to the last one in terms of narrative.

There aren't enough!

This simply won't do!

How am I to maintain,

To keep a healthy mainframe

When there's naught but

Animals to occupy the space

Between the obligations

And the joyful sensations?

They mime a dance

I take a chance

A foolish chance

And join the dance

They're not quite there

Or they wish they weren't

Wishing to be

Beyond the learner

Not willing to see

That all the sterner

I'm only trying to help

Not ruin your dance

Stupid as it was

To take that chance

Bitter husks

I just can't seem to write shit all

And shit is written in bits and bits

But a pieced approach does not at all

Allow for words, the muses call

But the phone's offline

I'd hope this funk would lift in time

But forcing words, just not my kind

Of thing, you know?

On my side I've time and means

But not the drive to do, it seems

For to do is to be and couldn't I see?

Being is all that's left for me

And still I can't see?

If people are dust, we must, we must

Occupy ourselves lest we become

Bitter husks

Crobat AGAIN.

I'm excited. Or ecstatic. I can't decide which. BOTH. At the same time. Patrick made me a Crobat, though out of what I'm not sure. I share two of my four names with him. Fun facts. Yeah.

It's beautiful. And as everyone should be aware I do love Crobat. Very much so. Let's see if we can get a picture.

There you go. Look at that bad-ass. He's coming, coming to cut you up something fierce.

-

But I'm terribly conflicted at the moment. Alarmingly so. I have to come up with a monologue. Well, less of a monologue, let's just call it a solo performance. Granted I have a couple of months yet to devise the whole thing, but it really is a frightening prospect. I've narrowed my options down to one of the given stimuli, problem is there are two choices within it. They're linked, of course, or it wouldn't be a single stimulus. I have a choice between Boris Karloff and Bela Lugosi, the actors renowned for being the original Frankenstein's monster and Dracula respectively. They're both amazing options, and I need to decide in the next few days. Broad, general research can only go so far. The idea is that they're competing for the title of 'The King Of Horror' at the wrap up party for Son Of Frankenstein by monopolising the attention of an up-and-coming director. They deride the other's portrayals of monsters.
So, let's go through each and why it would be wonderful and awful.
Bela Lugosi. Cool. Dat accent. He has a beautiful Hungarian accent which is just fun and pretty easy to replicate. In terms of characterisation I'd prefer Lugosi. When playing Dracula he has these terrible and beautiful imposing eyes, the typical hypnosis eyes. Dracula is fun to be. However, Lugosi is a bit of a dick. Granted, that might work in my favour if I need to be a dick for narrative purposes but I just don't like him as a person. Various facts and trivia have driven me away from him.
Now Boris. I genuinely find Frankenstein's monster more frightening than Dracula. By nature he is imposing, he's large and he doesn't say much. He's the uber-zombie. I would find it easier to pick flaws in Bela as Boris.

I had so much more to say but the more I think the harder it'll get.

I'll just do more research.

The catch.

HEY OLLIE WHY DON'T YOU GO TO BE-

HOW ABOUT NO?

When an itch to scratch

It meets its match

But there's the catch!

It tries to snatch

To find a latch

But here's the catch!

Oh, they try to patch

Open the hatch

But there's the catch!

The itch to scratch

Forfeits the match

By default, by design

In short, it resigns

But lo', a sign!

"What fault of mine?
Do you so malign?"
And here's a sign!
Grasp the vine

Pray it'll be fine

There was a sign!

"What manner or design?"
And forced to resign

And here's the catch

Illness catalysed ranting.

THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU REFUSE TO GO OUT, OLLIE. YOU STUPID BASTARD.

loljk. Sickness strikes at only the most inopportune times.
But words can come to you if you just push them a little bit.

I don't know what it is, but something is drawing me to listen to Australian hip-hop. No, not Hilltop Hoods, fuck off, they're rubbish. At the moment it's just Urthboy and Hermitude. Under normal circumstances this would make me feel dirty, obviously I am not under normal circumstances, whatever that entails. Maybe it's something about the culture, the pseudo-bohemian idea of 'the streets'. Hip-hop culture is probably the culture that I identify the most with. Not at all 'gangsta' or anything of that ilk, but the idea of no pretension to the aim of an idea conveyed through rhythmically placed words. Some of the words aren't too bad either, completely contrary to any bastardised drivel about 'bitches and money' or whatever the kids are listening to these days. Urban settings best suit me as well, a chaotic sprawl of concrete and irrelevant paraphernalia. Think of a Tim Burton movie if it was placed in the inner city, imagine the arbitrary items heaped into piles in dingy alleyways and the derelict apartments where the rooms have no purpose and can be/are used for anything.

It's entrancing. Two completely disparate rhythms, one regular and the other decidedly random, overlaying and overlapping. And it's poetry, no less! Those are three things I strive for: word, rhythm, and harmony thereof. Hip-hop/rap achieves those two perfectly.

Right. More things. Write all the things. Write all the things? YES. Write all the things.

Plans for tomorrow. Put pen to paper. Which is a nice way of putting it since neither of those elements come into play here. Put words to pixels. That's better. PLANS FOR TOMORROW. YES I'M IN A STATE OF SEMI-DELIRIUM. WHY DO YOU ASK?

Until now I never had anything with which to play records, which is a shame since I really do love to browse records. Now I do. We trawled through a family record collection and found some amazing shit: Ten Years After, Madness, Dave Brubeck, it was beautiful. The Brubeck stuff had versions of familiar songs I'd never heard before with harmonicas and violins and psychedelic guitar, and reflecting on that they're versions I probably never would have heard. There is far too much music than can be contained within a computer, or even the internet, it's ephemeral and constant. Even existing music is constantly changing.
Which is why I bought two random 50c records. The cheap stuff is always the best; if it's crap then that's okay, no harm done; if it just happens to be amazing then that's even better. Tried that once before and it turned out that the artist was just about to hit it big in Australia, so I was inadvertently ahead of the curve. Right, I bought a record with Beethoven's 5th concerto from Op. 73 and Liszt's 2nd Hungarian Rhapsody, and another of the London Symphony Orchestra playing classic rock. There's some really good stuff on there too: Pictures Of Lily, Gloria, Layla, Another Brick In The Wall, You Really Got me, it's looking to be pretty good. Now I just need to invade Robin's bungalow again and watch video cassettes and listen to records and play ridiculously old video games.

Possibilities open up wherever you choose to find them.

Edit: I'm not delirious on this, the following evening. Yet here I am again, listening to Hermitude. I just genuinely enjoy hip-hop it seems.

Sleep deprivation.

And here's my last 24 hours in verse.

A purpose brought

And shelter sought

A secret spilled

For tankards filled

The second of them

Lately called in

The minutes that last

Are the last minute casts

Dust everywhere

What the fuck do I care?

No sleep, no sight

No face, no light

An end less preferred

Not enough to deter!

An array of delights

A long forgot height

Sunlight streaks

For the opened week

Second-hand

An old favourite band

Of hoodlums, of loudness

Of a rekindled shrewdness

Of sickness in health

The ecstasy's melt

But the purpose sought

Is a purpose forgot

A purpose for later

We'll pick it up later

And I guess that's all

Songs for the apocalypse.

Fun-time idea: construct a playlist of the songs you want to be listening to during and after the inevitable zombie/nuclear/etc. apocalypse. Think deeply on it. What would you want to be listening to while lodging hammers into the skulls of animated rotting corpses? What can you picture yourself trudging through the wasteland through?

Mine's mostly industrial, (early) electro, garage rock, and some good old fashioned gothic rock thrown in for good measure: Nick Cave, Sister of Mercy, that sort of thing. Anything particularly gritty or evoking of baddassery. To that end, there's also a fair bit of Black Sabbath in there.

Right, so let's go through mine in more depth. I'm enjoying this a little too much, aren't I?

The White Stripes
A lot of the more bare bones stuff, songs where Meg slams the bass without any complexity whatsoever. Icky Thump, I Think I Smell A Rat, Black Math. It's all just raw, it makes me want to get as drunk as possible and smash metal things together, which is probably what I'd be doing post-apocalypse.

Abney Park
This is pretty easy. A lot of their stuff is actually about a post-apocalypse steampunk reality. Under The Radar from Aether Shanties in particular. Earlier stuff is just so heavy though. The Death Of Tragedy and Cemetery Number 1 are entirely composed of songs from some Matrix-esque rave scene. An industrial rave, that's what I think of when I envision Abney Park.

Tom Waits
Tom Waits' voice is terrifying. Particular albums just sound like they've been stripped down to the bones, right down to the rattlin' bones. His voice, like an ash cloud soaked in whiskey, it conjures images of a much less violent world, but one where some futuristic cowboy walks into the bar and everyone immediately goes back to their drinks because he'll murder them with a guitar string. He writes poetry better than any I've heard, he writes songs to be alone by.

Dr. Steel
Assuming of course it wasn't Dr. Steel that actually caused this Armageddon, though that probably wouldn't deter me, hammers and nails and sampling would walk me through a ghost city. In all probability though, he probably launched the nukes.

Tool
I just like the idea of blowing off zombies heads to irregular times and unnecessarily distorted guitars.

The Creatures

Those drums! Practically all Creatures songs are just Siouxsie Sioux howling and Budgie on ecstasy beating the drums like he wants to give them all heavy concussions.

It's pretty easy to imagine any of this ringing out through deserted streets and up collapsing concrete skyscrapers or across junkyard wastelands or through deserts or even in vast underground caverns (Abney Park <3).

Collective Nouns

My father and I frequently try to outdo each other by creating more and more obscure and wonderful collective nouns. The ones that are part of the lexicon are already rather spectacular; a bouquet of pheasants; an unkindness of ravens; a rookery of seals; a generation of vipers; but surely there's no harm in a richer lexicon. This ought to shut him up for a while.

Thousands! Hundreds! Millions left unsaid!

Tens of tens and scores of men

And scorns of riled intruders

Any number of the mass of them

Couldn't stand the sight of them

A Cartesian of numbers seeming all the ruder

Rudimentaries of particles

Magnets of atoms, just let me at 'em

And all the great glorious shinings of photons

The sight of them's more stomachable

Found by you less delectable

Than what's best unseen, a bonding of protons

Well, that was mildly tiring.

Back to nature.

Metal settles with our backs to nature

Invocate this alchemical failure of permanence

Worth and dominance, fight the spread

With our backs to nature we'll soon be dead

Leaves! Branches! Eat them! Stomp!

Chomp and chain them for their shortcoming

Around to see the end of them

Hardly worth the time to see them

How can a twig have a worth or life

When a sheet is just as worth the strife of attention

Given, tensions risen! Snap the twig!

Back to nature, take a swig.

Crobat's Fear-Induced Retardation Syndrome.

This widespread syndrome is known to only affect individuals within horror/thriller movie plots. It is characterised by a complete loss of rational faculties, memory lapse, and an inability to maintain one's nerve.

Seriously. Have none of the people IN horror movies actually WATCHED a horror movie in their lives? I point my finger particularly at the teenage/young adult characters. So, all characters in all horror movies. You've all got some explaining to do.

No one is so removed from pop culture that they've never had the pleasure/misfortune to watch something truly terrifying. With that in mind there are a few things you tend to pick up. Like the ever golden "don't split up" rule. Or even better: "don't investigate that dark room alone". When you hear something, anything, any noise at all, you do not go look alone. Usually the sounds you hear are less than benign anyway: a scream, a snarling animal, dull metallic thuds and/or scraping. Do you still really feel the need to investigate? Really? Fine, go get disemboweled. What do I care? Moreover, you kind of agreed not to split up about half an hour ago. Look, I don't care how big the cheerleader's chest is, don't be a hero. Keep your trap shut, eyes forward.

Of course, they can't all be blamed: some rules are a little harder to understand. My personal favourite is what I like to call the stairs paradigm (not really, I just liked that syntax and needed some wanky bollocks to fill it). Essentially: don't go up the stairs, and don't go down the stairs. Odds are there's something on the second story of the house waiting inconspicuously. After all, you've cleared the ground floor, so you can only assume that the above-ground floor is safe as well. NO THAT'S JUST WHAT HE/SHE/IT WANTS YOU TO THINK. If you're already upstairs, it's probably laying a trap downstairs. "But the staircase leads right to the front door." Oh, if only it were so simple, you simple simpleton. Expect the worse and then some. Seriously, stay away from all staircases. They're horror movie disaster areas.
Don't be a minority. Don't be a minority of any kind. Don't be a social minority, don't be an ethnic minority, don't be a religious minority, don't be a fucking minority. Minorities are expendable. The writers need well-adjusted, straight, agnostic/vaguely-Christian Caucasian males and females to survive.
God damn stupid bitches in horror movies.

Upstairs.

Kelly made himself up a nice chateau of twigs

A marble fortress of leaves and muddied bark

He went about his business with secret smiles

Let his fortress take all the miles

And for a while he kept himself out of the dark

He came from outer space, man

Where the cold was just too much

Thought it was like some cool Freudian mess

He came down and settled in London

With the rockers, mods and such

And he wiled away the days in substance,

But I digress

Kel's wailing somewhere

And there's a tangled web of soft yellow hair

I don't know what it is but there's definitely something going on upstairs

A good man.

That awkward moment when you accidentally write something about Morrowind.

But seriously; don't expect someone to just leave if you catch them stealing something important.

The eastern door held no lock or bar

To which my dirty hands

Were unaccustomed to the far

Reaching timber strands

My tip-totalitarian creeping

Kept pace to which I stuck

And as I crept there gently seeping

Through the walls, my luck

Ran out, turn out the lights

We're having death for dinner

And blood for breakfast

Turn out the lights

My shadow stance it seemed was not

Enough to keep the pieces

Of the peace by which I strived and fought

For ages past and gone, it ceases

A twig or a rock or a rat or a lock

A click to guide their hands

The silence broke, we're out of stock

The hourglass's sands

Ran out, turn out the lights

Massacre Mondays

Slaughterhouse Sundays

Turn out the lights

The light kept low, my activity's

Best kept for darker times

A scene of humanity's wondrous lividity

But best you know my kind

You stupid shits, you'll writhe and coil

Cut a good man's trade

So don't expect those greetings when you foil

A good man and his cover fades

Out of sight, turn out the lights

We're having death for dinner tonight

Don't turn on the lights

Now you're thinking with portholes!

And they say I don't work enough in maths.

Reveal your eyes

Your shiny

White rimmed

Wide brimmed

Portholes to the soul

You shut your mouth

Your deadened croaked

Whiskey soaked

Direct open line

To your mind

Cover your head

Your sanctum's core

The memory store

The fight to shut out

The light

Open your legs

Your rusty gates

A hunger's sate

Spread them apart

Straight up to your heart

What's he building in there?

Day 1
What's he buliding in there? What's he making? I sure as hell don't know and I sure as heck don't want to find out. He's been trudging back and forth between the junkyard and his cold iron shed for 4 hours now, same steely determined look. Taking back planks, screws, metal sheets, and old church pews. Every time he heads out again to liberate more parts for his invention from that deadened place he's got more grease on him than before, more stains on his face. What's he building in there?

Day 2
What's he building in that shed? What kind of something's made of deadwood and old pipes? He took down the tyre swing from the pepper tree, though he has no children of his own, he has no family. I heard his wife left him and lives down south, she writes Christmas cards but he never replies. He's too busy building to send letters on down south. He doesn't speak to anyone, he doesn't smile. He barely even raises his head to look at what he's hauling from the junkyard, trudging in wet boots, slamming the corrugated door and the noises start. What's he building in there?

Day 5
What on Earth is making those noises? A metallic grind, a dull thump, a muffled roar, a crack. Heck, I bet there ain't no turning back for him anymore. I could've sworn I heard a low moan. And the pig squeal of an old transistor radio that they say he stole from the diner. He would've had to, there isn't anything else to steal this far out of nowhere. I can hear him hammering nails into driftwood, without any care. What's he building in there?

Day 7
I caught him signalling with a torch on the shed roof last night. Flashing into the sky. He looked right at me when I made his front gate grind open, but didn't stop signalling. I turned and went home, the rhythmic light and the frost in his eyes shot to my bones. He kept signalling, but wouldn't look away from my window. All the while, the metallic grinding echoed right into my eardrums, and the transistor screeched into my brain. What's he building in there?

Day 15
He's been in there for a whole week now, since he looked at me, since he knew what I'd seen. He hasn't been sighted leaving, not even to eat. Some say he doesn't sleep, but car parts keep going missing, and there's the patter of his feet outside my window every night. I try to catch him, but he's never there. He's always building, screeching, grinding. He's nearly stripped this town to it's bones. He's removed all the copper wires, and he stole all the phones. And every hour, a dull thud shoots right out from under the shed door, chasing the fluorescent light that buzzes out of every hole in the walls, and there are lots of holes in the walls. I tried to look through one the other day, tried to see if the light would show me anything, but as soon as I got my eye to the wall, the lights went out, vanished. What IS he building in there?

Day 21
He stood on the front porch of his delapidated house for 3 hours yesterday. He never goes in the house, he's always in the shed. He just stared straight out past the highway from the termite riddled stairs. It was like a beam shooting right out of his dead eyes. They're like what the Devil might make eyes look like: too deliberately lifelike to be human, but too cold to not. What was he building in there?

Day 30

The shed has gone. Only a blast mark on the already scorched tarmac tells us he was here, even though he never really was. What did he build? What did it do? I sure as hell wouldn't like to find out.

A nice analogy.

Most everything is really water under the bridge for the majority of people it seems.
What they don't realise is the hidden catchment under the bridge, which makes it all the more surprising when they find it needs opening.

I just needed to get that down somewhere.

Bitter misanthropy or reasoned scorn?

Edit: Good lord, I sound drunk. Disregard clarity in favour of the sentiment, if you'd be so kind.

Second edit: I hated this whole damn thing.

Formals are silly. That is all.
But the psychological and social implications are almost too interesting to pass up observing.
Almost.

Fireheart

In dusky notes the evening

Crumbled to a stand still

Neither step nor chink of glass

No sound would break through

Nobody dared or even tried to

The time was stuck, the runes were cast

A final glow within that

Molten bottled amber

We signaled to the rain

And so the sheets came down

The dewy wet marquee

The rains came down again

For how long we sat

In the stand still of the evening

Was impossible to say

But a time went by it seemed

Floated past as if a dream

Broken only by the humming of the earthen clay

And after that time we saw

A man, he stepped onto the floor

From the rain though no drop had tarnished him

He stood and stared at each of us

In turn, we didn't make a fuss

And in that moment, light ceased to dim

He gifted the entire place

With a fire from beneath his face

A life we'd lost in the early hours of the night

The band kicked up a raucous tune

The amber flowed, and oh so soon

The bar transformed to the most joyous sight

That fire heart, I'd heard him called

Had graced us with his spark

And on a whim we danced a drunken dance

Round and round, and up and down

We spun about in strident bounds

He held his hand out and I took that chance

Oh how he burned

Oh how I learned

Oh how the world is filled with woe

I learned to dance

On happenstance

We turned the world into a show

-

No, Jason: I have blogging, coffee, noodles, and Oreos. THIS is the life.

I've just gotten over a very big hill of work anxiety. It feels good. This is the first time in several weeks in which I don't have a pounding tightness in my chest. Oh, there's always stress, but it's not debilitating at the moment. I feel the need to recount minor events that interest me because I have nothing of true consequence to blog about. I was playing piano, Paranoid Android probably, and one of my fingers started bleeding. Not just spontaneously, jeezum crow, that'll be the day. It got... intense. And thus my left middle finger was caught in sanguine, unsanitary mess. The piano, being my primary coping mechanism, would know me so much better than any person if it had any kind of comprehensive consciousness. Thank merciful fuck it doesn't.

Continuum.

I TRIED to work today in English. Oh Lord, how I did try. There was a certain impasse I reached rather early on that prohibited me completely from progressing further in my ideas. There was a prompt, there was intent, there were even ideas forming and intertwining. Alas, I was doomed to stare blankly at the table deep in reflection for the remaining 40 minutes.

The problem was thus: I was given a prompt "Encountering conflict is unavoidable". Simple, no? Begin a persuasive style piece based on this prompt with reference to the context text we have been studying (The Secret River, just by the way). So I began. Being a context piece, I opened with some general comments on the prompt, and how it related to actual situations. I thought about the validity of the prompt so as to form my contention. I thought about it deeply, and I found that I concurred. And this is where I reached the aforementioned impasse. Yes, I agree that encountering conflict is completely unavoidable. Obviously. But wait, in having agreed with that have I not avoided the conflict of contrasting opinions? It would seem that by agreeing with the prompt I have refuted it (I'll also point out that by now I had reasoned with myself that if I were to disagree and say that conflict is unavoidable I would have become in conflict with the prompt, and thus that refuting the idea is proof of it's validity). So, by agreeing I refute it, and by disagreeing I prove it. Fuck. And then, once I refute it, I must then logically disagree which in fact proves it once again. And oh lordy lordy we've come into dealings with some kind of self-defeating two-dimensional continuum. I tried to get around this, I really did. I thought maybe that this recursive paradox is an unavoidable conflict, so I would be able to agree with the prompt, but then it just slipped into a gentle recursion again. The only way I felt I could have anything to say about this idea was to adopt a neutral stance, a "sometimes yes, sometimes no" stance. And I will not put myself on the side of that wishy-washy bullshit for an essay. So I had a mini freakout and stared at the table instead.

Crobat.

Considered getting my ears done, again, for the umpteenth time this year. I wouldn't though. I abhor piercings just a little. Something about them is a little too... macabre, too pointless, too ridiculous even. I don't like the idea of permanently puncturing my personal protective layer of skin, I've studied enough biology to be alarmed by that. Not enough to know that I don't have to worry though. It's the first line of defence against... things, discounting heightened skin acidity and the symbiotic organisms that simply love the skin your in, even more than you do. I seem to have trouble with those anyway. Viruses, malignant bacteria, fungi, protozoan parasites, even prions I guess, all target obvious entry points. The very idea of poking a hole in myself for the sheer fun of it is just a little ridiculous. No problem with other peoples' piercings mind, just on me. /shudder. All this talk of individuality and self-expression through modification is complete tripe. Justify your existence through your actions, not how you present yourself. Then again, I am entirely liable to change my mind completely in the next few years.

/endpretentiousscienceyrant

Now, tattoos, where do I even begin with au sujet de tattoos? (THE PRETENTIOUS, IT BURNS!) Oh, well, I... have no objections to tattoos. I like them. They're even a little bit arousing. Perhaps not those interruptive tear drops people seem to love, or rainbow stars so often adorning the young twinks, or (God forbid) a Southern Cross across the neck, but something a touch less vociferous in proclamation and a little more vociferous in meaning. VOCIFEROUS. I would consider getting something Pokemon related. Only because Pokemon has played such a large role in my development, and because I can very easily attach meaning to Pokemon and become attached to them. Like Crobat. Let me regale you with my reasons as to why I would consider tattooing a Crobat on myself. Possibly even somewhere conspicuous like across my chest, thus transforming me into a complete and unabashed Pokenerd. Well, Crobat. Crobat, Crobat, Crobat. Crobat (five consecutive Crobats) just happens to be my favourite Pokemon. I don't know why, please don't ask me to explain exactly why. It's just amazing. It evolves, and as it does so it's legs dramatically reduce in size and usefulness, but lo and behold! Another set of wings sprouts forth! It sacrifices ground mobility for sheer speed. You see, Crobat excels at just one particular thing, at the expense of others. This has come to take on very personal meaning for me, as I sail into the adult world and will certainly in the future have to make a living. I want to be good at what I do, and I realise that I may have to sacrifice other talents to let this one that's going to carry me through life flourish into a full blown money making powerhouse, to put it bluntly. Not to say that I have my entire life and career sorted, I haven't a clue what I might end up doing. But I might have to give up something that I love for the sake of practicality, and that really scares me. Parts of me might shrivel and die for the sake of a continuing life. It might be my music, or my love of prose, or my wonderful volunteer work! What kind of life would that be? An incomplete one, that's for sure.

I have been working for the past two and a half days. I have nothing to do except blog and read now. FUCK. Kill me, give me peace.

Tarmac.

Went to a dark place today. Not literally, of course; I don't just turn off all the lights and shut the blinds for the fun of it. Nah, I got all broody like, like a proper musician and all. No, no deeply unsettling, beautiful prose erupted forth from my ennui-riddled stupor, I just didn't get out of bed until three hours after I had awoken, opting instead to wile the hours away in mindless science-fiction. The sheer number of commas in that sentence is pretty unsettling though. So I wandered through today, in a haze of adolescent, hormone based misery. I didn't even get any work done. That's a big deal, a monumentally big deal. Even when both cats died within a week I managed to get two essays done. And now, for no reason apparent to me, I'm struck with a complete inability to complete given tasks, save make tea and be sarcastic. Then again, I didn't really like the cats all too much.

Right! Focus! Go, introspection, go! This shadowy shadow of sorts has no obvious source or catalyst. Under normal circumstances of course you'd find the source of one's emotional entropy and attack it. With kittens or something, something nice and preferably fluffy. But, alas, alack! We are doomed to wander the great labyrinth of analysis for an answer, an answer that will in all probability never reveal itself. So, essentially, I'm miserable and I don't know why. FUCK.

-

If the lighting hits hard

When the tarmac weeps

If all hope shatters to shards

When the highway sleeps

The rain dogs won't come out

Their scents washed to the wind

Above the clamour you'll shout

Of no intention have we sinned

This blackened river hides

These stains are nobody's fault

No barriers, no sides

A shuddering halt

If the impact hits hard

Give your soul to keep

Drop that vague facade

Watch her crumple in a heap

-

Am I writing about car crashes because I'm woefully despondent? No. I would've anyway.

This tea is giving me some kind of dry-mouth. lolwut?

Right, so, um... right. If stress reaches past a certain threshold then my heart starts to act up, gets these pangs of excruciating pain. I thought maybe a heart murmur was to blame, and a mild hypochondria drove me to the doctor, who then directed me to an ultrasound of my various aortas and ventricles. And yet here we are, with inconclusive results and a deep pang of aortic pain. Funnily enough, this is certainly not conducive to me completing any of the suddenly appearing caches of homework that have been kept for me until far too late a date, which would appear to be the catalyst to this situation.

Ow.

I can only hope that this entire pot of jasmine tea and an unhealthy amount of mindless(mindful?) video games will alleviate this. Fuck. Fuckknuckle. Fuckknuckling-thundercunt.

-

My wild love went wandering

She wandered through the misers

They asked here to give back herself

She came back all the wiser

My wild love went travelling

Far over the fetid fields

Stopped an evening on an isle

Found there all the broken seals

My wild love went sailing

Through the fog and through the ice

She asked me to join the trip

But if not the Devil would suffice

My wild love saw the Devil

He spoke to her in her wild dreams

She no longer speaks to me

I'm torn apart right at the seams

My wild love went riding

To a hearkened distant shore

She turned into an eagle's wing

And then flew off forevermore.

Hello, Blogspot. I missed you. It's been, what? Five days? I've been terribly busy, and I'm terribly sorry. Have some words.

-

Synthetic?

Pathetic

Craft a fabrication

Fabricate your lasting
Impression
Confession?
Time for masks
No! Time for lies

And fast

-

Here it comes again

Plumes of dust and earth
Seeping in

Just black holes

Where the sky should have been

Just the dark

Where the night should have been watching

There it goes again

Sirens scream

The Earth rumbles again

Only fire

Where our hearts once were

Just the dark

Where the gods should've been watching

A sense of place.

There's a ventriloquist dummy rotting in a trash can, the glass eyes have been worn away but they still have feeling, a soul echoing out their steely grey into the neon industrial valley. A harsh pink shines on a door but accidentally lights up the whole damn place. A raven, a rook, a blackbird, a crow, whatever, is trapped, reveling in the cold luminance. It caws, one, twice, and again, grating against the walls. Walls, smeared with ink of a thousand colours all faded to a darkened grey, refuse the bird further audience, no echo. Echoes of the ones who slept there, carried by the inertia of their only known lives, and the loved one not quite there at all, still willing to give no audience to the neon pink. Just a hitchhiker on the wheels of time, spinning to life, spinning to death, grinding against the steely grey eyes of the ventriloquist doll.

-

We did that 'creating place' exercise two years ago, except I kind of didn't, arrogant shit that I was. Revisiting, I rather enjoyed that.

Quick log entry? Quick log entry.

A quarter of the holidays over, about that, probably, what have I done? What haven't I done?! Infinite things compared to what I have done, frankly. City on Saturday to see Jason, which was eventful, but simultaneously nerve-gratingly banal. That tends to be a rather distinct pattern.

Sunday and Monday, did fuck all socially speaking. Got all my French work done, played a shit-tonne of Pokemon. A veritable shit-tonne.

Tuesday. Out by 7:45 to beat the delays created by the floods. That awkward moment when Melbourne weather patterns develop acute schizophrenia, yeah, that happened Monday night. Anyway, meeting at MSHC (Melbourne Sexual Health Centre) to discuss the Hyper Study. Went well. Went really well in fact. Onward to Minus at 12 for pre-event crew stuff which went rather swimmingly. Headed off to Parkville at 2:45 for my lecture. Lecture was nice, lots of noise making as expected from a phonology lecture. Right, back to Minus, which had already started, did my rounds, heckled James, more rounds, danced like a total whore (to Rebecca Black I might add), more rounds, drop-off. Got home, promptly collapsed.

Wednesday. MOAR POKEMON. Pokemon will be the sole blame if I fail year 12. Got my eyes tested; my left eye is slowly deteriorating, apparently it's not perfectly round. Well, shit. Got some new frames picked out, new specs should be ready for pick up in about 4 days. Off to my tute at Parkville, easy as bru. Got home, WC3, and here I am mindlessly recounting the events of the past few days.

Brilliant.

Jeremiah left on the seventh day,

Between the doors and walls that wept,

And though his father slept of late,

He all too carefully crept outside,

Nothing to hide, nothing to hide,

Nothing to see over on this side,

Over hedges, ditches, fields he had ran,

Ignoring the words his father had said,

"There'll be a place for you, as a place for all."

Over hedges, ditches, fields he then fled,

Jeremiah returned on the next seventh day,

His father wept,

He returned an angel with all the sun's rays,

If only he'd kept inside,

Nothing to hide, nothing to hide,

Nothing to see, nothing inside.

A splash of Valium.

4 o'clock in the morning

And 52 minutes

I should really stand up

But my heart's just not in it

I really should stop smoking

And drinking this late

Shut the lamp off

It's no good just to wait

Soon the sun'll be up

And I'm still alone more or less

Half a bottle of cheap scotch

Labelled 'Colorado's best'

An ashtray that's full

And a cleaned out head

No more time for feelin' things

No time for what's been said

Another shot, another thought

Blasted clean out

Can't afford to remember this

Hurts too much to recount

Sinking deeper and deeper now

Into an old armchair

Finding time to feel the little things

But no time to examine there

That space for the memories

For the long dead hurts

Sinking deeper and deeper now

Right into the dirt.

-

If you can just imagine a grizzled Southern country singer singing this then that's be great.

Better yet, imagine this man singing it.

This pot holds a lot more tea than my stomach can.

There are these really nice chords I have, I haven't begun to resent them yet and they may just turn into an actual completed piece. Let's hope so. I have no words yet, but they'll be nice. I hope. They better be.

How are you, Ollie? Oh, good, can't find my flappy hat though, shaved, got some research done, haven't eaten much today, but that's okay since I'm about to ingest an entire pot of jasmine tea. My goal for the evening is to evolve my Larvesta into one bitchin' bug/fire moth, Volcarona. There, a quick record of the day. And since this is the first time I've actually made an effort to go through the whole shaving malarkey I'm thinking about first times. No! Not that one, you filthy person! Just first events. Here we go.

First shave:

Just then, wasn't so bad. Yeah, I've never had to shave before, like the hairless Chinaman that I am.

First time I ran for my life:

Last year in the valley from some thugs. Twice. Two different groups of people attacked me unprovoked that night with malicious intent. I believe Laura Bennett's sister came to my aid on the first, on the second I just ran like hell with Sav. Frightening stuff. First person knocked my glasses clean off my face, had to go looking in the morning.

First time I left the country:

Heading to France for exchange at the end of 2009. I spent the trip with some lovely(ish) Korowa girls, seeing as I was officially going with their exchange program. When we arrived at Charles de Gaulle they headed off to a transfer for Lyon and I went and met my host family in the terminal. All flustered, I managed to say to one of the people working in the airport "Sorry, I'm completely lost" in my then awful French accent. They were lovely people though, if not a little boring.

First time I nearly failed a subject:

Neither history nor geography are strengths of mine, this we have determined.

First time I attended a Minus18 event:

At the time it wasn't really but Minus18 is now a really big part of my life, so a little critical reflection would be healthy. I didn't enjoy the event itself that much frankly, the atmosphere was amazing though, the sheer volume of people was heartening. Plus I met Bec. That was lovely.

/endobligatoryreflectiveblogpost

Stab! Let it bleed,

Grab! The flesh and feed,

Crack and egg, let it freeze,

Fumble in the dark for keys,

Let it shine for one to see,

And take something back as a toll, as a fee.

--

Jason is drunk and texting me, he was being really rather interrogative before. Aggressively so. Like he wanted me dead as soon as he got answers, let's not rule that out.

I found it refreshing. He was direct (even if he was drunk), there were no bones about it: he wanted to know stuff he didn't know and he was willing to send long texts to elicit an adequate response. In my time, I've found that people don't like to say things directly. Everyone likes to beat around the bush, to [euphemism] it up as opposed to being blunt. Maybe it was just that sharp contrast to mind-numbing banality that threw his bullet point queries into focus. Probably. It's a pretty violent transition from ghetto names discussion to Prime Minister's questions... at Guantanemo Bay. Man, I just love blunt people. No sarcasm, not at all, seriously, not even.

But seriously.

Cheers for the 'agapanthus', Rosily.

One follow. Cool. Of course it's Jason, no one else knows I have a blog. Still, not disappointed. Okay fine, Rosily. You know I have a blog, but only because you're sitting next to me. Hi, Rosily.
Hello Ollie!!!!!! wow awesome cool smart real
Rosily, meet Blogspot. Blogspot, meet Rosily. Good, now we're all acquainted, let's get on with it. I really should not be blogging in the library: "I'm going to put my thoughts on the internet, no one will read them then. Yeah!" Epiphany! Someone may actually, at some point in space and time, by chance or not, read some of this. Fuck. Will I start thinking more about what I put here? Nah, fuck that, I'm too busy to organise some kind of filtering process; places to avoid, people to not see. That element of, well, not anonymity, but writing without purpose, that was nice. Purpose is the last thing I want, I don't want to start posting essays here, purpose implies structure, purpose gives meaning. A pure aestheticism is what I'm going for, writing for the sake of writing like the horrible wanker that I am. So, no, nothing will change the content save myself. A blog can't be invaded because it's just my thoughts, which can be invaded even less so. Blogspot feels too much like home to start worrying about it.
Bye, bye.

-

Agapanthus,
Flowers, antlers!
A purity of form,
Removed from man-made norms,
And all the while weathering
The ghastly human storm,
Neat rows, chaos throws
A punch or two at the orderly show,
Dig, dig, dig!
Plant the twigs!
Let the colour flourish,
But never allow it
To escape,
Never let the order cease,
Just a wild fake.

-

Do other people know about this? Do they read it? Comments?

I was an angsty (if not eloquent) 15 year old.

Breathe, breathe, breathe...

I don't want it,
But I need it,
To feel this satisfaction,
I'm a bit sick,
Call the medic,
I can't handle this interaction,
Cagey answers,
No romancers,
I've given up to my inaction,
For another,
Day to pass,
Give me my God-damned sanction,

You don't feel this anymore,
Sinking through this second skin,

I don't want it,
But I need it,
To feel alive again,

No movement,
We've been fooled in,
How can we solve this dillemna?
If I can find it,
If we can sight it,
We'll be happy forever,
Cataclysmic,
This intrinsic,
Fluctuating demeanor,
Go on, bite it,
I can't fight it,
You couldn't do much better

Look! There I am,

On that pedestal to be,

You reach high,

Stretch your limbs,

That pedestal is all you see,

Pillar of worth,

Above an Earth,

Condemnèd by the masses,

An unearthly figure, all the bigger

High above the Earthly gases,

Better for the taunting,

Push him up, drag him down,

Give him fame and mortal wealth,

It's the pressure that will drown,

A pedestal's a useful thing,

To point, to laugh, to stare,

But that figure you condemn to a life

Of expectation and of strife?

Well, you put him there.

Unfold,

Recoil,

Unfold,

The time resets,

Tick,

March,

One!

March,

Two!

March,

Three!

Halt!

The time resets,

Tick,

Stop, start,

Beat, heart,

Create! Art,

Throw the darts,

The time resets,

Tick,

Stop, start,

March, halt,

Unfold, recoil,

Stop.

-

-

Not entirely sure what I'm going for here.

Smashing pumpkins and smiling politely.

Nothing left in here,

Nothing left in here,

A hollowed empty place of fear,

Nothing left in here,

And once again,

We'll jump right off the edge,

And once again,

I'll ignore what you have said,

To me,

And once again,

You'll pretend to care at all,

And once again,

You'll be ready for me,

To fall,

Nothing left in here,

Nothing left in here,

A hollowed empty place of fear,

Nothing left in here,

A deepening hole,

A pair of eyes which I cannot,

Recall,

Swallow me whole,

Prepare me for the final end,

Of all,

Nothing left in here,

Nothing left in here,

There's nothing left to see my dear,

Nothing left to fear.

What even...

YESTERDAY WAS THURSDAY,

TODAY IS FRIDAY,

TOMORROW IS SATURDAY,

AND SUNDAY COMES AFTERWARDS.

Art. Pure, unrestricted art right there. I don't think I can even begin to fathom the densely layered symbolism of that, there's too much subtext. What is Friday? Is it a complex, harsh metaphor for impulsivity and teenage abandon? Rebecca Black bared more of her timid, yet powerfully controversial soul in these prodigious gems of songwriting perfection. We see the '-day' theme carried throughout the entire stanza, it foreshadows the untimely demise of the weekend as a being and the futility of our well meaning efforts to provide a safe space for exploration of the self, and at the same time reveals a startling insight into the fast-paced 'she'll be right' culture saturating todays youth.

Pure art.

My good hand is called evil.

For kicks I sprint a mile or two,

For laughs I go for three,

I can cycle up to four, five, six,

But seven gets the best of me,

I could only drive for fourteen miles,

Before I turned around,

But the miles I can gently jog?

Well, hundreds, I have found.

--

WHAT DID THAT MEAN? IT DIDN'T EVEN MEAN ANYTHING. WHAT OF IT? HUH?!

A lie for a lie, a truth for a truth.

And the Mercy Seat is calling,

And to think how I have fallen,

So unjustly, like a martyr on the cross, Christ

Was crucified for want of sin,

And anyway I'm still suffering,

At least he got to leave,

I hear the Mercy Seat a-screaming,

And the bodies dragged still steaming,

A lie for a lie, a truth for a truth,

And eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth,

So can you offer any proof,

Or is condemnation fixed?

Through the corridor I shuffle weeping,

But even now I can't stop believing,

That my gods will not forsake me,

Oh! Please won't you just fucking take me

Down to hell, don't let them take my freedom,

It's still God's, and he's never far away.

A most delightful scene

But rather frightful, it would seem,

Another day gone past,

They sure don't last,

Mocking me, as if a dream,

For surely time is certain

And before the final curtain,

All acts must pass in time,

One, two, three! The ordered line

Of time, it seems to me,

Is not quite so orderly,

Where and wherefore the hours run,

It must surely be sublime.

-

Where does the time go? If we take the above as a point of reference, it goes on holiday. Never quite got that: the fact that real time, that is the processes of the world proceeding at the rate at which they always do, and psychological time are never quite, well, in time.

I'm sure atoms have something to do with it. Fucking atoms. The atoms made me do it, sir, those nasty atom twins.

-

So here's the deal. You understand English. Yes, no arguing, keep your trap shut, men are talking. You understand English, your mental grammars and your personal lexicon are more than sufficient for you to communicate in English. You also know enough to have the ability to create an infinite number of sentences, meanings, phrases, new words even. Infinite, without limit. And yet, are there infinite words in English? No. You only know on average 20'000-ish. Measurably finite. As is your knowledge of grammar, finite. There is not an infinite number of rules under which to classify and construct English sentences; you have a set number of elements with which to create meaning. You might not even know that you know these rules of grammar and formation: for example, you can say unhappy, but not unsad. You might not be able to explain why you can't say 'unsad' beyond a simple "you just can't," you can understand what 'unsad' means even though it's not part of English. So there, finite elements, unconscious knowledge of grammar, and yet you have the power to create infinite meanings and sentences. You have the power to create a sentence that has never been created before. EVER.

Ornithology is far inferior to the study of tautology in my opinion.

There, I'll bet no one has ever constructed that sentence before. In thousands and thousands of years of organised and studied language, never ever ever.

ISN'T THAT AMAZING?!

Building steam, cap'n!

First lecture at Melbourne Uni today, pretty quickly managed to lose any chance of respect by identifying myself as an extension student, felt sick the whole time. But it was so much fun.

Despite the obvious fact that it was really just an introductory lecture full of 'you will be expected to's and 'in the event that's, the possibility it represents is maddeningly exciting. I'm behind already, having not received a booklist, and the student portal is down, cool, but OH MY GOD SUNSHINE HAPPINESS THE FUTURE IS BRIGHT.

I don't believe anything will be a problem, I already understand most of the jargon we have to force into our brains from language 1+2. Aren't I just amazing? Go on, it's okay, say that I'm amazing.

On a completely unrelated note:

-

We set sail tonight for distant shores,

Pick your scabs,

Rub your sores,

Pick a partner for the trip,

Don't dare give the captain any lip,

Heave away to distant ports,

The crew is mutinous,

Made of all sorts of gypsies, thieves, liars, cheats,

Bleed the captain in his dreams, asleep no more,

To Davy Jones he'll drift onward to distant shores.