Anarchy is dead, I shot it in the head.

While we are presented with many different factors that contribute to the idea that Anarchy seems to be a clear and present danger, it will never rise to the systemic culture that it did nearly thirty years ago. The simple fact that to organize yourselves as a group that chooses to actively oppose government policy makes you a member of a paramilitary terrorist group, eligible to be watched and made examples of by Federal powers.

The logic is very plain and simple. Mickey Mouse is dead.
The government is always going to be a foreign body to it's people, as it will represent the country to the world although still remain faceless to it's citizens. Not faceless as in no representation, we all know who "leads" our great nation, however in day to day life, the drones will only encounter Police as representatives of the government.

To leave the narrative for a moment, there is without question a sudden spike in the page views for this blog. I lay blame for this upon a certain Social Networking website. It's interesting how people can become "interesting" and worth several minutes of your time each day based purely on how pseudo-intellectual, mysterious or inane and insane you are. The more vague the better, it seems.
However the bend in the trend is when it all falls apart, the inadequacies of your mortal toil, coiled up beneath the radiator, shaking back and forth. Muscular cramps, sleeplessness, irritability and agoraphobia.

I think the people from Voiceworks are onto the fact I despise them to the ends of the earth. Searches from Google bearing names of certain somebodies have landed them here, for extended periods of time.
Ectopic pregnancies in my daily head space.
These vultures of pop culture fed more readily on radiation than on anything with substance and low fat sweeteners.

I'M TALKING EQUAL, BITCHES.
MY SOAPBOX IS HERE, FORREST CHASE PREACHING TIME.

And to have this, this farce, this post apocalyptic haze of disgusting spoon fed Orwellian trash, thrown at my visceral windshield is enough to make my colon explode in a shower of shit. Up with the noveau riche, down with the proles. The time is nigh, that's why we stay high.
149th Street.
How many dead junkies are sleeping forever in the dumpsters of Broadway? How many ways can one choose to pass on their genetic code? Could simply telling someone how much they smell like cat piss, really change their life? Would some Sliding Doors situation unfold, and the dumb stay dumber?

I resent the people with the money, the power and the women.
But if I was to have money, I'd pay for empowerment classes for women, only to lay in wait outside each meeting with a sawn off shotgun. Some argue with the naysayers, and I can only say nay.
Neighbours is on each week, each season, each time they play that song, the author receives a royalty. If Rupert Murdoch or some such bought each theme song to every show that they ever screened, they'd be making money for jam.

And I bet they owned the rights to that theme song too. Wouldn't of made much, see how long that shit lasted? The GFC, the recession we had to have. IMF, CHOGM, Roche and Pfizer. Perform your own rehabilitation, only to see the world through your bloodshot third eye.

A pyramid is one of the strongest shapes that can occur.

LIVE YOUR OWN LIFE, BECAUSE I HAVE GOT TO LIVE MINE.

But people choose to live through other means, surrogates of their own reality. Famous magazine. Facebook. Blogging. Cosplay. Anything to denote a status. Update your future, not just 140 characters. By having character, you are making yourself visible in the fourth dimension.
Am I getting through to you?
If the answer is 42, and it's a catch 22 situation, then why do I smell nothing but arson wafting in through my open window? It's sickly sweet, pine and jarrah, that reminds me of bushwalks and camping. Although the reality of it may be more sinister, it still smells good.

I hate the smell of spaghetti sauce in a jar. I hate the smell of Tuna. It was the eternity of living off Sirena in Oil that made me appreciate flavour. The gourmet cheeses. But do you know what? I want to go back to my squalor of a life. At least I enjoyed it. The constant worries about rent, the never settle down aspects of day to day life, my constant descent into madness, nude and down a spiral staircase. When 2013 comes around, I will be standing atop a burnt out car in the middle of Gnagara Pines going "I TOLD YOU SO. NOTHING FUCKING HAPPENED."

Then 2014 comes, the wind blows and this gentleman goes into early retirement.
I pry open my skull with a corkscrew, to show the world that it pays to be a screwup.

People will tell their spawn about you. People will look back at photos of you. People will remember you, for you were everything they weren't. If you are hanging in a cliqué of lookalikes, noone will remember you. Break on through to the other side and race the chicken while you are at it.

The only difference between me and you is I'll actually do it.

It's really depressing when the only emails you receive are spam.
And that sometimes you actually read them.

Some people do this for fun, I'm just a cunt.

Shoebox Mafioso.

So messed up, I want you here.
Descent into my own cornucopia, my favourite song on repeat for the world to dissect and intrude on.
That's okay, I've still got all my fingers.
Time to forget, hit me as hard as you can. It's unfortunate that it's only you reading this. Think for a second and boycott your avatar.

Don't be a geezer, I used to listen to Weezer.
Battered and bruised, made the six o'clock news with everything to lose. Why did you do that thang to me.

Golf, best way to spoil a good walk. Winston Churchill said that.

Gordon drove a delievery van with a cage in the back.

Any chance of better odds?
The odds of this happening again are at the bottom of a bottle. Back page advertisements.

If the latest and greatest fell in the forest, would the bell toll? This chap is a fucking lunatic. I know what the sharp side of a tongue feels like, and that was during oral sex. Your as gutless as the back of Kalis Brothers. Business is always good when your busy like Elliot Ness. Sad day in Serbia, bad day in Bosnia.

The light is on and burning brightly for the masses. Would you be capable of handling your own spawn, if they were missing a chromosome. The older women are just jam rolls. Who wants to count empty bottles with me, just to pass the day away. It would be stupid to waste food. I stood to make alot of money, but the only way it can be resolved is with a printing press. Everyones got a reputation to lose, but I've lost mine already. Three days later, I rose again, just to swallow more codswallop. Get nasty. Mess everyone right up. Rob's your mothers bruvva.

I think I need a drink but I can't afford a middy. The last time I was happy with a drink price I was so excited I fell off my dinosaur. Little bit of pain never hurt nobody.

Noise in the alley, rub the pork fat with oil and salt, 25 minutes at 260 celsius. Crackle on, with pale blue eyes. Do they make Clear Eyes for your third eye?

Rock and roll never seemed so appropriate. Planks of wood to build a bridge that the troll never got to get under. Under where I heard Gerald say, underwear worn for noxious, obnoxious, sockless sex. Gasmasks to think fast, tied up and fired up, Bren gun blast. My past, goodnight. I need a nurse.

Continue with your curse, the new world ain't brave enough yet. Deadset. Game and match. Forties and longnecks, love and lust. Look what happened to the dozy prats with fat stacks, they end up in lockup, with nothing but chat.

I can kind of write again.

Everybodies wearing blue jeans.

Everyones got their own schemes.

I get so bored lately that I check my spam email.
And read it.
I haven't been able to write anything as of late, and if I did, it would be way too sombre to post on the Internet.



Down the road, acrostic poem not across the tracks.
You're never gonna live this down.
Even Steven and the Garbage Pail kids.

Subiaco, 11.50am

Pick up your life. Remove it from the next world and place it in this one. Sub atomic particles are our friends. Infinity is merely a girls cute stare away.

How do you treat your lover?
How do you treat your haters, the fakers, the trash?
Give someone your kiss with your hand in their wallet. People are whores.
Whores make the world go quiet. If everyone was fucking, who would want to fight?
Gay people I think.
No babies.
When do you want the appointment love?
The only ones I've got are late appointments.
The sixies died, the seventies are crawling out of the grave, the eighties need a walking stick and the noone remembers the nineties.
Why can't you ever just drink your poison?

I feel nonsense in my pocket and 10 cents in my head.
I let Steve pierce my nose at the pub last night.
The funeral is tommorow.

There's so much I don't remember, and so much I wish I could forget. I don't try anymore. I just am.

Irony.

I got Facebook.
Let's see how long it lasts.
I'm not having fun yet.



Are they on Facebook?
Blergh.

Yours in resigned depravity,
Dr. Jimmy Hats

R.I.P Kristian "Haztoo" Quinn Pt. 2

R.I.P Matthew "Mishen" Brand

That was a good day. Bread fights and Carlton Draught. I can't remember if Kristian was there or not, but I remember trying to dack a bottle of Moet. The bottle shop was bare like prepubescent hair, there was not a strand there. I could of, but I didn't. Maybe I would of gotten done somehow, and missed out on the rest of the day. Wouldn't of been worth it.



Pilot, Verts, Myself and Hastwo (R.I.P) standing in front of a Mish (R.I.P) tag in Melbourne,
a week or so after the funeral. Photo by Ciecmate.


The last piece Mish ever painted, HK Crew stomper, which is still running, 'til this day at Southern Cross Station, Victoria. I think this is also the last photo of myself and Kristian in existence. Don't be surprised if in the near future there's a top to bottom HAZTWO next to it. Thanks to MC Pilot, Hells' Kiddz, for the last two photos. Happy birthday for yesterday too lad.

I'm never going to see Haz again. And I've got to deal with this.
Anyone wanna come round with a chess board and a pouch of tobacco?
I'll rack some Bulmers and we can just get lost in our heads and a decent game of Chess.

And to you bunch of cunts who used to pretend to be there for me, go manage to kill yourself properly. You know who you are, no need for telling tales, but you selfish fucking slag, next time make sure you go down the road not across the tracks. And the rest of you cunts who don't answer my phone calls, how's it gonna be when you won't be able to get one at all.
How you gonna feel then?
Fuck this internet shit for a laugh, I'm going to go get fucked up.

"R.I.P Mishen and Haz, Else and all the rest. Tell Kermit he ran "Junkie Dog" the best."

Dr. Jimmy Hats, out of here like ozone in the atmosphere.

R.I.P Kristian "Haztoo" Quinn.

Remember that photo?
Mix a bit too strong for ya?
Haha, guess you'd just gotten out and you hadn't sipped hard liquor in a while, so I forgive you.
But you fucking moron.
You had just gotten out of gaol and within two weeks you and Jarrad had gone and held up the bottle shop and you went straight back in.
I think that's how it went.
The first parole party I think, back on Herdsman.

I remember how we went to Rockingham to see you, the day before you passed. We ended up getting into a normal Rockingham fight, us three vs. twenty of them. We still won without you Haz, who needs you anyway cunt. We could of done with a few of those false teeth tricks you could do though.
I'm sorry I never got to go fishing with you that night. I'm sorry the last words I said to you were not words but screams. I'm sorry I didn't answer your phonecalls the other week because I was too caught up in my own shit.

I'm sorry you're dead.
I'm sorry that I nearly went the same way you did last night.
I'm sorry for alot of things me and you have done,
but I will never regret the days of Kmiter, you and I running Perth city central.
Now you're hanging with our homeboy in where ever the Hells' Kiddz end up, at least your keeping him company.
I gotta put up with Dophie being a racist and Dzine getting muniched every several seconds.
REST IN PEACE HAZTUE, THE MOST HAZEDUS KIDD OF THE SECOND FAMILY.
I fucking miss you bro.


Everyone in Australia has heard about you cunt.
From Perth to Adelaide, Melbourne, San Fransisco, where ever I rest my head at night, I will make sure it be our town.
From the MC's to the RFD's. I was there with you.
From the SF's to the HK's, you knew I was all day .

Forever eshay adlay.

Kristian Quinn, 1987 - 2009

Too many of us have died this year. No more. I'm sick of us all overdosing or killing themselves or whatever. This needs to stop.
I miss you Haz.

"We don't do it 'cos we want to,
we do it cos we HASTOO."

And you can't come back.

Get your head straight, I got swimmers faster than you waiting to impregnate!
If you're spewing about that then get yourself a bucket,
Cos I just had one, just admit you're shamed, fuck it.

"Another bit the dust, dusted out sherm kid on the learn" said Sid.
Sid was brutal, unleashing smashed in windows and death stares to anyone in his path.
Although if he didn't do it his way, the faggots would laugh,
and not that uppity shit, I mean the steady answer to the question.

Speak to Eve in the Garden? I had her up against the tree, Snake slithering silently.
You're running from doctors, imagine watching you running from police!
Reckon just 'cos you rock Nikes you assume you got status, you need practice
If you just in this for show, you gotta go cos the breed Sid bred was out of the bag with knives waving in front of your nasty nose. Reality took his away a long time ago, there was no need for the new drugs people were dabbling in.

If you haven't noticed my mother found me one of my old iPods from 04/05/06,
fucking summin like that.
Was real family bonding shit like you stomped though your next level shocking wit.
YOU'RE TRYING TO BLOW UP LIKE NITRO STICK,
SUICIDE SCHTICK.

Kick in the door. Remember that from 06? At McIver? Had a bit of a real run.
I had that whole area under lock like you were getting fucked up the arse by Billy D's brother. If you ain't in that lodge then the realism, the sudden "haha" of your conscience. If life is only one step closer to death, then every lightglobe you ever inhaled with baited breath.
GROW UP.

Sid.
Elation like finding a full deck at the station.
What'd be you're the purpose of your reactions?
I'll leave everyone behind once I burnt you to cinders,
I'd rather shake hands with the boys than put up with you Linda.
Drawn into my diagram because now you know who ROUNDED UP YOU GEEZERS,
Can't you see this shit cunt, I rise like Buttercup BREAD MADE BY JESUS.

PLAYING THE HARD MAN?
I'm the shooting you like a television interview, so sliced bread was sliced with the Slim Shady of the SS squad. I'm back for real, and I've heard more voices than you've had hot dinners, Sid thought to himself.

Nice try.
I'll convert you with a mere glace.
All the preppy models wanna be Vice, make mine a Grapefruit juice,
with three cubes of ice.
Slice, sealed and signed, I gave you this and you left me behind. So I stepped up to the plate like a demon mate, and like Family Guy's rendition of Boyz in the Hood, you'd be left dangling from a rope, held by my brethren while they decide your fate.
Airport security raised to stereotypes who are arrogant as they are clichéd.
My ninja blazed maneouvers will have your crib keylined.
Fuck the western suburnite cliché, Sid abused anyone around him, using his mental powers.

I've been so many places but I don't care for any abuse offered by you. Tamp. Rapist.
All terms that suddenly shudder your skin, the defined sin.
ALL OUT WAR OR HATERS KILLING SUCKERS FOR UNDER TEN BUCKS PUNK!
Fuck your business, my scripture is a witness to bury among the shards of the internet.
The score settled, Sid took another swig of Grapefruit juice.
My pay?
Satisfaction that my factions are the common enemy against your weak group of creeps.
Leave you so pulped you'd make really shit fiction, who'd bother writing about you anyway, you've had more than I'd care for.

HAHA, YOU LOSE.

Up with The Burning Phlag.
Gulag 33. Upside of The burning of priests. Siphoning fuel, giving classic delivery that took more than a butcher's at prisoners of the state. What's more sick is that believing all said will lead you to play yourself in a movie chump.
Catch that when you kids are my age said Sid.

This pod is filled with gold. I am reborn through the fact tonight somehow on my inebriated drunken bicycle tow, my iPod bleeds for me. Real heads are down.
Dark as ink, maybe you're Sicilian with a tan.

Or it could just be the 3 bewgs I pulled in a row. I am convinced.
But I could top it.
What about another suggestion?
Chefs cook, boys fight and girls play house.
Go home and stick your head in the oven while I laugh out loud. Fuck what is this song.
I haven't heard it in years.

I wear my scars like the rings of a pimp.
I'm controlling the Atmosphere up in here, as I drop a new word that makes your rhymes look like they been written by a chimp.
Stop think.
Thinking.
I steal more than the show, I ruin your collaborations and crews simply riding in a car with bruises. So put a plug where the utter terrors better pack berettas.
Robbery.
Songs I was raised on.

"Sid stood at the end of the pier. "Give up bitch, my pantyhosed face is just to smell your cunt Clarice, start running now or i'll be kidnapping your second niece. " Sid stopped to have a draw on his cigarette. "You've done more shit than me, sometimes, maybe? But consistently there is a change in your face when I damage how your reputation tastes."

Sid just showed Angus the Ugly side of The Bigger Picture.
And Angus loved it.

Why I never get published.

I have just eaten a shitload of Doloxene and washed it down with grapefruit juice. Hopefully this makes sense.


Ever since my heated emails with Bel MoneySMELLY (yeah, you heard, I fucking hate you. You are obviously using a pseudonym, and mines better, so suck a fuck you pompous bitch.) I have been at wits end with the 16-24 literary journal, Voiceworks. First she receives my submissions, and lets me know that I'll receive an acknowledgment of submission in a week. 4 months later without any commuication, I'm like, wow, did she die in a horrible aeroplane accident leaving nothing but ash and my manuscript, fluttering in the wind?
Please refer to the FUCK BEL MONEYPENNY
post I made a few months back to get rejigged on the sitch I'm trying to handle here.
However, checking my email on my iPhone, half asleep, which has grown to be routine for me, I receive the following. A whole 9 months after my first submission. I could of had a fucking baby for Christ's sake.

"Dear Jimmy,
Thank you for your submission, ‘The Beginning of the Beggar’, to Voiceworks. Unfortunately we were unable to include your contribution in this issue.

[insert form letter about how they get SWAMPED with submissions yada yada here]

The committee enjoyed reading over your submission, which has some very poetic and profound moments while also being humorous. That said, the committee were unsure as to what your piece was trying to achieve. At this point, it seems to be more a constellation of (very interesting) ideas than a coherent piece. Instead, you could have selected one or two ideas from the piece to focus on and develop, tying the ideas together with an easily discernible purpose. Having an ‘argument’ or ‘purpose’ helps to guide your readers along the piece and allows you (the author) to better express your ideas. Another alternative could be to use parts of what you’ve written as the thoughts of a fictional character. You’ve definitely got a strong voice here, but because they aren’t placed in a particular context the text becomes disjointed.

Does everything have to have a purpose? The achievement was a text of non-linear racing linear up a hill on a single speed bike, smoking Marlboros in a vain effort to leap over the fence and rest my head on some laurels. Why do I have to argue a point in a Non Fiction piece of Gonzo journalism. I've pretty much become a junkie to understand the thought processes and what makes sense to the dreamers, and they say I haven't achieved anything? And the lines about the "fictional character" say, "thinking" these "things".
DON'T THEY UNDERSTAND THAT I AM THE FICTIONAL CHARACTER?
THEY ARE THE FICTIONAL CHARACTERS?
IF IT WASN'T FOR ME ENGAGING INTELLECTUALLY WITH THEM, I WOULD NOT EXIST AND BE RELEGATED TO THE BRAINSTORMING SHEET OF SOME ESTABLISHED WRITER, OH SO STRUGGLING IN PAIN TO COME UP WITH A CONCEPT OR CHARACTER, THAT DIDN'T REVEAL ENOUGH, OR TOO MUCH, OF THEMSELVES.

I took it a step further. I became the beggar. I am the beggar. And the beggar has started to round up all the other beggars, miscreants and ill-thinking vagrants. The way that people can interpret my text is, well, however they want to. All you stoners out there, who can't stay focused can skip through it until a passage lights up their blood red eyes. All you smackheads can read it and think to yourselves, why am I here? Why am I holding this piece of paper? Oh, back to sleep. But when their muscles are cramping up and the nod has all but left them big eared, they will listen to what I have to say.
All you crackheads, you can read it and understand me more than I understand myself.
But let's not limit this to just drug induced psychoses for the moment.
WHEN I PRINTED THE FIVE COPIES THAT I SIGNED, SELF PUBLISHED AND NOT SOLD FOR ANY MONEY WHATSOEVER, EVEN PEOPLES MOTHERS ENJOYED IT.
I have families of people who I don't even know who have told me they really liked the magazine I printed.
I MADE FIVE.
If man is five, and the devil is six, then god is seven.
The email then goes to crescendo with,

We would love to hear from you again in the future.
Yours sincerely,

Adolfo Aranjuez – Voiceworks Editorial Committee

You know what Adolfo?
How about you click the link to this post I emailed you, AND I HEAR FROM YOU.
Quite frankly, I thought I burnt my bridge at Voiceworks with a blowtorch after I cast fecal matter all over the head editors opinions. Although you were much more encouraging Adolf,

I still don't think you get it.

Johnny Thunders - Untouchable

Can't close my eyes,
when she's around.
My heart stops and goes again,
I'm lost and then I'm found.

It's getting so hot in here,
I gotta let you know.
Cause you make me crazy,
if I only let you die now.

She's so un- touchable,
she makes me uncontrollable.

If only she'd know how,
how I really felt,
maybe things would work out,
maybe I'll find out.

But maybe my head's in the clouds,
and I don't even know,
'cause she is so pretty,
she knocks the boys out, 'cause now.

She's so untouchable,
but I touch her.

But what can I say,
it's getting a long day,
some girls may walk on by,
but I don't think I'll look anyway.

Some boys may beg like a dog,
some girls beg, beg beg too,
but what can I say but,
Bon voyage baby, cause now.

I'm living on a Chinese Rock.

Here we are in a new age,
wishing we were dead.
There's a TV in my front room,
and it's screwing up my head.

There's a scanner in the toilet,
to watch you take a bath.
There's a picture of Hiroshima,
to make sure you never laugh.

Zyklon B is still in production in the Czech Republic in the factory Draslovka Kolín, in the city of Kolín under the tradename Uragan D2, sold for eradicating insects and small animals. The cyanide based pesticide, used to eradicate six million Jews, is still being made.

Joseph Lewis Clark, (15 January 1949 – May 2, 2006), was executed by the State of Ohio. He was the 21st person executed by Ohio since the state resumed executions in 1999. Clark was sentenced to die on November 28, 1984 for the murder of 22-year-old David Manning during a gas station hold-up in Toledo.

Clark's execution was notable for a number of reasons. He spent 21 years and 5 months on death row, making him one of the longest-serving inmates between sentencing and execution. He also gave the longest (10 minutes) final statement according to the Ohio Department of Rehabilitation and Correction.

Clark's execution was also most notable and controversial because it took officials nearly 90 minutes to complete the process. The problems began when the staff were unable to find two suitable veins to attach the IV lines leading to the lethal chemicals. Clark had an extensive history as an intravenous drug user, making his veins weak and brittle. Under the state's execution protocol, two veins were required with the second serving as backup should the main line fail. After unsuccessfully trying to find a suitable second site for nearly 30 minutes, the staff opted to move ahead with only the single main line.

Shortly after the chemicals began flowing Clark shouted, "It don't work. It don't work." and attempted to raise his head and upper body, according to witnesses. The director of the Ohio Department of Rehabilitation and Correction, Terry Collins, on just his second day as head of the department, ordered the curtain to the visitors' gallery be closed, while execution team members strived to find another suitable vein. It took another 40 minutes before the second vein was found and the execution continued. By 11:26 a.m. Clark was dead.

Frankie Sutton turned to crime at an early age.
Throughout his professional criminal career he never killed anyone.
Described by Mafiosi Donald Frankos as "a little bright-eyed man" who stood at 5 feet 7 inches, he was very talkative, chain-smoked hand rolled Bull Durnham cigarettes, and dispensed mounds of legal advice to any convict willing to listen.
Inmates considered Sutton a "wise old head" in the prison population.
When incarcerated he never had to worry about assault because his Mafia friends looked after him.Gangsters from the time period, and many incarcerated organized crime mafia family leaders and made Mafioso loved having Sutton around for companionship.
He was always a gentleman, witty and non-violent.
Frankos declared that Sutton made legendary bank thieves Jesse James and John Dillinger look like amateurs.

Sutton married Louise Leudemann in 1929. She divorced him while he was in jail. Their daughter Jeanie was born the following year. His second wife was Olga Kowalska, whom he married in 1933. His longest period of (legal) employment lasted for only 18 months.

Sutton preferred the name Bill, but police nicknamed him Willie.

He robbed about 100 banks from the late 1920s to his final arrest in 1952—with several prison terms in between; he was also a master at breaking out of prisons.

"You can't rob a bank on charm and personality" he once observed. In an interview in the Reader's Digest published shortly before his death, Sutton was asked if the guns that he used in robberies were loaded. He responded that he never carried a loaded gun because somebody might get hurt.

He allegedly never robbed a bank when a woman screamed or a baby cried.

"Why did I rob banks? Because I enjoyed it. I loved it. I was more alive when I was inside a bank, robbing it, than at any other time in my life. I enjoyed everything about it so much that one or two weeks later I'd be out looking for the next job. But to me the money was the chips, that's all. Go where the money is...and go there often."

Ballad of Worms by Chris Palko.

What kind of God is this?
Gave me the hottest bitch, then took the life from her chest and left a pile of shit.
Sloppy with a fork, so Chris gotta feed her,
Too numb to cum, sometimes she piss while I eat her.
I tell her, keep her head up, even though I gotta hold it up for her,
and she seizure when she try and get up,
I know I'm perking her but can't stop what's hurting her,
No sleep with her screaming all night, I'm thinking of murking her.
Her parents paid for the coffin and left state,
After signing the contract, do not resuscitate.

Yellin' for mommy, I dip in the morphine to calm me,
I'm known in town as the creep that's into zombies.

I can't get that sound, you make, out of my head,
I can't even figure out what's making it.

Stare in her eyes to look past horror,
Morphine tolerated, I'm out coppin' horse tranq for her.
Like I won't have to go through hell again,
Her skin is like Saran Wrap, barely hangin' from her skeleton.
With each one of her ribs defined,
My crib's designed to keep the light out cause she can't lift the blinds,
Drifting behind, I'll be outta friends soon.
Nobody, visits the guy that keeps the body in his bedroom.
She's barely alive and taking life from me with no appetite but the meningitis is still hungry.
Wants to make love,
But I had to substitute it with holding hands while we take drugs.

She's cold as a corpse and still holding The Source,
Up in the air like: "One day the cover is yours".
Took the IV out her wrist, tried to give me a kiss,
Before I tasted her lips, she dislocated her hips.
Started shaking.
Couldn't feed her no medication.
To scared to beat on her chest in fear it'd cave in.
Death waved again, and each time leaves her,
In a coma, for a week, to wake up to more seizures.

But this time ain't like the rest,
I can see right through her chest,
And see her heart ain't got no fuckin beats left.

Then a voluptuous ghost falls from a host,
Looking like she did in High School, then fades, when I get, close.

I'm feeling bad as me.

Saturday, 5.34pm

How did such a beautiful woman end up singing about Heroin?
I have no idea.

Gimme some chat. What do you think then, you what?
You're the quintessential definition of indecision.
I'll give you ONE more Sunday night, to get it right.

Fuck my mind has been invaded.
I don't mind, it's a refreshing change, and when I'm in that mood, I'd still donate it to charity.
There's something about Doloxene.

Spaced out and police cadets recruitment earning the Prison Industrial Complex money.
Look it up.
I WILL NOT EXPLAIN MYSELF ANYMORE.
MY OPINIONS AND FEELINGS ON SUBJECTS MUST BE EITHER OBVIOUS, OR NOT AS PROFOUND AS I THOUGHT, BUT THEY STILL EXIST WITHIN THE REALMS OF MY MIND.

The fucking, fuck. Computer copulation that is made a spectacle of, will not convince me that we are any better than the oppressors. Pick a petal and pull.
Droogs might not run, but they sometimes join the other team.
The riot squad, the TRG, Police Rescue, SAS, USMC etc.
And just like that episode of Seinfeld, you can't just change teams.
Busrides to big city lights. Coffee is nicer when the glass is half broken.
I'm trying to handle how this world works. It's hard. Someone out there is my friend.
Then again, someone out there must HATE MY FUCKING GUTS.
There's always a spoilsport, a bad egg, a silly sausage to piss on the embers of my frozen heart.
Years of being told you're not as good as them,
would really, REALLY fuck up a kids head.

I recommend quitting your job.
Darcy quit the Queens last night.
That's been his life for, like, two years.
I'm only twenty two and I've had memory loss nearly that long. What the fuck am I thinking?
It's like the home made I did on Joe.
Remember Joe?
Anyone?

My Heart is an Idiot.

I'd rather drink, fight and fuck.
Failing that, I'd eat, mung out and love. The polar opposites are still opposite. By way of the polar icecaps, bi-polar, bi-cycle, bi-sexual, bi-focal, bi-gger.
Class war?
The mere fact that the anarchy symbol was invented as a FASHION icon and not a symbol of rebellion, would dribble piss all over the culture we have succeeded. Our revolution will never come.
We are too apathetic.
"What's the difference between ignorance and apathy?"
"I don't know, and I don't care buddy."

I'd turn on a checkout chick and go postal for a pouch of nicotine leaves when martial law comes.
The zombie hunt.
Fuckin' BANG.
Few things to do tonight. Might make one of them a real horrorshow, so stay tuned.
Motivational music includes The Temptations - Papa was a Rollin' Stone + Ain't too Proud to Beg, Michael Jackson - Rockin' Robin and Cock Sparrer - Argy Bargy. By the last tune you can see I'm still on that 1982-1984 tip hard.
I'll get off that, just like Drake, when I'm good and fucken' ready.

The Bargy Argy Squad, Burgers and Shakes, Betta Aks' Sumbody about The Bastards.


I got proof.

Saturday, 3.21am

At The Moon, solo. Writing on this infernal machine. I tried sedation for tonight, no avail. They just tried to take me to rehab. The people who work here are either dope or jerks. Sipping on a Pipsqueak, just lost three lives on 1984 in about a minute in a half. They think I'm going to do a runner, I'm sitting right at the door. That reminds me of when I got arrested on unrelated matters and I had on my person two photos of someone who looked like me, running out of here. I had in a Xanax haze thought to remove said photos from a former wall of shame. No wonder it took them five minutes to bring me a drink.

Has my life returned to it's former faux glory?
The essence of drug abuse, embodied in a flanno wearing, hoodied up, sockless man drinking by himself on a Saturday morning. I have laid my foundations on shaky ground, unsound and unsafe, prefixes can't fix me, neither suffixes or fixies either. I'm comfortable performing this traveling monkey show for you. Just laugh at my misfortune as bad turns to show pony firepower embezzlement. Do the monster mash. Do you love me just as much as she did? And the one before? The eternal quest to crawl back into what we fell out of.

I'm nearly finished my first drink, and I need to have a cigarette. Let's see if they think I'm going to do a runner. I can feel the laser pointing eyes manufacture a new gouge in the back of my head. I'll leave my headphones on top of my flanno and drink and hope they don't take away my precious dregs.

No luck on the confrontation front, they ignored me. I'm burping up acidic beans. Too many beans. I might stay here until they throw me out. The music has gone shit. A girl probably picked it. Hang on, there's a harmonica solo. Worth it. Not as intolerable as I thought.

Just another solo punter, not willing to buy food when he drinks. Is that a warping of personas? Third or first, it's all perspective. Some guy just asked me if WE were finished with the menus. Does that mean he can see all fifteen thousand facets of my personality? Hovering across from me, in an empty seat.
You don't need to catch a plane to lose yourself. Just put your phone on airplane mode and take the trip outside.

The music is sombre now. Maybe the dude at the counter had a funeral today.
Maybe.

Maybe this is the future, and going back on my word is like hitting backspace on the typewriter of life. It doesn't change a thing except shake everything up. More punters arrive. If looks could kill, I'd be a lamb led to slaughter. Five girls and three guys who would probably spit on my grave if they knew me better. But based on that reaction, they just don't like my haircut. At least they are playing Prince now.

Cash ruins everyone around me, C.R.E.A.M, get the money, pop the fucking till boy. Too many cameras and panopticon kaleidoscopic viewpoints.

The bicycle ride home is going to be an interesting experience. I'm not packing plementimays, so it's going to be more of a scenic journey into my iPods shuffle function.

Fridays are worse when your alone. I hate the weekend. People with money and jobs and lives come out to play. Give me the serenity of a dead main street at 3.33am anyday, over this travisty of a calender week.

I work, just not the hours you do. Vampires of an new empire, deciding our fate with the roll of the dice.

Sevens or snake eyes, stupidly slung.
I'm going to go look for drunk people to borrow money from soon. Obvious underagers are entering. Downhill like Cool Runnings.

There is a new Larry David movie poster up. It just looks like a ninety minute version of Curb Your Enthusiasm. I met Mick tonight. Earlier. He grew up with Bon Scott.

That is better than you.

Good Evening readers, hope your festive weekends started with a pop bang pop bang smash crash head on collision. Good Evening and Goodnight.

I had the best lunch today. Parmesan and Onion bread, freshly baked, tomato, cheese and avocado.

Time for another drink.
I should really just go home and save the money for tobacco.
No, I just got conned into grabbing another drink.
I forget you have to pay at the end here.
Honest.

Busting All Snitches.

Been a long time since I unleashed the bastard within.
Locked doors with flaws of unrelated brainwashing
A sin commited yet sentences sentenced to death.
Requiem for a terrible track record, recorded alpha beta.
Only love can break a heart.
My faux fixie is fantastic.
High five honey, I lied. The mental prowess seems to decrease our friendship.
Feenship.
Boat.
ROTE learnt like I was writing lines on reference cards,
Stop playing the part, it's destroying the art, horrible cunts with horrible English. Rust corrodes slowly my bicycles wheel rim.
No need for Hell, it's here already. I witnessed many fitnesses, finesse through photographic partions, my gift is my wisdom.
Go straight to jail, assault a transit officer.
Sounds different the other way around, doesn't it.
Bang like a rabbit, cocked back, aiming steady,
Go straight for the throat, junkie zombies crawl already.
Crawl for me, sit by my feet. I'm a freak, a creep, decieved into decorticating with the devil. No aslyum here anymore. The borders are.
Closed.
Papa Sam, Uncle Sam, Cousin Sam.
Leave at your own chosen speed.
It's a struggle, but the froth is overwhelming.
Right or wrong, my life.

But it ain't me babe.

That argy bargy.

Note to self and Internet.

Give up. Keep going. Chase 'em down, let them run. Watch them fall or help them up. Been an eighties kid since vicious Sid, but I can't seem to grasp the only thing that makes me happy.

Reservoir dogs, for real. And I wouldn't care about pinching your violin and giving it a strum. How you like me now? Ignored, gnawed at once too many times.
Yet, hands and knees, I beg forgiveness?
Is this it?
Should I just fuck it all up and explain myself, whilst sober, all the while knowing it's one ear one cup and out the other.
You don't know either, and that's what's up.



My past lives a blur?
Chairman applauds and concurs?
I need an anchor for my rowboat.

Goodnight Perth.

Enjoy the Junkie Business.

This post I thought, why not be like, I enjoy these things. I should tell the Internet. They won't mind. They read this but don't let me know they enjoy it too.
But I do.
Prepare for serotonin, as I take you up the three steps to heaven.


Christianity Dior bathrobe and my Versace Jeans shirt.
They get enjoyed.


Chicken Crimpy shapes, 1984, paintbrush and Painstop. Not to mention The Curse of Lono coffee table made out of a milkcrate. All enjoyed.


I enjoy women's magazines.


I enjoy buses and waiting for buses.


I enjoy fucking with newspapers. Dada wasn't just a streetwear label.


Enjoyment.


I enjoy The Moon. I enjoyed it more when smoking out the back was kosher.


I enjoyed the devolution of Billie after 4 glasses of wine.



I enjoyed seeing where she gets it from, all the while enjoying viewing people's flexibility.
Hi Crystal.


I enjoy both of those things. I enjoy the fact that tomorrow is always too late. I enjoy being selfish. I enjoy waiting, if it's worth it.
Enjoying Green curry is a must.

Enjoyment,
now or never motherfuckers.

Choose One.

On to the next one, somebody bring me back some money please.
On to the next one.

Who would of thought the sample of one of the best tracks on Jay Z's newest print, was D.A.N.C.E by Justice. I guess the chopped up nu rave got flavourwave oven status.

I don't get dropped, I drop the label.
That line is thoroughbred, stable quality.

Double your money, make a stack,
Find me in the corner of the club, huffing Ironlak.

On to the next one, on to the next one.

Row, row, row your boat.

67.167.141.# from Romulus, Michigan, North America googled "shut your fat ass! i can't buy a pack of cigarettes" and got to my blog.