Sunday, June 28, 2009

Grub's up.

The kindness of your fellow man should never be overlooked or undermined.
The tower of babble lives on.

An example of this would be haggling about food.
Everyone needs to eat, fuck the drugs and sex and drugs for a minute.
One rule I began to live by, a long time ago, was if anyone I knew looked like they needed a feed, I'd make sure they had food in their belly.
People do the same for me.
They can go rob old ladies and steal fixies to get a fix all by themselves, but if they need some bread, then break it with them.

The religious undertone.

I remember the countless eventful evening morning mournings, walking around Walcott Street with hunger pains echoing through my empty head.
Inevitably you would end up at two places, Hungry Spot or Fresh Provisions, back when they sold cigarettes.
If at Hungry Spot, Chen would normally be working.
I'm pretty sure he bought that shady little venture around the same time I found myself venturing around that patch of Perth. He would slave away at the dough, to make dough. And he obviously has, because now I haven't seen him have to work the till in eons.
Back to the food.
Whenever there is food in a warmer tray, NEVER PAY WHAT THEY ASK.
People think haggling is only for Bali holidays when you're trying to get mushrooms and transvestite hookers.

"How long dat dere been dere?"
"Nawww, 'bout four hours, fresh, fresh!"
"Don't piss in my pocket mate, I can see how dry that corn jack is"
"I'll give you two bucks for the corn jack if you throw in those two dim sims as well"

At 3am on a Friday morning, people don't really enter into much argument about an extra two, three dollars.
Talk about balling on a budget.

Now when Fresh Provisions used to sell cigarettes, before they changed the trading hours, before the trendy layout, they were down for the cause. A charge for dropping a $2.19 carton of eggs was a bit steep though.

And they hunted me down six months later over it.
Must of been a slow day.
I digress.

They never used to lock up their dumpsters.

I can already see your faces.

I have never been adverse to the urban hunt and gather, I mean, fuck dude, I've done alot worse.
And in that whole precinct is a whole treasure trove of possibilities.
You have Brumby's, used to have Red Rooster, a chip shop, IGA and Nando's.
If you hang around like a deviant, theres always half meals lurking around at Hungry Jack's.

Fuck what the Big Brother fans think, give them a show I say. The onlookers concerned about how society percieves them. We fought wars, made nuclear weapons, said sorry to the Aboriginals, went through the eternal cycle of recession just to have to resort to eating the nibbled at scraps of succubusses in designer dresses. Leave their whole concept of civilization in tatters, as you drip grease and perinaise out of your gracious piehole.

Waste not, want not?

The concept of the grazing is as common in your favourite nightspot.
I'd rather lurk and pick up drinks that chicks leave on the side of the dancefloor than go buy a drink to pick up a chick on the dancefloor.
And if some tamp has spiked it, then your on a winner.

Free food, free booze, free drugs.
Shouts to the lad who slanged Billy Deane and myself two Beef and Mushroom pies last night down through the late night window at the Sniff Spot.

You always sleep better at night with a full belly and an empty longneck.

Wednesday, June 24, 2009


"The individual man of entire sincerity has to wrestle with himself, unless transported by rage or passion; he has so much mind to make up, with none to help him and no guide except his conscience; and conscience, after all, is a feeble glimmer in a labyrinthine cavern of darkness"

I'm trying to read again.
I think i forgot how to read.

Monday, June 22, 2009

I bet you wondered how I knew.

Instead I heard it on the grapevine.

The casino is full of real good cunts in the wee hours.
When the sun isn't shining, and the oxygen is pumping,
gambling seems like a good idea.

Old ladies sometimes forget to get all their coin from the bandits.
Go have a look around, get yourself a handful of gold and go play the roulette machines. They had them at the Taberet on Vic street.
Anyway, I digress.
Put it on red, dollar bets.
When you win,
which you will inevitably due to chance and law and order and God and karma,
Gamble hard.

Cash out thirty, forty dollars and head straight for the blackjack tables.
Nip out for a cigarette and try not to beat up drunk indians.
Saunter up to the bar and make friends with other people with nothing better to do than be at the casino.
Georgie Boy was there this time, bought me a pint.
As we sidled out for another cig, two creatures confronted me.
Rosco and Brian.
We are all smart arses, stick it up your arse, money isn't worth anything unless you don't have any, Red Label and cola, racehorses, trackstars, geldings, hot tips and new mates.
Rosco had on a giant emerald ring on his middle finger, my mothers birthstone, and as i quizzed him on life and the pointless naivety of the trivial pursuit we call life, it kept glinting in the morning sun at me.

And when I was left, alone, amongst a now full casino of pensioners, punters and preteens hoping to get past security, i wondered.
I wondered how the fuck these humans lived.
I wondered if the cute girl at the ten dollar Blackjack table would give me some of those Perfect Pair winnings.
I wondered if Security had gotten sick of seeing the same guy waltzing by himself up and down the aisles upon aisles of Timezone machines.
Then I realised that tommmorow Chubby Checker got done for marijuana possession, a long time ago.

By then it was time to go home, so i mounted the shuttle bus to the train station, with my last dollar in my watch pocket, feeling the same feelings, i had the whole day.

Sunday, June 21, 2009

Uptown's Bloody Profitable Nine

if thhfn anger hero dlimevalxfh
Dyer job hi high higher than thou
Still garb with Snuggies at the sale
Sent central on planet plentiful
Morph one count the facts fakes mistakes?
Ago long time what, wild things were and your lot were not.

Latin is the old new old new,
Or ok fix it for me computer
Hand held mind meld billabong trooper,
Axe about me, meant meant leaky leant lent,
Lent rant,
Persue dopamine addiction,
Kennedy clan for president.

Haha iPhone.

Wednesday, June 17, 2009

Excerpt from book.

An exception to the rule is the harem.
When one male becomes so dominant that he can offer ample security to a large number of offspring,
He can afford to inseminate a large number of females.
In theory this should work well enough for the harem master because his genes are assured passage to following generations.
It does, however, involve two serious instabilities.
It leaves males without females and those men, robbed of sexual heritage,
Will always be a threat.
And it requires that the females inside the harem must accept a common partner without dissent.
A glance at the events which occurred in the greatest of all harems, the Grand Seraglio of the Turkish sultans, reveals just how flawed this breeding system proved to be in practice. There were endless intrigues and murders and the whole complex organization could only be maintained bybrule of terror. The standard punishment for women who could not accept their role was to be tied in a sack weighted with stones and drowned in the Bosporus. The sacks were placed in a small boat that was towed out into deep water.
There, it was capsized by pulling on special ropes and the helpless women were sent plunging to their deaths.
On one occasion three hundred women,
The entire harem.
Were drowned in this way, simply because the sultan of the day wanted to enjoy the fun of stocking up with new females.

In stark contrast during one phase of the four hundred and fifty year history of the great harem,
The females took control.

During this century long reign of Women, the sultans were left to indulge in orgies of drunkeness and vice,
While the women took over the affairs of state.

At times they virtually ruled the country.

And you thought I was a misogynist.

Tuesday, June 16, 2009

Sixty cents, no consent, do not pass go, go directly to voicemail.

That number isn't even the right number.
And when I called what I thought was the right number,
It wasn't.
There's some pretty amazing voicemail boxes on Lavalife at the moment,
Some stoner sex offender lady reckons all junk and then keeps talking after she thought she hung up.

But in my tucked up, fucked up haze, the Sydney freestyle radio show number went up in smoke.
I might find it on another wavelength, another day.

But it's Kurtis Blow.

The bangers go clap clap at the pack.

R Kelly is going to do a show in Nigeria.
A day in the life.
Footsteps ain't for sing songs, they ain't for iTunes.
Show me a note, posted up sticky.
Flicking bawsses off high hawwseses.
Quit it kid. Hit it hit it hit it.
Fucking hell 02 93409433.
I might call it or something go go go.
Magazine out tommorrow go come find me and cop real talk, 15 pages of amazement.
I'd hock my mums ruby ring to read this sing.
Too hot for the Flavourwave oven, bloody mary's extra Tabasco.
Jump hoops for this hood and I would keep doing this for the loyal troops.

Come smell me.

Friday, June 12, 2009

It's a dirty, dirty world.

It's all too simple. Generation X, Generation Y, Generation XY.
I dream of Jeanie too much.
It's the dreary denim denigration that won't let me sleep at night.
Rotto is still an overseas holiday.
Map the human genome, and mark the legs with an X.
Those legs.
My new lifestyle.
I got so smashed, wandered out the back of the house and ended up in a vacant lot,
She must be so sour at me, she moved, and took the house with her.

I met an Californian the other day. He approved of having a blatant puppet as a head of state,
Although this was after we esablished how there is no right or left anymore.
Embrace the bangles, walk like an Egyptian.
Time for my breakfast cigarette, coffee machine latte, and to be able to sit in my backyard, in the sun.

Thursday, June 11, 2009

Friend foe fuckbuddy having a heavy flow, buddy.

Flip flop and fly,
No I don't care if I die.

Just that pointless iPhone blog Apple Masonic basically Sri lanka and vomit.
Obviously off bone we tilted back leaning on postcards and blue lights.
Got nothing to say.


Go watch the monologue from Network.
It's a film from the eighties, tube it.
You'll think that was funny of you do it.

Tuesday, June 9, 2009

I am a creature, I am a postscript.

Ruins of yesterday, faded away.
There was a simple introduction to super human thought.
I think lies are too easy to hear.
Teardrop painstop, lambs fry,
Boys don't cry,
They fight.
Girls don't cry,
They get their claws out.
Suits could never live out of a suitcase.
How can these sights be anything almond.
I made the guy at the servo pick my icecream the other day.
What happened to what I was thinking.
Again, gone.
Girls, dead, boys, dead.
Nothing to do but watch the slaves in the mirror.

You don't believe me do you baby.

Sunday, June 7, 2009

Holy Christian names.

They all have meaning, don't they?
God bless the juvenile authorities.
What names are around today?
That cold playing dude called his kid Apple.
Fuck me.

Monday, June 1, 2009

Sweet lips sink ships.

I hate technology and I hate remote controls.