Sunday, August 30, 2009

Who needs textbooks, Google it.

More experiances, less retrospective writing.
Changes notice, and the beating reaches out.
We don't need to be camping to bring our swag.
Back in '96 I was throwing tennis balls against bricks.
Say it ain't so, say that my part was played, chess to the chest, arm to the leg.
The rhythm was a dancer back then.
Go Fish.
The elastic band strumming along, like water off a ducks back, the ground all shaky from the happiness eminating from inside Pandora's Box.
News to me, news to them, but who knew it would all start happening again?
They repeat and rewind, be kind for a second, I'd rather a two handed weapon, deception, not the mother of a fuckup, but the lay down, situp, stomach crunch sipper cup.
Toddler's dream in technicolour, while adolescents use five cent coins to buy aluminum. They can't afford to try. They are always on drugs.
Step outside and live in the real world for once. Raise a kid amongst the slime, the crime, the dirty fits laying like jousting sticks of the gutter.
Some starve, some steal, some relax, some live off the land, some live off their fam, some stay silent, some stay violent.
Some bug out when the green turns out to be soylent.
Listen to my ego, the people in my head told them to turn it down a little.
One more laying against the wall, blindfolded smoking on an unfiltered Camel.
Obviously not royalty because I can't afford the lawyer's fee. I'm roaring out loud but the synapse exploded out the frame of the time lapse. If you're high then give yourself a cameo on 21 Jump Street.
Get it on like pair of Target jeans. Blue, black like the line at Centrelink. Opinions aren't like arseholes, opinions are like Amyl Nitrate, they open the arseholes up and let all the shit fall out. Let's get to the bottom of this once and forever.

Light the fuse.
Are you listening?

Won't you come see about me, won't you just forget about me.

Baby, won't you believe me? All those floating bodies were for you.
All those broken jaws, low income healthcare cards, they were all for you.
Didn't you find out the message?
I hid it amongst your things when I threw them at the bus yesterday.
The mess of unsent letters floating slowly to the ground in the crisp morning air made me realise something.

When I look into your eyes, all I see is a cause for concern and a small black hole that bores me as it bores into the back of your head, when I, in turn, am bored back by the boring reflection of me looking at you.

Take it all away, leave the dismay and fury at the baseball pitch, we all have fucking work to do these days, so just shut the fuck up and get a grip on it all, for all our sake cob.

I cannot be fucked writing for the time being.
The devil has taken possesion of these idle hands for now, for whatever purpose he deems to be fit for such objects.
However, Bettie Page will do for now.

My fetish is other people's fetishes.

Wednesday, August 26, 2009


Coastal Shelf is some sort of zine pop-up store that is now gracing the streets of Perth. Look out 78's, there's a new place to buy badly written, photocopied, pieces of angst ridden/indiefied/pseudo intellectual young adult literature.
It's located at 6-8 Pier St, and it's inaugural opening night display of vulgarity is occuring this Saturday from around 6pm, in the form of Soft Copy, a gathering of aforementioned zine writers.

Keep a look out for Yeah,Right by Grace Dewhurst, consisting of amongst other things, an interview between her and I about our tumultuous relationship, and the inevitable following break up.

The Spiels promotional hype issue will also be stocked, so cough up your bus money and support Perth writing/drawing/photography/dole bludgers.

Monday, August 24, 2009


Look, this is serious.
I'm not good at all this like, social scale show respect to people in order to benefit thyself in thy longer runneth, but FUCK. The mere fact I see that's how people work makes me fucking sick.
Won't even give me a formal receipt of submission?
Lose half my work will you?
Talk about fucking angsty.

I have also just realised amongst the fact that funerals will never stop occurring, my mother's chemotherapy isn't going as well as it should and I keep failing university that PUBLISHERS ARE FUCKING JERKS.

Fuck you and your shitty youth jiving jumble of shit.

Shoplifters, thieves, people who keep sitting in the same seats at the back of the Magistrates court, the kids who can't smoke weed at home so they sit in the park and char bugles, the lads who scratch windows and listen to hip hop instead of talking to school girls presenting themselves, the scene hoppers who haven't found themselves in Europe yet, the delayed doctor shoppers, the fixed gear fixed interest one track bike minded bunch, the liars and the cheats who hang with the creeps.
This is for you.
Unedited and grammatically incorrect.
The first one's free.

Click to download The Beginning of the Beggar by Jimmy Hats.

Before you jump down my throat and write me off as a venting angry failure, read that, show it to your kids, your mums, your dads, your teachers, your ex girlfriends, your band mates, your bottle shop attendants, and tell me how fucked we all actually are.


Friday, August 21, 2009

Lost in Translation One.

I've decided in lieu of a scanner, I will at select a page of scribbled dribbling drivel at random and see if the idea of spontaneous writing is captured and conveyed when purveyed through the digital medium. That or, if my bullshit makes sense when it's on a computer in a different font.
All text has been translated through as is, in it's original format, with no self conscious edits, spelling corrections or smarmy retouches. I possibly may scan the pages later to show you all I'm not full of shit and i actually did vomit on half of these pages in hazes of some kind. I possibly might even analyze it when I can be bothered, to show you what I really meant.

If I ever really mean anything I say.
Who am I kidding.
Ten times out of ten, if I said it I meant it.

"i i ii i am the most like a bird in fight flight i men
the kinfgs.
o h baby now e eentry really hard now,

to make thiigawork

ohhhh baby, i been xxxxx trying real hard to make things work
but everything i seem do, dowsnt try to impress IMPRESS I M P R
thats why i got to get away
because there not left here

no reawon to stay to stay to stay to stayyyyyy

mix up like the ultimate shot at blory
i ddont wany to fall into hell
love is hell
setup and feel like i was born
bunny hop candy flip eat shig

comedy backflipped into the air i broke
The police are hostages to the fact they can never join
the same bowling team. Never have lunch down the road at
the pub grug. Government controls all the caves.
Jesus was the first zombie. A flag of comeback specials
a repeats of fiction, not likely identifiable with the other
lives we seem to lead. On a tropical note, beaches dont need


Pharmies, parmies and pokies.
Planes are like time travel machinds. Location only inflences
the environment. Donny has no say in tgis matter.
brain dead job braindeaed
Get it while its holy.
Welcome tlo church of the money the profit and the imagery
of an upcoming public enemy concert.

ohhhoooGabba gabba hey? the xxx chimes of subversive movement
are all sold out like advertorials for public transport.
Candy canes more than few. Porn for the needle, booths for
feeble. 2 dollar whores and escorts with
e expensive boots, so hard to choose.
Set up the pieces and move strategically,
proud of the peaceful warrior way and i haven't
even read the book.
What's the point of recogition of mmries past. Voices from the
televisioh become from down stairs, they're near the funnybone

Dingy drug dealder riddle
old mates old mate used to cop the fiddle
everyones an old mate when you seen what ive seen
waken up late first date coffee with cream
obscene affair with the debonair mad stares
junkie silouette ghost writing is for squares
leave it left it but just cant forget it
my brain leaks out my fingers
jellyfish box smash vagina stink lingers
weekend fiend turn into daydream teams
walking the streets swapping xanax for green
pickpocket scene kids
who hang out in alleyways
living large living dirty living days in daze
brutal torture military contract
all ive got to say is send the kids back."

Wednesday, August 19, 2009

This is a fucking ghost town.

Either is full of shit or I underestimated how widespread voyeurism is. I guess I'm not the only person who gets their rocks off watching people do their washing at 4.25pm every Monday afternoon.

My gripe is how you get this all for free. Well not exactly. I throw all this shit out for people to read. I like to read. I'm sure other people do too. But for holy fuck on a platter, you perverts just read it. If I had physical copies, I'd at least know that someone was holding it, perusing it and leaving it on their bathroom for their flatemates to silently mock while they defecate. Even using it instead of their sock in a pinch.

But that scenario is so much better than you, the Internet, absorbing all this text and then outclicking and continuing on your internetting journey. There is no trace of you being here. You are all dead to me, Caspers of the dot com generation. You walk right in, but you don't sit down, watch a movie, drink a beer and feel comfortable passing wind. You are like an uneasy house guest, looking at the decor, shuffling your feet and making your own way out. You know a good cunt when they jump the back fence and go straight to the fridge, and you don't bat an eyelid.

This makes perfect sense to me.
So if that didn't, here it is in a blunt force trauma kind of way.
If anyone wants a review or opinion based article written on a subject, please make a suggestion. I need stimuli, I need muses, I need to eat more garlic. And I know you lot are reading this. So submit cd's, places, food, books, whatever you want to my email or leave a comment.

Let's see if you cunts actually have fingers, if you fall for this bait switch double entendre reverse psychology, or if you just lurk this to see how eligible for a disability pension I am.

Which I am.

Tuesday, August 18, 2009

The story of Pipsqueak Best.

The putrid smell of defeat wafted up from his nondescript grime covered brow. Pipsqueak had no chance of returning the library books on time, anytime soon.

He was left second best, writhing around in his own sweat and filth, making every accident seem like it was a coincidence. There was no reason for him to motivate himself, and no external factors motivating him.
Pipsqueak picked up the slack and kept pulling, in vain hope he would some day be finished.

The rope slowly unraveled from its coiled mortality, and hopelessly clutching at these rapidly spiraling strands, there was no chance at structural integrity.
With a snap, the tautness was gone, and Pip was left grazed from knee to thigh against the bitumen. Asphalt ground like pepper underneath layers of shredded skin, with blood coagulating around these flecks of sand, mimicking the creation of pearls. As Pip hit the ground his chin bounced twice against the road, and on the third bounce it rose up and came to a halt alongside the curb.
This scene looked quite tragic to Salty as she watched from the window of her taxi. Never one for public transport, she preferred the body odour and misguided advances of married men over a 45 minute trip with the common people and the common cold.
“He’s at it again isn’t he, everyday, falling here, falling there eh?” muttered the taxi driver. Salty wasn’t sure if he was talking to her or to himself so she just nodded meekly and kept looking out the window, glancing at the dumbfounded Pipsqueak in the taxi’s side vision mirror, adjusting her scarf. At that moment, she swore he could see through her.
The downward spiral felt too good for Pip to give up just yet. Still lying on the road, gazing at the heavens, Pip grabbed his Walkman and flipped the tape. He fast forwarded to Lefty Frizzel and just let the spools wind, while he watched the clouds from his perfect vantage point.

Salty couldn’t get Pipsqueak’s plight out of her head. He was there in the corner when she tried to chair the board. Pipsqueak was on the front cover of every competitor’s magazine. He was falling again and again, tripping over the cables for the studio lighting when she was trying to chastise the models for being late. She could taste the blood in his mouth with every bite of her spinach and fetta gozleme. Salty couldn’t understand. God must have been drunk when he made Pip. Pip was broke. Pip seemed disgusted with himself. Pip seemed sad all the time, or just incapable of being happy. Pip must have woken up everyday sick, sober and sorry. But all Salty could think was all the fun that he must have had.

The timing was all wrong, concluded Pip, he’d try it again later when there wasn’t as many prying eyes. Pip was convinced he could get it done tonight.


No matter what camp you side with, you still gotta have love for the feel of two wheel steel.
Those handlebars are amazing though.

Monday, August 17, 2009

It never gets easier, that's for free.

And the rain falls hard on a humdrum town, this town has dragged you down.

Spent all my dole on cider and rent. Nothing coming my way anytime soon. I tried to hock things but they don't like buying incomplete electrical items apparently. If I had a daughter I'd sell her into slavery. If I had a son I'd teach him to steal. But still I lay in wait with no difference being made. The devil has found my idle hands again and I'm worried that I won't care this time around.

If anyone wants to buy a limited edition, first run copy of The Spiels Promotional Hype issue by Ryan Boserio ( and myself, please feel free to contact me. I'll swap them for pints and or cigarettes if you don't have cash.

Rest in peace Mish.

Thursday, August 13, 2009

Show me the way to go home.

Read my mind for me, and skip straight to the comics.
I'd ask you to peruse the employment section but there wasn't one.
At least Wednesday's paper is alot easier to carry home from the deli.
Shift, space, enter, tab.
Bartabs and bar shaped tablets in a no holds barred, no beg your pardons free for all.
Unstable scripture lost in a wave of unconventional prefixes.
Don't you find it funny how when you have read a book, it is the sum and total tally of the times you have established a congruent misappropriation.

Did you lie?

Now I got no job, and it don't pay.
And no matter how many public relations officers you have, none of them can float like butterflies or cry over spilt buttermilk.

Prepare to activate the Jennifer Aniston protocol.
And all the other beans are the worker beans that serve her routinely like coagulated gravy oozing through a paper bag.
I walked a thousand miles just to ignite the pretty young things in the dried out heap they laid in together.

Never learn my name said the sous chef, as he flaunted the Mercedes for the ladies and watched all the foxes convulse. They had nibbled at the bait traps that the ranger left along the fence line. From the day to the night, the odour took after a paper crane, and folded through the motions not a thousand times.

Katy Perry powerwalked past, chewing vigorously and nervously on a chapstick, being chased by Lady Gaga with her petition for Temperance. The American boy was taking everyone he knew on the trip of a lifetime, without a passport.

So the itchiness subsided with the help of calamine lotion and a serve of Omega 3 fatty acids, and they continued on the roll of the rest of their life.

Yet the silence of the band roared on, rehash and mockery and responsibility flared out the speakers. From the tip of the tongue all the way to the bottom of his pins and needles, the anchor of the group took root among the seaweed covered sea floor. The life left in the boy was being slowly beaten out of him. The blood on his face was dripping slowly from the corners of his mouth. A momentary lapse of reason was all it took to dissipate the crowd that was gathered around the jukebox.

As Kevin Rudd sat knowingly in The Lodge, the protestors outside crept along the wall like Michael Jackson impersonators. Marcel would be proud of the way they made the non existant glass ceiling appear to crush them into the pavement. They slowly slithered into a sublime serenity as security dragged an old barber shop pole and mirror into the adjacent building.
Without love, the monkey wondered, where he would be now.
Without a moments hesitation the man in a long white labcoat shoved a cattle prod into the majestic beast, letting it crackle and pop against it's breast. The monkey soon snapped out of it's trance and continued to write Shakespeare on it's assigned word processor.

The strawberries never grew in straw, mint juleps were never served in the mint, meat pies never solved the radius of a circle, and the Venn diagram never died.

Sprechen sie deutsch?

Saturday, August 8, 2009

What a guy.

Herostratus was a young man who set fire to the Temple of Artemis at Ephesus (in what is now western Turkey) in his quest for fame on about July 20, 356 BC. The temple was constructed of marble and considered the most beautiful of some thirty shrines built by the Greeks to honour their goddess of the hunt, the wild and childbirth. The temple was also one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World, 425 feet long and supported by columns sixty feet high.

Far from attempting to evade responsibility for his act of arson, Herostratus proudly claimed credit in order to immortalise his name in history. In order to dissuade similar-minded fame-seekers, the Ephesean authorities not only executed him but also condemned him to a legacy of obscurity by forbidding mention of his name under the penalty of death. This did not stop Herostratus from achieving his goal, however, as the ancient historian Theopompus recorded the event and its perpetrator in his history.

Thursday, August 6, 2009

Welcome to Flavour Country.

I was pouring the kettle into my acksnay today and blam, there came a thought. What the fuck are Oriental noodles supposed to taste like?
The Orient?
Little Asian people that play the melodic Chopsticks on your tastebuds with dragon costumes and firecrackers?
Don't get me wrong, I was raised on dinners of fish fingers, party pies and Maggi 2 Minute Orientals, but this is doing my head in.
I tried to think of other foodstuffs that have misleading titles but all I could come up with was Koola cordial.

What else is there?

If anyone helps me with compiling a list they are in the draw to win a cassette picked at random from the pile in my room.

Wednesday, August 5, 2009

Tuesday, August 4, 2009

Punks jump up to get beat down.

Popping collars and kneecaps like a talking, walking murder she wrote parade float.
Ham stringing out, strung out, stung out, hung out in the car park.
Lynch mobbed like David getting flogged.
Goway grommet, Governor Gordon got grabbed by gronks and greased into the back of Gemini.

I was doing this in the seventies, the eighties even.
Who's world is this?
Brand new with no money, cash ruins everyone around mount lawley.
Big L at the end, by the time you read it, you'd have to start again.

Movie scenes with drag queens and make up whores, ain't the sorry story one you tell for show, god no.
Ain't the evidence in the obedience of obsequiousness?
Pity noone, harbour intelligence with every port in a teacup, chicks with pushups get beat up and left in the rain.
Stay on the block and cop onions while onions sell cops. Fresh licks of paint with tongue ulcers and herpes, but they love it regardless? Matchbox hidden in his socks, peanut butter and choc milk tuckshop jock. Dodge this bigger figure it's out now stay tuned outside doormat 'chbox you when I see you lad. Autobiographical murders without the arsehole assets.

Saturday, August 1, 2009

Rock with it like Aspergers, drinking detergent and margerine.

Lois Lane was smoking a Marlboro on a nondescript rooftop by herself.

No other present this time around, except the wind of change keeping her company, amongst the bodies of dead scorpions. A long winded sidewinder skewing economy of a cacophony was being excreted out of a wound in her right side, alongside the garbage and trashtalk of Icarus and Prometheus, bickering in the street over Plato and pork rinds.

Three more times she muttered, three more times.

The eyes feasted on the carnal display. There was undertones of overpowering one another, the blue vein and the purple heart, all connected by the arterial roads that the buses go down. On the way to develop a new technique of achieving immortality, the Germans stumbled upon nothing but layer upon layer of the Earth's crust, the crust it earns only by watching time pass every eon.

The telephone stopped the evolution of the natural human ability of telepathy.
The market of free trade gave way to the trading of markets for freedom.
Evie decided to stop watching the news, the sunshine of the morning seemed brightened by the fallout she didn't know about.
Position assumed, the playground was painful this time around. The timber from this land wasn't worth as much as the guy with the Tim's on was making on the corner. Palm pilot to fly it, co pilot standing around with the lighter in his hand.
Catching fiends like flies, the fallen angels decorated the honey covered paper, hanging like butchered meat from the roof of the church patio.
Evie made a mental note about how the world wasn't as eager to change as they were being lead to believe.

The same old, same old lack of inspiration without the taste for lactose.
The next transcript showed none of the previous indiscretions that were all to apparent in the build up to the final rejection.
I need to build a smoking room in this house and to do some fucking washing.
The third eye is boring, so what if junkies feel enlightened and empowered by a belief in the superstitious superlative hyperbole that is life, but what if this is it. Your experience is all you will carry on to the next plateau, and nothing phenomenal will come of your prehistoric fantasies of labyrinthine styled, clandestine laboratories, like the one that is in the middle of the not so abandoned Perth Entertainment Centre. It's a maximum security prison for enemies of the state and a 24 seat round table for the Perth elite, where they discuss social occurrences and exchange BSB numbers. The scantily clad milk maids bring in glasses of buttermilk and scotch to the fat cats hiding inside their top hats every time the bell rings.
A tumbleweed of razor wire and assorted plastic floated past me, quite gently and respectfully I might add, on my way to the deli yesterday.

Gobble it up.

The need for nicotine overwhelmed William as he wiped the sweat from his brow, the cows were culled enough for now. His trigger finger started to waver uncontrollably, and the only thing going through his mind was old Youtube smoking fetish videos he had watched again and again, until he realised there were playlists which made it easier to watch attractive girls suck back on six, eight, twelve and even sixteen milligram cigarettes.
A cringe worthy shriek was heard back up at the homestead by the matron, who was at that time, preparing a mince meat and kidney bean pie for supper.
William had gone and accidentally shot himself in the foot.
As William started hobbling and limping back up to the forties era weatherboard house of waterboarding, he tripped on a cow carcass and fell down an incline, descending straight into the peat piled at the bottom.

Fucking Jimmy motherfucking Hats fuckhead, fucking the fucking fuck out of your fucking fuckfaced excuse for a fucking fuckbiscuited existence, for fucks sake.