I'm nearly out of medicine.

Speak now or forever hold a piece. The extremes we are sent through mentally are represented physically. I have gouges as if a linoleum cutter danced around on my left arm and a bruise to the bone on my right knee.
Right now I'm frightened of myself, no frightened is the wrong word. Actually it's not. I'm frightened for the rest of you.
Blessed by the best the troops held together, nested up on their perch.
The outlook was gloomy but the room suited the view.
I always prefer Oprah for the hard hitting child molestation stories but The View is as good, if only for the pregnant Republican.



Mixed up like Cat Stevens and the silver spoon, the cat fell through it's cradle and spilled out it's Communion. Remember the way, the light that fell through the Nightshade. They're all addicted someway, somehow I discovered something new.
The noise won't start again. Boogie woogie lookie wow.
How does an engine work?
Thomas the tank parked at your right flank, jocks three weeks long smelling the stank, swapped 'em for chop son, so it's all money in the bank.
Close your eyes.
Do you understand your surroundings?
If this black is you, standing on the edge of eternity, what are you waiting for?
Step on out, step right up.
The next degree is only one course away, and where resides will, resides ways.
I kept getting changed in front of my window.
Now that's real talk for the yummy mummies doing the arvo walk.

I don't think I feel the same anymore. The constraints placed on the fine line between love and hate only further perpetuates the cheese grate face mind state.
If it's mind over matter, than my mind is mass.

Square root, a graphics calculator stroking her breast lightly, a sharp compass slowly yet gently, prying apart her labia to reveal the juicy fruit. The gums you could chew all day. Slowly inserting the protractor length ways, she stopped and adjusted for daylight savings. As they synchronized watches, the guy in the corner of the room just hit the Tab key on his laptop again and again, to the rhythm of their mathematical body language.



P.S This is how it always is, regardless.

New World Disorder

And still the fringe looks out unto the lunatic wondering why.



Walk towards the lamp, Christian Dior robe rolling on the grass, laughing hysterically. Extrapolation.



I was passed out at 8pm Sunday night, woken up by old mates from a deep induced coma.
I was angry and thought it was 8am. After being presenting with a bottle of Scotch and a carton, I kept party on, radical.

At some stage we were at a coffee shop and due to my dominant stance on errors of customer service, William Deane received his medium Cappuccino for free.
What a Brooklyn zoo photo.
When were we at the coffee shop.
I don't remember and I choose not to remember. Fuck choosing life, choose one day at a time. The people, these people who don't listen to me, must be the petulant edge of humanity.



Hermagod?
I'd rather be a demigod.
Try a little something something.



Popeye is on repeat. Roadkill, lined up in a row, lit up with stolen service station petrol.
Popeye.



Check my pedigree, should of walked away when the street started crying crocodile tears, out the front of the Crocs shop.
Twenty times it swapped, but each time it evened out,
no need for the sorting room but the personal business recession breakdown boom.
It ain't nothing but for one of my personalities it's everything.
I know more about you than you do.

Be real.
Download Pug, or give yourself up, now.

And that's just my first idea.

Take it, have it for free, I don't remember anymore.
I need to do a post about posting up Gene Kelly with men, stomp ache, stomach face.
Sing in the reign.
Pug.

ONLINE ZINE FEEN READ

The obviously only available online zine, is finally here. It's ready to fuck up all you silly punters who didn't throw us your change or your cigarettes.
You wanted grime and I gave you dirt, you wanted my time and it made me hurt, but for your enjoyment, the parody of my existence, stands the Spiels promotional hype ONLINE issue. Completely different from the hard copy, that the hard cunts own,
so just go look at it by click the image or via the sidebar.

Go on.
Double dog dare ya, ya drongo.

I hear Mediawatch is on this Monday night.

Throwing rocks at workers.

If you don't know, then you shouldn't know, suckers.



You have to earn every day you are alive, the day before.
If you haven't earnt the right to be alive then don't get out of bed in the morning.

Rest In Peace Joey Semz, who in my eyes, could of been the next Bob Dylan.



Existential and sexist, at the same time!
I'm currently working on a short story, Untitled as yet, which I will put up on the sidebar DOWNLOAD FREE THINK READ section on the right hand side, alongside the pdf of The Begginning of the Beggar. I'm whoring all this hard work out for free to you punters, so feedback/cider/trumpets/pats on the back and decent bondage play are all acceptable forms of congratulations. There's an oil painting to go with this next story so I'm still deciding whether it's going to be for free or you'll have to come buy it or something.

Cheap lame.

Coming soon will be the ONLINE VERSION of the Spiels promotional hype zine, for all you tight fucks who never came and bought a hard copy of the limited edition real deal. I've got three left, so hit me up an email if you want to cop a hard copy, because the online version is a completely different entity to what you could hold in your soft piano playing hands.

Faggots.



Amazing legs.



I told you the zombies were coming.



Do you think Lucifer was driving that taxi? I was really wasted and those break lights, whoa dude. Red and shit? It reminded me of the time when I was 15 and me and a dude I had just met went to my house and bought a carton of Jacks, an ounce and a bottle of Turkey. He was wearing all red and his eyes went bloodshot.

I sold my soul that night.



I think Greg was driving that car too fast, I couldn't get a proper photo of him.



I owe Kenny a gram or two by the looks of it.

What should we do with a drunken sailor, er'lie in the mor'ning.
I don't know, feed him full of prescription medication?
I like it when a clock says the wrong time, and you are so fucked up that you could see that time and just believe it's 4 hours earlier or later than it actually is, according to Greenwich.

Oh yeah, it's Mean time.

Everyday is like Sunday.

Mother always said it would stop the itchiness.

Yet again another holiday that ended without the objective being achieved. In reference to the Falls Creek Fail and now the GZA fail.
The cheap thrills of the one cent games at the Taberet, the meaningless destruction of things that we never could own in our lives, the white washed drips of meaningless politeness offered by underpaid hostesses.

I met Simon, scarred from lip to ear, a thick red scar as thick as two fingers.
Boxcutters aren't as good as cocoa butter.
Come in spinner, the crew is a bunch of winners.

Brasserie, who by the way owes me a paragraph about lions, decided to try and get all slap happy. He knows how that ended.
Benny seemed despondent, yet that's Benny. I should of seen Hannah more, but the lure of Dan Murphy's always wins.

Went and saw a skate prem, that I had already seen a week earlier.



Barlow got a mention, as well as Garth, Pidge and Geldi.
Yuta was drunk as fuck when I saw him. All I remember is him yelling obscenities at me until he identified me by my rap word.
Saw Steve drink triple scotches on the rocks until he thought morphine would be a good idea. I stayed at the bar with jugs of vodka, coke and grenadine.



Remembered forever. Stumbled upon a few gems along my drunken travels. I met the one aboriginal in Melbourne. There is only one. He said to say hello.



I wish I had more to say. I had a notebook full of tangents, spiels, sketches, death, lyrics, mind control techniques and hallucinations, yet i think the Mercure threw it away with all the rest of my empathy. It was the head start, the basis for a huge spiel that would in turn be passed unto you, so I guess im going to have to just make things up or show you photos.



Come join the anti social internet work for the dole in thing, everyone's doing it!
If everyone jumped off a bridge would you do it?
Yeah, bungee.

I slept on Flinders Lane for two hours while two friends got bashed by Victorian police. They got bashed.

I saw a police raid in Prahran. PRRRAAANN.
Purple gloves, Ed Hardy shirts and a Ford Explorer.
Canyonero.
The feens were still waiting at the bottom of the stairs, in full knowledge five detectives had broken in and had torn the place apart, in the feint off chance they would still be able to score.



Saw this on a tram.
We went to 7-11, racked iced coffees and mixers and kicked rocks back to the spot. Ended up smoking melbourne joints, not melbourne bewgs.



Had a delicious picnic with this mole. She complains too much, but the food and the weather was delightful. I never thought I'd be the picnic type but hey, she caught me on a bad day. I wish she would fucking shut up most of the time though.



I fell in love with a stripper on Swanston St, then six dollars later she broke my heart. She thought when I motioned for her to choke herself, that I meant come closer to my window. Not a loss, but not a win either. Apparently four strippers at Barrack St Club X are transgender. Not that us, the visual beasts of bourbon we are, really care that much these days. I mean come on, it's a recession. Speaking of bourbon, Port Royal steeped in Kentucky Bourbon is my new poison.

I ran as fast as my White Ox tainted air sacs could take me up Bourke St, side stepping and hopping and chucking the anchors on at the drop of a hat. Now I know where the Melbourne City Shuffle came from. I didn't even need to run, there was plenty of time lest to catch the bus.



He's always present and accounted for soldier. Me and Kristian drank vodka out the bottle all the way to Flinders, lugging a bag that the police had kicked the wheels off of, to make carting around his life just that touch more harder. Last night I threw up all over the train, that reminds me.

Dylan would of been ready in the yard with a bag of sand, no doubt.



I could watch the corner of Bourke and Swanston twenty four hours a day, seven days a week, on the hotel television.
If only I was a meth head again hotel living would be the ticket. Clean sheets everyday, spy camera, cheap gear and every tobacconist selling flutes under the counter. This is unparalleled however by living near two pubs with a broken bike and an iPhone, apart from the fact they ripped up the tramline on my street three quarters of a century ago.



I sat down on the train and by chance plopped my drunken body down next to a Baby Doll smelling, raven red pixie haired princess, with amazing socks. I was too nervous to talk to her, but I think the feelings were requited, so we just stayed jacked into our escape pods all the way to town. Anyway, those are her legs.



The homeless are always alot more fun over east. We even bought him a coffee.
Talha, you gun.



Drew this on the plane coming home.

Alot more happened, I could write about alot more, I could lie about EVEN more but I won't. I missed out on so much uni work, I'm tired, sore, with no real effort exerted in this post. I want you guys to know I'll be back. Gotta get on that Lemon Detox. I'll come up with something interesting to spiel about this week, just wait and see. Anyway i'm out, just like Patrick Swayze, I'm playing it Ghost.

Peace fuckers.

Oh, I did a shit in the hotel shower.
Twice.
Two separate occasions.

Come on, I was off my fucking head.

Hiatus.

I've been waking up at odd hours.
Time escapes my grasp, only to be left with mementoes of yesterday fade away with the rest of the decay.

Started smoking weed again.

I know i'm still alive, in a manner of speaking.
Test subjected to rigorous testing.
ITS ALWAYS B ITS ALWAYS A ITS ALWAYS C.

Going to melbourne for a week, be back whenever.
I won't remember leaving, no point trying to come back.
Week or something?
iPhone loaded up?
Sweet.

NO SMOKING IN THE HOUSE EXCEPT WHEN IM STONED

I've learnt cents are ok. To hold them fickle is another kettle of chips. Tonight alot of things occurred.
Right now a man in a yellow jacket is flashing orange lights at my house.
I may have been at a pub, or near one.
My phone rang never.
I took some photos of things, but photos are for the realm of the sith lords.
MY numb measurement of life totals to the same generation of irritation with badge, the plan works when the bees stay in the hive.
I guess this is life.






Estalish a chicken coop and survey the eggs. Firm check, don't be afraid. Entrance the surely sane ensemble would normally suffice.
Sirens.
Call on the moonlight, the seaside pulling them to the rocks, again and again they bash and beach.
I called someone and made them listen.
Once.

Fish bikini bacon yield.

The plain plaid was performing it's task. Television promotes dancing, and dancing is sex. Invite twenty, kill one.
Briliant.
Bernie Mac is your dad. I was six and she was five.
Outside people are hurting other people to satisfy behaviour, violence and pain, an emotional and routine saviour.
Your time has come. Victory be mine.
Be blessed to read what your hear.
Eyes slowly melting out the side of skull, down my spinal tap so that was only fourth runner up. Braindead entertainers corrupting incorrigible insights, now all my dear dreams are haunted.
Read the dermis epidural, epidermis, episodal, epiphany.
Perth's favourite Aesop's fabler, drug enabler, leader in trying you later. It saves hundreds. Perhaps it was only silver. Wait for response. If none appear, stop posting.

Need chicken treat.

I couldn't read the screen,
Now seven am, with seven weetbix down, the junkie business is outraging the chipper adolescents, so I'm going back to bed to wake up and forget today inadvertantly by way of the Sandman bringing me cider.

Someone email me a photo. Today i'm going to mung out like a bean sprout .

It's a revelation.

If your still alive,
when you're 25,
how should I kill you?
Like you asked me to?

As the nostalgia grew from his mouth, her ears slowly closed over as she buried deeper into her own psyche. She had realised what she'd steeped her little white canvas shoes into now. The onset of dementia was nothing compared to the anguish bouncing off the walls of their dingy flat, where it always seemed like it was three in the morning.
The feint noise of a two stroke crept up the street and up through the floorboards.
They were never disturbed. Aside from the postmen, who always seemed to shoot them bullets through the crack of light that crawled into their room. Even with all the fanfare about vampires, twilight, real blood, fake blood, moonlight and true blood, some people just never have liked the sight of day.
These were two of those people.

Afternoon tea was breakfast. Dinner was lunch. Supper was Dinner. Breakfast was a midnight snack. Brunch was an early Dinner. They were fans of The All Day Breakfast on Facebook.

Hang on, I must be back in reality again.
Look at all that washing up.
Heavy.
The hole is all plugged up with cornflakes.
Why don't they make wholemeal cornflakes?

Nightmares, riding in on horses made from clay, four harbingers of death, making motions with their hands, as if they were conjuring up thoughts you thought were your own. The march had begun and they began to kill. They ripped flesh with gnashing teeth. There was a butcher on every block. The horsemeat could only feed a few at a time. They entered an age of bartering, of slain foes whose only retaliation was to wave a white singlet, and to pray not to be prey that day.
The Zulu were riding in motorcycle sidecars, swerving and weaving through the nightmare, through purple smoke and common folk, jumping curbs while the passengers threw bottles of urine at passersby.

Patrice woke up to her bed on fire, so using her pillow she lit her cigarette and sat upright, burning holes into the corpse she lay next to.

I just put on a tape Grace gave me, one of the many presents she gave me for no reason. I have never listened to it before for no apparent reason. It is the Flacco and the Sandman compilation cassette. I had Flacco's book when I was a kid, and the first poem Flacco recites was my favourite one in my youth, the story of Happy Clem.
Sandman then goes on after about having four Serepax and two Moselles. I'm only 2 minutes into it. Indebted forever.

Cordial was training for pouring your friends hard liquor. Butterfly cakes are the things that I miss about youth.

I won the leadership award in Year One.

To bay at the stars, the summer medicine will drive us all to need nurses.
Grey nurses?
Green nurses?

Never waste a visit at a friends house.
They might panic about their innate non-belief in God, but appease all the austere glances and dig up the past.
It will be appreciated. Drag queens in funny cars getting quarter miles. Give them an inch I say. The lipstick marks on their guitars show them up to be less than shining stars. Start without a phone call. The insight one can find inside a saxophone with a rope, some pegs and auto asphyxia can be sneakily familiar.

Where is the title page.
The private side of death.

HOW GRATING HAS MY WORK BECOME?

I grated butter onto my nachos the other day thinking it was cheese.
I still ate them all.
They had become a plate of toasted and crunchy, yet oil soaked, chips.
Echo one, echo beach. The dirt on my monitor is only being monitored by myself, it looks like a comma. My monitored behaviour is being monitored by the people who view it on their own monitor.

Hey Jude, you fucking prude, you stupid fuck.
Order me around and abandon any hope of results.
Heimlich.

Swallow this and hit someone who cares.
Cheers Dad.