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."