home and whip the horses

the days of new, the forest is no different to the city and the waves and endloss expanse of blue water that joins the sky somewhere out there is the same as the people that wander these streets trying to figure out where the happiness lies.  Everywhere and at every instant, the possibilities for it is infinite.  I welcome the new year and have some great plans for some great new works.  Fighting the good fight for the freedom of expression on at least a few of australias dwindling streets in its hastily gentrifying streets.  the time was and  ever will be in the now and i will make you know my name.  Even if the skies above should break and the angels descend there will be no distraction from the absolute which is ever and always; upon us.

into the dark sacred night.

step back to mother

time and tide wait for none.

the time grows short, the hours descend and the blackness is at its thickest,
i leave this city and travel into the gathering summer, into the wild the forest and into the country where
nature waits, with tangled bough and shimmering surface.
the road leads to nowhere, to the womb to the close family.  the city is the beast as well, for we are everything but something other than the animal, but nevertheless the wild awakes in all who listen a perspective that is universal and carries the complete wisdom of life.
Beyond the high reaching cement and glass and beyond the ribbons of black tar and rock that wrap this ancient landmass.
Where the blue waters hustle and sigh, where the air is salty and the bush is tangled over the rocks before it leads into the dark shadowy glades and fens where the rocky rivers run.

the country, my country, our country, the wilderness, where the city runs silent behind me and the ancient traditions continue in from of me.  the sky is endless and no light betrays its best intentions.
but none of this matters.
its magic is in the sublime and only contemplation and patience and the eventual silence of the mind trick it into drifting into your fragile eggshell mind like a drug that never fades.

have a great christ mass and new year,
if i am not eaten by a shark i will return in the new year.

vaya con dios amigos

in a little while all the streets will be clean and we will fall into the new

sway and the world sways with you
the tall and the weak
the tired and the sweet

It comes at last and takes away the temporary and leaves the bitter taste of ignorance, the foolish space between.  Always, because the fool is only wise if he knows his folly.  Because i cease to exist at times, i move through this life in the body of a human but this is all that will tell of this, and perhaps a ghost of a memory of a life long gone.  Shoddy projector you say.  But i was born in this form and so i will die in it despite all the may come to pass.
And i have tasted a water that was older than the stones.  And i have slept in the cradle of the dawn.
So this is my salute to that life which has lifted me up to where i stand now on the cusp of the new which is also the old and all that which these words can only and should only to others give such brief hints, and always without the stamp of an ego.

the sum of all my efforts is none
in the end
who will count
and so shall it be.

the seas are all around us and we we born for the swim

light in the eternal city of night.
the shadows race from it as it flicks between the columns and then is gone.
old air that barely stirs as we push through it.
each footfall pushing up a grasping, collapsing hand of dust
it falls away and we are standing on the edge of a grassy field that leads to the ocean.
blue waves crash into white as they sigh and flow onto the fading stamp of land.
the air is warm and the sky is calm and filled with a growing sun.
we walk towards the sea, there is a small rise that hides the beach but we never seem to reach it.
dandelions pass under our feet and the bee's rise from clover, faces covered with the pollen.
but the beach moves out and away, slowly at first but quickening and now clouds race up from the horizon and a fierce wind begins to blow and the lands shake.  we turn and behind us comes a stampede, all animal great and tiny they veer round us our eye in the storm.  racing by, from ever continent, those that crawl and those that run, those that fly and those that slide.
and they are gone and behind them are the shimmering fields of dunes.
the clouds descend.
darkness pursues.
a dying insect trampled in the terror, kicks itself around the hard green grass, pushing itself around and around in a futile struggle against its time.
i turn back towards the ocean but there is nothing but blackness and even the ground beneath seems to tear itself away.
and then there is silence.
silence and a different shade of black, the cloud is lighter and the air smells of damp earth and fog.
the horizon is defined by rolling hills of blackness and a copse relieve the moon on its path towards me across the dew and the silver cloud.
little holes in the sky remind me of other worlds and a falling star divides the sky for a moment and then is gone.
we are all alone now.
if we raised our hands up they would fall away into nothing.
split into their compositional fibers and molecules and rejoin the plasma the gave birth to all life and what all life will once more become. spreading from our hands through the mystery of our clothing until we are complete.
again.

reign on our parade

autumn is clutching still at the lower half of this continent, some people also refer to it as australia.  Cold fronts this late in the year surely point to the la nina weather influence which crushes certain weather conditions onto this place.  Makes the grass grow greenerer anyway.  And at least we don't have a drought anymore and it will make the bushfire season a little offset perhaps.  Unpredicatable water and sea conditions will however make the sailors dig their heels into the dry docks and shiver in the squally conditions or toast mashed mallows over little tins of kerosene and talk of la mer.
 Campers better pack their tarps and shovels cause your digging drains and drying wet wood to smoke yourselves yellow while your babies cry as they are fed upon by mosquitoes and even the koala bears will probably take shelter under your car and maul whoever decides to approach what is now their territory.  Apart from that, take care on the roads and drive safe.  Over to Bruce now with the Sport.
Bruce: Thanks Reginald, you sure are a relentless optimist, how about i come down to melbourne some time and we both slit our wrists in a spa bath of warm champagne.
Reginal:  Thanks Bruce your such a comedian.
Bruce: i wasn't joking.
Reginald:
Bruce: man whore

god takes care of old people and fools, the devil takes care of all the rules

the summer chills take hold in the uncertain lights and the houses all tucked warm and well swept shine monotonously from their roots to their pretty eaves.  My hands are folded and stretched and the empty streets by night that i ply know my name by this or that letter and a gesture of limitless life.  Silence and noise are my only friends and each takes a turn at holding me down while the other runs for water and to just fly across the streets in fitzroy.  Look away to your window where the outside world is hushed even in its cacophony, where the greens lead to grey and to the lost colours that hide behind the shadows and tangle with the other lives that ponder past unperturbed by a lossless train of thought that bypassess every station and never dries your pens or inks untill it's carriages part before a widening sun that consumes it and all your thoughts and the infinity is washed with the beginning of a new chapter, shapely like the last and only earmarked by the slight chance, the same that rules all of this.  World

and we went down in the valley, to pray

and the distant ships come rolling in.   Their masts are bare and their rotten sails litter the decks strewn with ruin.  not a soul come to throw in the bowlines.  Not a soul greets the smiling eyes.  Not a soul catches the last disapearing rays of sun before the darkness runs across the stones to the quay.  Beneath the ships the water ever and after stirs.  the wood creaks and groans and speaks of its own in a tongue thrice forgotten.  The beggar laughs and the crowd looks and he points to the moon, a sliver in the sky, being devoured by a hungry beast.

a mountain in reign leans down into a valley of black water

high up there in the shrouded peaks lurks a dark beast, its hair is matted with the guilty souls that have dared to tread past its keep, up there, high in the hidden, away in the russet grasses and the cold windy barren lands, where rocks are ever cold and the sun is a distant friend whose rare smile is but an echo upon this hungry face.  a thousand steps lead to here and a thousand further still upward into the blackness and the ice beyond.  But here, here waits Sikel, the barren one, the leering sleeper all slumbering in an empty land.  There are not even bones simply shale, crushed up and sucked dry, little splinters of what once held flesh and sinew in place and now, ha-ha tasty sweet flesh, suck it from the brittle bones and grind them down to gain the moist marrow.  Such feasts had Sikel had, times of old where marauding armies came and never left and time when pilgrimages to the old palaces came and never left, ha-ha, such excess.  But time were growing on and Sikel was grey now and its own bones began to creak and bemoan the cold and the wind.  Catechu was the first to get past Sikel since Sikel had taken root here, and to be worse Catechu had laughed and mocked as it fired past and up the step into the mist and darknesssss above.  Sikel began to live of the fat slime fish that inhabited the stagnant marsh pond and after a while realised the humans do not like being chewed.

slowly at first like a crocus in spring breaks the ice

it shatters the land's surface and inhabits that spot where there was only days ago the white coveted earth.
the petals are shut but the suns lengthening gaze warms it to the pistol.
the silver life in its veins charges like a geyser and the sublime shivers.
there is a grove of beech beyond the rocky field and beyond is mountains snowy and distant.
there is a steely blue sky above and beyond there are clouds wispy with a grey weight that drags them across the craggy rocks and down into the valley below.

endloss sleep on the turbid waters neath clouded moon

fragile baby dreaming with little clenches as the dreams ripple through from neverwhere into the physical plane of now.   Ripples echo the halls and river caverns and the roots of the trees soak up the tiny threads of life.  winds restless and growing push in and swirl around and the colours of the street outside tremour with the mottled sun.  satan in inside with me and waits by the window smoking a cigar and drinking cheap cognac.  The smoke curls up and tugs at the blind before being snatched out the window into the glassless boundary.  the wall is a little white and tape appears at the edges where draughts taper into the permanent matt finish of melbourne, of melbourne, of melbourne, of melbourne, of melbourne, of melbourne, of melbourne.  living la vida loca
joi de vie

caetechu and the island of souls

crush in the ancient gallery as the faces peer up from the stone and wall around and dusty light flickers and cascades from a hole in the distant ceiling.  the faces lidless keep watch and every footfall echoes down and along the corridor.  In the distance there is a dreadful drumming, a monotonous throb that rolls the sand beneath me.  waves of the sound echo and shimmer around me bound by the earth and the stagnant air.
I push on into the darkness and follow a winding staircase down, into the belly of the mountain, following the drum and its hypnotic snare, bound around my spirit and walking me, into the valley below.

tired eyes in the holow scul

the flesh is still peeling out at the kiss of the lime slaked and raking fangs across the folicles.  All music is broken and re-assembled before me and the black and white memory is an italian passer by.  Pedestrons on a sidewalk that seem to know me better than i know me and know me from a passers by opinion and their little thoughts and words and that it passes back to me makes me nauseaous and changes my opinion of my opinion of my grace and my race onto the train goin my way.


al i really care about it the silence in the space between my heart beats where all illusion drops to the sides and where the bass drop in some of these tracks.  Death the surreal skeleton hunched in my slit eyes and chasing my shadow to get close to where i am still.

still.

christmas in michigan

an island of a kind forever
and ever into the night
upon a lazy afternoon
we set out to the light

with a broken back and shoes
with holes right through
the patchwork quilt
authentic enough for two

the light changes too quick to hold
and the stars take over
the mould of the dusty sky
is forever in my eyes

where the distant winter is already
kissing anothers cheeks
i'll see you again so soon
always before i am steady

the beat of fives is a harder glass
filled with a with a wine
more for me than you
but sometimes its itch will pass

and it was gone.

galloway befriends the yellow ghost

the beach was pure and white despite the frightfully grey and sleety rain with clouds
grounds still squeeled under foot and paw and the shadows of the dunelands there were definitions
i looked up towards the running water rolling towards me in three's then it leaves
back down the beach towards its mother the weight behind the sprawling fingers
and the prints again, swirling behind me one two and thee, the three none on bended knee
it's a forever kind of beach and the island out there we'll never reach and never care to
reef rings it and throws back towards land and the distant waves break over that
can you taste the salty air like when you visit the windy beach in winter the one time that you always recall
when the wind was full of ocean spray and the foamy waves smash into each other with chaos
a desert of water further than you can see and deeper still into the black and crooked floor with all its animals
old tire marks gasp for breath as they are drowned by rolling sand and little white shells mosaic the floor
the seabirds are used to it though the gulls look pissed and their usually sneering eyes sneer with vigor
and a single breath is enough to fill the body with all its magic and the mind doesn't work so hard at all                  

blessed are the pure of heart

green is the grass and blue is the sky before the night is close, a grey cloud takes a breath from the sun and then the golden light touches me again.  The death is all around me and it has my blood on its insect wings.  A steel grate lines the dirt and the grass leads to here in a gentle slope.  Trees and things bend and move and little bark takes up root in my hand, my wings unfold and shimmer behind me and then stretch out and blow the dust from the webs and all the animals turn around and the ground is soft with pine needles and the air is cleaner than the air in the grey and black and white city.  windows outside my window reflect the trees' outside my window and their fresh greenery.  it is black and orange in the night and moves ever.  god is in my empty mind and satan rests on either hand, humans will be extinct before the last tree is gone from the earth and i must be getting somewhere, because it's taking less and less effort to appreciate the beauty of life.

all the glitter and cold cannot bring back the soul you sold

the sheep leave off and take way for the green dales that lie on yonder, through the deep forest, the ravine and onto the other side.  where the wolf waits within.
it's not dark yet
but it's getin there

Northcote Street Party 2011

At the top of the hill is where it begins, there were a lot of people in West Garth and I believe this was from the plethora of humans either going to or from the street party.  Some police in fluorescent colour waited at the entrance.  there was a lot of people now no shit, they were everywhere crawling up the walls and slithering down the cracks in the pathways where the tree's had grates to breathe in the street air.  Many scents purveyed the matt blue sky day and most of them were from street meat and bread made from dry rubbish crusts.  many ferals were gnawing at the remains of a carcass and in a pen some baby boguns were slavering and growling at passers by.  Some band were playing reggae stuff at the top entrance and i got off my bike and welded it to a solid wall flower and then wandered in as the road made its slight incline over the crown and down into the north.  people flowed like water down a mirror dodging things even other beings at times and generally behaving well.  There was a bit of sun and it was warm and tobacco and spilt beer changed the scents for now.
  I followed two police down the road and got deeper into the beating heart of the festival.  girls and guys like little platelets raced past and faded into the past and still deeper i went.  Another band played now and i don't even remember what they were like, anyway further down nearly to the end i walked up to someone i knew and walked down to the end then back, people everwhere, listless drunk, revelers, stoned, fried, deep fried, toasted, baked, sauteed and poached.  some danced in the street and many had red faces and a lot of homemade clothes.  all the pretty flowers were dancing it out up here.  the mood was good and people were happy for now.  most carried knives and guns for later when the bloodshed would begin.  I wasn't thirsty or hungry so i wasn't going to wait around until then.  I listened to a gypsy bands set and then walked back up through the crowds, josteling good humourdly acting like happy bastards because they had a nice day and everything was great and wonderfull.  some band fllawlessly improvised, like me and it sounded nice not me and eventaully i reached the top unhinged my wings and jumped from the hill and the warm setting sun air carried my down through the tagged streets and over the painted walls and bound earth, back to collingwood where i sit alone.

eternity in the hour

                                                                            .
                                                                     

now you hear your master sing

and the hills we will lay bare of tree's and make the wood into canoes and from here we will travel and into another ocean and from there we will find more land for us to take on, for we have not enough here and we must grow into that great size that we have dreamed, so go now and take the tree's down.  we will leave only the guardians we have prayed to for this long and we will go forth and not look back, in time for the western winds that will carry us away into the sunrise.  let nothing slow us for we are a great people and our time now is come and all the lands afar will be ours.  ours beneath these different feet which from such greatness forms and takes boundless infinity into its final shape.

someone without love is like a empty seashell, you can hear ocean but there is nothing in there

dark dark sky, and the night decendeth, cold wind whispers and then blows out its cheeks and the spring blossoms shake and shiver and the streets are wet.  the stone glistens and the earth soaks in the water.  they are wondering about me too much and their  lives are begining to revolve around me and i must be free of this.  they must be free of this, to keep their minds guarded against thoughts that take on my hues and my grace and damnation.  these are my burdens and i wish them upon no-one and no-one shall have them and i   will take my life with these morsels of proof of life and time immemorial.  there is no shortcut to heavan it is relatively long but not in the sense of time.  i call up to the winds to blow down on this place and push out the vapours that are clogging the minds of these people and twining them onto my being like magnets to a steel wheel.  i am shaking anyway and ever moving so be sure little magnets, that you know where you are going and keep eye to know where you've been when you tumble off and back onto the solid ground where your seeds can sprout and flower and die and

cross your heart and dot your eyes

a steady flow, its leaking is like a sick nose, all i think of is the cold stormy ocean and shrinking into a warm jacket.  the dark blue is dirty with foam and the pounding sounds surround like distant tracks played on key from memory.  the subtle unconcious and its streaming podcast.  no ocean here though, a white desk thats gathering dust as i think and a lot of other stuff that covers its rectangle.  a hate pushing for words when they despise me, when they hide away and when i have other amusements lying in wait.  To distract and pull my attention away.  but there is ever rising a current and i feel like swimming in the flooded waters, with a canoe perhaps, did you think i was a swimmer ?  i am but thats another tale for another time.  when the buildings down come and the streets run into the sea and the black clouds strike out at the hard city surface, the sour dark dark ground beneath screams out and tears out and takes a breath and then smashes back down and the ripples spread around like rings elliptic.  the water tumbles off behind me, down into the valley below where the ground is all saturated with a giant cover of wet that is thicker and longer than europe.  all but resilient and collapsing eternally into rebirth.  here is el dios.

something familiar in the way

a ghost of a smile and a shadow of a child, little invisible arms reach out and stroke her outstretched belly.
a brief wave of comfort and then nausea and then lethargy, and the weary worness of a day long.
whispers in the kitchen flow down the little way to the brown door painted and hearing me.
the man is comfortable in his house with his home and his safe fence all brown and mildew.
a long list of to do's and a saucerful of secrets leaching through the brown stained crack.
dust gathers at the doorway after the rain and eventually collects with the mud and drags in.
spring in the southern suburbs a home family with tv dinner and attachments.
the gristle splits with that grainy tear and the little demons sucker the flesh and pig.
the island burns and the smoke rises into the ever darkening sky of the day.
but the war is finished and the trams still run the cobbled streets and trains rattle their tracks.
brilliant orange wavers outside my window and into my dreams.
my canvasses flow bright and my scores drag it up.
she throws it across the table and it flies up and around to us all there that night.
we listen and some comment and some smile and some are silent.
it is half moon in a gathering month and the clouds move languidly in the city springtime.

long before the dust settles i will begone

i am attached and so i must break from here, the money is running out anyway. 

into a cave, a white cave, square and a high ceiling.  down a long white corridor, not far.

spring is here, the trees show it, with little crinkled leaves and maroon fur seeds.

it is nescersary to break from these attractive places sometimes,

to push ourself back into the unknown, far from the comforts of familiar.  

trying bit by bit to relieve the strong grip a money hungry city has 

sucking at everything with its proboscious, taking the blood of others

and grinding it down to make its meal. 

in a brief stretching moment there was murder

the faces from the tables stretch up and join with the dirt on the plastic ceiling and the chinese master wanders around hands behind his back surveying his dining fiefdom.  a lot of noise. bustle and two waitresses hugging each other in jest, and then out into the sunny street.  long poles of wood and wire tower up into the sky, black with grime and moss and lichen and char.  the wall takes a lot of paint to peel off and let you see it's underwear, little chips long gone only behind there is left a telltale puzzle, once its home.  busy bees up and down and trailing more behind, only on a sunday only on a weekend when the races are run and the drawers are opened and friends are called and meetings made.  cold clouds streak across, running there own den up there in the sky high high up above the ants and things, down here it's more warmer but just only a little.  tonight more of the kitchen japanese compadre styles and a little brittish and some country australian.  the music is live and grows up from the stage and into the wood worked into a building.  the streets are quiter outside this place and it's also a long time passed since the day, sun stayed relatively still we spun and called it a sunset.  the dark isn't really a thing it is merely an absense of the thing we call sun.

put im in a boat with the drunken sailor

the little man has finally appeared here upon these pages, he has made the fame or infamy of a post.  A short stitch in time the precedes another nine and then on and on into whatever.  The man was at his most obstrusive and flung his fury around the air like a exploding volcano, bits of molten castellano and english rang around and spurted from his obviously well over swollen cranium.  It was a beautiful day to look outside, i did for some time in the afternoon and was well and at peace.  He is a stranger man than most i would think and someone who is beginning a lurch perhaps into some kind of madness, perhaps not, this to me is not known but simply a mere suspicion that has been building.  It was nice to see the sun and to be able to bathe in its bright and warm glow.  I might have enjoyed today more if i had been less tired so i'm going for a sleep soon as i finish this.

       The girl who organizes the building of the houses thought she could ignore me more today, i think now she will moot over me more than ever.  The little man i think will bathe in the suffering he attempted to throw upon me with such arrogant vigour.  I wonder where the punk is now, the one with the leather boots and black jacket who sat across from me on the train this morning.  I wonder what time i will wake tomorrow.  I make music tomorrow if all goes well.  Perhaps go for a walk and see manny's music and look at a keyboard, then i will drift along brunswick street.  Fitzroy, overrun at present by a screaming upperclass hoard but ever simmering in it's own little vat of filth and inspiration.  Ever a pleasure my dear.

Bittersweet is the blood of others

the spider, crawled along it's burrow until it came to it's door and then opened it and took in the world outside.  It was sunny and the colours were bright and the air was warm.  It's little red eyes glinted and soon it would return to it's little hole, in fact it shouldn't even be up here in the light but it was such a magnificent day.  A slight breeze ruffled the dust around the entrance to the burrow and wafted over the black fur that coated the spiders exoskeleton.  it tickled its fangs together and rubbed its front legs against them and made elegant striking movements with its deadly venomous hooks.  There were no birds to be seen and not a cloud could be seen in the far distance.  The spider was still now.  

it's a little pink, the water in this tall glass beside me

little sickel sleeps soundly, his little zz's tumbling out of his nostrils and wafting into the pleasant winter-spring transitional air.  soft lids flicker gently and a relaxed smile rests on his round face.

The bland hell of tomorrows children

the fences have dissappeared, replaced by lots and white square wooden pegs with pink ribbons on them, lots for lot the fences to one side still remain, cows munch cud on and on untill the time comes.  The brick stretches up the steady rises and upon the brick is the mostly black rooves, the modern australian lives here, amid the sprawl, amid the dark earth and upon the village of sameness, of holdens and fords and of backyards with overgrown grass and well manicured greenish yellow bushes.  Built fast with money in mind and a hand on the pocket and a finger on the pulse of the pulsating economy.  They are all the same it seems, they are the new middle class or the developing masses.  Coagulating out here in the country a short drive from the city's beating heart.  but there is something beneath this surface, something about the way all things come so quickly here, and how the money is too fast to be true and the houses are too proper to be real, paper thin and fragile, and the galloping economy is too tangled in it's own race, champing the bit and frothing.  the big men with their full wallets can probably see what i feel, that the end of this is at hand, the world is beginning to shake and we are steadily waking up to this.  I had and still have hope for us but the hope now is in teaching some people the skills of survival and opening our eyes to the wrongs we have wrought, as a society and as humans, grasping for money and ignoring the truths we know to be.  that there truly is no end to suffering if we pursure money, and that the dream of having two cars and three kids is a not happiness either or that a healthy culture is one like ours.  my optimism is shaking like a leaf but it is truly relentless and i just hope that most of us find some truth in this foolish race before we meet our ends.  Mum is coming down soon, with her stormy hair and her dry lips with her power and her balance, but still the ball rolls on.  you can only build a sand castle so high.  When you burn all your paper you are left with just ashes and smoke and maybe burnt hands.  If you put too many pigs in a pen they will eat each other.  Humans will be extinct before the last tree is gone from de ter.  The new sprititualism is in the now, to accepting life and it's death and that we must slow down our chasing other wise we will reach the end of the road where it rolls over rocky gravel and dust and then back.  Into the wild.

the garden was dry and dead and red dust made spirals in the sand

sleep has a sickle and it keeps swinging at my head and i think i've nearly lost all my hair now.
The nature outside my window is grey, green and the occasional human colour.
Some blues guy is banging out a litany of life, it goes back to louisiana,
tins shacks and an old guitar, said he taught himself how to play, keeping his family up all night.
He's kinda good, goes by the name of buddy guy.
But i've gotta go, down the way, got to get ready for the second coming.
Four thirty eight post meridian so it ain't far away.
Drop me a line if you feel like it.
So long, cavajerro.
Rore

between the devil and the deep blue sea

the sick man punched out at the world, fully sick, was 'e.  Then he tripped and fell and the girls jumped upon him and mobbed him, mostly they smashed his genitalia with their little fists in their drunken fury and then they grabbed each other and ran off laughing and shouting into the quiet darker alleyways where they regrouped themselves laughing and in a fit of passion, came together and fucked on the cold dirty concrete.   Then they raced off into the night.  The sick man dragged himself inside and sat upon the step of the building where he lived, the extreme pain was sickening so he vomited and just lay there the internal wrenchings tearing at his mind and filling it with the breath like rythym of nausea.
The street sign trashed on the road crumpled and smashed under each car the went along the black and cold street.  There was no rain it was rather dry, but it was as cold as it had been all year and the sick man was freezing cold out there barely moving, breathing and feeling.
The girl upstairs got up and peered at the light, still dark, she pulled on trackpants over her underwear and boots to ward off the cold.  The shouting had woken her and now she knew she couldn't sleep until she had had a piss, so she wandered down the wooden floorboards to the badly hung door and went inside.

Cry, baby, cry Put your finger in your eye And tell your mother it wasn't I

London's burning, London's burning
Fetch the engine, fetch the engine
Fire, fire! Fire, fire!
Pour on water, pour on water


THe flesh on their faces stretches up to the gray haze and then tears back over their skulls and is drawn away into the wind, it snaps off and is dragged along the black and soggy streets.  The skeletons rise up and scream out and the fires rage out from their bellows, others rise up and they shrill after something, something that lies beyond the violence and destruction, the elusive peace of being.  Winds come down warm and push back the skeletons that push on into the air, then they begin to crumble and like dust begin to blow across the streets and into the gutters and along and out of the choking city and into the country where the lanes are clean and green and the rocks are white and grey.  Foxgloves clamour for space and your sons and daughters still run wild in the ever greens behind the water meadows.  Mother is around and her broom is strong swish swash swish swash and sweeps clean london, running with fire and hatred and fear and need.  All the life suffocating, little tinders gathering the sparks, death waits ever in its high chair, and the fear grows like a flower in the sun of true needs.  

the darkness comes, runs like a knife along the solid fruit and peers in

The cold waits and wraps around you like a scarf, it covers you like a friend who leaves you breathless and stark.  Little movements push in and out the single blind like the resassurance of a pendulums' steady hand. But this is different too, like a breath, the living beast, the writhing darkness and the majesty of winter, tall and girthed in sweeping gown of black and wispy clouds, eyes veiled by the misty rain that blinds stargazers and drowned by the orange glow of the city splashed up in grainy faber.  I myself am bordered by white walls; a mockery of the square, i perch askew like a monkey, i have no better reason.  I linger for lack of other purpose but the lust for life.  my hands claw at the keyboard searching for meaning.  Not even caring if i find it, away with ye, leave me be, happy with the now, the real, the desert, whatever, just do not lean to me for the solid and the straight in this world of curve and the ethereal.  I am no peg for surety and surely not a ladder to no heaven of thy reckoning.

caught a sliding plastic tray as it fell from the stainless sink

she said storms maybe, i said don't know don't think so think it's too early for the storms this time tho i dont know , you know , doubt myself all the time cause i don't look up at the sky reall seriously or anything.  But i'm sure it's too early, THe changing face of it all is a ne're thing tho, got me reall thinking deep and all like.  Wondering an ponderin. thers a lot o words to be seaid both four and aginst ne're know where to think abou it all.  Guess i prepare for the worst, couldn't do yeself a bad one like it i think.
I can feel the deepness in the mother tho, i should do by now, i spent long enough out there in the deep wild, the dark and the sacred and the burning ground, my soul is stained whatever soul means to ya, guess i'm just trying to say i feel a lot o things more than most city folk do, i feel the way the day rises sometimes and the little shakes that make up a tremor, speak to me big like, make sense like a conversatoin thats long and drawn out, goes on forever, is the language of the planet, the language we have lost most of us, running around to drawn up in the shiny shiny of the big buildings built up on self worth and stuff, silly silly, don't you know how to appreciate a beautiful day or a wind, the way a leafy street looks in the halflight and the way a street sign leans. i can appreciate the beauty of the city as well aint got nothing against it.  But the beaty is that of the fool who is about to be woken, the slumbering rolling off the edge of his bed, the beauty in the ignorant and the beauty of the lost.  It carries it's own rewards.  But when the time comes and i wouldn't be writing this if the time was many years away. When the time comes i continue: arise a hero.  lead the weak and shed the viscous skin of which you have clothed your true self within, the weights of the skin may drag at you later but the vigilance of trueness to form must ride strong.  Into the black days and the smoke haze.  It is coming.  Do not think me a nihlist or a anarchist for i am beyond this i merely see what comes and continue to live and promote a way forward.
The honest of you have already begun preparing.
Go fly now.
Take heed.

calliope opens her eyes and peers out into the all day night

the glinting hammer of dawn marks it mark upon the filthy hours we retch upon as day
dragging our weather beaten time beaten self inflicted misery corpses about
writhing with impatience and impertinence unperturbed by grace at every angle
we suffer and delight it in glories majestic and mighty licking at the wounds in us
throwing more justice into the winds than we ever received and fucking at every chance
ants make dust look like mountains and we make cakes look like palaces and paradise
we are a populous virus and rivers are carnage and yellow smoke hovers our breath
hark the evening star and spark the tinder dry the bones grow whiter in the heaven
splinter runs deep and runs up upon a deserted beach of pain cruising a channel and stopping
little rifts begin and soon all the sea is covered in rocking land
red is the blood the shoots up
into the night
the day
i
me
we and you
upon this time our mark
made

the eye of winter passes over and the clouds roll back to the roof

wind moves and sways the leafless trees, old seed pods hang like forgotten christmas boubles.  The light is grey and all colours are downcast by it, the bright reds hues struggle out from their paintwork and are drowned by the oppressive overcast.  Streets are still dry but if i could imagine there was earth and indeed i can feel the earth beneath this skin of tar and bluestone, it is swelling.  Swelling with the smell of rain, waiting hungriliy opening up its maws and glistening fangs, waiting for the sweet rain to gush down and sate it.  As for me i wake late, missing the dawn and the dark sacred morning.  I go for bread, i go for incense i go just to walk out and around, to break the monotony of a workless day, to see the sky in full and not just through a crack to feel the breeze whether cold or cool, i go out just to exist outside this room.  This room where i cannot open a window for fear that it will shatter and shower onto the street below, this room that faces a park with square rocks piled high.  My head is peeling off too fast, it is like time has accelerated triple, quaruple speed and soon i will have no skin on my skull, it will be shiny and white and eyes will stare out lidless at the world and holes and some flesh serve as ear and nose.  My future is beautiful like the rest.  Mountains of ash amongst the deadlands, little eddys in the choking corners.  A paradise amongst the pines.

gone from being a front line to the unknown

So, a little time has elapsed, this is immaterial, we are living the now.  Here and now there's stuff to talk about like the volume of music in local venues which makes conversation impossible.  I understand but don't enjoy this, already after several minutes exposed to this my ears feel suctioned with a high powered vacuum.  Not very enjoyable.
And this is why yes i shouted at you even after i left the building and made everyone think i was crazy for being very loud and shouting, not a bad thing but still very loud.
The human slips from me though i can't stand it when it's like this, a pulsating and oozing mess, oily and scummy.  Watch it glinting in the filthy street light, relflecting even more festy with it's orange palour.
It is quiet here at least, peacefull, i can hear pedestrons wandering past and they do little to distract me from enjoying myself and pondering where i should paint.
I am restless but happy to be off my feet and drifting off far away into reverie and definately not living now.  But how can i, i have not attained nirvana i am a mere mortal struggling to make ends meet and find a midway between rougue destruction and steadily ushering up the growth of that around me.  Two halves of a broken sun.
CIAO

Interesting stuff always comes last

Forecast issued at 5:00 am EST on Thursday 28 July 2011.

Forecast for the rest of Thursday

Summary

Max 16

Mostly sunny.

Melbourne area

Areas of light morning frost in the northeast. A mostly sunny day. Winds northerly averaging up to 35 km/h.

No UV Alert, UV Index predicted to reach 2 [Low]

Around Melbourne

Location	Max
Melbourne	16
Geelong	16
Yarra Glen	15
Frankston	15
Tullamarine	15
Mount Dandenong	10
Laverton	15
Scoresby	15
Watsonia	15

Friday 29 July

Summary

Min 8

Max 17

Partly cloudy.

Melbourne area

Partly cloudy. Winds northerly averaging up to 40 km/h.

Saturday 30 July

Summary

Min 10

Max 16

A little rain clearing later.

Melbourne area

Cloudy. Patchy rain clearing later. Winds northerly averaging up to 40 km/h decreasing to 25 km/h by early evening.

Sunday 31 July

Summary

Min 10

Max 18

Partly cloudy.

Melbourne area

Partly cloudy. Winds north to northwesterly averaging up to 30 km/h.

Monday 1 August

Summary

Min 10

Max 18

Partly cloudy.

Melbourne area

Partly cloudy. Winds northerly averaging up to 35 km/h increasing to 30 to 40 km/h during the evening.

Tuesday 2 August

Summary

Min 11

Max 17

Shower or two.

Melbourne area

Partly cloudy. Isolated showers. Winds north to northwesterly averaging 25 to 40 km/h decreasing below 30 km/h during the evening.

Wednesday 3 August

Summary

Min 9

Max 16

Shower or two.

Melbourne area

Partly cloudy. Isolated showers. Winds northwesterly averaging 10 to 20 km/h.

The next routine forecast will be issued at 4:20 pm EST Thursday.

Product derived from IDV10450

the life of a wallfly

before i forget i must again touch on the subject of the sticking fly which has now become a real object, my unconcious mind has begun manifest into the physical realm, or perhaps it is just coincidence.
 perhaps.
 It was in the shadow above where the streetlight struck through the window, splashed onto the wall and lost its battle against the dark.  It watches out across the overflowing bin and the bathtub shower stained with paint and colour and miscenlaneous other.

Water drips into the bowl and i watch the fly and i am sure the fly watches me, it makes no movement and perhaps even it is dead and is simply sticking there and decays slowly but think not.  It watches me and i watch it.  we watch each other watching each other and there is some stillness.  Some people are fucking in the other bathroom, they have been going for a while, endurance love.  It is the tour de france, now, winter and though this post has crawled and struggled it is now over and like me will go rest.

I shower and sleep.  Then wake and work, the streets will be colder than now.
tomorrow morning.

tinker tailor soldier spy richman poorman beggarman thief

he sees' me and it triggers something,
a memory.
long ago.
there is cobwebs here and dark recesses and water drips from the ceiling
but i am clothed in shadow still
i pass out the door and they wonder about the person that just passed them
she is the waitress and smiles and has nice smile
he is scottish and people must confuse him with an irish man
he is ruia, he has a strange nose and a pale complexion waxy and black hair
she is the queen and she has burnt everything today
to day was the burning day
tonight i sleep like the dead
i had a sleeping line conversation with a friend i thought i had left forever
but a song came across the air and things fell into place,
only a few bolts left to fasten
and this ship is ready to fly
the parade ground is swept by mother
her cold broom is damp and drags grey clouds with
this girl i look at in the photo is thin and has a look in her eye
she is about to throw a ball
julio is nearly at close
time grips the wheel
beyond the center is infinite
possible

the tits on rice and oats and soy and almonds

if i was a fly would you let me land on your wall,
i would like that.
to survey your world from that vantage, out of reach of your uncles morning newspapre,
fucked off cause he couldn't get his hands down your skirt last night.
do you think you'll run with me,
i was a traveller before i met you,
and your wall.
the stale cigarette comes from the ashtray, it almost colour the air yellow
amarillo
my wings
my facet eyes
your world
my crisp shell
electric blue and little hairs that smell you,
your skin and what you were doing last night
escaped here and took a walk around
took a walk around just to see
see what was going down
down town
my eyes
shut
.

radioactive fruit ripening and wipe on sex appeal

like flying in a paper plane through the sun and blue sky with green tree's down to the lef side and a giant wall stands there if i pan down and there it is.  Hhaha it seems to say i am mighty and sold and there is you panning down with flimsy plane made of what was once life , here i am rock chained by mans hand by his dreams by his folly by your follys also , there- upon that hill stands god and he is a she. haha run and cry or smile and sigh there is no point trying to fool me for i am you for i am a mirror and you don't exist.

melodica wesley anne 2011 hurrah

And so does ever the music of the hills, dells and suburbs draw up and then to close.
The little advertised but well spoke of festival on the tongues of appreciative musicians and appreicators
is done and dusted.  It was good, saturday was anyway, i wasn't there sunday so tell me what it was like.
Samara was great, beautiful voice and well carried.  Toms closing act was also really great, two acts i would like to see or hear about in the throng of Melbourne's music scene in the near future.  Both well developed song writers delivering great music and emotional song content.
Basking in the silence of choice i could hear well what i could and it was fun while it lasted.
Another please this year organizers.

i will pass the good vibe around.
CIAO

de la nochas de la manana

Good evening, and welcome, you can come here for some reason to read this and you should not be disapointed, so i will endevour to provide you most gracious viewers with some tastyness.
I am not going to restrict myself to categories which i will stick to because i am a filthy nonconformist and will simply strive for legibility at times and a strict search of heightened artistic expression.
On this note let me forewarm you all that i am an amatuer of amatuers, my spelling reeks of sleeping during english classes and i am prone to forgetting grammar and other stuff, but anyway i feel i am rambling.

There is a hole in the wall
the people go past and some ignore it
other people stare at it on the way to work
and on the way home make sure they observe the directions to pass it again.

A few people throw stuff in there
it's not as deep as peoples imaginations
as deep as their dreams when the moon is high
but it's deep enough to make people wander how it was made in that place

life falls from the sky and cast shadows in
they are black like all shadows are
need i describe this
fine


thanks for reading and i hope to bring some more tasty treats next time,
thanks once again, goodluck and goodnight.

Rore xox