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