TIME.

Time was a friend
Whose company once appreciated
Now unwanted.
Whose voice once soothed
Now pains me.
Whose face, comforted
Now disfigured, frightening.
Whose embrace, desired
Now offends.
Whose eyes, warm
Now glazed and distant.
Whose word, trustworthy
Now worthless.
Whose smile, reassuring
Now suspicious, sinister.
Whose nature, enthusiastic
Now sullen.
Time was a friend
Now a stranger.

 

INFOMERCIALS.

The gaunt, trembling and profusely perspiring buffoon
Coping with male pattern baldness by living
Vicariously through horribly stitched puppets
Grumbles nonsense into the ears of
Subhuman cretins
Suffering cerebral degeneracy while
Simultaneously expanding the capacity
Of their writhing love for
Poorly made household goods
Which inevitably find a home
In some far away cupboard
Never to be used.
So like hypnotized vermin
They stare in awe
Radically bopping to the low hum
Of verbalized garbage
Growing fat
Growing stupid
Rubbing their jeans furiously in anticipation
Chewing, swallowing, choking
Until their stomach is full
Their heads empty
Throwing money at a plastic God
Vomiting plastic promises
Hands raised in supplication
Forearms sweep across dripping foreheads
The stimulation unrivalled
How they crave another object
Meaninglessness is penetrative
Gluttony smothers their whispered sighs
Buy more
Eat more
Think less
Question nothing
Be happy.

SNOW GLOBES.

I find myself far too often, in the land of surreal fever dreams.
This paradigm is confusing, its orientation boggles the mind and I begin to sweat.
The chimp in drag walks by upright and smiles, maybe he says something too.
I can’t recall.
I’m taken to a place of no description, expected to perform some task, to some standard –
For my troubles and at the overseers great expense, I’m gifted a rather underwhelming amount of
Fun coupons.
It’s marvellous the way I’m ferried to and from various prisons, becoming my own visitor.
If it wasn’t for all these worthless possessions I seem to have acquired, during my ventures
I wouldn’t know what to do with myself.
I now have 15 snow globes.
I think that’s a healthy amount.
My friends are impressed and I feel at ease.

The magic box that spews extravagant colours and sounds, seems to do a convincing job of sedating my concerns, with some sort of ferocious, bukake-esque, brain invasion.
So I sit on my throne and vicariously live through the pleasant images.
Sometimes the box recommends I purchase an overpriced and redundant item
At which point I begin to convulse, as if the complete soundtrack of the 80’s hit my subconscious, in the form of an awesome hypnotic wave.
I think I’ll get myself another snow globe.

When I retire to my slumber pit, before the warp drive jump to sunrise, I reflect on the day gone by, the weeks and the years.
How fast time flies when you labour for nothing, compromise on everything, gain something you never needed and hope to be somewhere else, sooner rather than later.
But later is now, yesterday is today, the present has served you dinner and its gone cold, time is fluid and the glass is half empty. So you cannot quench your thirst, nor can you satisfy your hunger.
All you can do is carry on and wonder why it snows so sporadically.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CIRCA 2020.

Circa 2020 post apocalyptic
bottom feeding chaos monkeys
gorge on the powdered milk
barren wasteland Fonterra created
While women’s breasts are tagged
and bagged, shipped off to leather
chair dollar men, well fed
they are.
Holy ghosts of homosapien
hydrogen bombs halo in burning
skies above
desolate cityscape no escape from
hopeless town where Rabbis now
sell smack to children and cats.
Welcome, make yourself at home
feel free to lie down and die
anywhere
Bodies collected and mulched for
superb protein power shakes
everyone is big
yet some are bigger than others
still
Human race embraced disgraced
erased by teeny bop neon images
stealthily implanted through day
time television spiritual holocaust
therapy.

LAW.

The mystic experience
of suburban sidewalk
propaganda machines
toilet humour
disguised as law enforcement
salt and peppered virgins
detest being served.
A monkey wears a hat
do I shake his hand?
He hurls his shit at me.
I guess not.
Perplexed by
universal sitcom life
I remove my third eye
gift it to an infant.
He is unimpressed
I would be too.
He cries, soils himself
now sleeps
good job
you learn fast kid.

 

Jervois.

I hear the narcissistic ramblings of
pretentious inheritance meat sack
vulgar chokes as it tries to describe privilege
to captivated recipient who is 
gazing in admiration
not immune to this fable,
salivating for the gospel of
success.
But my skin crawls beneath poverty – striken threads
stomach churns visions of struggle
blood, sweat and tears,
no stains on its collar.
The burn of my wallet disturbs me
crying to be fed its pittance.
Louder now, platinum eyes swell with greed
tongue is hissing self-righteous sentiment
gestures so dramatic,
screaming belligerence
screaming put me out of my misery.

Perhaps.

Perhaps I’ll place these eyes in pockets and ears in silent boxes.
Perhaps I’ll pin this tongue to ground and put an end to all its wagging.
Perhaps I’ll scatter teeth in fields, to be found by lonesome farmer.
Perhaps I’ll shave this head again and make a wig for father time.
Perhaps I’ll steal another breath, just to repent as I exhale.
Perhaps I’ll break these hands once more, so I will not have to shake yours.
Perhaps I’ll nurse these hands to health, then shake yours till I break them.
Perhaps I’ll weep ten thousand tears and sleep on sodden pillows.
Perhaps I’ll march to death and smile, as he pays me all my severance.
Perhaps I’ll lose my feet as I retrace the steps I’ve taken.
Perhaps I’ll win the game of life but celebrate alone.
Perhaps I’ll set this house ablaze and warm myself awhile.
Perhaps I’ll drink my thoughts away, so you can call me friend.
Perhaps I’ll starve this mind and laugh, as it starts to eat itself.
Perhaps I’ll write some words and wonder why I write at all.

 

THE FINAL THOUGHT.

If I have the honour, the privilege, of reaching old age, I do intend to make the most of it.
Right up to the point where I begin to lose cerebral functionality, or fall terminally ill.

If I happen to slip into the spiral of decline, doomed to dwindle away, becoming a frail, trembling, dependent vegetable, I should take it upon myself to go out with a bang.

I’ve decided that in the face of losing who I am, rotting away ever slowly, while I attempt to delude myself into believing that this is the way it should be, that I’m making the most of my mortality, by taking the form of a redundant ghoul (prematurely) and wandering empty shopping malls in my pyjamas, at 8am on a Tuesday, clutching to my goldfish memory, while I swipe my library card instead of my Eftpos and probably soil myself when waiting for some senior citizen discounted fries, at Mc Donald’s; It’s better to leave with my self-respect and dignity intact but most importantly, my mind, my thoughts, which are the very essence of my being.

As a good friend of mine once said; “Life is just a game where the objective is to not shit yourself (incontinence being the exception), as an adult – go to work, don’t shit your pants. Ride the bus, don’t shit your pants. Shopping for food? Don’t shit your pants, etc”

Don’t shit your pants. = Win.
Shit your pants = lose.

In this narrative, it would seem I’m bound to eventually lose the game.

So I’ve conjured up a rather unique concept.

I’ll set up a very large canvas, in some room, hung parallel to the ground, perhaps slightly higher than the average ceiling. Below that I’ll arrange a comfortable chair and some snacks.

I’ll plead my case and say farewell to whatever family has suffered my company through the years and not beat me to this wonderful exit.

I believe I’ll sit my arthritic ass down on that inviting seat, help myself to some potato chips, drink a glass of the finest whiskey I could get my hands on, light one last cigarette and before it burns to the butt, blow my brains out and onto the suspended canvas.

I’ll call it “The final thought”.

Having now successfully made my consciousness tangible, I’ll instruct my descendants to frame it and have it displayed in the dining room, looming above the dinner table because that seems like the appropriate place.

If I raised them well, sometime shortly after its conception and some awkward meals, I’m sure they’ll hawk it off at some flea market, for a pair of roller blades or a retro napkin dispenser.

Which is cool with me.

Because I went out on my own terms, I met death as an equal and as a by-product created visual art with the tedious conversation we had.

COLOSSUS

Once again, I am blanketed by the shadow of this colossus. Its influence stretches to the horizon and conceivably, further yet. I lay silent. Between the moment of breath and exhalation, the earth speaks hesitantly, trembling and nervous, pleading for a tear drops pity, but we are one in the same, so I shall sob for myself.

If for a silhouette to wander, there needn’t be light, I would have supposed the sun had run too, quivering now in some distant space, petrified by its own brilliance, wishing never again to identify a single thing, shining promptly inwards, in the hopes that monstrous visions burn.

Gravity surrenders, allowing the beast to pass. Oceans wash the sky, appreciative of the gesture, nevertheless, a disappointment. This filth that dirties the expanse is undeniable and so the heavens are muddied.

What wound bleeds more, than one self-inflicted? What nightmare rejects a feast of fear? I have died a thousand times in this twilight, I will die a thousand more. Soon to forfeit the grave, scorched and trodden soil rejects me. I can scarcely bury my head.

Witness the divide. Everlasting disconnection. As resemblance fades, songs of the aggressor brutalize the ears of those hopeful for an answer.

I needn’t know who, how or why, for I could see what was, what is and what will be.

So I lay silent. Between the moment of breath and exhalation.

 

A New Day.

The morning carried with it a distressing chill, suspending breath, blurring vision. All was silent, save the spluttering of a few cold motors that coughed and choked their way along great concrete veins, which soon would suffer varicose, as sun broke the spell of moons slumber, calling those tired eyes to open wide and guide the sullen groans of tedium, that inevitably drown out the sound of whispered resistance.

Rejoice as the machine takes its first step and howls.

At this hour, the shadows cast by moon light, star light, street light; dance wildly in the ballroom of imagination, omitting for a pure, sweet moment, their stale, frail nature. Humbled by nothing, this machine marches on. In place of serenity, comes guttural rumbles of hive like obedience, the faceless beige blurs wander mindlessly through halls of illusion and deceit, stumbling over one another, prodding and being prodded into anxious frenzies, swallowing whole the gift of life, digesting and excreting the by-product of slug existence.

Gorging themselves on the fruits of gutter dreams, suspended as though they are nothing but pale, sad marionettes, the puppeteer bent in half behind thick curtains, reeking of cheap liquor and stale tobacco, contorts his face into a thousand smiles, salivating at the thought of this collective misery, this unbearable madness that spreads like pestilence, from person to person, hollowing out the eyes, stealing the soul and stuffing it into dirty pockets full of loose change and lint. His cackle awoke the behemoth, slowly dragging itself in time to meet the sun, whose light illuminates nothing but the recently polished shackles of slavery, a choir of insanity sings an ode to death, and so the day begins.