Attempting To Do Medicine

Soon I’ll leave the speaking to the orators. I find myself exhausted by recounting what is obvious to me and those who have taught me. Frequently I’ve had a desire to prove blissful ignorance is as listless and vain; not worth the fleeting comfort for the Draconian ideas that so effortlessly slip past the blissful, ignorant and optimistic, skeptical of scientism. Though I feel I would miss those honest schisms. Be dissatisfied with the inference of what my, then, peers consider explicit. Can it be trusted that what’s needs be said will be? Given how exhausting necessity can be?
I trust my, now, counter parts to hold the line. Though this is just the issue; It is easier to hold a blissful front than a line held by exhaustion at ignorance that is only taxing to those who recognize it.


White, Grey, Black. (First Collection)

I create patterns with myself, building with my preconceived notions, in the hopes they are proven wrong. I find joy in golden-ratio-like-spiral-like problems; mental and emotional questions with no answers nor meaningful punctuation. I use my mind mindlessly, before I loose it to open oceans with no water.
I met a concreter who seemed as set in his ways as the result of his days. He told m,e with his several pints, that fewer words is better; a life lesson for a writer certainly.
I agree.
But lacking certainty in what is being said the notions I conceive and temporarily deceive myself with are better explained by choice words, moreover paragraphs if necessary.
By way of example, how do you explain a vibe by simply uttering ‘it was the vibe.’
That’s not particularly helpful. No, novels and tomes have been written, all incomplete on the topic of a simply happy ‘vibe’, let alone anything of substantive fact.
my question to fellows and concreters alike is; How much of the world have you seen recently, that behaves with certainty? So famously few of words? Seems fabulously sub-optimal to describe a human world where ‘vibe’ is as dispensable as a Facebook like and fact never more elusive in common conversation.

Revel in Your Rebels

I find myself in a heterotopia looking for a new wave to wash over me with a gentle rhythm and quiet I haven’t felt in years. Bitter wine has washed me down and the feeling of recognising the blood running through my veins is a feeling all too rare in a lust for wall of plastic toys. I look upon my floor, laden with trash and thrust dusty garments alike, put there with a child’s delighted eyes. I dream of riches in sweet memories I have deposited to gain intrigue and collect under my bed.

The fusion within my soul that my heart inclines me we all pulse toward, is tangible! We’re all blending and it’s beautiful, though those years we have drowned in damages and trauma in an attempt to deny the life we truly could live. We’ve bobbed like boeys in this water, dripping with sarcasm drinking in and away our comforts.

I find myself on a crest gazing toward what is to come, a period of frantic change to be sure; if nothing else.

It’s sure to be marked my shells on the beach miles of unknown souls like the memories under my bed. Truly. They will be alone with no being to listen. All those moments discarded as the mass of water pulls back, pinning us to our final motif.

While the crest lingers I scan my floor only guessing the routes that month old candy wrapper could have traveled to land there, stranded forgotten.

I begin to hear whispers from quiet birds this is to be our place, as memories stranded in a purgatory where there is no pain, no fulfillment, simply a moment when one day the wave surge on back, an insumountable coulda-water-shoulda-didn’t. While the waves call like sirens I seek not a comfortable crepuscular cocaine high nor do I wish to lay on the shore with the din of old Eden’s colliding, to surrender to a fate I did not create.
I think on countless momentoes momentarily lost, to be found deep in the linings lint.

We see our path ahead only through accomodation and the fusion within us to temper the waves to come. But no force nor any other entity could pull from suits a stop the bathing bloody flood
The cranes take their roost soon and the migration is cancelled we must choose fusion with ourselves and our planet, our only perfect planet! Or let ourselves was away with shells, dirty socks and candy wrappers in a drunken binge. Human sacrifices to our legacy, ones with no living heirs and few suitable successors.

We must have final and ultimate respect for fused memories and hope in accomodation and by no other means. Lest that accomodation be held at extortion till the price is too high bar some slim few in deboutched pleasures. While most sit in the jaws of hell’s firey urban jungle long before we are swept to sea the beauty of which we will never set eyes upon again.

But ahead plotting in futures in a peak of pleasures and miracle tonics we are yet to notice our coming pergatury. Remember the blood running through you.

The blood of slim miracles.

The blood of unspoken changes.

The blood of our mortality.

The blood from the wave that will smear or smooth us.

The blood of us.

The small, the powerful, the pointless, pointy headed, red, deaded, the living, the lifeless, the meaningful, the mental, sentimental, fundimental, unintellegable, surreal, women of steel, men of carefree zeal.

Remember the blood you inherited from the slimmest of chances to Beatles to pussy pimples. Remember the blood that rebels with loving hatred to the entropy that came before you could have ever enjoyed a breath. Remember the blood that will one day lay with you at the end, stilling with the last pumps of your heart. Remember the blood cycling within our view to be taken or shared in good faith. Remember the blood of us, rebels defiant to the impossible void and oncoming waves. Rebel accomodating the infinite who coulda-shoulda-and-did.


Photo Credits: Blythe Allan




Dart Hearts

Today you try once again to leg go of a crutch you’ve held for far too long. So write this in honour to the longest love of your life, she was there always no matter where your heart would roam, you would come back to her battered and she’d be all the more willing to make you happier, but not without the sharp dry wind that subtly reminds you.
‘You dun fucked up.’
She would seem like the perfect lover but she’ll deceive you, I suppose it’s only fair when you’ve felt her hair so many times while another is sitting right there, you felt her kiss and assumed no remiss, so it’s not surprising she’s cheating on you and with that other girl too.
Then she’s not so special sitting there on the mantel but she’s got her sting in you, now try go a second without asking when you’re gonna see her again.
Then you walking into an alley and she’s dallied out and you’re tongue tied, you won’t bide your time any longer.
‘I thought you were mine?’
But in the end were all trying to pleasure this mistress.

And we all have our little tricks just to make her wink in our vicinity and stroll up casually and plant a light hearted and headed kiss on us.

And for an instant we remember why started it, this cruel love affair, there everywhere you go. But you wake the next morning and you’ll tell her it’s over, that she’s bad for you throw her across the room, and beat her, but when she’s shoots you a stare and you’re right back there, lying in bed with her on top.
Subconsciously beg her to stop, but your hand drops limp while the other remains to hold her in cause you’re so scared to lose her.
What a fuckless comfort.

You push her of when she’s done; you tried your ways to make her more playful even though the lord our saviour already knows missionary is the only thing that fills thee. Blimey you got in this again.
‘fuck how did it happen again’
you see you’re friends who steered clear of her and you remember telling them, how much she soothes your worries and cares on through.

Now how they gaze at you so glued to the alleys and lanes, hell even windows just for a chance to dance with her again. She has MJ’s moves just not his voice.
Eventually you realise reality, you’re addicted to the she-devil, you’d admit it but all attempt to level yourself and keep your distance fail. Even when you work in your butts and spliffs and your move on has just begun she don’t just begone because she misses you and your clothes still smell like her, from all those late nights when she was the only one at the end lying in your arms, locking palms.
All those threesomes she was only so gleesome to bring you to, or bring her to, can’t really tell can you?
You’ll rinse your clothes a thousand times and your hair a thousand more, but smell you will, evermore.
Everybody gave you the warnings boy.
‘Don’t toy with her! She’s poison to your mental and toxic from the first kiss silly.’
But she seems to appear everywhere now just as her musk cloud that surrounds you has dissipated; you smell it on every second cunt…
‘Oh fuck it.’
‘You’re a fucking bitch, I thought we swore an oath at the start of this shit, you promised me I’d be cool, you forced me over boundary lines to many times and I’m sick in the stomach and sick of your shit.
Your breath is rancid anyway and while you’re fucking my friends you’re mind fucking me with glee because you know you got me, harhar Tartar.
Aren’t you funny you stupid gateway whore, the fuck do I pay you for?’
‘Why do you pay me so handsomely?’
‘Because deep down I’m still addicted to the way you bring me to my knees, praying, please make this train.’
When we kiss in the rain, nothing could ever be the same.
‘Sorry I’m leaving before you ruin my brain.’
‘I hope you do the same.’

👘 🍙 🐾

Splat Like Mustard…

The night was filled with cold air and vapour waves through the quiet morning streets. The moon danced vapid above them like their drunken uncle home early from a bender. The two spirits wafted on the breeze twisting themselves thin as the wind bore them down to the earth, the streets bellow them were a note away from silence, the church organs beckoning them down played a lone G held for some minutes. The pair broke for an instant before joining hands as their feet felt ground. She adorned an oversized green and mustard orange bomber jacket, many pockets for the effects she carried on her. Her opaque black tights bunched at her ankles at a pair of well-worn vintage hiking boots, mustard with red and forest laces. He wore the same torn blue jeans he always did when he visited the amber streets, with his white tee shirt tucked hurriedly into the high waist, his shoulder pouch tapped lightly against his lumber as his feet braced for landing, his eyes tired and black from watching his wrecked skate shoes.
This was the way the due prefer to travel light limber liberal. And with no languish of the longevity of their trip, nor the accompanying odor. No these two were nomads tougher than ash packed to a carbon film, yet so small and fragile in this amber meadow, they could be drowned out by any others.
For many of their previous travels there were no words passed in barely spoken exchanges between the pair, they simply walked up the centre of the bronze lit streets pausing in unison to admire the sound moment of magic they would pass. They floated through the slowed strobe of the street lights, all bright closing in around them as the train rattled them on toward the city, in it’s sickeningly clean bulbs.

The pair had no interest in the night. The journey from these far suburbs to this sleepy city had become a tradition one they’d never failed to make, one every visit.
She pulled her phone from her pocket and began texting their contact; he knew when the pair had a habit of arriving. Trusting this and her partners warning she resigned the phone to her top jacket pocket, replacing her fixation with a cigarette, which she lit before offering the pouch to him slumped next to her, jeans ripping at the knee from his lassefair stance.
Down the carriage a group of thugs and lasses were making fluro paint slashes into the pristine white walls.
This was the usual way when they came from the far suburbs, a few ill wasted youths who can’t see their luck.
The train slowed to a stop on a sleepy midnight platform, complete with the sleeping homeless women. The two drifted through the doors landing softly on the beige tiled platform. The incandescent lamps shone through them as they walked past the women asking for spare change.
Her phone vibrated in her mustard pocket.
“5 away”
“be there in 5 – 10 J”
“sweet, see you soon blood”

‘We’re good.’
Her voice was barely audible through the rattling incline of the tunnel and the rattled corrugated plastic.
She kept strolling past him as the train they rode from the dim suburbs shook the steel I beams above. A little dust swanned into the oncoming low voltage tube light’s rays, resting on the centre of her eyebrows. He made three steps toward her before raising his hand to thumb her third eye clean.
‘Thanks, I don’t know what came over me’ she whispered.
The pair stalked down the sub-rail concourse, her hands in her jacket pockets, and his strained behind his head. They walked through the gates, invisible,
just a couple of struggling bohemian ghosts seen frequenting only every worthwhile nook and cranny of the cityscape.
Her contact meant to meet them under the bridge; it was off to the right some six hundred metres. He walked ahead of her; he had a habit of drifting off to some unseen side of himself, by himself.

Same as they had always done he stepped onto the road, braced arms obstructing his view, before a thud and a thin stream of blood running over white tee shirt.
The moon kept watch on her still as the train pulled to the station, the same dusty I beams rattled with it’s passing, though this time no one to wiped her clean, only a contact took three steps to remedy the pain and remember the hallowed seconds prior, and watch were she puts her mustard.

🎍 🍙 👘 🌊