Plague Doctor

Intelligence is hard; moreover, it’s a weak gene. There’s not just recessive nature to it, it’s an often, and quietly despised virtue. Regularly people seem to associate it with snobbery; I can’t deny the association exists. Through it peculiar that people imagine this as the only virtue that is susceptible. To quote a larrikin comedian who optimizes my point
‘I would take a nice idiot over a smart ass-hole any day of fucking the week, ladies and gentlemen.’
True; but what of the idiotic ass-hole or the kind hearted intelligentsia?
In a limited experience smart people aren’t always, exactly intelligent, more often these people we believe are clever cats could tell you tomes about their profession, while being lost in any words that they consider pointless, beneath them, or uninteresting seeing them as the dialect of fools. These are the ‘smart ass-holes’
I prefer people who are ‘sharp,’ willing to entertain thoughts that seem redundant in efforts of expanding their perspective. This is the intelligence that is hard; the kind that requires a will to learn. The kind of intelligence that is recessive. That is kind that Loral’s cannot be rested on. It is the kind that prizes being wrong as a necessary part of being right.
Speaking from power when you can and relinquishing it when you must learn.


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.

Pink Glaze :gM Sneak Peak

Beacons flag at a lit sky over the abstract symbol of production. Something gained for everything lost. John: ‘there are some people who are productive with their days.’ Magusto: ‘How do they get up this early on a Sunday morning?’ Slumping back onto the rail of the skate park.

Lost track of time, so it goes. With all our lives promised as day time creatures, we are restless. Asleep in the dim morning is the instinct of insects night the time of limited prospects and low regard for objects, pro’s suggest our early morning counter parts are due in their success but the dew is more than water for the eyes of early risers. It’s quenches the thrist of those who have been awake since dawn dawned the night before. Lost track of light, so it goes.

As the sky rises seems to give the only honest interactions between productive and wastrels. Smiles from dog walkers to bicycle riding hooligans, iris’ stretched, wired as they are. The one with the pooch may even turn home to tell their still waking husband of the wonder they saw of such early morning risers in such young faces! Though they didn’t see the bottle of bourbon stashed near that gum tree. No those details slip by anyone who has seen total black the night before… And is that a joint or a cigarette petard to their lips?

For everything gained something is lost, lost wonder, for them who couldn’t see the light through light thoughted routine, The streams of the sun through lastnight’s clouds or the inner fury to keep thrashed eyes open. Gained is that stability of thinking we’re probably layabouts about to fall of the rails, the plans of which their corporate emails entail. But always concrete cathedrals paile to a stars holy grail. Title all so fickle in the morning light. Nature has a prickly sense of justice, patience to match. While others catch rest the best will see no than sleep upon death. Twice as many breaths and a stretch. Nails hardened at this and hair grows long.

Skin rubbed raw and claws rake faces that have endure beats and bludgeons to stay trudging on.

The insects instincts and reactions strain outward from high eyes, as euphoria fades to splayed soul, in love with all. Small trash matching clutching schedules residual value

I’m telling, you know little of sleeping rough, drivel, no bluff neither do we. But those staining tired eyes shed light on plights they feel dry toward. Only difference is the shades. Only difference is our parents made it, while they fade with no fresh pink glaze.

That’s probably what they think it’s why we’re doing this. So what can we do but keep sleepless nights contemplating corporate slights, for insects with no swarm aren’t long warm. Yet their utopia is out dystopia reality, ignorance is a privilege see we got the choice so did you, they choose both of two for the other to suffer the later. For everything gained something is lost.

But we the dreamless dream of heterotopia the beautifully plain middle ground that contains in spaces our fires glazed pink from just. letting. go. 

Truely rose coloured even when we remove or sunglasses


Still Life With No View

The streets, the pavement, both damp from lastnight’s rain, the dreary glum hanging off the grey sky bears upon the avenues and rail carred main roads.

The day begins slowly while walking the sidewalk. The movement of pedestrians is drowned out by the light patter of rain drops on plastic umbrellas.

People move between shop fronts quickly and wait for the perfect moment to leap puddles.

Cats lay immobile in eccentric shop keepers windows lazy to the outside world. Evening falls away from the day light slowly in this rain and leaf litter decays slowly in oil slicked streets.

Little moments seem framed by the clay tile rooves and grey skies, ones that make the quiet daytime seem only more still.

The first trains sway and rattle past stations, glistening, as the sun cracks letting the first light of the day stream through the clouds.

The plants become vivid bright against dull grey rain curtain, people gather under the covers of the the station, stragglers left to huddle under their umbrellas whipping phones with shivering didgets of purple palms.

The city and it’s residents blend together In the full weather navy suits indistinguishable from the reflective glass, grey suits seeming to flatten into the concrete foot paths.

Ties hang like liked status from executives necks in cafes where hospo workers play subservient with a head full of speed from the night before.

Only places that seem full are inside where the wet can’t reach.
Strange how few of us pray for rain anymore.

We see our cracked screens vulnerable as children.

While few venture into the streets and cleansing rain, the teams are packed.

Few make the adventure into the street but the odd eccentric who couldn’t hold onto the board as the 60’s wave crashed.

‘Mick Kilkavile you killed me for 37 years, I’m gonna kill you, I’m gonna shoot first before he kills me, Mick Kilkavile Mick Kilkavile.’

A transient yells at passers by, his face drenched in rain, yelling at anyone who will listen. The world gets still in the rain, stories like who will kill Mick Kilkavile can be heard.

My favourite weather is rain 


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





I have a strange envisaged dream, it’s in the smallest of suitcases at the height of excitement. The world a tantalizing matter of hours away, the hotel rooms filling and fast, the mad dash for a taxi cab at some ghastly hour when every thought of home is put aside for the trip and the thrill of arrival.
In those late sleepy times I see myself clutching a whiskey or similar night time beverage, the warmth from the aroma of it fills my nostrils and calms me more than the mini sized comforts of a hotel room ever could.
This is truly free time. quiet ‘free time’ for a few hours at least the quits it’s onslaught of ideas on how to kill time, stops, and pulls the trigger. Here the electronic ring before the casing echoes off the floor, there is a moment of serenity.

Another 5 hours and $25 dollars pass and in the dream I’m heading toward a side of the world I have only seen through slighted memorabilia and misunderstood charms. So I want the truth, seems a natural cliché a writer capturing the details of a culture so other that it is a fantasy to which the other them-self is deluded.

But details are the devils work, no in this echoing free time I capture the unseen vibe and fumbling of people within their skin; Cool cats, too nimble for the eyes of normal.
While tired eyes mingle with the next dream, I sit drinking from the glass till either chapter or the booze finishes me off for the night.

🎋 🎍

Lights in the Dark

See how easily it takes over friends? The numbness and rabble of everyday news tragedy and immoral breaches to anyone considered normal. With all these pains what is normal? Should I wish to break through the standard parables and glimpse a few dimensions higher, maybe just to feel the weight of it. The energetic movement and co-ordination that came from placing this beautiful universe into action with a will and a wave of the hand, that these tragedies happen for so little is sickly.

But in a moment of recognition, realizing all you had to do was move your finger to the left and the world unfoldeth hundredfold differently, is that not a light to balance the spires of dark we hear from the horizon.