Dear Rupert

Every off decision I’ve made forms craters and cuts on my face. I wonder how your pores aren’t excavated. I wonder how your flaws don’t flip you in your bed.

I wonder how you reach ‘the current plan’ did you care? Did you know? Could you show me so? Where does your sole land and where does your soiled soul sleep? Does it weep? Is it a slug like monster that coils in a ball sucking the light from your eyes for sustinance? Behind those thick rimmed glasses can you make out anything but your singular goals? Do you not see our nooses or have you forgotten you have one too? The higher the tower you build in life, the further you fall limp and lifeless at the end falling of breakneck till you break your neck.

Do those glasses shield your eyes up there? Do you expect what you are given? Do you believe you deserve it? Do you think you earnt shit? Do you believe what you preach? do you want free speech? Can you accept your open concete? Have you realised your own demise? Do you know your history? Or is it just another sound mystery?

How can you remain so blissfully unaware betting with others lives without care?



The G Figure

In the name I find myself longing after there is only an echo, a little tinny voice that speaks back at me, mockingly in my own voice as if to say ‘that’s what you sound like.’ As I call the name of a deity that allows famine, with our free will as their only defence I hear only the wind reply. As I feel myself forgetting my own lessons. Their messengers sit cross legged in the trees passing my voice along with billions more; sheparding us toward it. The plees woft on, hurded with the others to their ears. While all we hear are echoes of our own voices.

Reminding us of what we sound like. Do we starve to our sorrow? Do we find shelter in that cheque, Do we feel parched for our possessions? Did Fyodor play a fickle fancy fiddle or did his riddle make God giggle


Blue Rosey Jazz

The instrument has a swing to it, but underneath the lilting rhythms it plays there is a sadness only music could conceal under such bombastic noise.

It’s the sadness of walking the streets in that blue late night air. It’s in the gazes one could shoot down alleys, knowing in one of them a addict is using up the last of their stash.
The tune of that brass curve will follow you round the bends of concrete and bitchumen, fluctuating it’s strength like the wind that sheers off your chipped shoulder on a gusty day.
It’ll saunter alone, drifting through the clouds as you ask a God on high to stop you from the terror you’re about to unleash.
One could sit transfixed in it’s melody passing off everyone, and all else, to pluck that sadness from it.
It sounds so beautiful when you’ve done no wrong.
Yet will make you clutch for the bottle while you lay in the clutches of regret.
It will make you scream for salvation from a nail bed of your own making, or cause you to relish a beating.
It brings those with hollow halos down to swig from lucifers chalice.
It makes turning the cheek possibl and will even call some to noir murder. It wil touch the fire in your belly till you bellow forth your true self or a flame so violent it will shred you raw.
At which point ‘where do you turn?’ With such beautiful self hatred in your palms ‘where do you turn?’
Do you project to the world a softly stoic rapsady? Or do you trumpet an inferno of rage, a jet fuel candle soul to leave a memory tarnished with no one.
With no one around who would care to correct the reputation of an arsonist.
For you see these are no vocals from an unknown sorrow, these floating clouds, these dingy alleys, these terrors or that fire.
This is not lucifers chalice, this is blue rosey Jazz.
This is my soul screaming at itself as the sax screeches at me
This is my holy horned self loathing.

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




Vile Rage

Boys will be boys will not be good enough. In the grips of violence and vile pretense. EThe Rock apes dance like ungrateful cannon fodder, the physic of wretched fools. Fancy it’s time to stop these crimes and quit the Nancy reactions like ‘It’s just a of fun’ till someone cops a flare to the face.

But really that is no care to me, I worry the more than insidious. That hideous tale boys tell their boys ‘winner is the only one that deserves respect and to all others neglect.’

No I don’t respect your victories. I don’t respect the misery you claim mirrors nothing you do. No I don’t respect any dialect that protects fools who remain foolish. I don’t accept differing opinions when it comes to this position, not when children are the victims. I don’t care for the size of your car’s Pistons. I don’t care for ‘no such thing as rape’ 

In truth I’d duck tape you down so you can’t make a sound, put a round to your head and break  your legs.

No, I have no mercy for your lack of curtiousy. Actually you deserve me the vulgar queen. Your sins aren’t yours, no simply your flaws, no clause of law will save you. You’re just a slave too. Pity where pity is due but litanies and mantras do not excuse you, I can match any vigor for belligerency. There is no such thing as a dress too short that you ought abuse.

‘So what’s up buttercup?’ Utter scum, I won’t stop at one, not done till no son is left dumb and no daughter ought to fear the smear of an XY peer.

Let’s be clear, rear Devils, I will level you.



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 clichΓ© 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.

πŸŽ‹ 🎍