Tuesday, April 04, 2017

Cumulative Asperitas Syndrome

We are trapped in a giant weather event. The cloud blankets and envelops us, we float about in a hazy dream pulling things from the air. Jars of marmalade, a cat skull. I dropped everything and it floated off to who knows where, but I hope someone is enjoying it. Most likely not. All those things that have been lost in the mist, never to return, never to be looked on by human eyes or those of jellyfish. All of our electrical eyes send off little sparks in the gloom.

I used to be obsessed with consuming stories about being the last person on-world. Who would you do things for if there was no-one else to see? Would you still do things? We have the opposite problem. Everyone to see, so many multitudes it is nu-thinkable. Anyway music and art can help in both of those situations. If you can sing yourself a song to calm yourself, it might calm someone else. We could all become oriented like organised ions, and vibrating like strings in the void. One can dream.

"My dog's got no body, legs, tail or head"
"How is it a dog?"
"Right, to be honest. No. It's not a dog. It's actually a sort of cloud"

Monday, March 20, 2017

The Gentleman Rapist

I went out on the old town. It was the same but not at all the same. Imagine being in a time capsule for 8 years where all you have is a white office cube and computer with the internet. Mayhap you don't have to imagine. How skewed would your vision of the outside world become? How much would you expect to be walking around in goomaps, landmarks conveniently signposted on your very retina, convenient arrow showing you which way to go, convenient directions for how to live, convenient degradation of your memory and brain processes until you were a passive jellyman? Jellyman, jellyman which wobble of the world will leave you flattened, it takes less of a wobble each time as you lose your structural integrity.

So I went out into the community because it's good for you! I wasn't scared, this was my old town! A little darker and smaller but with less people and more of them you know by name, even. Although it could be accused of me that my un-scaredness was (that particular night) of the chemical variety.
The taxi car was strange and too full of men so we got out early.
Blithely walking down my childhood street an hour after midnight, I was still convinced of the kindness of strangers. Was I? Perhaps unconcerned. Actually I have a very suspicious disposition usually. Chemicals are bad for you.

Oh silence! Are you the most terrifying because of all the possibilities you contain?
I glance behind me and a spectre is there.
'Oh!' I think. 'A silent fellow! What a very odd fellow you are. What do you mean by floating so silently at my back?' Out loud I said nothing, but my face said 'Wha?'
The spectre continuously adjusted his features in the dark which was speckled with darker bits. You could still tell that he was ghostly pale and his movable face was struggling with some sort of inner questioning.

He sort of stretched himself upwards and began to sidle in my direction, hands on his trouser buttons.
I glanced at his movable face and it had a grim set to it. What was he struggling with? It may have been some time.
"No THANKS" I blurted out, as I turned to perambulate quickly away!
From behind me floated the voice, quite pleasant, not grim or gurgly but light and airy! His voice at least was not tormented, but that of a polite dinner guest who has offered one some wine.
"Are you sure?" He said
"YUP" I affirmed as I turned in at my gate.
He said no more.
I raced up the garden path, somehow the keys were in my hand without the usual fumbling around bag that it takes for location. I quickly slipped in the front door and closed it behind me breathing a sigh of relative safety though the adrenaline continued to stream through my veins. Then I stood in the dark staring out the front window for a while, immobile.
The friendly policeman on the phone took the details with a sympathetic tone, but said there had been no other reports in the area and I heard no more.

I am back to thinking everyone is great. Why not? Most people are. Even the spectre probably had it's good qualities. I go out all the time, but am more vigilant about what is going on behind me.

I have dispensed with late night solo perambulations, though. Should I be able to feel safe doing so? Probably. Will that change things? Likely not. I am a tough looking woman, but maybe it's time for me and all my female friends to go to the Women Fighters Gym down the road.
Could be it's high time
for pacifists.



Friday, February 10, 2017

Oh God, Old Smoke

We've got all the
time
In the world
But not time
to let
this one
unfurl
Gotta get on to the
next thing
Gotta get on to the
next thing
Gotta be Everyone's
Everything
I make up stories for myself
That may or may not be true
That's why I write
in pencil
To rub one out


I'm not beautiful
Enough to be so
messed up
But open me up
Like a paper flower
And your eyes
will turn inside out
with wonder
Beauty
You can squeeze it
out of me
Squeeze it out of
me.
It's lips like sugar
slowed down
Spinning 45 at 33.
You moved so fast
you were always one day
In the Future
I move so slowly
I'm like one day
in the past
We sit in separate time tombs
Meditating on Anger 
Shove Me
Can't move without you
Banality
Brutality
Banality
Brutality
its lips
like sugar
slowed down
spinning
45
at
33

Monday, August 29, 2016




I phase out again, phase out again, phase out again
Give me that look that look that look
The one with the tears in your eyes and your pupils dilated to catch all the love they can before it is gone, and now it is gone and what will your pupils look at now, how will they react to the empty world your world without me, you in your house with only your things and all my things gone. Look at the TV, constrict. Look at the empty bed, constrict. Look at the quiet drum kit, constrict. Look at the still guitar, the dormant microphone, the minor keys, constrict.
Who will touch the downy hair on your gentle skull? It never hurt anyone. You only tried to be loved before it was too late and who could blame you for that?


Wednesday, August 10, 2016

Arch itecture, Arch aeology and Arch Nemeses

I became an archaeologist for a day.
I say a day but on the planet in question time is irrelevant. It was a long time but the blink of an eye. The fall of the Rottomanianesque Empire. A tardigrade's lifespan.
I found lost civilisations, lost them again.
I re-discovered the history of previous knowledge, but no-one learned anything. They just turned away saying it was all on the internet now so they were going to watch a video of a cat who is surprised to find that it has become the only sentient life form who is not obsessed with pankachoones. Me included, that sounds great I said, casting aside my shovel, let's watch that one. What's the other one here being recommended? I can't remember why I was her in the first place. Cbf

Saturday, July 09, 2016

Poetry, the refuge of hopelessly self-important and melodramatic ass-hats

Stamp my feet
Timing your beat
The drop beneath
Thirty thousand feet
Humanities feat
The pond elite
The Plans are now fully complete

Blueprints for your destruction
The diagram of your end
Scientific reduction
will send us round the bend
Send me back
To you
Spooky action from a far
The distance between us does not dictate
where we really are

Turbulence
Is fuel
Your innocence
We're dual
But sides
Of one flat earth
Take me back
To the birth
Of our lighted
Universe
I don't care for
The others
I care
We're lovers
Who are not
Above it
All
For nothing and
Nothing changes
Everything
You are
My axis and I
Ring
For you
Alone

I prefer your old stuff

Saturday, June 18, 2016

Surface Thought

Some reason things out visually. Not with dots I mean with shades and tones and gradations of fine colour.
Others reason things out with words.
Still others reason things out with maths.
(Then there are the ones who do it with violence, and the ones who lose their reason with love.)
Together the total makes up a giant super computer (Malfunctioning.). Deep thought.
Simulation.
What happens when the simulated start making their own simulations?
How many simulations deep are we, anyway?
Infinite simulations deep.
Can the simulation become more complex than the creator?
Yes.
Obviously the simulation can do so.
What are you thinking deep thought?
We don't exist.
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Thursday, February 11, 2016

Swamp Jingus

"What is good about living in a swamp?" He said
"Do you live in a swamp?" I said
"I live in Grey Lynn." he said. "You close your eyes, you know where you are."
 

Tuesday, February 09, 2016

Escape from Terra Nullius

'Stay' said the beautiful boy from bendigo
'Stay' said the disenfranchised Eleven Sons
'Stay' said the wayward Juggo Jim Jams
'Stay' siad the charcoal beaks of the crows
'Stay' said the well heeled baby bandits on bicycles
'Stay' said the sound artists, the smell artists and the beguiling oculus rifts
'Do what you like' said the black fellas
So I hitched up my voluminous skirts and jumped leg-long back over the ditch.
'Stay' said the ancestors and writers and poets of the lush island paradise.
I escaped the fire planet before its peak time for burning, and already the hills around Lady Laid were on fire.
"Ha ha aha ha ha ha ha!" Said the crows
"That will teach you to claim land on Terra Nullius"

Monday, December 28, 2015

The 'Art of It - What is missing

He went crazy from studying Art.
How do you navigate? All those ideas, the ideas, the philosophies, the stamp and grind of the mill, the money that is always such a problem, the dressing devised by those too well read to be able to participate in the conversation of the crowd. Talk down to. Pompousity incarnate.
Then the fucking internet. COMPOUND the problem. The world wide web, so obviously a trap. So obvious as to be invisible. So invisible as to be obvious.
He started talking nonsense, disconnected syllables, in congruent verbiage spilling from his mouth like spoiled LED wiring. Like a porpoise fashioned from spaghetti squash he swam against the current of sense.
That was it. There was no happy ending, no 'coming to his senses'. It was his senses that were the problem in the first place. There was only madness. Madness, and the void. At last, a definite direction.

Saturday, December 26, 2015

The nUMBERcRUNCHERS

The Numbacrobats.
The Accountantabats.
The Artsholes
The Acclowntants
The Rock bandits
The Roll your Onus
The Dark Sines
The Numerical Contortionists
The Cult de Sacks
The Mooney Bagus

She wished to be a David Lynchian kind of Rock Albatross. Associated with the Dark side but without getting her body wet. A spectator that appears to other less involved spectators as part of the general scene, a pattern on the wallpaper of the doghouse.
Gone are the days when one can make oodles of cashola out of the foibles of the artistically self obsessed, but she didn't let that stop her.
Armed with a cutting intellect and ability to recite pie backwards should the need arise she rose within the outside world as a mother figure swathed in white, in whose voluminous skirts one could hide when the taxman came a knocking.
They looked up to her and she fed on them, her delicate proboscis invisible to those who are used to dealing with less subtle vampires.

Turning from her darker instincts and to please family and appear intact, she married a kind of graceless bean counting troll. A scrooge in the most extreme sense of the word, he never smiled and only occasionally laughed. They issued forth two pixie-like daughters, displeasing the troll of course, he desired a son to teach his bean counting ways. But he doted on them in ways paternal that later were to become rigid and controlling. Oh, most terrifying when a pixie daughter begins to discover her powers as woman.

She installed him, irritability and all, in both of her palaces. She thought she could live, raise two daughters and toil at work with her hus-troll. She gave it a really good try and maybe it would have worked for a bit longer if she didn't install a bomb shell. Diana, the she-bitch of the antipodes.

In she came, all tight skirts clinging around her perfectly sized behind, silken singlets and golden skin shipped direct from Portugal. 'My daughter not as pretty as me, and doesn't even wear high heels!' she would titter in hearing of her daughter who she brought in to do the filing, and the troll would laugh uproariously. Soon they were teasing each other non stop, she about his rigidity, he showing his lack of imagination, about her lack of brains - of which she had plenty I assure you.

What do you think happened? I left in disgust too soon to find out. I hope it was something unexpected, but fear that people most often do exactly what is obvious.


Sunday, December 06, 2015

The Mathematicians

"I'm disappointed in Maths." Said the mathematician, unsolicited.
"Why?" I quavered
"I thought it would provide some definite answers about things."
I stared stonily at my pie. She continued, despite my negative supponse.

"One plus three equals four. So simple. So complete. but I'm here to tell you I've been to the top of the hill. I've seen the event horizon and there is no end to it. There are no answers. It just keeps going.

Not only that, but it keeps going in all directions. In all possible directions and also in the three spacial dimensions and in time.

I nodded sagely.

"Plusly", she said, "In every way that is conceivable, and not conceivable."

"There are no answers, and even the origami unicorn is both infinite, and

doesn't exist."

That may be true. I said. Lets find out

And flipped a coin.

It always is tails.

Back to the beginning then, I guess. Or is it?




Thursday, December 03, 2015

What is your prime directive?

I'm here to shuck.

Friday, November 13, 2015


In her blistering love
Of the Sistine Ceiling
She wasn't listening to you
She was feeling a feeling
And the feeling was true

In her wuthering heart
A flutter was forming
Like a word or a feeling
Filled with impotent longing
But her paint was congealing

Thursday, November 12, 2015

Sanctimoniousness, said the Priest

I really like myself. All dicks do. I've had a great time living and I'm excited to die. Everyone else is excited for that day too. Become atoms and energy in the universe of my dick and balls. Visit the planets of farts in billions of years _ when the earth sighs from boredom and releases us all from it's ass. Pain in your anus is a gift. What about all the flecks of shit in between? And shades of grey and gold and piss? Sadness. Nausea. Rain. Sunshines from my vangelis. Mundanity. Sanctimoniousness.
Sanctimoniousness said the Priest.

Friday, June 05, 2015

Magicians

Last night Eleven Sons and I again sallied forth .
I was obliged to visit A mAGICIANS
's Theatre to view an electro synthesizer duo with a dial telephone. Retro style.
When we arrived at the theatre it wasn't there.
Then we weren't there.
Then, there we were, arriving at thetheatre. We were alone.
A depressed man appeared, lying face down on a bar table, sitting cheek down on a bar stool.
'Are you the magician?' we asked but he only said 'Umph'.
'Poof'! Went the air and where?
we were before stood a shy man smiling slyly.
'What do you have in the way of interesting beer?' I said rudely without waiting for an abracadabra.
'Ahh' he said. I have this chilli beer. Now where is it? He enquired.
What is dark? I asked
'The original Budweiser was dark. he said.
I only drink German. I said and handed over the usual cool million.

Later or was it just at that moment, the dead man came to sudden life and played the most intensely beautiful organ poetry I have ever heard, then slumped, dead again.
The magician interrupted to say that he had just put the kettle on, if anyone would like a cup of tea.
a rabbit appeared.
A puff of dry ice surrounded me and Eleven Sons looked over
'Is that smoke?' he asked
'Yeah,' I said, 'I'm on fire.'
'Oh'. he said and went back to watching the magician who was squashing tiny goblins with his thumb.

Sometimes I wonder if my son cares if I live or die.

I am now the magician's assistant, and will be sawn in half every night, just to spite my face.

Thursday, May 28, 2015

Space in a matchbox

"I am a Pimp. And Pimps don't commit suicide" - Jericho Kane

I went to Space again today.

Isn't it funny that apart from when we are freed from these fleshy prisons, the only way we get to go to SPACE is by donning a tiny helmet and fitting ourselves into a tyre inner tube inside a tin can surrounded by magnets?

Space technology is still so stuck in the past. It's like exploring the galaxies in a horse and trap. At least the technology (for lack of a better word) of our souls enable us to make the proper space exploration missions when released from the serious matter.
But pimps don't go early.

The space nurse was unimpressed with my bravery and refused to be a part of the mission when I had to abort and re-calibrate due to my growing claustrophobia.

The assistant in charge of the magnets was a John Knox, and was much better, as all John Knoxes usually are. I asked him if he knew any parties.

"I know parties the world over" He said
"I once did magnet tricks for michael jackson"
"Michael once told me not to blame it on the moonlight" I commiserated. But what the bloody hell else am I going to blame it on?

It turned out he had a seventies glitch and had to pipe walking on sunshine and please mrs robinson into my ears as calming tactics, not realising the latter was released 1968. Please Mrs Robinson, let an honest wo mango free.

I told him he should include 'Magnet and Steel' but he just looked at me blankly. "Because you know, the magnets?" I said and pointed to the ship. He gave a laugh that was like an albino sparrow dying of old age.

Why the authorititties don't understand that real anarchy is so much more calming than forced jollity, I will never understand.

Thursday, April 30, 2015

I

If our cells are constantly dying and being re-born, could the 'I' that is thinking I am I right now, be a different 'I' from the one who thought I was I five minutes ago? Is every particle in the universe having a go at being human then going on to become a table and then part of Saturn and then part of the dog star?
And then around again.
Is the universe fluid?

Em Pathetic

Even empathy is just us projecting our own feelings on to someone else and thinking that must be how they feel.
When you love someone you really love an aspect of yourself. Or something they made you see that you haven't discovered yet. About yourself.
Who is truly outward looking?
Hate may be pure.


Thursday, April 02, 2015

A fine whine

Here is some whining for you.
There is life.
We are all experiencing it, for a little while.
I filter it through my experience and offer it to you couched in English words arranged in a certain order so as to convey my meaning,
a meaning which means different things to every observer.
What does this mean?
There are such an incomprehensibly large number of humans in the world now that one individual's experience of life must be less than meaningless, unimportant, and their whining even less so. Which is why I write this for myself to read, as I am my own universe. Sux
Navelgaze Maximus.
And, to boot, the same exact thoughts as every other mildly stupid and numb person over time.
x

Plastic Stars

I think it was when I went to IKEA that my life fell apart and I realised that I was in the wrong time, in the wrong place, and on the wrong planet. Do people really like to be herded like sylvanian family rats through a maze of kit set bedside tables, kit set bookshelves, kit set suggestions for how to live, and kit set robot children? Slotted in to a filing system, stamped with a number and left to decompose in convenient waste disposal system? Herded onto trains like sterile white cubes, which then drive off cliffs into a chemical soup?
It can't be just me that wants to spend the rest of time sitting in a glade, looking at a tree, and never, never reproduce. Why? Ugh, humanity.
We are the stars made conscious.

Saturday, August 02, 2014

Saturday 4 August 2012

The decontaminated beanstalk woman had two pussies, both black, both french. Les Chats Noires. She rustled her leaves and stretched way up into the sky.
"So many men have tried to climb these branches." she shot a bright look at Denton Horsehat, but his chin was too strong, like the prow of a great ship, and it glanced off the side.
"There's gold in my face you know." she said,
"Fee Fi Fo Fum."
"I have a friend, living in France, who has married a trillionaire beans magnate."

Irritated by his own success at everything, Denton Horsehat rounded on me.
"Watching you live your life is like watching a hamster run around inside a wheel." he said.
"Thanks!" I cried, running past him.
"It's true that I was starting to enjoy your company, but now I'm freeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!"


Wednesday, August 01, 2012

Pastoral Scene

"I'm Sick!"
Cried the Decontaminated Beanstalk Woman, her round face beaming with sunshine rays.
"But do you really believe the lies you are fed by the nutritionists?" asked Denton Horsehat, his good genes winking in the moonlight.
An army of nutritionists fell off a nearby hill.
"Leading questions." I mentioned.
"Are you free associating again?" asked Denton witheringly
I made cow eyes at him and went back to grazing.
DBW stalked through the tall grass and over the hill.

Thursday, March 08, 2012

Poly-easter

Polyester dresses everywhere, bursting at the seams, straining over rolls of flesh, buttons bursting.


Bold Bright Brassy patterns flattering slatterns.



Friday, October 07, 2011

The Dryness Of Things

The desert planet is filled with bureaucrats. They reside in stacks of little square houses in the desert with their forms. The forms must be completed. You won't get away with it. With what? I can't think what. There is no imagination here.

Even when it turns cold and rainy it is still a desert. I am like a sponge that has dried up in the desert sun. Bureaucrats do not approve of sponging. Or imagination.

They sweat tiny pixels as they attempt to squash me into the shape of a cube, but they can't because I have dried into the shape of a surprised starfish.

I'm going to call the wet madness in.




.

Sunday, April 10, 2011

Replicate & Repeat

The days go in and out again, it gets colder. I am cocooned in my office world with it's artificial light and endless cups of tea, printer cartridge for a pillow. More often than not my mind and I adventure through the world of google maps. But when my body goes my mind will be off elsewhere! After you have read this I will give you my Olympic cash receipt with extra carbon. Outside, I can hear the knock knock of builders building more prisms. Where is my origami unicorn to ride away on ?

Sunday, January 09, 2011

Pol Pot & the High Horse

Last night I set out on a solo space mission through the rain speckled night. Along the way I met the orange milk man, who was abroad with the Cat lady of Mer Sea. She really is the loveliest of Cat ladies. She was surrounded by a flotilla of Sea Cats who stared at me with their googly-eyes. It seems every sea cat I see out now is all googly.

Also eventually in attendance was that old chestnut Eleven Sons. Actually he is still quite a young chestnut, he will always be young compared to me. Eleven Sons is currently addicted to travelling through alternate realities, which I must admit I am quite partial to myself. This meant his mind was not quite all there in his body, though it was enough that we could sniff to each other behind our hands at the things we saw in the night time. The things were many we noticed, as our high horse whinnied with delight.

We were there to see a musical act. The Cambodian Space Project they are called and were splendid.
1960's Cambodian rock n rollers had a uniquely amazing sound. After Cambodia was nonsensically bombed by the USA Cambodian musicians were systematically targeted and killed by the order of Pol Pot and the Khmer Rouge. One third of the population of Cambodia was wiped out.

This is why Eleven Sons and I prefer the alternate reality.

Thursday, December 09, 2010

Ulysses

Man goes to funeral, buys soap. By James Joyce.

Tuesday, September 08, 2009

Love

That Annabeale is a strange person.

Yes. She is quirky.

I can see where that Seenn got his mannerisms..

Mmmm, but maybe she got them off of him you never know.

Yre, you never know.

We've taken mannerisms from eachother..

Wha? mmmm ? Maybe you've taken mannerisms from ME..

You haven't taken any mannerisms from me then?

"Ha! Maybe.. If I wanned to be a living doll cube face.."

.

Thursday, July 30, 2009

Bird gel

There is a cat who lives here called Bird gel.
I think it is a wishful thinking sort of name like as though he is a big bird slaying type of cat . No. He is much more likely to see the birds and say "Hey mate, got any jellymeat?"
Tonight he saw me when I got home and was so excited because he had no food and his mistress wasn't home to feed him that he hi-fived me. He is full of contradictions. I like him.

Friday, July 24, 2009

the cyborg shuffle

It hasn't been long that I have owned for myself a personal body-bourne music device for the bored generation.
I like it. One of the great pleasures of my day has become the time when I get to perambulate down hill and dale on my lonesome, listening to whichever musical concoction befits my mood of the moment.

I have noticed an odd thing though. When under the influence of my musicular device I find it very difficult to keep a straight face. I see all the Thomasinas, Dicks and Henriettas with their white wires hanging from their various ear-holes, and they are stony faced, serious, inscrutable. I get my head plugged in and I can't contain my enthusiasm, I start to laugh or cry, my body parts flail about, a good drumbeat incites a riot in my joints, I can't stop it. I dance off down the avenues with a joy in my heart that I cannot contain. Sometimes I yell out words like a delirious tourette's suffragette. How are they so collected?

Saturday, July 11, 2009

Ice get around

The ice planet should be invigorating but the days go in and out, in out, in out, in out here just the same as everywhere else.

I have to take a break from lying down, so I roll sometimes down the highway, but end up just winding myself up again, tightly and on an ice planet once you're rolling it's difficult to stop. I see the silver clouds flash past once a second, they are beautiful but remote. How can I become part of that wafty etherealness, being seen and admired by everyone, but caring not? I care not.
This is what one should want, but currently I am twelve eigths. I have twelve eggs between my twenty-four thighs, but every day a new sun thrusts in and spreads yolk all over my quivering moon.

My current assignment is or should be all about relaxing, something which I have a doctorate in, but I've seldom seen any such stressed out pull their hair out teeth fall out individuals as those in charge of the cushions. Admittedly ice cushions may be more of an exciter than a soporific.

I send giant bananas falling through space in search of a warm planet.