Thursday, July 30, 2009

Visions of Kate Blanchett

Amelia, when asked "Was it awesome, your stay in Australia?"
Said, "Sort of, but short, this land must be God's favourite failure
I left after finding out that even here, even here there is daily a
Dawn, I could just as well choose
Vancouver or the Ivory Coast"
I said "Yes, but in places like those
There are no kangaroos."
A Maya with gloves, once said "Love is like cacao beans"
Well, these visions of Johanna are the darkest pralines.

4, 3, 2, 1 - Go out fighting

embracing digitoxin - with a APC power streak
fuck me dead, freestyling in bed.

little boy blue gotta have that beat
gotta roll gotta dance gotta move his feet
tongue hate the word, lash a whip breaker
but he call hisself a raver
and little girl pink was an ex princess
pretty glow pretty shoes pretty puke
on her pretty pink dress
pretty slow to recognise
the pipez in his eyes
but the beat in his heart
beat true
so little boy blue and the pink princess
danced alone in a warehouse despite the mess
of a hundred fucked kids of the night
rain, hail snow sleet shine and glow
emotions so real smoke wet and smoke slow
gotta move with the flow
roll with the blows like yo' creased with crisco
take you pedal off the floor, you ain't got to go
and just chill to the sound of the L-F-O
wrapped/rapt by the claws that grab
snap your fingers, clap your hands
never surrender to the man's demands
cos the man make money money
never give it to the woman
gotta make you love me, honey
and i gotta keep on trippin

these fools think my skill is slippin.

Tuesday, July 28, 2009

don't play me fo a sucker, bro you know i'm hustler

to the kids and the players
to Mixtapes and arm robbin cassettes:

Dope told me Weed was a crack fiend
but Crack told me Dope was a base head
Hi-hats told police he was just a soldier
he did what the Bass said
The Snare and the Kick didn't make it out alive
The Sample made it out with some money but he died in the ride
The 808 got caught wit some work (He ain't never comin' home)
So the MPC's and the MP3's is fightin over his turf

word - synth war, get up in it? bounce. toke. reverb, redux

revisit the streets, brotha.

Sometimes I disgust even myself.

I just spent an hour jacking off to girls getting raped by dogs.


Tomorrow I shall seek professional help.

Professional help with getting my own trained rape attack dog!

Sunday, July 26, 2009


for breakfast this morning I had three cigarettes and a couple lines of ritalin, then puked blood for a while and washed it down with a red bull.

i fucking hate my life, but I wouldn't have it any other way.

What? you wanted something warm and cuddling?

well, you should have hired someone else to do it then, shouldn't you? I told you to get an actor or a singer or someone else with mental problems. Fuck all of you.

Every day since I've been back in this endless shithole has been like being repeatedly hit over the head with a ball-peen hammer. Every single day, I wake up in the morning and can feel my brain swelling, bulging up against the thin parts of my skull.

If I look in the mirror really closely, I can see where my skin gets sucked in through the tiny cracks in my skull.

One day, big chunks of my head are going to burst off and blood and poison will geyser out of my skull into your faces and you'll all choke on my bile and exploded brain-meat.

Before I am done here, you will all taste my brain meat.

Get off me, you dogfuckers. I'm on a roll, no god dammit don't take away my inhaler you bastard


anyway, an anecdote that may or may not have occured in this reality.

I was in new south wales for a week or so, but by the time I got back, it was like an entire epoch had come and gone.

there are whole chunks of ambient culture I do not recognise.

Yesterday, for instance, a guy offered me a hit of this funky new designer psychomimetic called 'alter'. I didn't have time to run it through the NMR, the marquis gave an innocuous enough result and it seemed optically pure.

No fucker told me that the drug induces a temporary bout of multiple personality disorder.

So I spent ninety minutes completely naked in the cafe/club area of northbridge with my brain trapped in the death grip of Einarr, a syphilis-maddened norse tribal lawman from a circa-1450 scandenevian ghetto.

No, let's get specific here. I spent ninety minutes dispensing ancient wisdom and savage law up and down the street, the alter only wearing off after I brutally beat a ten year old boy. He had been pissing in his little sister's pram while mommy was off down the alleyway buying a touch of discreet oral sex from an out-of-work voice actor named Giles.

These unemployed voice actors gone bad are the worst. When they're not whoring on streetcorners, or trying to look menacing as they loiter around the drama sections of second-hand bookstores, they form gangs that relentlessly try to attach themselves to stylish homosexuals and break all the noise laws by bitching about pretty girls and people with talent.

The bastards.

My MPD faltered just as I was about to dispense viking justice to Gile's tender bits. I settled for branding him and the woman, kicking the ten year old into passing traffic and putting the little girl up for adoption as my only daughter.

You have no idea how much I hate it here.

crank ramble

heart of gold, white line fever
rack it up then crack your back
business cards and fifties either
track your arms, the skin popped black

late night highways and the crystal palace
glass onion and the iron dart
winter dawn and the red wine chalice
handful of valium for the end of the start.

meth benders are good for the soul.

lady Gonzo, wherforeart thou lady gonzo?

she had eyes the colour of 6AM streetlamps in winter
and hand-rolled her cigarettes
shared my love for cheap red wine
and chinese amphetamine

i met her in a bar in Santiago
she was drinking gin and lemon
with a mescal chaser -
we talked of huxley and stevie wonder

we stepped outside to share a cigarette
and briefly - a kiss,
warm and dry like the gin
and never quite enough, like the mescal

then she was gone
and only once I hailed a taxi
to take me back to my hotel
did I realise

that fucking bitch had stolen my lighter!

Wednesday, July 22, 2009

the scratching in the walls

spinnegeist, call me-
click clack, paperback
paperbark? watch them scurry in the dark
peel back the shadows and the skin
i wonder what they're hiding in?
an ever present itch to scratch
the cobwebs in the corner
gutters over run with legs
a tangled joke of order

look left, look right
see them flashing in the night
see the running, clutching claws
that grab and tear and bind
see the spider on the moors
that spin darkness in my mind

smoking is onf those things you do when you hate yourself

like skateboarding, or joining the army.

I like to think of my life as a grand superhighway, suspended in space, coursing through reality.

And I need the extra tar to fill in the potholes and bumps every one of you shitheels puts in my way.

north korea will never nuke the US, quit bitching

Even if they managed to get a couple of missiles off, odds are they would be intercepted by the united state's ridiculous anti-missile budget

like, obama would stand on the giant pile of money they invested in missile defence

and swat nukes out of the sky with a club made of $100 bills.

and about fifteen seconds later korea would be converted to a fine puddle of radiactive glass and ash while every member of the united state's armed forces masturbated to the sight of a midnight sunrise over the ocean and the smell of the world's biggest Korean barbecue restaurant opening on the trans-asian shelf.

if Kim Jong Il actually gave the order to FIRE ZE MISSILES, one of his top generals would be like "What the fuck? The US is going to annihilate us. I enjoy beating up faggots and yoga teachers and molesting my kids WAYYYY too much to let this troll baby get us all killed' and fucking bust a cap in his ass.

and that's why nuclear profileration works. MAD, motherfuckers.

Monday, July 20, 2009


I'm trying to put together a new project, combining elements of psytrance, industrial, dubstep and hip hop for a really neo-urban cybergrime vibe.

I'm looking for anyone who's had experience writing these genres to help me out - I'm not a terribly competent producer, much better DJ. I have Ableton 7, Reason, and a handful of other bits and bobs. You can hear some of my work on my myspace.

Also, I'll be needing a decent MC.


and then the sun shone from below

I was down to my very last song
Didn’t even know which way to go
Couldn’t believe that this was happening
I said God please don’t put me back
I didn’t even see there was blood on the tracks
I was still compromising

And then the rain came and the sun went down below
And the city arose from the water it was off the shore
And I realized what was happening; I had to pay the toll
It’s true that you lose your mind when you gain control

But I was a fool to think I could play this game with you
Cause I was born to walk this higher road forever
There’s no understanding all the things that people do

Cause when this higher road comes down we'll be born together
I said
When this higher road comes down we'll be born forever

I was down to my very last friend
I was on highway seven again
Tell me why it’s so hard to stay
In your place in the arms of the one
Seems I got to close to the sun
I was burning
Burning, burning burning…

And then the rain came and the sun went down below
And the city arose from the water and the water flowed
And then I realized what was happening; You have to pay the toll
It’s true that you gain your soul when you lose control

Fool to think I could play this game with you
Cause I was born to walk this higher road forever
See there’s no understanding all the things that people do

But when this higher road comes down we'll be born together
I said
When this higher road comes down we'll be born forever

At night I toss and turn, cause it seems that I haven’t learned
That the more that you fight and the more that you try
That’s the way that you making the storm
If I had my way, I would bring you back to stay
But you’re gone
All I got is the crown that your wore
Is the crown that you wore

chaos reflection

I’m at a hot creep show
Same old thing on the radio
Who’s that coming ‘round
Suffering popularity breakdown

I think it’s funny that
That I got harassed when I’m walking the streets
Walking down streets, walking down paths
With the kids in the back way I said

If you can’t dance to this it doesn’t matter
If you can’t dance to this it doesn’t matter

I was running around with my head in the sand
Looking for a pupil in a new fan
Told me before, baby move to your own dance
Stay off the highway...

Evil twin of fantasy

Lightning in the mirror - the ulcer on your tongue that makes you weep when you speak

silence overwhelms and static rebels

i can empty your heart

and fill your mind.

I stand on the precipice of revolution - Renewal, re-up. ecognise the problems and rebuild the city

greet the new scum with open arms and empty pockets

because it's all about the beat. feel the beat, dance to the beat, don't get caught up in the game

Life's a fuckin' party, don'tchaknow. Step over the threshold, it's more fun in here - The music is loud, the lights are bright and the cigarettes never end.

on the ground, progam flies

wet seranades, who is right? empty eyes, what's in your mind?

Sunday, July 19, 2009

why do I sabotage everything I love?

[warning - contains explicit details on my ridiculous series of personal failures I jokingly call my love life. if you don't care or don't want to know, don't read it. but I have to write it.]

so right when i thought I really might be connecting with belle, when we might be about to get somewhere

i blow it by flirting with this other chick over sms for no real reason other then to pass the time.

and then because I'm feeling like complete shit over the situation
i explain it to both the best and worst person to explain it to - the personw ho has always been straight with me and knows who i am and what i need, but also the person who would probably stand to be the most hurt by hearing about me trying to date someone other then her and then hurting them along the way anyway

so i'm a fucking idiot, basically.

but i'm trying to fix things

i wanted to talk to belle, tell her in person how I felt instead of on the phone, or on msn. look into her eyes and explain everything. i've been back in the city for maybe two hours, just got home from the airport and I head over to hers to see her. I told her why I wanted to see her, she said yeah, i could come over.

i get there and she's sitting on the couch holding hands with rory. She barely says a word to me, except for 20 minutes later, when I tell her I'm going home (because I know if i stay any longer I'm either going to burst into tears or break someone's wrist, probably my own) she says 'it was nice to see you again'.

This is maybe two or three days after she was telling me how she wished I'd never gone away, how much she missed me, how much she cared for me.

i don't know why its turning out this way but it's NOT how it was supposed to happen. Did she say I should come over so i could feel how much it hurts to see someone you want to be with, with someone else? did she just not have the heart to tell me to stay home? did she not care?

one of the biggest points that came out of my acid catharsis at the last doof was the following:

Life's a party. Fucking relax. If you try and control everything you'll just mess it all up. Go with the flow and things will sort themselves out

I forgot that. I was trying to control things.

I can't force her to want to be with me. but when she says she does?

i just don't know how to take all of this. i left her place and texted her saying i didn't want to be a part of her life because she obviously didn't want me in it either

an d then a couple hours later texted her saying that when she wanted me in her life I'd be there for her.

i'm pathetic. i keep reacting. never planning, never thinking ahead. just living in the moment. i can't stop this cycle, it's like I'm running down a hill, and only just barely managing to keep my feet underneath me

i need to slow down, take a step back.

i don't want to pressure her into trying to make a decision when she's clearly not ready

i just feel like...

it's not like she's sitting in the middle trying to choose between me and rory. it's more like rory has come back into her life, picked up where he left off and she's trying to decide whether to leave him for me or not. and if I don't make my presence known, she'll never want to take the hard way out because she's happy now

but she won't be happy forever

people never change, and if they get back together, he will hurt her again

i just want to make her happy.

but if that means stepping back until she's learnt another lesson then maybe that's what it will take.

belle, if you read this... I just want you to think about what roads lie ahead of you

nobody deserves to be alone. but just because you're not with me doesn't mean you have to be with him. if you don't want to be with me, say so. but don't tell me one thing then do another. that just hurts, and I don't deserve that.

you told me you've never met any guy who actually expresses his feelings as well as I do.

so why do you have so much trouble believing me when i tell you you're beautiful?

you're unique, beautiful and breathtaking. you are like no other person i've ever met and you deserve the world.

I wanted to be the guy that could give it to you. If I'm not, then that's my problem...

but do you really think he's what you need? he's what you want - security, familiarity, an enigma that you know by touch and by smell... But what makes you happy now is only going to hurt more later

I can't predict the future. And I can't say I'll be there for you if or when he hurts you again

all i can say is that I'm here now

and i'm going to leave you alone for as long as it takes for me to get over you or you to get over rory.

but I know which one you want to happen

because you've told me you want it.

you don't give yourself enough credit, doll. You're stronger then just rolling over and taking the easy way out.

i just wish you could see that like I do.

so yeah, that's it I suppose. I'm going to leave you to your world because I'm clearly not helping you make up your mind by forcing my way into it. If you ever actually want to speak to me again, I'll be waiting, though.


Saturday, July 18, 2009

[chapter 02]

I finished the cigarette where I stood, contemplating the past few minutes and wondering what I was about to let myself in for. I walked back over to my desk and sat back down in the chair, letting myself relax into the well-worn grooves as I planned my first move. The picture sat a few inches away from my right hand, but before I went for it, I pulled open one of the drawers – I rifled through it, fingers pushing aside a spare phone, a snubnose 3mm H&K gauss pistol and a full magazine for the same. I found the G-reader lurking at the back and pulled it out, flipping open the little plastic cover on the gelpad omnisensor. I picked up the credit chit carefully by the edges and placed it on the sensor pad, closing the cover and then tapping on the LCD display while I waited for it to load up the results.

Not for the first time I wished I had gotten a cranial cortex implanted when I still had the money to – I could have jacked the reader directly into my brain via Bluetooth and committed the results to a longterm mimetic cell complex grown on a silicone ‘vertebra’ and installed right where my brainstem came out of the skull. No more forgetting girl’s numbers, or how many assailants were in the room, instant recall and the ability to jack into any of the public and private mainframes to look up the required info.

Unfortunately, I’d chosen to be a licensed operator. And under the legislation required to get the license, an operator cannot have centralised neurocortical upgrades – Rewiring the autonomic nervous system was fine, enhancing reflexes, reinforcing bone with titanium or muscle with carbon nanostrands, but I couldn’t hide a computer in my brain on the off-chance I contracted some strange hybrid machine virus, or an enterprising bodysnatcher decided to beam terahertz radiation into my frontal lobe and sever conscious control from my body. It had happened before, in the early days of bodymod and the private operators – The hardest of the hard, the bounty hunters who were almost as much android as the escaped synthmen they quarried had been almost overnight wiped out upon the advent of a new technique used to remotely attack synthetic nervous systems – The weapons the hunters were carrying could be turned against them. It was awfully messy, and the ensuing rebellion on the Mars colony almost sent the human race, for the first time, into interplanetary war.

Thankfully the situation was resolved without mass bloodshed or nuclear genocide. The androids on Mars seceded and now operate an open-space colony on the surface of the dark side, where the dead cold keeps their processors running at near superconductive performance, and the research and technology they develop is astounding. And back here on earth, the lawmen, the wandering hunters were all mandated by the federal contracts they operated under to have a fully-human brain so they could never be that vulnerable again.

It’s not to say that some don’t get it done – Minor mods here and there, for data smuggling or sometimes one of the new Penrith medulla stabilisers so they don’t snap under the pressure – But for ninety-five percent of the operators, myself included, we were cleancells. I had a few minor peripheral upgrades, no major work, just some stuff to level the playing field a bit.

But that left me here, sitting at my desk waiting for the genetic reader to give me the lowdown on who I was dealing with, and to then interface with my terminal and compare the gene sequences to those on file internationally to get an ID, threat assessment and financial statement on the enigmatic miss Molly.

A minute or so later, the terminal flashed an orange light to let me know it was ready, and I tapped the screen to bring up the report. I had to raise a credulous eyebrow, and I sent the report off again to double check. Minutes passed, and the same result came back.

She was human, that much was obvious, and the report confirmed it. A few skin cells, the composition of the oils left by her thumbprint and a scrap of mitochondrial DNA indicated European descent, most likely from the Netherlands, judging from the level – Or rather, lack thereof – of genetic damage caused by ambient radiation. Which meant she probably spent a lot of her time in one of the protected alpine properties with the gamma screens up to keep the cosmic rays out, and the air purified by custom bacteria that ate nitric oxides and lived in the pine trees. Rich girl, or maybe rich Daddy.

But whoever Daddy was, was a total mystery – And for that matter, whoever she was, was a mystery as well. Neither her print nor gene sequence turned up any matches in the public records which meant that either she and her family had bought themselves off the database or they were just so damn good at crime they’d never been caught.

I pondered this development and lit another cigarette, putting the G-Reader back in its drawer and slipping the credchip into my wallet. I reached out and dragged the photograph towards me, a six-by-eight blurry glossy of a man in a dark suit, sitting at what appeared to be a cafĂ© in an upmarket area of the world somewhere – There wasn’t enough people around for it to be one of the sprawls, and the sky was too blue for it to be the martian colony. There wasn’t much detail in the photo, but he was white, looked to be mid to late twenties, shaved head, dark sunglasses. Not much else to say, not much to go on. He flipped the page over, and frowned at the words written in flowing sharpie on the reverse. The black letters held no meaning to him, and didn’t give him much to go on, but still… The name was ominous. It was only two words, but they were enough to give me pause.

Cigarette again finished, I neglected to light another, instead thinking it was probably about time for a light snack, something to lubricate the synapses and keep the body moving. I hated going into a case under-prepared, and given how little I had to work with on this one, I was going to make sure everything I could prepare, would be. I opened another drawer on my desk, wrapping my fingers around the cold glass bottle that seemed to absorb the light like a dying neutron star, and poured a measure of what for all intents and purposes looked like nothing more then crude oil, except that the drop that splashed onto the plastic able began to smoulder and blister the already marred surface in a thoroughly disconcerting manner. I picked up the small tumbler and rode the wave of a trepidous sip, letting the liquid seep into the crevices of my mouth and be absorbed. You couldn’t just drink Nubian Leopard Ichor, it had to be denatured by the protease enzymes in human saliva before the body could metabolise the complex amino alcohol without succumbing to quick rhabdomyolysis as your stomach lining came off in sheets and you started pissing out muscle fibre and kidney tissue. An acquired taste, for sure, and one that necessitated moderation lest the consumer particularly desire a rather extended hangover, to the tune of a prolonged vegetative state in professional care.

The effect was violently sobering. People regularly suggest coffee or strong stimulants to bring a drunk up to operating conditions, but all that really does is give you a hyperactive, paranoid drunk with liver failure. No, the real trick is to feed your body the Ichor, distilled from the cerebro-spinal fluid of the rare Nubian black leopard, a concentrated soup of neurotransmitters, proteins and bacteria that scoured the arteries and stung the synapses like a mouthful of angry bees until the brain was so… Unpleasantly awake that the very prospect of sleep brought waves of nausea to the gut. Leopard Ichor is dangerous stuff. It has been completely outlawed in more then one nation after several unfortunate accidents, mainly involving college students – it is said that more then two glasses and one can start unravelling time with his fingertips. Tasting of Juniper berries and fractal topology, I usually started a case with a firm belt around the frontal lobe from the bottle, and this one was no different. “Computer.” I spoke aloud, and the terminal in front of me automatically flipped into voice command mode. “Start a full-spectrum search of feedsites, RSS newslinks and bulletin boards for search term THE plus DOCTOR, exact phrasing.”

Thursday, July 16, 2009

A treat for you, dear readers...

For the first time in a long time, I decided to put my hand to writing an item of fiction. Been meaning to do so for a while, but I've finally gotten bored enough to get around to it. So without further ado, I give you a rough draft of the first chapter of my new piece; for which I have not yet decided on a title. it's long, it's awkward and cliched, but yeah, let me know what you guys think...

[edit history - first rev uploaded]

my feet sunk into the wet sand, every step driving a pattern of fissures into the moist grit. the strap of the bag cut into my bare shoulder, and though I scanned the beach, I couldn’t quite see her, but then again the sun was in my eyes – the second time I’d been blinded in as many days, but I still had yet to figure out which would ultimately prove more fatal.

she – that cat’s mother, or thereabouts - walked into the leased cubicle I jokingly call an office, in the ferrocrete and plastiboard building that leant against the others on the block like an old chrome addict – Slouched, propped up by the rest of society. The quake back in ’12 had pushed up the foundations, enough to rattle those of us who lived and worked there (and Christ knows, there were enough of us), but hadn’t quite pushed us all the way out. this was not because we were stubborn, or that we particularly liked living in a building where roaches could carry off your baby if you didn’t keep a careful eye on him, but rather that the only other buildings we could have afforded to move into, went down in the quake.

a lot of things went down then. but I’m getting ahead of myself a bit, I think. every girlfriend I’ve ever had has always said I finish too quickly, so I think I’ll do my best to take this slow, from the top. After all, I’ve got all the time in the world, ahaha…

like I said, she walked into my office. I have an office because I have a business. Which mainly consists of sticking my nose into other people’s. I’m a street samurai – One of the best. No matter what the Wire may say, hackers can only get you so far. For sure, if you’re robbing banks it’s much easier to put a drill through their firewalls then their vault walls, and when it comes to industrial espionage nothing beats a quick-witted deck jockey and a good wetwired icebreaker, but you can’t beat someone to death with data. A virus can’t chase down a fleeing hype. Programs can’t hate, can’t get angry, can’t get even. That’s why cops are human. That’s why soldiers are human. Dirty job, sure, but it beats the hell out of working civil service.

So yeah. I’m an operator . The physical means to a well-paid end. Investigator, freelance gunsel, bounty hunter, courier, hitter, it’s all covered. I’m licensed and on record with all the required departments, which is a good thing to be able to show potential clients when they come walking through my door.

Which, as I said, is exactly what she did. Slim thing – Skin like milk and eyes like opals under the lupe – Iridescent blue, sparkling like finely-powdered scarab’s shells in white spirits. Her hair hung just above her shoulders – Red like the blood that hammered in my eyes as I drunk her in. She looked like she’d poured herself into the sheer black dress she wore without spilling a drop, moved like a bad dream and smelt like cigarettes and sleepless winter nights. I’d seen – and touched - enough of the vatgrown designer babies, and the chinese fleshmod jobs to know artificial beauty when I saw it, so you’ll believe me when I tell you she was real. All woman, on the surface at least.

I looked at her from my desk – I was leaning back in the skeletonised chair, jackbooted feet up on the scarred plastic table, unlit cigarette in one hand and a lighter in the other. I thumbed the actuator, and a tiny pencil-point of star hot plasma arced up, smelling of ozone and casting an eerie green glow through the ensuing billow of thin smoke that I exhaled out moments later. Lighter returned to pocket, and I looked her over again. Waiting for her to speak.

She hesitated a moment, visibly. Appraising me too. I won’t pretend to know what she was thinking, but if she was anything like most women I knew, it was probably along the lines of “I’m going to kill Sandra for setting me up with this fucking clichĂ©.” Then – She spoke. For a moment I wondered how on earth she’d managed to get here without being dragged into an alleyway, raped, and sold to West African slavers because her voice was almost childlike with innocence, but still husky with the smoked curves she was painted with. “Are you… Are you Mr. Baraqi?” She asked, clearly uncertain of how to proceed.

I nodded, and stood up, placing the cigarette into the small ceramic ashtray on the table and walking towards her, still appraising while trying not to stare at the firm swell of her bust, wrapped in a tight black ersilk with a hint of lace lingerie protruding from the edge, I held out my hand. “Mikhail Baraqi. Call me Hale. Freelance operator.” She took it and squeezed gently, rather then shaking. Her skin was twice as soft as it looked, but I felt the edge of her lacquered black nails – acrylic coat, organic keratin basebond but what felt like a synthetic ceramic between the two, probably one of those new sintered organic aluminium complexes. Very sharp. My mystery woman was not harmless – And that combination of high-tech implant with her polished, molten charm said only one thing – She was very good at convincing people she was harmless. Until she was close enough to make ribbons out of their face. That was the kind of dedication you saw in very few places, and in this part of the world, it meant either Yakuza or one of the corporate intelligence labs.

She felt me tense up and smiled, her nose crinkling delightfully. “Very well.” She released my hand. “Mr. Hale. I’ve been told that if I need to find someone, that I should find you first…” She took a step back and glanced around my office. I didn’t know if she was looking for security cameras or pictures of my family, and I wasn’t going to relax until I had her measure. Still, my gut said she wasn’t here to make julienne fries out of me, but then again, if she was a Yakuza razor geisha then that was entirely the point. “You’ve been told correctly.” I answered, picking the cigarette back up again and taking another pensieve, calming drag. “Husband absconded with the kids? Want to get revenge for what Daddy did to you when you were thirteen and he had one too many scotches?” I was starting to relax. Probably going to get me killed, but then again, if she was just a regular client then I didn’t want to put her off by seeming too cautious.

Her eyes flashed hotly and colour swum into her cheeks briefly. “No.” She reached into the small clasp bag hanging from her shoulder and dug out a photograph with a name drawn on the back in felt-tip marker. She put it down on my desk, stabbing it down with one hand, index fingernail piercing the thin paper and nailing it to the soft walnut-look polyethylene surface. “Why I want to find him is my business. Are you going to be able to do yours?”

I grinned wolfishly. She’d let her hand slip. Too emotional to be a pro hitter. “Yeah, I think I can manage that. Assuming you can muster up the credits. Fifteen thou retainer up front plus five more every two days. And that’s just to locate him. If you want me to bring him in, that will be an additional fee negotiated based on circumstances.” She contemplated this for scarcely a moment before nodding, and again her hand slipped into her pure before pulling out a small plastic card. “I can offer you forty thou in SJ-Zaibatsu yencreds or if you prefer pre-revolution currency, two ounces of Berlin palladium ingots.” I contemplated for a moment. “The fuck can I do with ingots here? Where do you think you are, Manhattan? Hookers like things I can stuff in their panties, not virtual stocks correlating to chunks of shiny metal in a bank in germany. Give me the credits.” I held out my hand, and she dropped the bankchip into my open palm. I tossed it onto my desk, I’d file it later. “Come back in a week.” I said, walking to open the door for her. “I’ll find your mark, whoever he is.”

She paused on the threshold, looking back over her shoulder with the kind of gaze that launched a thousand nukes. “Aren’t you going to ask me what my name is?” She whispered. I looked back at her, and hesitated a moment before answering. “I was going to pull your prints and any loose DNA off the credchip and run it through my sources to turn up a lot more then your name.

Why? Do you want to tell me what your name is?”

She shrugged, and in that moment her dress threatened to fall off her shoulders in what I’m sure was a impeccably rehearsed maneuvre. “Molly. You can reach me at the Casa Aura, room ZZ-13.”

And then she was gone. Out the door, into the night. Into the breach and down the rabbit hole.

God help me, I was about to follow her.

Wednesday, July 15, 2009

whertofore art thou, lover?

lover come back

lover wake up

i can't do this on my own, i never meant to hit you that hard, wake up, WAKE UP

wake up, Neo.

i find myself increasingly disconnected from this reality - that reality. what reality? i don't know. what was I saying? I can't really read it, I have blood in my eyes

don't worry, it's mine. in dreamworld I ran out of inflated veins so I slid an insulin syringe filled with betaphen and some sexy new china blue neuropunk into my nystagmic vein and dropped that timewarp load, sex-bending braindancer that it is I can't seem to find my way out of bed -

but then again, I drop the pin - glass shatters, dreamworld cracks. I see the realworld reflected in drops of blood. Are they on the floor, or on my cornea?

black out - red out.

read out loud

this city never 'sleeps' because to be considered asleep you have to have been awake at some point. this city is an embryo of human rot just waiting to happen.

I can get away with saying this shit because everyone's too busy molesting their kids inside at night with the curtains drawn to actually pay attention to any source of data other then Nine News or the price of petrol.

i haven't touched a speaker larger then my headphones in four days. I'm starting to forget what bass sounds like

i think i'll go steal raid the farmhouse shed for some fertiliser and diesel fuel. gonna make me a DRUM, send up a smoke signal, try and get the attention of civilisation at large

seriously, send in a fucking helicopter, I don't care if it's coming to arrest me, at least they get broadband in prison.

Sunday, July 12, 2009


Plane tickets on the table, hot coffee. A quick cigarette. Pulling on the boots, bag ready.


~those of you who know I love you:

I'll be back for you. You can't get rid of me this easily.

Saturday, July 11, 2009

i am not a drinker

and yet I;ve polished off a sixpack adn

severl glasses of white wine and guava jucie already

i am disturbd by this trend.

Thursday, July 9, 2009

i like drugs because they make me feel warm and safe and also sometimes puke blood

My name is Xanathar and I am beyond time

I am childsbane incarnate, the star-hound of Meserlithion and architect of the final equation.


soon it will all be quiet once more.

i hope to someday jerk off a unicorn

just so I can fill a bottle with rainbows and keep it in the fridge for when i feel down.

:( rainbows are salty.

when im not freaking out about dying alone and unloved, i actually really enjoy being single

because I don't have to share my drugs or hairbrush with anyone


There are plenty of girls who have been hassling me for no strings attached sex, and for the most part, they're attractive, intelligent, mostly not crazy chicks my age.

So why don't I ever call them back?

Ahahahahahaha :D Life is good

Tuesday, July 7, 2009

mayhem in the house of ghosts

brittle eyes in the wood fires
coal for pupils,
and splinter-lashes
watch, now as the children lie
mock-executions with plastic axes
chewing dirt and screaming tongues
the madman writhes with mud and song
i cannot speak, I cannot cry
to clear my mouth of bitter ashes
on my back I face the sky
and wait for peace to come with blackness.

The Tribe

Face the tribe, lead the wolfsong.
I have daydreamed and nightwalked
under stars, under clouds
lashed by tendons and
standing on concrete
teach the fool, fuck the police
dance with the girl with the smoke in her eyes
centralised, the tribe,
the old wolves age and fade away
Who needs money with friends like these?

Monday, July 6, 2009

[Lupe Fiasco]
Uhh.. yeah
He just sits, and watches the people in the boxes
Everything he sees he absorbs and adopts it
Heeeeee mimics and he mocks it
Really hates the box but he can't remember how to stop, it
Uhh, so he continues to watch it
Hoping that it'll give him something that he can box with
Or how the locksmith, see the box as, locked in the box
Ain't got the combination to unlock, it
That's why he watch-es, scared to look away
Cause at that moment, it might show him
What to take off the locks with
So he chained himself to the box, took a lock and then he locked it
Swallowed the combination and then forgot, it
As the doctors jot it all down, with they pens and pencils
The same ones that took away his voice
And just left this instrumental, like that

[Chorus: Josh Matranga + (Lupe)]
And he never lies (he never lies, he never lies, uhh)
And he never lies (uhh, he never lies, he never lies, no)
And he never lies (he never lies)
Cause he never said anything at all

[Lupe Fiasco]
He just sits, and listens to the people in the boxes
Everything he hears he absorbs and adopts it
Anything not coming out the box he blocks it
See he loves to box and hope they never stop it
Anything the box tell him to do, he does it
Anything it tell him to get, he shops and he cops it
He protects the box, locks it in a box
when he goes to sleep, but he never sleeps
Cause he stays up to watch it, scared to look away
Cause at that moment, it might get stolen
And that's the last of the boxes
So he chained himself to the box, took a lock and then he locked it
Swallowed the combination and then forgot, it
As the doctors jot it all down, with they pens and pencils
The same ones that took away his voice
And just left this instrumental, like that


[Lupe Fiasco]
(Anything at all..) He never lies
Uhh, and you can't tell me just who you are
You buy new clothes just to hide those scars
You built that roof just to hide those stars
Now you can't take it back to the start
And you can't tell me just who you are
You buy new clothes just to hide those scars
You built that roof just to hide those stars
Now you can't take it back to the start


[Lupe Fiasco]
(Anything at all.. anything at all..)
Uhh, and you can't tell me just who you are
You buy new clothes just to hide those scars
You built that roof just to hide those stars
Now you can't take it back to the start
And you can't tell me just who you are
You buy new clothes just to hide those scars
You built that roof just to hide those stars
Now you can't take it back to the start
[repeats and fades as Josh ad libs]

Saturday, July 4, 2009

Sometimes, I don't know why I bother.

People will always be people. Humanity is so definitively predictable that you would have to be batshit star-crossed to suspect, even for a moment, that they will behave the way you want them to.

I want to slap myself. I need to stop talking myself into feelings for people, and start remembering what it feels like to actually fall for someone.

When you get that little chunk of emotion pulled out of you, that plug in the bath of your love, you feel it drain away and wonder if it will ever refill. If you'll ever heal right. but until you do, nothing stays put. It just drains away, drains away in languid circles. if you turn the tap on hard enough, you can still fill the bath faster then it can empty, but eventually you remember that you chose to turn that tap on.

The doll, so childlike and innocent, is just that. She would never choose to hurt someone, but she might not realise that she just did. Safety, sensible choices, and caution are MY constructs, and I shouldn't have applied them to someone who I guess I really don't know that well at all. I'm not angry. I'm just... disappointed in myself for letting it build up in my head and blind me to the woman who has always been there for me. I cannot believe I actually pushed her away because I wanted to be with Belle.

I don't know what to do. I'm stuck between two bridges, and I set one alight weeks ago, but its been smouldering silently. The other I can see was never strong enough to hold me in the first place, and I'm probably lucky I didn't try to cross it. I just hope I can get back before the fox burns to ash, and I'm left only with the taste of smoke and tears in the air.

I'm so fucking weary. I just want to go home.

Friday, July 3, 2009


the grave membrane, I find myself wrapped in it once again

a bitter, cold sheet, like thin silk dipped in hot wax. Every movement sheds flakes, leaving a trail across the dance floor - mud, wax and ash. grind it between your toes, you can feel it squirming.

it's like walking in someone's stomach.

i don't know how long I've been trying to hide behind the veil, but the witch-birds that circle overhead, swooping and clawing at my hair with leatherscaled talons, theyc an see through it - I sometimes feel like the whole world can. like gossamer, fine fishnet that doesn't actually hide you from anyone's eyes, you can see the whore of babylon's nipples bouncing in the ultraviolet illumination of the warehouse rave, evil incarnate on the dancefloor.

you can see the eyes of a child staring form an old man's skull, forgetting for a moment the horrors of his live, now leaving.

you can see the porcelain skin of the doll, and the velvet tone of her cheeks as the fabric clings to her.

i feel suffocated. I can see out, they can see in, this veil does nothing to hide me, nor to keep me warm, but I can as little tear free from it as I could ascend to the stars.

pinned. the universe stands above me - "This will hurt, because you have hurt others before."

my arms are numb. my legs limp. I can only scream, and I don't even know if anyone can hear me. i know now, this is no veil I wrap myself in. I thought for a moment it was a shroud, and I lay on the cross, but no

its a chrysalis

i lay in hex, frozen in time, molten form dripping through the cracks in this dimension as kaleidoscope enzymes dissolve my fleshform

life is the preparation for the transition to another dimension, and the path will not be easy. it will hurt - i know it will, because they told me so.

i'm ready to hurt.

cut the threads, let me fall.

Thursday, July 2, 2009

Going insane.

I need something to fucking do.

I need to get my license so I can go out whenever I feel like it and not have to rely on the fucking bus, which means I can only leave the house bwteeen the hours of eight am and nine pm without the aid of some external mode of transport, like a hot-air balloon or a friend with a car.

I need people who, when they say they'r going to come round and stay over, to actually do so, so that I don't blow off other plans for them and then wind up sitting at home alone again

I need chemistry to behave the way it's supposed to, and I need to not sleep in for so long that by the time I got my equipment unpacked I'd have to pack i all up again so the house is clean before my parents get home from work.

I need the people who owe me money to get it to me and to be FUCKING CONTACTABLE so I can stick to deadlines that I make with the people I owe money to.

I hate everything right about now. I'm stagnating, suffocating, and grilling out in leaps, loops and wells of self-pity.

I have nobody left to turn to. I don't even know if I would, if they were here. All i do is smoke, sleep, and check my email every fifteen minutes.

Fuck perth, I need to GET OUT OF HERE.

Wednesday, July 1, 2009

FLASHBACK - Circles Erratica

Wet, cold wind that hits you in the face - Bites your ears, threatens to tear your hat away and throw it into traffic.

I'm coming home tomorrow, my work here's almost done
Now all I have is sorrow for in time, we all go up in smoke

Endless hours at the airport - Tiny iPod, full of Bob Dylan, Cat Stevens and Colin Hay. Boots crunch on salt and concrete - Vancouver cigarettes, cheap lighters and hard eyes.

I'm coming home tomorrow, I've given back my gun
For all I own is borrowed and in time, we all go up in smoke

Late in the afternoon with my serene lady, looking for a coffeeshop, wound up topless in the snow, braving frostbite just to touch each other. later, strip poker and pink lemonade punch.

Silently as my tears flow, this fear keeps on burning
As I sleep and the winds blow, to you I'm returning

hockey in toronto. taxis, trains and buses, swapping stories with dope dealers on the subway. too much coke, blood noses while snowboarding. credit card debts and toffee near niagra.

I'm coming home tomorrow, I'll never meet my son
I am a local hero, but in time, we all go up in smoke

basement snacks, barefoot in the snow - smoking to pass the time, can't sleep, can't feel my fingers. glad I didn't roll back then.

Silently as my tears flow, my soul keeps on yearning
As I sleep and the winds blow, this world keeps on turning

I don't know why the memories are here now
but I'm glad they are
it was one of the greatest months of my life. I wish I was back there. life made sense.

I'm coming home tomorrow, my work here is all done
Now all I have is sorrow for in time, we all go up in smoke
We all go up in smoke