Sunday, November 29, 2009

ups downs and all-arounds

the ups are mostly about ten minutes long and consist of static silence, drowning out the world with the sound of crisp tobacco burning.

All them backstabbing foes
Standing in my way, always stepping on my toes
Stealing my style even wearing my clothes
Fuck all them haters, fuck all them hoes

work smarter, not harder. I can't force this issue because it will only push it further away. i need to entice, make a comfortable spot for the plan to slip into and let the chips fall where they're going to

i've got no cash - no product - no cards up my sleeve. All I've got is wit and bluff and the balls to do whatever I have to, to make it...

SN, you have always been one of my guiding influences. Thankyou for helping me wake up to myself.

Saturday, November 28, 2009

this is really nowhere near as easy as you might think.

what's in the money?

a lie and a long sleep, a broken promise.... soundbites from my day, rife with hostility - shaped against the outside world

this is not what was supposed to happen.

Tuesday, November 24, 2009

Game over.

This will be the last self-involved wank for a while; I promise.

But I've always tried to be a good person. Do the right thing. Sure, i might be an asshole, but I've never been a bad person.

But I am fucked, time and time again by the bad people. And I can tell myself 'yeah, don't worry, they'll get theirs'

but I don't have the patience to wait anymore.

I try not to hate people - But they make it so fucking hard.

I've put my friends through stress and struggle, financial debt because further down the chain, some shitheel crackhead has fucked me. And I could otherwise have covered that trouble on my own - Except that I have blown all my profits on taxis, nice clothes, drugs, drugs, MORE DRUGS and only about a third of that has been for myself

because i have so little self fucking confidence that I jsut throw money and pills at people just so that they'll pay attention to me long enough to actually take an interest in something Ia ctually have to say

they don't, they never do. They just get caught up in the whirlwind - basslines, strobelights, acid trips and nitrous comas - And I still go home, empty handed, no money, nobody to talk to.

I'd talk to my real friends, but I owe them all money.

Not anymore. This is going to stop now. I'm done. being the good guy hasn't worked. I have to be the bad guy. I'm going to go and get my money, and then it's over.

XX = it's the doublecrosser chromosone

I'm through wasting my life.

Sunday, November 22, 2009

raw wires

It's a strange, sad kind of social convulsion - Like a cramp in my leg every time I see her, I stumble mid-step and try and shake it off. But, wordless - she smiles, and I find myself silently thinking about how there's no price I wouldn't pay to keep that smile there forever.

She's a hypnotist collector, You are a walking antique...

Tuesday, November 17, 2009

i'm glad she's leaving

and i think i'll follow her

60mg temazepam
20mg diazepam
5mg lorazepam

several glasses of cheap red wine, and Jim Croce playing on repeat.

i hope this time

i won't remember the last sunrise

Sunday, November 15, 2009


i wish i could like, pet an octopus :/ but theyre like ohai imma live in the depths of the ocean bc im stuuupidd

so i buyed an octopus


"You're fuck damn right that was the best party ever!"

I love everything.

Thursday, November 12, 2009

raise your hand if you think my brother is a total tool

he's just so fucking jealous that despite all his musical aspirations and attempts - you know, like failing tafe and never getting anything published or any paying gigs or anything - I got into electronic music production and performance maybe six months ago? As opposed to his three or four years, professional coaching at how to write and compose, use DAWs and that - And I'm already touring to melbourne in two months, play regular paid gigs at clubs, raves and doofs - and he had to pay out of his own pocket to get 500 copies of his album stamped and burnt commercially and he can't even give them away. because they're shit.

being a 'musician' was all he had - all that made him 'special', it was how he defined himself. Because his personality certainly wasn't the drawing factor - He's an arrogant, overopinionated underinformed dickpot with a shitty job and no class or culture despite his attempts to dress like a victorian gentleman.

NEWSFLASH - velvet overcoats in summer just make you look retarded, you cockholster.

he seems to think that jsut because my life is better then his, that it is his god given right to fuck with it, just so i can be equally unhappy. he has the nerve to ask me to go to forestfield to pick up my leather jacket from a friend i lent it to so he can wear it out that night, when he won't even leave his chair for fifteen seconds so i can copy some files onto my external hdd.

i've listened to his 'friends' have forty-five minute bitch sessions about him

his ex girlfriends lamenting that they dated him and telling me how I should have been a few years older so they could have gotten with the cool brother

he has the nerve to call me the most selfish person he's ever met, and claim that i've done nothing for him

when every time he's ever needed me, I've been there.

he's the main reason I can't fucking stand living at home. he's a pathetic, two-faced, shallow human being who spends all his time a) working a dead end job, or b) on the computer.

i find it endlessly amusing

that every person who has spent time with us both, even his old, old friends he used to rave and party with and shit back in centrals

say exactly the same fucking thing

"you're like your brother, except I actually enjoy hanging out with you"

Wednesday, November 11, 2009

i love ketamine

it's like being hit over the head with the 'I'm really fucked up' stick.

ain't no rest for the wicked

dripwave lines of india ink are trickling down my cheeks - royal blue, and with the curiously pearlescent consistency of cold mercury, they trace and stain a roadmap like collapsed veins on pallor.

lying, flat on tarmac with soft roots crawling through the warm black to writhe around my ankles and wrists - pinned in place for the oncoming storm that waits just beyond the fog of war clouding my common sense and disposition.

we are all dead men, waiting for something to cut our chains to this mortal existence - we all long to fly, to float, to melt away and evaporate into the next reality. briefly, reality flashes through the clouds like dark lightning, stunning us into silence

sometimes i wonder who built me. and why. there has to be a reason - i am not wandering blindly down the garden path, there must be a reason why i seem to be force-fed so many life lessons and emotional trepanations this early on - I have so many friends, peers and colleagues who are simply content, naive and well-heeled with their existence of school, university, work or religion - unable to fathom how easily everything can fall apart in your hands

after my party on saturday, i'm off drugs again. going to make a serious, concerted effort this time and not use them to cushion the blow the first time something fucks up for me

because, let's face it - something always fucks up for me, and to be honest, it's usually my fault. i need to develop better coping mechanisms then a handful of pills or the cold end of a crackpipe and a few hours of self-pity.

wake up, neo. you are needed on the dancefloor.

Thursday, November 5, 2009

grave of the dragonflies

I was walking down the street,
When out the corner of my eye
I saw a pretty little thing approaching me.
She said “I’ve never seen a man
Who looks so all alone,
Could you use a little company?
If you pay the right price
Your evening will be nice,
And you can go and send me on my way.”
I said “You’re such a sweet young thing
Why you do this to yourself?”
She looked at me and this is what she said...

Wednesday, November 4, 2009

hemlock and leather

Any delusions of Free Will he harbored now must be merely the prisoner rattling his cage.
His curse lay in the fact that he saw the cage;
He saw it!

Monday, November 2, 2009

when I cough...

... I can feel pieces of lungmeat rattling around loose.

think i'm ready to die hey

no loss. i've kind of wasted this life anyway. ninteen years of oxygen consumed, and what do I have to show for it? apparently I'm losing my mind according to those around me.

I don't think I'm so much losing my mind as the real world is losing it's grip on me

the ground falls away

replaced with blackness that creeps up my boots

and tugs at my laces

notsomuch swallowing or sinking as simply... reclaiming

von neumann's regret

it's gotten to the point whether I don't know if I should 'flush with milk' or 'induce vomiting' - daypoison twitches inside my monitor, a kind of viral haemorrhagic rhythm that I can feel burrowing into my bones and pissing protein toxins all over my hope for the future.

systems failure - please reinstall optimism with patch 1.1 Morphine Drip and sublethal pancuronium spinal pump.

disconnect brainstem; free thought no longer necessary - every option, every choice, every failure of chance and reason winds up in the same empty fucking bed.

trackmarks, backtrack your way down the breadcrumb trail of scars and rough keloid expression to pure, perfect, beige happiness

rememebr the warmth? yeah, yeah

remember the itch? the nausea? remember the quiet?

no, you don't remember anything. you don't remember pissing yourself on the couch. don't remember how the coffee table got broken, or your hand - but you think they're probably somehow connected.

valium bible, opana pillow

heroin headlock

filling your lungs

with sand.

i punched a dolphin, once

while swimming in the river. thought it was a shark.

i'm fairly convinced the past three years of my life has been bad karma stemming from that incident.

two fifty

i hate the man in the mirror

i can't remember his name

but I think he has another scotch for me.

he always played that song, and she always sang along...

progress, resolution, and emotional retribution

i am small inside

talk with a big voice that echoes around these hollow bones of mine

drowning out the little boy

sitting in the corner

playing twelve-bar blues on his wrists with a twist of old iron

living on the edge of dissonance

nineteen years dead - consistent locations but fresh faces a year later

no thick stacks of red buddhism and alien head wisdom; but fat chunks of ecstastic transemotional compassion, unconditional love in the space of an hour and then, the morning's discourse. selfish highs in the thin veneer of generosity and the small minded, small bodied - Smiles to the face, knives to the kidney - branding cows as cowards, MOOOOOOOOOOOOO

even cigarettes pale in the noonday sun, fresh regret drying in the wind and leaving a thin salty residue on your cheeks - You gotta smile, you're at the doof, and nothing else matters, and there's al;ways more smokes, and there's always more jokes...

get on the dancefloor, i'll see you in the future.