And as the horns sounded the last post...

Babylon crumbled;

and the cellar door was blown shut by the whispered prayers of a dying man's pride.

It is; at last; the end of the road. Time at last to take my work with me to the grave.

I do not expect an easy afterlife - The road to hell is paved with good intentions, and I have buried too many friends under those mouldy cobbles. My only wish is that they who have sent me here now, floating face-down in the river styx - That they one day experience the remorse of god and the mercy of the devil. For which mankind deserves neither...

I have stared into the abyss and then, been plunged headlong into the inky morass. I shall take a few moments now to speak to some of my readers who I have not had the chance to contact through other means; before I pull the trigger and bury myself once and for all.

To the investigator's son - You are a coward, and a fiend. I hope you one day wake up to yourself. I am ashamed to think I once defended your character and called you my friend. Put down the pipe and go home to your family - If not for yourself, then do it for them. Family is all we can rely on when all else has failed us. Also; you ruined drum and bass for me. Shame on you. ;D

To the soldier's son - I truly regret not having taken the time to spend honouring you and your loved other the way you two deserve. You are some of the most honest and open, caring and kind friends I have been blessed with, and I have nobody but myself to blame for not exploring that farther.

To the two oldest and most generous friends, to whose doorstep I brought with me the devil's footsoldiers. I can never atone for the darkness and danger that you have been faced with because of my selfishness and arrogance. You have done so much for me but I have given you nothing in return but excuses, heartache and risk to yourselves and those you live with. I am so, so very guilt ridden and I know that the last thing you probably want to hear from me is another apology. So instead I'll just say that I love you, and that I will repay you one day for everything I can.

Anyway. The sun's about to rise here. I haven't been able to sleep much lately. Watch the news, but don't believe everything you hear or read. This is the Doctor, signing out for good. Exeunt.

http://www.abc.net.au/news/stories/2010/10/18/3041468.htm

hard hands

Serve God love me and mend
This is not the end
Lived unbruised we are friends
And I'm sorry
I'm sorry

Sigh no more, no more
One foot in sea, one on shore
My heart was never pure
And you know me
And you know me

And man is a giddy thing
Oh man is a giddy thing
Oh man is a giddy thing
Oh man is a giddy thing

Love that will not betray you, dismay or enslave you,
It will set you free
Be more like the man you were made to be.
There is a design,
An alignment to cry,
Of my heart to see,
The beauty of love as it was made to be...

[Posted with iBlogger from my iPhone]

I think it just got weird enough.

there is a fairly reasonable chance that within the next six hours I am going to die. Circumstances are rather outside my control at this point, but I've still got a few tricks up my sleeve I'm going to try and pull.

But if I'm not smart enough, or quick enough, or lucky enough this time to scrape through...

know only that if it weren't for you and the effect you have on my life to date; I would probably have died a long time ago a dozen times over. I always wanted to protect you, but so often it seemed like you were the one protecting me, usually from myself.

But it looks like it's for real, this time.

I will face my destiny the way I have always striven to - Eyes up, with the faith and dedication of self; the constant drive to make you proud, but most importantly; to stare down the barrel of the universe with no fear or doubt in my mind that I gave it everything I could. For you.

Fear is the mind killer.

And on my headstone they will chisel my blood oath;

Vivo vixi victum; avo comperio; sans meteus

fish scales under my fingernails

After years of waiting
After years of waiting nothing came
And you realize you're looking,
Looking in the wrong place

After years of waiting nothing came
As your life flashed before your eyes
You realize

I'm a reasonable man
Get off, get off, get off my case
I'm a reasonable man
Get off my case
Get off my case

The Immaculate Perception

Tommy Forester is dead.
Tommy was going to be an engineer.
He was 22, good-looking, personable, athletic.
He had a high IQ.
The dean said he had the best potential of any man in his class.
But Tommy is dead.

His problem was acid.
Lysergic acid formula 25 called LSD.
A close friend told him LSD was psychedelic, mind-expanding.
Said it would give him fantastic new sensations and thrills.
So Tommy tried it and his friend was right.

At first the LSD made him sick at his stomach.
But then Tommy began to hallucinate.
The air began to be filled with rainbows.
The very atmosphere seemed to be a moving current of multi colour particles which came streaming down around him. When he listened to the stereo he saw coloured particles floating out from the speakers.
When he looked at the walls they seemed to be melting.
The pictures on the walls became liquified with colours running down like waterfall. It was sensational.

Inside himself Tommy felt sublimated, sort of suspended in space.
He had an euphoric feeling of wonderful well-being.
Then he looked in a mirror and something horrible happened.

First it seemed that half of his face was rotting away.
Then he began to see himself as a grotesque misshapen monster.
He looked around the room and all the people were becoming monsters.
Everybody knew what was happening to Tommy because he began screaming and describing what he was seeing.

Tommy had the feeling he wanted to smash his head against the wall to bring himself out of this stupor.

He did it.

Blood squirted from his nose and a large cut blooded his face.

But he felt no pain.

Then he pounded his head on a door-post.
Somebody in the room tried to stop him.
He felt they were his enemies so he jerked away.
He ran into the next room where an opened window looked out on a roof across the street.
It was 18 storeys to the ground.
Tommy thought to himself that the roof across the street was really just a few inches away.
He could jump on it and thereby escape.

He tried.
Tommy is dead.

crystal forces & dust bunnies

Every state has it's ghost towns. Weird places. very silent hill. Stranger still are those towns still clinging to life by the skin of their teeth, but most of them are just kidding themselves. It's refreshing, in a perverse way, to come into a dead town where the people know it, the animals know it, and even the buildings know it. You can see it in the way the paint peels, and the walls creak in the wind.

We pulled in that town by the bypass, the same one you drive past without a second glance. Poor old girl's day has been and gone, but she still slumps there, dejectedly, a few k down the road off the olympic highway. It looked bad when the main street could barely fit two cars across it, and the dust we kicked up in our hilux tasted like eighties hair gel. It was only seven or eight, but the place was quiet as a jew's savings withdrawal record. She was the 1985 tidy town winner, got a ceremony from the premier and all. But now it's quiet as fuck, once after five you can't find a feed like your arse in the dark. Potholed roads just as the locals like it, but a couple of nice spots on the outskirts. The only light was at the pub, and with a shrug of the shoulders we headed in for counter tucker. "Unlucky son." The barman told us. "The missus has gone off to bed. I can do a bowl of chips or some bread and butter." We looked at each other, ordered a round of skewies and a couple of LLBs for the driver, a bowl of chips to share. "Bar shuts at nine" he said, after I asked him

"A game of darts?" We asked the only other drinker in the place, an older bloke with worry lines that made a roadmap on his skin. Weatherbeaten and dry like an old leather couch that's been in a paddock for the best part of six months. He could see that we were blow-ins from the city, but were showing hospitality. We warmed soon enough when he chalked up a few points on the cork. He joked a bit as we worked our way through the drinks and bought the next round. He stammered once or twice, a little smashed but he could still stand so it seemed alright. He leaned over and asked if we were up for a challenge. "Test your talent, tell me a tale". We shrugged, not really thinking that our kind of tales would go down well here - It was me and three of my best mates from the old unit, and our main memories were those of pissing ourselves in the sand, under heavy fire from iraqi artillery and mortar teams while armor columns tracked up the path towards us. He shrugged again. "I'll start, then." I slurped my drink, slopped it down my front. Glad I wasn't driving, I ordered another. This old fella, he'd come into this town pretty early on. Tried his hand on the land, freight job with the state rail company. He said "This was a town of industry, so many years back. But brown years of drought and fire have left some fierce holes in the soil." He continued on, educating us to the trials and tribulations of this place. He says "You youngins probably don't wanna hear that. But I-" He stabs a thumb proudly towards his chest. "I served in Kokoda. Believe me son, we adapt." He all straightened up, intently listening now. This was a man who'd seen the worst kind of hell. "It's nothing to be sneered at, we all fought. This was a busy boom town, now become a back water. Because of the private sales, you see. It went Telstra, NAB then Australia post. But once that bypass went in-" he gestured vainly towards the direction of the main street leading out of town. "That was what killed us. We used to be a nice stop on the way into the city. But the big highway clamped our arteries nicely, didn't it just?" He sat back down into his seat and shut his eyes, falling asleep. The barman had heard this all before, pointed o the clock. Nine.

This whole area was once thick with outlaws and rough working men. I felt like a stranger. The air here, was thin and dry as the local newsrag that went around once a month. The days felt as long as the highway we came in from, the locals never thought they'd be so glad to see the diesel smoke whenever a semi came in on the freight route, stop-over for the night reminding them of the old days. They built a war memorial at the cemetery, after the great war. Locals aside, it's had two visits in the past century, by their local M.P who lives in the city. The traino's shut, the only way north is by one of the bi-weekly buses. The roadhouse has yellow postcards of roast lamb and peas, untouched by humajn hands since a long since retired waitress set them up on a rack twenty odd years ago.This fellow was jovial, and friendly. It won't be all over till the last beer's poured. Man, it's more than ceremonial. We gave one last cheers, raised the schooners in respect, downed our drinks and paid up. It was a full moon, and we had a long way to go before we got back to the city.

spinnegeist

spider's ghost with a paper spine /
left his shadow hanging from the telephone line /
the signal tripped over the shadow's toes /
and whispered in my ear where the bassline should go...

fallout & shrapnel

Most of all in the world; I fear the men who fear nothing.

:/remote data transmission received from field transponder [ergo_tel]

shardstyle

The thing about a city is that you can't choose who lives in it with you. It's like family - You can't choose them, but you can choose to renounce them.

I mean, most of us in the underground dance/enlighten substance use community are eminently sensible people. Not many of us are caught fucking domestic animals in the street at three AM, and when we are, we are always found to be using protection.

The same is not true on the western outskirts, where I happened to find myself during a research trip last week. Oh, no. In the district called armadale, things are very different indeed.

In armadale, the first thing you notice are the faces. Even in a city like ours, containing the dregs of every gene pool on earth, you can detect the difference in these people. These are the people of urban myth. The people of the smashed chromosone. The people who who let their children know when there's a warrant out. The people who drank the intellectual suppresants in the water supply instead of the clean water helicoptered in during the rescue operation.

Guys in tan leather flares, idly jacking off into the road, keeping one lazy eye on the female newsreader on the television screen by his left foot. Hundreds of kids with attention deficit hyperactivity disorder, running around screaming while their beserk mothers continue to pump out more of those little fuckers for those few months of soft maternal comfort and baby-bonus rebates from each before they start moving and never stop.

I don't want to turn on my fellow human, I really don't. But I saw these people believing everything they saw on the TV. They believe that Howard was a good man. They believe in God. They believe in justice. They believe in Knight Rider.

These people are the enemy. Upgrade your sexual organs today, so that we may leave them behind.

People keep saying to me, you're doing a really good job, Xan. You're writing what needs to be said. You're changing things. And it's all bullshit. I'm not changing anything. I'm a journalist, a dope-sick narcissist with an overblown sense of self-worth and a chip on my shoulder four pipes tall. All I can do is give you the tools to understand the world so that you can change things.

And I'm stuck here, hoping only that you do.

i suppose an explanation for my absence is in order...

with sawtooth nerves woven parasitically into the studio sub's voice coils, and arteries pumping a slurry of pure amphetamine and liquid uncertaintly, the symbiotic audio infection known only as ILLOJIQUAL spread its fibre-optic tendrils wide into the bass swamp of Perth's underground dance music scene; plucking from the chaos internationally renowned hardcore master Auscore and dumping him in a flask of anhydrous ammonia with the rogue doctor of WA psytrance, ergo__t0xin://

the full ramifications of this mad aurochemical experiment are yet to be seen; but already illojiqual have defined their place in modern electronic music with a corrosive glitchkrieg of meaty kicks; cruelly ambient bass and neurolytic rhythms guaranteed to short-circuit the synapses and draw out the malleable; snaring them on the dancefloor in a gravely immersive ego trance



exclusively previewed here is a teaser clip of '0pacity'; the magnum opus of their debut EP, to tweak the synapses and get your hearts cramping for moar.

core values

new project in the pipes... Possibly my most important musical work to date.

Updates promised


:/remote data transmission received from field transponder [ergo_tel]

i am not the best people

I don't know how to stop the ringing in my ears, or the pounding grind behind my eyes.

The dull crackle of electricity somewhere in the distance... I think this is what it must feel like when you realise you haven't been GOING mad, you've been mad all along - and that your daily struggle to keep the reigns on the 'sanity' you clung to as a last hope for a better future - has been as futile as trying to catch ash out of the wind.

You see, it's a ghost I'm chasing. An empty echo on the bootsector... But to suddenly realise that this intangible white sail on the horizon... Is nothing more then dead light in the back of my eyes?

I feel like I have been here before. Deja vu - what was it? That means they changed something?

Nothing's changed.

Nothing lasts but nothing is lost.

I can't remember what I did the last time... I don't know what to do.

If anyone out there is still listening

Have I... Have we... Danced here before? Once, or twice, or more?


:/remote data transmission received from field transponder [ergo_tel]

doctors log; circa 2023

Years later, when the government jackboots stormed my compound in the final great clash of the signal wars; my work would be seized and I was branded a war criminal for my help with Project Namaste.

They burnt everything to ashes - all my notes, hard drives and glassware. They poured bleach and lime into the prion spawning cells, set thermite charges in the memory banks, and melted down the voice coils on the vast subwoofer batteries I had lined the sea floor around my offshore data mining platform with.

All that remained of my work were what few vinyl backup crypto platters we'd put into cold storage, and the scattered nostalgia of a million jaded souls that we had dared to try and reach through 145bpm hypnosis - a kind of vague, psychedelic trance-like state of peace and divine wonder.


:/remote data transmission received from field transponder [ergo_tel]

Do you know how infuriating it is

To have a beautiful, clever girl you always wanted to sleep with when she was dating your friend; turn around and say the same once she's single and living on the other side of the country?

God is playing games with me.

Do you ever feel like you're living in a movie? It seems to happen altogether too often these days...

When it does, I just light another smoke and remind myself;

"There is a man, at a typewriter..."


:/remote data transmission received from field transponder [ergo_tel]

train dance

I met roger while travelling from melbourne to Ballarat, in preperation for Rainbow Serpent Festival 2010. It was about five in the morning, and I was sitting on the steps of Southern Cross station, smoking a cigarette and listening to Bob Dylan, relishing the cold morning wind - I love cold mornings awake, and you just don't get them in perth any more. So it was special.

He had a rucksack slung over his shoulder and glasses balanced down the bridge of his nose, so he could glance over them or through them as the situation required. I passed him my pouch, unplugged my headphones and we started to chat. Watching him roll, his fingers movwed twitchily but with practiced confidence, twisting together a narrow, tight thread of a cigarette with no filter. He rolled like he was in prison, or at least, had been for a very long time.

He told me he was catching the train to Ballarat to go and pick up his car from his wife, who had left him two days earlier. He was going to drive across Australia to try and find himself. I liked that. It's the kind of directionless pilgrimage you hear written about in blues music - Not in the words, but in the notes. Blues sounds like you're hopping freight trains across the continent with nothing but a harmonica and a packet of cigarettes.

He asked me what my plans were, andI explained that I was going to a music festival out in the country. I showed him the flyer, and he nodded knowingly. It wasn't long before the conversation turned to chemicals. "I'll bet you're gonna get pretty fucking high this weekend, aren't you?" He laughed with a cough, having just rolled and lit another of those anorexic cigarettes. "Well, that's the plan..." I nodded and laughed a little, relaxing more. This was a man on the right wavelength to talk about the craziness of life with - His hair was cut short and his fingernails even shorter; he smoked like a prisoner and talked like an ex speed freak.

We walked down to get coffee and he volunteered the information that i'd suspected; that he was recently released from prison. I didn't want to probe, but I guess he wanted me to as he then explained that it was for Greivous Bodily Harm. Apparently, several years ago, a lesbian had fallen in love with his wife after meeting her through a work function. Unable to take no for an answer, the psychotic bitch had stalked her, threatening to mow down Roger and her children in a car if she didn't leave him. Roger and his wife reported it to the police, but they did nothing, citing that it was probably an empty threat.

Two days later the woman took her car through Roger's suburban street at about 80km/h, veering sharply towards where his two children were playing in his driveway. Only Roger's quick actions to grab them and tear them out of harm's way kept them from having their teeth, blood and bone mashed across the grill of the lesbian's Pajero, which sped off into the distance and disappeared. The police said they could still do nothing as there was no evidence of who was driving. The next day, Roger went to the lesbian's house and beat four kinds of mortal shit out of her with a baseball bat.

The train ride passed mostly in silence. I wished I had more to say to him, but I got the feeling that he just wanted to tell someone his story, and that he probably wasn't going to come back from his long drive into the outback.

And I don't think Roger's story should ever be forgotten.

[ ::/SIGINT ]

The radio was kinda fizzing out, but in less then a minute I heard a bracket of chatter on 94.5 that included the phrases "12 Litres of LSA" and "Thousands of abused children", which I have decided to combine as the designated theme for my wedding.

I'm so damn trendy, I blog from moving taxis.

:/remote data transmission received from field transponder [ergo_tel]

I love this blog

It's gotten me laid, like, four times now.


:/remote data transmission received from field transponder [ergo_tel]

Will you follow me?

The smell of wet bones in a mass grave, slaked with lime. He surveyed his work - his masterpiece - with it's stretched, hollow parchement skin the colour of dusk over the sea. Her still-warm cheeks were streaked with mascara, and her voice was still pooling on the earth around his ankles. Staining his boots. Clinging.

The hot red mist on the wind had drawn the animals, the scavengers... And the prey whimpered lamely in the glow of his cigarette, while the predator waited for lady time to finish the inextricoble, dripping orchestra that his razorblade had begun some six hours earlier.

It was a gift to her, you see.


:/remote data transmission received from field transponder [ergo_tel]

seeds of a storm

so there's this girl yeah yeah


and like


she's a party monster - one woman riot with the eyes of a cat and the smile that could stop a war

but it's not all there, see. She doesn't want anything... doesn't ask for or choke the emotions out of me


. . .


girls are stupid. But this one isnt? Straight a's on the razorblade, and truly refreshing, confident knowledge of one's nature as a drifting mote of thought, caught in flux chaotica.

She knows where she is... She just doesn't know where to go next.

just trapped in the moment - in the shadow of falling leaves, and under mute blue stars. Living for the question, not the answer.

Stunning, as in, stunned me to silence.

Makes my head silly. not gonna play this game again

bring me moar cocaine and put me on a train



:/remote data transmission received from field transponder [ergo_tel]

Opiate addicts are the biggest pussies on the planet.

They're all like "I'm gonna take this drug that makes me feel numb inside" and apparently that makes them happy, and once they stop taking it they get all butthurt like "Oh noes. I feel siiiiiiiick" and sit around the house puking and whining and shitting themselves all day.

man up, faggots