wh oo m ph

a volatile condition, like imploding in space, no noise. silent combustion. the only evidence is a slowly reddening exterior and a firmly, tightly neatly sewn mouth. its a condition , asked once by god/fate/chance,/some embodiment of the random chaos, what if anything one would want to change if randomness can be put aside for a moment the answer would be... it would be the lack of mutey, my silent friend. Mutey with the lips sewn shut, with the aspect of a child with the sudden loss of anything in the mental cavity but the resounding boom of NOT TALKING, YOURE NOT TALKING, WHY ARENT YOU TALKING, EVERYONE ELSE IS TALKING, TALK,TALK....i would put mutey on the last train to frankston and say adious , pick up Sir Talks alot from platform two, tie sir talks alot to my frontal lobe and walk on forever, babbling, whooping, filling crevices with the luxorious sound of my voice. For this i hope, the great kelly dream, to at once be blessed with the power of speech in social situations and the ability to shut the hell up when im drunk.

There are no more metaphors for death

There are no more metaphors for death, no analogies, I have used them all up and so here I am with death sliding down my sides like a street weary slum rat, all claws and teeth. Gnawing at my sides with saliva, rabies, plague. Death infects me, death is pathological, death is deadly, death menaces me with memories of itself in happier times. It tries to make me look away from my sides now that are torn bloody maggot riddled. Death whispers itself into your ear, but it is never you that dies, no that’s not deaths game. Death is a slum rat, a torn down and manky worm but it takes steady bites at the sides of your being. The surrounds, the bits that you need to feel whole but not the bits you need to stay alive. Death doesn’t go for your jugular. Death is a ringworm, a burrowing tick. It takes your blood, until it’s gone. And I think it’s gone.

I have nine years of words for death, nine long slow years. deaths syllables have well rounded my tongue. Death’s punctuated, savagely between the lines of my eyes. I have seen the words death likes to use, I have seen death use them again and again. Death has seasonal whims. summer rips death out of my mouth in a violent belch. Summer sucks up death into grassy banks and too blue skies, memories are clearer when the sky leaves the ground, when the stars make room for us again.

Death would be an ample administrator, death never misses an opportunity. Death markets itself well. Name me a writer who hasn’t written about it, name me a human unmoved by it. Death has all the right connections, death speaks through the ages, death is timeless. Death goes well with lavender.

I can think of death when I’m lonely, it has compartments for whimsy. No one ever told death a thing or two because death knows everything, it has seen your insides, met your puss and sores. Death fucks you, you’ve felt it. Or at least you will, that’s what death says when its feeling angry, when death is sad it holds your hand it rests its rodent head on your shoulder, and it sighs long romantic sighs.

I have hated death for nine long years. Found death and killed it, with machine guns, machetes, the bricks holding up my shelves. I have smashed death, watched the gore seep to a congealing puddle on my floor. But death is no slave to circumstance, there is nothing death will not enjoy. It will wearily pull up its trouser leg and piss in your face. Believe me, get used to death because it will never leave. Words like dog shit stick resolutely to you, death put them there, and they always say, I am sorry for your loss.

worlds most

This grey, this persistent grey. Streets of concrete meet skies of cloud. The top of the world is close to the ground. The monkeys of Bourke Street make black and white faces at their reflections. The tram stops every three minutes, an elephant in tight brown pants emerges tusked and angry slams through the middle and sits half on my lap. He smells like straw and grease and sweat even though it is barely one degree away from freezing out there the mere struggle to move has given him great pools of elephantine sweat under his arms. He doesn’t repulse me, why should elephants be more repulsive than the sleek coated monkeys, with their preening eyes seeking out anything that will stop for five seconds long enough for them to catch a moment of themselves, my own eyes are enough for them. Monkeys and the twittering tittering peacocks, and toucans the bower birds and the budgerigars noise coated colourful baubles in a too close room. The tram is small and fetid, hot breath, smells of fur and hide, small lice covered wings touch beaks, a brief flash of bared teeth as something young treads on the toes of something mean. I try to see out my window but it has fogged up, I wipe and outside the rain smashed footpaths bleed into the street. Hooves slip and fur matts, umbrellas fight the necks of giraffes for space closer to the sky but there is so little there that they rest themselves upon each other. What would seem a sweet embrace if it wasn’t for the rain.

the hues

so i universi-tied , tied to notions of full-fill-ment wonder what is there, is Marx it, fight capitalism, is foucault it fighting is pointless, is there meaning, is there reason is there anyway out of this shitholerabbithole poweraddled gadget saddled remorseless abyss? Do I believe in emancipation, is it the power to fight that makes it impossible to fight the power? We are contemporary contemptables, we are beyond philosophy, post-critism, Nike/Coke/playstation/virgin mobile phones provide us with enough social commentary, they teach us al we need to know about existentialism and nihilism and what else is there? we are the centre of the universe and nothing matters...

------------------------@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@

Portraits are for people you intend on forgetting. Handsome, ugly, distinguished, fey these are faces who will never come to your mind with a single word, the slight fragrance of a season or in every passing minute. This is a portrait of a woman I met for a summer. She wasn't kind, or tall or intelligent. She made circles in the air when she spoke, wide gestures you had to watch out for, I once took one squarely on my nose. She made up for what she was saying with her busy hands. I wasn't fooled. I remember she once told me that people just didn't understand her which was why they never were bowled over by what she had to say. I thought it was a wonder more people hadn't been bowled over by her hands. She wore a navy cardigan and she claimed to be a Marxist although what this means these days is a little beyond me. It reminds me of Marx's idea of false consciousness and seems a likely club for anyone who believes that everyone else just might be wrong.

I met her in the way you do people you will ultimately forget, on the train. We were travelling from the city to my little suburban train station. I had on a badge which might be taken to mean that I too was a member of the club against capitalism. She wanted to talk, I could tell. That’s the problem with wearing your politics like a corporate logo, people frequently think then your thoughts and time are for sale. She told me, after several minutes of me trying desperately to avoid eye contact of the rally on Sunday, a prelude to the big anti-globalisation rally at the end of the year. I said, yes I will be going, and then she started on about the ants..............................................