yo yo cyber democracy , bollocks

the weirdest thing about technology and its quest for the individual human product - we are so 'like' unique man- is that we just get to see how our ideas are totally replicatable and replicated take for example my little blog...
i typed lepocracy into google because i didnt want work people stumbling across my lame diatribe and lo and behold there is a band called - Leper Messiah with an album called Lepocracy, what are the fucking odds of that hey ? Not to mention that they appear to be heavy metal of which everyone, achmm the one person that reads this wil be aware of my absolute love of all things loud and heavy. Do you recon they typed leper Messiah into google and found my blog and named their album after it ? That'd be cool, I'd be chuffed, a heavy metal album in my name. rock. but it has made me a little bit more wary of posting stuff up here, some one might steal my ideas fuck my golden diamond crusted ideas could be peddled on a trash and treasure stall on the information superhighway... and well i thought about it and i dont really care, if some dodgy highschool student wants to submit a stolen crap short story and get five out of ten, let em. When lepocracy the movie comes out based on the lone, neurotic weblogs of a socially challenged human then perhaps we may have a problem.

http://www.bebo.com/grp/Grp.jsp?GrpTypeCd=BD&GrpId=1334056697

check it out, you recon they'd let me join?

allright so i havent written purposefully on here for a long time and I wonder why it is that i write on here at all. The myspace world of marketing/pickup joint is not lepocracy, im not writing to a group of friends so why the fuck let my thoughts and dumbass ruminations sit in a space which is randomly accesable and cut and pasteable. There is something 'Australian idol' about it, something pervasively reality tv show. When people, like me, who are loathe to talk to strangers but happy to allow a random internet trauller to enter my mental space, there is something going on. But like Mr Jones I dont know what it is. Why do i enter the world on the edges, never quite committed enough to popular culture to go to the centre but not so able to resist the lure. A techno curious luddite. A hermit suffering from a bout of gregarious. whatever it is i keep putting - delete my blog - on my things to do list but never do it.

I have finished university. my degree anyways. I have taken the same amount of time - infact two weeks longer than my close friend has taken to have three children. the same amount of time its taken the US to forget that they too never ratified the nuclear Comprehensive Test Ban Treaty (CTBT) (thanks wikipedia) and presumabley many other things that take seven years to complete that i could find on wiki if I could be bothered. My uni sent me a questionaire on "your views on how your Arts degree will make you employable" i love the age of marketing, the endless, badly worded, purpose specific, useless quest for a digitised sample from which to quote - WHY WE ARE HERE - to the sponsors, to the government, to the international students. My questionaire answers will provide none of these things. do you think your arts degree will get you a job, NO. But since when, well since howard really i guess, has education been soley about entering the market in an elevated position. Why the fuck has philosophy been so majorly important accross the world in its various forms, cultures and languages. Its not because it ever paid the fucking rent, well i guess it has from time to time but not nearly as reliabley as fishmongering or the like. Thinking, studying, exploring my ideas and others thats what i was there for and paying the rent thats what centrelink is for. Just because i am forced to buy this dumbed down education doesnt mean i want to sell it. Anyway rant rant. And as with the title of this not so considered ramble. Im over the internet and the bullshit postmodern cyber democracy, self congratulatory rubbish. technology is in the hands of much the same kind of humans that nuclear weapons and nonrenewable resources are in , cashed up white men, wheres the democracy in that aye? oh and while im on a ranty roll, whats with democracy, really i should stop bandying that word around like its some kind of of utopian prototype. Bah humbug. where am i going to focus my ire now that schools done?

There are no more metaphors for death, take 2.

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 thing. 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. Death’s 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. Winter rips Death out of my mouth in a violent belch. Summer sucks up Death into grassy banks and too blue skies. 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 it’s 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 once met Death on a quiet night in November, looking down from the second story of a building. I found Death kneeling beside a boy in cowboy boots, stroking his hair as his blood and brains stained the concrete. Death lay down and kissed the young man’s face, Death’s hair matted with the young man’s blood, I thought I saw Death shed a tear for this one, a boy Death might have loved.

But before this I had seen Death slide into the eyes, crawl face down under the skin of a child of 19. I saw Death claw through the corners of his mouth, ripping sinews from bone, staining his teeth with blood. Death reached for me with this child’s hands and left his dent on my skin. Death’s vessel never died, that child counts the minutes of his life, watches the hands Death left behind pick and unpick at the corners of his sores. This child of Death’s has years left yet to remember the stains he caused on the concrete.

I have hated Death for all these 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 Death will never leave.

In the end I know I will wait for Death, hope for Death. Find Death as my mother found it, after too many years of pain. I will gasp and gape, with my mouth wide like a fish like she did, my body contorted like hers was. I will take those last breathes because biology makes me do it because the laws of nature will me to fight. My body will move because it has to but I will stay still inside. I will lie like she did, a still warm thing that used to love, with all my own clothes on but only dead flesh and bones.

Death will make me ashes, Death will make me gone. Death will crawl into the beds of people who have loved me and it will slice open their tongues while they sleep. Their love will wake with a mouth full of blood because Love is no match for Death. Love can only lower its eyes, pat the creases out of its skirt and hope that Death walks by. The streets Love walks, turn dark. The alleys of Love’s winter have Death in them, waiting to wrap its rotten hands around Love’s neck and push Love to the ground. Someone told me Death is beauty but I have seen Death rape Love and there was no beauty there.

Love has no weapons, no teeth. Love sometimes trades faces for photographs, day dreams for memories, until finally after Love meets Death it cannot remember who exactly it was before. Before the alleyways in which Death fucked the life out of Love, Love knew where to go. Love had plans. Love was a street savvy teenager sipping long blacks at Ginos. But now Love’s hands shake, holding onto air. Love titters, talking to shadows. Love has become the old woman on the 86 tram who has forgotten to shower.

Finally, there is only Death. A dictionary full of words to tell it, metaphors to mask it, ways to make it. But Death makes us in the end and words like dog shit stick resolutely to us all, Death put them there, and they always say, I am sorry for your loss.

Dont get me wrong Im a fan of diversity...

Its great to give 'Muslims', 'Asians', and 'Queers' a break from public transport nutbags. Its great to see racism off the agenda for the ranting individuals who ALWAYS seem to be on my tram. Share the hate around i say. But still i cant deny the urge to scream at the man who got on the tram and started a tirade at me. For as stupid a reason as any, for being fat. He xtoled the virtues of being skinny, which he must of been in a past life because the man i saw wasnt looking so petite in his bike pants, and expressed his discust in my ear loud enough for the tram. Now i wish i could say that i turned around and smiled at him sweetly and said any of the folowing
a. nice bike pants honey
b. fuck off and die
c. id rather be fat than clearly delusional

but no i didnt. Chalk that one up to a missed oppertunity to participate in a brawl on a city tram.

rock on public transport, mobile mental health shelters and playpens for fuckwits

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...

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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..............................................

hello blue sunday

my hero today mr vonnegut, i salute you, yorke the antihero i salute you too , it is possible to think in these times , for this i am grateful to be reminded. im not sure if there are any others today, there are scores of motivated humans doing wonderous deeds for humanity for whatever motivation, i would salute them but im reserving the right not to, there are others who will do that. may the energetic do that. I'm on the side of the ancient

i was meant to be a writer, however, as genetics frequently attests, lifes miracle is its ability to fuck with fate, and as such I was born without talent. I have the temperament, the attraction to booze and cigarrettes and self mutilation. I have the height, many great writers are in fact very short, this is unverifiable on wikipedia but its one of those things i know to be true. I have the bouts of very boring depression, violent tempers and self flagellation. A few people around me believe that hidden underneath every self depreciating depressive with suicidal tendencies and hermitudanal desires is something. In this case, sorry your wrong. to paraphrase hero of the week 'i could carve a better writer out of a bannana' they at least wouldnt struggle spelling the word bannana.
i also have the sex life of a writer. well it seems worthy of a writer anyway, i should leave at that really but the problem is, associated once again with talent that i dont have, i cant. i wrote a sentence which on rereading i thought, what?, do i think writers are by nature uncomfortable and indifferently treated by sex/love if i was to think of the SO talented but by all accounts prodigiouly bastardly Salman Rushdie's supermodel wife number three, i would say obviously not. some of them die of venereal diseases, like artists. it was an asside, which in hindsight should have been deleted. writers do that i suppose, edit. Im quite unequivocabley apposed to it as much as my friend Katie is apposed to plastic surgery. its delete one and all or go on with the curse of a trail of diatribe and cellulite behind you.

i have a head full of other people and a very quiet life. the reverse might be useful

"Nice, Nice, Very Nice.."

Nietzsche said of Jesus: "it is regrettable that no Dostoevsky lived near him." He also stated "Dostoevsky was the only psychologist from whom I had anything to learn"