Liri/Jason/Drake: A Blog

To Jason.

2012-02-16T03:03:00.001+11:00

Try to sum up what happened to you tonight on this blog ever and you will make sure that you eternally regret it.

Regards,
Jason.

LOVE. THEY'RE BOTH LOVE.

2012-02-16T01:07:00.000+11:00

To Ollie,

I am writing this on distant shores.
I don't know how I got here,
Because whatever took me here did so without my knowledge.
All I know is that I am here now.
And I am standing on the shores,
With the sand between my toes -
The sand being a metaphor, y'see,
For something atrocious and wanky
That does nothing to sum out how we actually feel about one another.
And I'm not going to go down that road.
Instead, I'm going to type something that will sum up how I feel about the universe.
And you.
Because you and the universe are so very, very interchangable.
It's all in you, you know.
Everything I was,
Everything that I am (in my mind)
and everything that I could be.
But enough about you,
I'm on distant shores,
And the important thing,
The REALLY important thing,
Is that god is here with me.
And your clever friend the Devil, too.
They're on the shores with me, and they're singing out over the waves.
Their hands are on my shoulders.
I wish that you were here with me.
I didn't wish for anybody else.
Between God and the Devil and in the hands of them both,
All I could think of was you.
And your heartbeat.
And I'm writing this with no bullshit in my heart,
Or on my breath (for once)
and you know that.
Take this honesty, you bastard.
Take it and laugh.

I hope you can join me on these shores one day,
And we'll really show those two bastards.

Love,
Your friend Jason

Torn-Feather Eulogies

2012-02-13T20:23:00.002+11:00

Oh, what a mess.
Torn-feather eulogies,
And a simple demand.
Cheap forgeries, a trickery
and an oustretched hand.
Tongue between teeth,
Lips gently parted.
A ruinous bequeath,
Meant for something not started.
Twilight, it seems
Is the lighting of choice.
Twilight in dreams
is the thief of my voice.
Oh, what a mess.
Torn-feather eulogies,
And an empty bed.
A belly full of malice,
And an unchecked head.
Eyes bushy-bright,
And the stomach a-churning.
Ready to fight,
But your loins are a-burning.
Darkness, it seems,
Is the cover of all,
Darkness in dreams,
Will precede a fall.
Oh, what a mess.
Torn-feather eulogies,
And words left unspoken.
A fall-silent room,
And a heart left unbroken.
Torn-feather eulogies,
For the flightless and strong.
They may be groundwalkers,
But at least they're not wrong.
Torn-feather eulogies,
For the birds in my brain.
They may all have roosted,
But they sing in the rain.

Try not to follow.

2012-02-13T20:16:00.003+11:00

We are the last to leave the fight,
We are the stolen.
We are the first into the night,
We are the chosen.

We are the ghosts who weep for more,
Inside of your head.
We are the ones outside the door,
And under your bed.

But we will pass, and we will go.
We'll fade into the dark and we'll say no.
Just stay awake and just stay strong,
Because we're holding on.

We are the ones who didn't win,
We are the fallen.
We are the ones who drank the gin -
And we are calling.

But we will pass, and we will go,
We'll fade into the dark, so don't say no.
Just stay awake and just go along,
Because we're holding on.

We are the ones who cannot scream,
And how we're trying...

But we will pass, and we will go.
We'll flee into the dark, because we're wrong.
Just stay awake and don't belong,
So you can hold on.

But we will pass, and we will go.
We'll fade into the dark and we'll say no.
Just stay awake and just stay strong,
Because we're holding on.

The Cave

2012-02-06T17:42:00.003+11:00

There's this hole in the earth that's a yawning dark pit,
And the denizens are all enslaved.
It's ignored by the people who are full of shit,
But it lies there in wait for the brave.

I am human and I need to be loved,
And I cannot remain in this hole.
I am sun, I am air - and I belong above,
I'll break free and unshackle my soul.

There's a million lost souls in this hole in the ground.
Though you'd swear that there's no space for one.
There's a jailor and prisoner and they're under the mound.
There's a lock and and key, they're undone.

I am human and I need to be loved,
And I cannot remain in this hole.
I am sun, I am air - and I belong above,
I'll break free and unshackle my soul.

And the prisoners allow their hands to be tied,
By their jailors with faces of friends.
You can turn away, sure - but you risk getting fried
By the stingers attached to their ends.

You've fed them your secrets and fed them up strong,
And their venom can flow in full force.
A barbed sentence now, that just doesn't belong.
But the venom is running its course.

I am human and I need to be loved,
And I will not remain in this hole.
I am sun, I am air - and I belong above,
And I'll burn to unshackle my soul.

Privacy Policy

2012-02-01T00:59:00.002+11:00

I've got a new privacy policy.
It protects me from diatribes.
I've got a new privacy policy.
It protects me from your lies.
I've got a new policy,
Privacy policy,
Protect me.

I've got great expectations.
There's no place to hide.
I've got a burning sensation
And it's coursing inside.
I've got great expectations,
There's nothing to find.
I've got a burning sensation,
So leave me behind.

We can talk with numbers,
Signals, sentinels, sentience.
We can talk with symbols.
Nods, neutral, nothing.

I'll float with the rising of the tones.
I'll fall with the drop as the wind changes.
I'll soar on wings of silence between seconds.
Just bring the noise.

I do not think that there's anything in that dark room for me.

Travel hundres of miles.
To get the hell away.
The fleeing die in piles,
And they are here to stay.

Flesh. Nothing but flesh. Flesh flesh flesh. And nice girls.

Evacuate

2012-01-29T01:52:00.004+11:00

I'll attach sailcloth to my life,
With fair winds at our backs.
I'll put away my knife,
There's nothing to attack.
I'll take your hand in love,
The hand you raised in hate.
The world split from above,
Our lives are bound by fate.
But I'm not giving in.
You turned away from me.
For all my people's sin,
But I have made us free.
The skies await our hand,
The sun is on our face.
We've made our final stand,
Let's leave this awful place.
We'll find a distant shore,
And make our dreams come true.
There's nothing wrong or poor,
When I'm right here with you.

Come on Zulf. We're going home.

What is done is done,

what is gone is gone.

We can't go back anymore,

but we can go... wherever we please.

And though that might not sound too great for you right now,

after all of this...

I cannot leave you behind.

I won't say please. And you won't thank me. Because this is what friends are for.

Of Confusion, Odds, and Ends.

2012-01-27T01:13:00.003+11:00

Oh, hello. It's a double bill tonight. That means real-life stuff. Let me just trawl through the old posts and see my last real-life wankery.

Oh dear, it was such a long time ago. But hey! The last one had little italic interludes, and looking back over them, I'm appreciating them quite a bit. So I might write some more of them. Hey, me in a few months. Take note of these - they take a bit of effort and you nod and smile when you see them, don't you? So when you sit down to do this again, chuck them in.

And you're alone in here, except for the shades of everybody else who's been in the room, and the musk of the sex in the bed, and the hum of the machines around you and the memories of everybody who's impacted you and the several thousand people claiming residence inside your mind, spilling out of you all at once. So very alone.

For once I'll begin with romance, instead of pushing it to the back of the post like a pet that's made a mess on the rug. Pat and I have broken up at this point. Only...we haven't stopped sharing a bed. Or having sex. Or telling one another that we love one another. Or looking after one another. Or leaning on one another emotionally...in fact, the only thing we've stopped doing is guilting one another and being passive aggressive and resentful. I'm now in the perfect relationship, and all it took was for me to get out of the relationship.
I cannot express how conflictingly elating and depressing that realization is.
So it was his birthday just finished a few hours ago and he's in the country with his god-awful family and I'm alone here thinking about how important and essential and splendid he is and then feeling a mixture of hatred and happiness for those feelings. It's becoming clear that I need to see a shrink. I've started to go into hysterics with alarming regularity. Hysterics. With alarming regularity. Like I'm some sort of highly strung 1800s woman who can't get through the day without a good bout of fainting.

You're scrabbling at whatever bits are left within reach, floating in the sea around you. They turn out to be sharp - very sharp. They cut your hands to the bone and you're forced to drop them, and instead of holding you afloat, they've attracted sharks. Blood in the water and sharks all around. What else can you do but panic?

I am finding it exceptionally hard to feel confident about my mental state. I can't bring myself to eat. I want to smoke at all hours. I drink too quickly and too much. I crave harder stuff like you wouldn't believe. Sleep doesn't come easily, if at all. Crying comes and goes. Love comes and goes. Wanting to be touched wars with a desperate need to be seperated. Friends are drawn close and shoved aside. Strangers are appreciated and despised. Parents are scorned, then required. I suppose I've done most of these things all my life, but they're so heightened. I wanted dizzying highs and terrifying lows - I've wanted those things all my life - but not in the space of a day, an hour, a minute.

I hate my work. I have never hated my work. I despite it at the moment.
I can't look myself in the eye in the mirror.
I refuse to allow myself to be weak, because when I'm weak I fall apart.
When I'm strong, I'm barely holding myself together.
And so on. An endless litany of depresssive cliches stitched together by nice words. Enough of this.

Put the curtain down and spout some facts, you fool. You want to deal in mundane things, not in this high emotion. You won't relate or care in a year's time.

I'm glad I'm blogging. People around me keep diaries, or say they do. I don't think I could ever do that. A few days ago I rode on a train and saw a man with a beard that went down to his navel. That's fun in isolation, but surround that with a thousand days, filled with millions of meaningless observations, and it loses punch. In fifty years I'd like to turn this into a book and leave it lying around. That's the dream.
I haven't seen nearly enough theatre. Rigor Mortis was hilarious and fun, The Economist was the complete opposite. I am a pirate named Cutthroat Jack in the O'Show this year. I sing in five songs and have a few lines. It's quite enjoyable so far, though it lacks the Much Ado feel (despite the fact that most of the Much Ado cast in in it)
I am running a DnD game at the moment which is a lot of fun. We have a wizard with no name, a Shadar-Kai named Eleanor, an orcish cleric whose name escapes me (who Ollie will probably name in the comments if he reads this), a fey warlock named Garath, and a pirate called Five.
I am getting a blister on my index finger from typing. This has never happened before.
I had my sisters down from Canberra for the first time. They seemed to love Melbourne. I seem to love them.
I have to be up at 9am tomorrow, and it is nearly 2am.
Tintin was a wonderful film.

Now get out.

Exactly the Same

2012-01-27T01:02:00.003+11:00

We'll get out, you and I.
Frightful, felonious farces.
Play out under hideous concrete skies.
Big fish, small pond.
Big dick!
That was quick.
You're an animal in a concrete jungle.
But the ceiling's the same.
Forest canopy, sunroof,
Cigarettes or banana leaves
Rape, business, mudhut, highrise.
Get out tomorrow.
Get out tomorrow.
Go to work, go to bed, drive a car,
fuck the wife.
Fucked your life.

We'll get out, you and I.
Hop a train that leads somewhere
exactly the same
but you'll be able to let down your hair,
and reinvent yourself
and keep your head out of the oven
and your life out of the drain.
I'll avoid that tie
that horrible, simple tie
that could have been a noose
now we've been cut loose
with strangers in their ruts
instead of family
who've gone nuts.

Reckless. We're so reckless.
There are cities with graveyards
and graveyards with cities.
Parasitic, symbiotic?
Pass the joint and hope it's chronic,
don't think too much and sleep all night
and it might just turn out
alright.
We'll get out.
We'll get out.
We're on a train.
Going somewhere exactly the same.

A Handful of Dust

2012-01-26T01:59:00.002+11:00

I will show you fear in a handful of dust - T.S Eliot.

Is that all?
You think yourself powerful,
All-seeing, eyes of mortality
The dirt-caked fist of God himself
and think yourself unique?
A handful of dust to inspire terror?
The fear of ages passing
in the debris of ages past.
You summon up old demons
made of wire and twigs and flesh and bone
faded, distant and forlorn
they play upon the mind.
A handful of dust is fear itself.

I can do so much more.
I can bring fear in your reflection.
Fear in the touch of a lover,
Fear in a hairbrush,
a loose tooth,
a stain on the floor.
I can bring tears in an embrace.
Panic in a note of music.
Sorrow in the embers of a fire.
I can summon hate
and shame
in a piece of paper.
Pestilence in pencils and pens,
desecration in a home-cooked meal,
madness in a concrete spire.
I can do so much more.

Can you, you bloody-faced creator?
Can you conjure love and hope and joy?
Where are your silver-faced angels,
made of light and sound and warmth
to seep into us and sweep us away?
Where are they?
Are they in your handfuls of dust?
Did they die with ages past?
Their corpses leave nothing for us,
your hateful masses.
Let their shades walk the world.
Show me hope in a handful of dust.
That's real power.

Maestro

2012-01-20T00:17:00.002+11:00

Come in, come in - kill the lights and settle down.
I'm preparing something magical in here.
It turns happiness to anger and smiles into frowns,
And you're primed for quite the sample, oh my dear.

Give in, give in - there's no reason for this din.
For you'll see that I agree with all you say.
There's no reason for this conflict, this chaos over sin
I've decided not to fight you, not today.

I win, I win - you've forgotten why you care.
And the jealousy and fugue are all you are.
I can will away our wonders with a glassy, silent stare.
I may not love - but hey, I have a car.

Dear god, please don't let this come true.

The Bastion

2012-01-18T01:31:00.002+11:00

This is my 250th post. I wish I were writing something that wasn't word vomit. Actually, no I don't.

Someday I'll build a wall of stone,
Build it high with bricks of bone.
You'll dig a hole, I'll build a wall.
Someday this wall is gonna fall.

Bring on the sea from up the hill.
Bring on the tide of men that kill.
Wash away all under the sky,
And I will build wings to fly.

Someday I'll build a wall of ice.
Hundred foot high, won't that be nice?
Under the cold we'll find our sleep,
And into dreams we'll softly creep.

I'm on my back, I'm coming home.
Atop the wall of blood and bone.
I am alone, I have attacked.
I'm waiting here, not coming back.

I see the stars that wheel on high,
You stole my wings only to die.
Shed a tear and never fear,
I'm coming home.
Atop the wall.
I'm coming home.
Never fear.

There's a bastion beneath the earth.
It keeps your soul from final death.
I've built a wall to keep it back,
The shadows and the final fall.

Of blood and bone and sacrifice.
Of memories that softly call.
A deep and flooded paradise,
Behind a frozen wall of ice.

I do wish I could finish it, though.

There, once.

2012-01-12T00:07:00.002+11:00

There once was a man with a hole in his head.
And he danced in the streets for his daily bread.
And the demons flew out and they left him alone
But he wouldn't stop moving, he wouldn't go home.

There once was a man with his head in a hole.
He was trying to drown out his colourful soul.
But his head popped on out when it started to ache.
Because soul colours give, but they won't let you take.

There was a woman with a thirst for the sea,
She was wild and wilful and wouldn't leave be.
Then one day she found her way down to the shore,
Took off her dress and became something more.

There was a woman with a sea for a thirst.
She slaked it with bottles and thought she was cursed.
Then along came a man with oceans in his throat.
And she threw out her thirst and set off in his boat.

Who's There?

2012-01-11T23:46:00.002+11:00

Because stealing and completely warping an original concept is much easier than coming up with something of my own. After this, I swear, something of my own devising.

Hello, who's there?
Just Me. I'm alone.
Well, let yourself in,
We'll make you at home.
What brings you around,
So lost and alone?
Alone, but not lost,
I assure you, my friend.
But I'll let you play host,
Because I love you the most.
Well, isn't that nice?
We all thank you, for sure.
But we're not sure what vice
Has you knock
knock
knocking at our door.
You can't all thank me,
Because that wasn't extended
To the collective of souls
That you've kept and pretended
That they've made up your mind
And they've sat in your head
And they keep you so warm
In your cold, lonely bed.
I was talking to YOU -
Why, who do you mean?
You can't pick us out,
We all share a skin,
And a backlog of sin,
And we share the same roof
The same shell, the same doubt -
We have what we've been,
And we'll be what we'll be -
So there isn't a you,
Just a we.
There's a flaw here.
So small, yet so clear.
If you'll allow -
Please, go right ahead,
We're frightfully curious
To hear what you say,
Our ears are wide open
No, that's not the way.
You talk as a collective, a group or a pack -
But the souls that comprise you are under attack.
There's a SELF in there, and he's a consumer,
A bastard, a hunger, a violent abuser.
You don't share a past and you don't share a future
The things that lent weight to that have been devoured,
This ravenous beast within you empowered
To eat all you were and the people who made you,
To crunch up experience and gulp down outsiders,
The masses whittled down to one.
This has already begun.
We don't know what you mean, we're sure.
When once we were one, we are certainly more .
We're the one who was born, and the one who was taught,
We're the one who was foolish and the one that was caught,
We're the one who is vicious and the one who's inspired,
We're the one who is loving and the one who is tired.
We're the one who's all-knowing and the one who is silent.
We're the one who is vibrant and the one who is quiet.
We are so many people that we crowd out the room,
While we're in just one body, we number in billions,
No devourer could stop us or even diminish
Our endless providing, our wonderous brilliance.
Fine.
Fine?
You concede? This isn't like you,
Dazzle us with your wit, lone walker.
Fill us with wonder, you're such a great talker.
But we outnumber and overcome,
And you are all alone.
That's as may be,
But I bet you can't bring them forth.

I...I speak for them all.
Oh, there's an 'I' now, is there?
I'll be leaving now.
Don't bother getting out of the way.
There's lots of space.

Oh.

Lose My Body

2012-01-04T00:14:00.001+11:00

Lose my body,
Find my mind.
Is that the price?
How ill-defined.

I'll shed my skin,
I'll lose my wings,
They had no use,
Such pointless things.

I'll give control,
For sanity.
Trade intellect,
For vanity.

I'd rather think,
Than have a heart,
Lose my body?
Let us part.

That time of year again.

2011-12-25T13:36:00.004+11:00

No real Christmas post this year. Tomorrow I leave to go see my family in Canberra, and to pick up Savannah and move her to Melbourne. I don't really have time for ranting about commercialism or bitching about how families always fight or hating the fact that I have to go back to Canberra. I think my feelings this year can be summed up in a song by Tim Minchin, though. So I'm gonna be slack and post those lyrics.

I really like Christmas
It's sentimental, I know, but I just really like it
I am hardly religious
I'd rather break bread with Dawkins than Desmond Tutu, to be honest

And yes, I have all of the usual objections
To consumerism, the commercialisation of an ancient religion
To the westernisation of a dead Palestinian
Press-ganged into selling Playstations and beer
But I still really like it

I'm looking forward to Christmas
Though I'm not expecting a visit from Jesus

I'll be seeing my dad
My brother and sisters, my gran and my mum
They'll be drinking white wine in the sun
I'll be seeing my dad
My brother and sisters, my gran and my mum
They'll be drinking white wine in the sun

I don't go in for ancient wisdom
I don't believe just 'cos ideas are tenacious it means they are worthy
I get freaked out by churches
Some of the hymns that they sing have nice chords but the lyrics are spooky

And yes I have all of the usual objections
To the miseducation of children who, in tax-exempt institutions,
Are taught to externalise blame
And to feel ashamed and to judge things as plain right and wrong
But I quite like the songs
I'm not expecting big presents
The old combination of socks, jocks and chocolate is just fine by me

Cos I'll be seeing my dad
My brother and sisters, my gran and my mum
They'll be drinking white wine in the sun
I'll be seeing my dad
My brother and sisters, my gran and my mum
They'll be drinking white wine in the sun

And you, my baby girl
My jetlagged infant daughter
You'll be handed round the room
Like a puppy at a primary school
And you won't understand
But you will learn someday
That wherever you are and whatever you face
These are the people who'll make you feel safe in this world
My sweet blue-eyed girl

And if, my baby girl
When you're twenty-one or thirty-one
And Christmas comes around
And you find yourself nine thousand miles from home
You'll know what ever comes
Your brother and sisters and me and your Mum
Will be waiting for you in the sun
Whenever you come
Your brothers and sisters, your aunts and your uncles
Your grandparents, cousins and me and your mum
We'll be waiting for you in the sun
Drinking white wine in the sun
Darling, when Christmas comes
We'll be waiting for you in the sun
Drinking white wine in the sun
Waiting for you in the sun
Waiting for you...
Waiting...

I really like Christmas
It's sentimental, I know...

Shades

2011-12-23T12:41:00.003+11:00

The shade of apathy
Hides in reflection
If you don't meet his eyes
He wins anyway.

The lord of melancholy
Sits atop his horse of heat
He rides through
and sows entitlement.

The serpent of sin
is a scaled serenader.
He'll wrap you in strands
of finest silk.

The wreck of hunger
shambles
just over the horizon
and he raises a great cloud.

The liar of love
feeds you honey and mint.
He'll kiss you on the lips
and steal away into the night.

Want what.

2011-12-23T12:30:00.002+11:00

You can't always get what you want,
And sometimes what you want won't.
If what you want won't, then what?
When do you want what you won't?

I am yours, but you have to go.
It takes a long time to deal with that.
I'll wed your presence and dwell with it,
But you leave and divorce what I want.

There's evidence of what I wanted,
Strewn around in the blistering heat.
All it takes is a look to the side -
An effigy to indolence.

I'll shift you to the back of my mind,
In the same way that an addict
Will shift a stick to the side of his mouth.
Substitution holds it all away.

I always get what I want.
But when what I want won't, I will.
When what I want won't -
then what will you want?
When you want, I won't.

Bad machine.

2011-12-19T23:58:00.003+11:00

There's a machine that's fuelled by pieces of itself,
Chewed up small and forced into the flames,
To keep its product flowing in good health,
It occupies itself with sordid games.

It does things it surely wasn't made to do,
Like fill itself with toxic, evil fuel.
And though it had promise when it was new,
Now it obeys simpler, baser rules.

The product is contaminated, yes -
By this self consumption, sacrifice.
Mercy, love - it's chewed up like the rest,
No virtue undevoured by this price.

And then at last, when good is cast aside -
In favour of the cheaper cost of sin,
Then the machine has cause to run and hide -
Without the goods, the rust is creeping in.

Brainstream

2011-12-19T23:47:00.002+11:00

Jen's doing stream of conciousness writing. I want to be like Jen. Plus, it has been a while since I've done that. I'm not expecting Prufrock, but I suppose we'll see how it ends up.

I really shouldn't listen to music while I do this.
It damns the flow somewhat. Keeps wanting me to become interject words.
Can't deny it. It's a shame though, because this song is about magic doors. They're opening all over the place, into Alice's head, and she's leaping through the air and suddenly there's ooze all over that pretty dress and she's slashing at the snails and they just
won't break.
And there's millions of them. Millions and millions, crawling all over her body, her desire, leaving their little trails of gunk over every surface within and without and you just know that you're not going to be able to scrub it all clean so you get out your flute and you play something and hope that somebody's recording.
I'm tired. I'm also worried I sound mad. I've been playing games about madness, I've been thinking about madness,
do I dare? Do I dare?
but I don't think I'm on the edge of that particular cliff just yet. It'd be nice though
to slide away
into dementia. Well, I'm smart. Maybe in a few decades.
Song finished. Interlude.

New song began. Same band. Named 'Hunter'. All I can think of is those blue and orange creatures made out of tubes, and you shoot them and they bleed all over the corrogated iron floor. The tone isn't like that at all. It's something you'd play in a boudior - spelling? - with a pale faced lady lying prone and listless on a couch nearby and I forget where I was going with this but she's drained of all her blood.
And there's a cacaphony of serenades competing for space on your tongue and you can't decide which one spews forth and tarnishes the air above her head, so you settle for none and you lick your lips and stare out over the unmoving world. Hunter. That sounds about right, doesn't it? It'd be cold. It's never hot in places like that. It's never hot here, come to think of it, not properly. I don't warm up like I should, like proper people do. Pat does. He's usually warm, and I'm straying into territory that could get graphic here so I'll make an effort to force my mind away from skin and sweat and bedroom and turn it back to things that are holy and sanctified like a woman being drained of flesh or a man having nails driven into his flesh. Hunter. That'll do nicely. Can't listen to this anymore. Interlude.

I was right. This wasn't Prufrock. And now the northern lights are shining on me and the tone is shifting yet again and dragging me with it.
And I'm flinging
fireballs
from the back seat of a moving bus
apocalypse
as the world slides into the grave
with a riotous sound
not with a whimper, but with a glorious bang,
an orgy of destruction and vainglory,
and I'm the destroyer
and the important thing is that everybody knows it
but I'll be home in time to raid.

That'll do, I think.

Well/Better and everything in between

2011-12-14T00:52:00.004+11:00

Well?
What now?
A little piece?
For a little peace.
You'll hardly miss it, honest.
What's the harm in trading it?
Where's the suffering in giving it up?
You won't regret this choice for long.
Just a tiny, insignificant piece.
Nothing worth fighting over.
Hand it over.
That's good.
Better?

Time Enough.

2011-12-14T00:41:00.002+11:00

Everybody's telling you that you can't,
As you're rubbing ointments on the wound.
Nothing ventured, nothing at the start,
You smile and duck your head and hum a tune.
There's no path around this here jungle that's sprung up -
No road to take you where you need to go.
There's a ditch that you'll abridge when you've enough,
And a jungle - that's a metaphor. Don't you know?

Through the gates, through the gates,
With nothing to stop you on your way
Nothing holds you back from keeping dates,
Nothing holds you back from yesterday.
You smile at the drones out on the street,
With vapid eyes and grinning lies and faded heart,
But there is nothing that constrains your depth or feet,
Nothing to suppress your soul of art.

Rejoice!; rejoice,
The world is your oyster - or mollusc of choice,
It's there for the taking, if you find your voice,
There's time enough for love, now,
Time enough for strife.
Time enough for husband and time enough for wife.
Time enough for suffering and time enough for scorn.
Time enough for happiness, time to be forlorn.
Time to lose the beaten track, time to take a toll,
Time to love the jungle, time to fill your bowl.
There's enough inspiration to take it from the soil,
Take it from your blogging friends and take it from your toil,
Take it from the end of something and from life anew.
Take it from most any source, but most of all, from you.

Sing, man. I believe you.

2011-12-08T23:15:00.005+11:00

You've been let in,
And you're not sure how.
But you're steeped in sin.

There's a boy in the dark,
And he opens his mouth,
And sings like a man.

Something isn't right.
A feel, a thought, a dream.
Drinks during the day.

Suddenly, a power play.

The voices within,
Burst into song,
I'll sing along.

Something feels wrong.
The lights are off,
I'm not a good man.

Is this your plan?
Throw it aside,
It won't help you here.

There's nothing to fear.
Only your arm,
And force of will.

I can settle your stomach.

Dance with me, and I'll make you feel wrong,
To your very core,
To the depths of your self,
To the end of your health.
To the earth, to the bones,
To me.
I won't be a martyr.
It won't be alright.
But it might just be
enough.

Matter of Time

2011-12-06T00:14:00.002+11:00

Always never seems to last.
We just end up here again.
I can help you if I want to.

We're just waiting for our meds,
Burning daylight till we sleep,
You mean nothing to me in the dark.

It's a good time until we close our eyes and fall.
It's a good dream until the dawning of the day.
It's a good life, but you know I can't stay.

It's a sea that we can never cross,
A word floats into the air and is burned away.
It's just a matter of time,
You've been running with the wind,
And now there are bars across the doorways to your soul.

And this might take a lot of our time to get through,
So don't fight against me.
This might take a lot of our patience and strength,
But you have the strength,
And you tear between those bars and you're free in the wind.

The sun is calling your name,
It's the time to be out in the world,
And you sing with your hands
and your eyes fall away.

Down here, waiting in the dark.
A world that's built from blood and shame.
And your breath falls across it.

Turn my face towards the sun.
There's a light in the gloom,
And all I see in it is your face.

Get the FUCK Up.

2011-12-03T15:28:00.003+11:00

Blink,
Think,
Roll over and
drape your hand across the space where he used to be,
Let out a groan
as your body informs you
that you need to pee,
Shake your head
and banish the dreams that chase
themselves around your mind.
Force them back down
to your core,
where they can't
drag
you down in kind.
Take your other hand off your crotch,
Frown and think,
And fight against the resurgence
of dreams.
Who was I fucking? Why was he there?
Was I flying or acting or
burning
or writing something terrible
or singing a song
or kissing, always kissing,
there's so much sex in my dreams
and I have no idea why it is happening
oh god, I'm a deviant,
and my breath
is
awful.

Drag yourself upright.
No mean feat.
Stagger into the bathroom and spit into the sink.
Bleary.
Bags under the eyes
but I slept all day
oh
Fresh spots.
Fresh blots.
Fresh, refreshed.
Let's get clean.
Hot water can manage this.
But what about that dream?
Burn it all away,
Down the drain.
Time to awake.

Eat the Sun

2011-11-27T22:34:00.003+11:00

Because I needed a second post before November ended.

Welcome to the show,
Stand up and drink it in,
We'll film it blow by blow,
We'll coat your soul in sin.
This is the new stage,
This is the broken score,
And the symphony is fading...

One breaks forth and we all turn north,
The show is overrun,
Fiends with faces from foreign places,
Our litany is struck dumb.

Why don't we head backstage?
Your chance to meet the star,
They're simply all the rage,
They've travelled near and far,
They are the new disease,
They always aim to please,
And they've got everything you wanted...

Two break forth and we all turn north,
The show is overrun,
Fiends with faces, foreign places,
Hide from breath that makes you numb,

And I'm not sure if I made the right choice,
And I'm not sure if you speak with my voice,
But that choice and voice are mine!

Three break forth and we all turn north,
Show is overrun,
Fiends with faces from foreign places,
The star breaks free, not overcome.
The breath blows by and leaves me numb,
And I stand tall and eat the sun.

Offerings Demanded

2011-11-08T23:13:00.005+11:00

Ollie posted twice, the asshole. I'm not going to post twice. I'm going to post some stuff about my real life situation as per usual, and then I'm going to write something in italics. But to cut the real life stuff shorter, I'm going to do them in short sharp sentences. This'll prevent my usual rambling, I hope. Or turn it into something resembling

We've moved into a new house.
Blue couch, white walls, tiny fridge.
A place to smoke, a place to joke,
A place to feel trapped and pace about the place.
Internet's back, which is nice.
Hardwired into the core again,
Information sleeting past so fast,
Doesn't allow me time to stop and think.
Everything is done. The submission is in.
There's time to wait and worry about satisfaction.
And wish that you were drunk,
Or in a car, or on a train,
Or trying to remember who you were and what you wanted,
Before you moved in.
And then I shrug my shoulders and laugh and eat some chocolate.
And everything's alright again.
Tilting back on the axis of my life and letting me feel balanced.
I still worry somewhat the things I'm neglecting.
But everything is doing okay.
Family seem to miss me, which isn't very good.
Friendships are on hold, because of exams.
But I live and I love and I have something new.
And it seems to be what I want.
That'll do, right? I've summed up what I need to say.
Oh, also. I've lived here for a year now.
In Melbourne, that is, not in this house.
So the following is very loosely about that.
And in another sense, it isn't about that at all.
It's called Offerings Demanded.
My stuff doesn't often have decent titles these days.
But I quite like this one.

Offerings Demanded

I read today, about a
strong woman who could beat
her head against the wall while others watched
and didn't lift a finger,
and didn't care for her pain,
and didn't even care enough to laugh at her -
and keep smiling. I wasn't sure how exactly
that was supposed to make her strong.
It seemed stupid.
I think I'm a lot like that woman. Only
I don't think I'd be capable of suffering
that much
unless I knew that somebody was watching
and caring for it. For me, somehow.
Three hundred and sixty-five days
have gone past. I've seen myself looking back
from within the haze
of exhaustion
the steely-grey glimmer
of excitement
the smooth-skinned delight
of vanity
and the ugly-red mist
of anger.
I've seen myself in the mirror
and I've seen it all change, shifting
ever so slowly to the better
half of what it was supposed to be
or something.
Shifting from the person who stood and watched
and didn't care enough to laugh
or lift a finger to help,
or even to pay much attention
shifting from him, from that cold, cruel gaze
from those grasping hands
from that steely-grey haze
from everything that he was while he watched.
Shifting
to the woman who could beat her head against the wall
and keep smiling
because on the other side of that wall
is something that she cares about
more than herself, and the
meat that keeps herself in her body
and the bones that keep her meat together
and the face that lets us see her soul.
There's something that she cares about
that allows her to hurt herself,
to reach deep inside herself and
drag something out
it's a fire
I'm a fire
and I'm burning
for what's on the other side of that wall
and you're watching.
Don't stop watching.
I need to know that somebody is.
Or I'll stop
shifting
Into eyes
I can meet in the meat
in the mirror.

Satisfied?

2011-10-25T19:17:00.002+11:00

Time to write in italics. That signifies I'm moody, right?

Where the fuck is that sense of satisfaction?
Twice today. Carnally and mentally. Everything that should have given reprieve, release - where is it? Who the fuck stole it from me? At what point in this metamorphisis did I lose the ability to gloat? To cackle, to crow and to wallow? To glory in success, in the thrill of being right, in the release, in the breaking of the drought, the turning of the tide, the light in their eyes fading to grim understanding and under it all the knowledge that you wrought this, you and you alone, and that you did from the start and you knew from the very beginning that everything would play out the way you expected it to and now that you've taken what you want from their foolish eyes and their confusion and the cavorting of their bodies you can leave them in the dust.

So where the fuck is it?
You were wrong. I was right. That should be the end of it. I should be able to rub your nose in the mess you've made. Say 'Hah. You were wrong. This is what you get for doubting me. This is what you deserve.' And then I should be able to spin on my heel and walk away. Instead, I feel sick. Sick to my very stomach that you had to go through this. Sick to my core that something like this could come along and I would expect to feel satisfaction from it. Sick, instead of pleased. I would have been pleased a month ago. Why am I not pleased.

You stole it from me.
I don't think I'll ever forgive you for giving me dimensions.

Seven Opened

2011-10-23T15:11:00.001+11:00

This was a creative response for a year 11 subject. I don't think I blogged it at the time, but I found it cleaning out my documents. So, yeah. Now it's here.

Seven opened his eyes.

It was precisely eight hours since he has closed them. His body had received an optimal amount of sleep and as he lifted his left arm and pressed the red ‘release’ button on his sleeping pod he heard the pneumatic hiss as the other pods in his row released. He lifted his head and sat up, knowing that on his left, Six was seated – and on his right, Eight had awoken. He did not bother to turn his head. That action had no logic – Six and Eight were both there, and there was no point in speaking to them or even noticing them.

His feeding tube snaked down from the trough that ran along the low-slung metal roof above their heads. As the pods began to slowly vibrate to further awaken their senses, Seven took his feeding tube in his left hand and placed it in his mouth. He felt the tube begin to pump raw nutrient paste and he busied himself with swallowing it mechanically. He noted distantly that Eight sounded like he was having some trouble keeping up with his flow of paste – perhaps a visit to the medical facilities was in order again. Physical inability would not be tolerated. To be imperfect was to be illogical. To be identical was the purpose of life. Eight would be assisted to equality or he would be terminated.

Seven blinked at a rate of eight blinks a minute, but he allowed himself a ninth in acknowledgement of his wandering mind. Speculation on Eight was illogical. He removed his feeding tube from his mouth after the Feeding Minute had passed, and rose from his sleeping pod. Taking three steps forward, he turned and faced left, looking directly at the back of Six’s shaved head. As the hatches above opened and the cleansing fluid began to rain down upon their naked bodies from the central tanks, he wondered if Six was female. It was a strong possibility – on the seven occasions he had glimpsed Six reach out for a feeding tube or a release button, the hand had given the impression of slim bone structure – something Seven was sure was a feminine trait, or at least, had once been. He reminded himself that unless he was selected to provide genetic material for the Fourth Generation he would likely never know what gender Six was, and as the cleaning fluid dribbled over his body and seared away any traces of body hair or imperfection he reminded himself that gender was a secondary concern. All people were ‘he’. All people were identical. To be identical was the purpose of life.

After the Cleaning Minute had been concluded and the ten people in Seven’s row had been prepared for the work of the day before them, they marched from the sleeping quarters – starting with the left foot, two steps to each second – and headed down the metallic corridor towards their working quarters. Here they met with other rows coming from their quarters and moving in time. Seven did not bother to look at them. His attention was focused entirely on the back of Six’s head as he – or was it she? – led him to the work station. After three minutes and forty seconds, Seven found himself standing by his steel-grey work station. It consisted, he knew, of a metal desk with a computer on it and a metal chair identical to the desk. There was no paper, no drawers, and certainly no walls. Walls were not required when everybody performed identical tasks. Seven seated himself with a mental reminder that he was truly living in paradise. Sleeping chamber, corridor, work quarters. His whole world.

The day’s work began. Seven reached down with his right hand and switched on his computer. His computer clicked on, as did the hundred other computers in the room. All but one. There was a delay of two seconds, and then the computer directly behind Seven clicked. The noise echoed about the work quarters and Seven knew that Eight had turned his computer on late. Yet another sign that Eight was no longer identical. It brought shame on Seven’s entire row and if indignation had been a logical emotion Seven would have been full of it. Eight was flawed and would likely be terminated. The most logical thing to do would be to apply himself to his work exactly the same way he did every day. Eight’s transgression would not affect his ability to contribute to the whole. To be identical was the purpose of life. Imperfection was illogical. Seven set to his work, as did all the people around him – hopefully including Eight.

If Seven had possessed the capacity for boredom, his work would have filled that capacity to the brink. His work – and the work of all those around him – was endlessly shuffling figures of columns from one line to another in repetitive and pointless displays of mathematics. Seven did not know what purpose his calculations served. The entire Third Generation performed the same work – or so he assumed. He did not wonder why. Such thoughts were illogical and imperfect. Seven applied himself to his calculations with no deviation and no flaws. He was identical to his peers in every way, and his life was devoted entirely to the community.

That all changed with the smell.

Seven inhaled through his nostrils at the rate of twelve breaths per minute, and in the third hour of his work on the twenty-second minute, his eighth breath registered a change in the air. Lungs that had inhaled nothing but circulated air for over three decades struggled to cope with this utterly foreign atmosphere. Nasal passages that had experienced nothing but cleansing fluid, nutrient paste and metallic cleaner for years sent frantic signals to Seven’s brain. This was something new, they said. Something different.

Seven looked down. There was a crack in the metal at his feet. Some pressure or weakness in the construction had weakened the floor just enough for a tiny crack to form, and from it drifted raw, pure air. Seven inhaled deeply, deeper than was logically required. The air smelt like damp earth, like rain – like plants. Seven hadn’t seen a plant in forty years, but he knew what one smelt like. He raised his head and stood up.

“I wonder what’s at the end of the corridor.”

A shiver ran through the assembled rows. Illogical! Imperfect! A heretic! They fixed their eyes on their screens and didn’t pay him the slightest heed, but he could see the distress in their eyes. He took three steps forward, and then stopped counting. He started with his right foot instead of his left. He sped up his pace as he headed for the door. His body screamed in protest but the scent was in his nostrils and he didn’t care. The door was open and there was nothing anybody could do to stop him. Out of the work quarters, into the corridor, down to the end of the catwalk. There was a door here, a door he hadn’t noticed in three decades of walking the corridor. A door with a red release button.

Seven opened his eyes.

Ascendancy

2011-10-15T16:26:00.002+11:00

The first step is to stop waking up.
Walking the streets and smelling the air,
Air is the enemy.

The second step is to lock yourself away.
Confinement is the pathway to the other.
Movement is chains.

The third step is to turn off your mind.
Those thoughts are often crass and crude,
The mind is a crutch.

The fourth step is to dream.
There's purity of purpose behind your eyes,
Flight, and flame, and power.

The fifth step is to rise.
Flesh falls away, the dross of your life,
Life is death. Die to live.

The sixth step is to forget.
What is, is what was, and what shall be.
You were nothing before now.

The seventh step is to raze.
Destroy all that could undo your work.
You're light and strength and destruction.

Three for Five

2011-10-13T21:46:00.004+11:00

I'm going to try something different today. I'm going to post some pictures, and then I'm going to write three sentences underneath those pictures. Consider this a creative writing activity. Or something. I don't know. I just want to get some juices flowing tonight. Hear that, Ollie? You're making me get my juices flowing.

It worked better than I had hoped, hunkered down as I was behind the gaping maw of madness. I thought for sure I'd be singed, or simply that it wouldn't work. I didn't know what to do with it, but I knew it felt good.

Bruised, battered and broken. Not quite done yet, though. I still have something left.

I'm finding that I don't feel the same way I used to feel about you. The pieces don't fit together so well anymore. I think I'm in the grip of something beyond my comprehension...

"When I snap my fingers, you'll be afraid to think!"
"I wonder what I'll cook for dinner tonight?"
"That's the spirit."

It raised a bald, feeble head and blinked eyes fresh from the birthing vats, already adjusting to the purpose I had instilled within it. I robed it in the uniform of my House, the garments of an honoured servant.
"What is your will, Master?"

So it isn't pure genius. It -was- kind of fun though. Try it sometime if you can't think of anything to write. There's at least two short stories in that.

Something Benny Said

2011-10-08T21:06:00.002+11:00

Needed to save this. Somebody put how I'm feeling at the moment far better than I ever could have.

My dear Jason,
You are a creature of ridiculous, yet beautiful, contradictions. The vast and various energies bouncing around inside of you - which sometimes seem to me to be almost too much for your body to handle, bursting at the seams with them - are often diametrically opposed: severe melancholy, but boundless joy; an affected arrogance battling with a vital desire to love and be loved, to care and be cared for; a modesty that verges on self-destructive next to a confidence in your considerable abilities that makes you near dangerous (in the best of ways, of course). Creative and destructive forces, engaged in the constant battle which shapes your fluid, dynamic, engaging and arresting personality and gives you such a strong presence and charisma that it's hard to look away, literally and figuratively...
But perhaps what I love most, is that when all these forces become too much, when you become overwhelmed, you give in to that vulnerability, revel in it, and then with determination, you pick yourself up and start again, rebuilding from scratch until you are once more a force to be reckoned with. It's an inspiring way to live and be, all that I've listed here, and I love it all.

Beauty

2011-10-07T15:00:00.002+11:00

Your beauty,
Isn't for me,
You will give it to the whores,
The disenfranchised and forlorn.
You grace the loud Americans,
You smile at drunks in stinking dens,
You're dazzling and ablaze,
You leave them lost and dazed.

Your beauty
Cannot possibly,
Be free of charge.
It's just too large!
You'll give it to the crowding mass,
Their probing eyes, their minds so crass,
And then the lights will all come on,
They look around, and then you're gone,
A fleeting glimpse, a stirring word,
A snatch of laughter's all they've heard,
And I want more, I want it all,
But if I reach out I'll surely fall,
To others you come easily,
But you're just out of reach for me.

Your beauty,
isn't for me.
I'll turn my mind to spite and scorn,
To multiple partners and internet porn,
To closed off minds, to tattered hearts,
To nights that can tear me apart,
To hate and rage and solitude,
To an angry, sullen attitude -
If I can't have you, what's the use?
Henchforth my anguish will serve as my muse.

Your beauty's all I've wanted,
Ever since we kissed and parted.
And you'll grace the world with your devotion,
But you made me feel emotion.

Of Forgiveness, Love, and Creation

2011-10-05T22:03:00.003+11:00

You're so busy living your life that you don't have any time to record it and that makes you sad. Do you have any idea how monumentally strange that is?

Hoo boy, it has been some time.

Months, in fact.

Let's try and debrief a little. Or a lot. Whatever happens, right? Then I'll write something down in italics to make it seem deeper than it actually is (already done once, but what the hey) and then we'll call it an evening. Christ, where to begin.

And there's a myriad of things left to do. Spiralling and spinning around, eating up the hours like the fish you keep in the corner and you're the feeders.

I suppose I should start as far back as I can possibly go. Much Ado About Nothing finished. I didn't do a post when it finished because I was blinded with rage/ill with tonsilitis. The show was as always an incredible experience, and not just because of the people involved or the script or what-have-you. I was stabbed in the back rather heavily during the afterparty, but good came out of it, so I can't hold hatred on the matter. Much Ado showed me that I can be a good person. I can agonize about hurting people, I can compromise, I can work with people who are insufferable at times and I can love with every part of me so hard that nothing can stop me from truimphing. And if that all sounds utterly wanky, that's fine, because it probably is. I'm just trying to express that for me, as always, a play is a learning experience and a chance to grow as a person, and I'm certainly doing that.
I forgave somebody. With no spite, no malice and no promise of further retribution, I forave somebody for wronging me. I hope that future me will look back on this post and not understand why this is such a big deal. It is a huge deal. I don't think I've never been able to do that before.
Also, Shakespeare was quite satisfying and will probably continue to be a love of mine on stage for a very long time.
And on the subject of love...

He thickens the air you breathe, a cloying, confounding musk that threatens to overwhelm you. A vapour that can change the way you think. A virus that can change who you are. Something that cannot be resisted and is pleasure to endure. You're wide open and vulnerable.

I'm in it. Disgusting, I know. I've been living with Patrick for three months now. We've been together four. We're currently househunting. I am dangerously close to sharing his bed (this may not seem like a big deal, but for future me, it will be). We lie awake at all hours talking about the world and eating chocolate. We watch television, we play computer games, we kiss and fuck and go out drinking, we plan plays, we hate each other's parents (okay, I just hate his) and we dote over our pet fish. He's found himself growing more vicious and less forgiving, more willing to be conceited and scornful, more willing to punish those who transgress against him. I've found myself softer, more willing to let somebody in, wanting to please somebody just because I can, doing things because it will bring a smile to somebody else's face. It's pathetic. We're entwined. I think I'm happier than I've ever been. It's exhilarating. I never want it to end and yet sometimes it threatens to tear me apart. This, my friends, is living. And now I'll stop talking about him because there's nothing I can say in words that will encompass how I'm feeling. Greater men than me have tried. For now, it is enough.

These monologues are threatening to explode out of you, like a geyser of cheap verbosity and poisoned penmanship. You fall asleep at night and dream of men whose skulls are gripped in vices and their skin explodes off them like a potato in a pipe - and deep in your soul you know that you dream of yourself.

I'm still caught up in The Case - which is the play that I'm submitting to be put on next year, dear reader, if you have forgotten. I feel as though I know these characters I've created better than myself some days. Their motivations are clear to me, their paths laid out, their ends inevitable. It's neater than my own life in a lot of ways, as depressing as that sounds. I don't quite know what I'll do if my submission is rejected. I have a burning need to stage something, anything - to run a process, to create something worth creating. You, my blog, are something to treasure, but you are not a play, and you are rarely if ever viewed. I hunger for more. I'm praying to whatever god will listen that I get it.

And now, snapshots, cameos of a life well lived, driven by that burning need to note it all down lest it fade into nothing and be less than nothing when you move on from it. These photographs in sentences will not suffice, and yet, what more can you do?

I have seen some very good plays recently. Pirate Rhapsody, Measure for Measure, Frankenstein in Love. I also saw Spring Awakening and I could not stand it. It does me good to say that, even if everyone else seemed to love it.
I want to lie on a beach and drink lemonade. Read a book in the sun that makes me think and go for a dip in the shallows and feel the flesh on my back slowly roast and know that I'll pay for it later.
This Saturday I am going to inspect a two-storey townhouse to see if we can live in it. It is beautiful on the outside. I think I can make it beautiful on the inside too, with a bit of work. Kind of like myself, really.
I am, as ever, surrounded by beautiful, engaging, insightful and intelligent people and I could not ask for more, because there could be nothing better.
Cave Johnson is the name of the aforementioned fish. He is an Oscar and he is a greedyguts. I love him very much and I hope that the pH problem sorts itself out.
IT shops are rip-offs and should not be allowed to stay open, the thieving bastards.
I am still not speaking to my brother, and this will probably continue until I go back to Canberra in November.
My parents have moved house, from the rental in Gordon to a bought house in Banks. I hope they are happy. I think about them a lot.
My father told me last week that what I do with my penis is no concern of his. It sounded like a plea. It also was very touching. I'm not quite sure what to make of my father now that he's clean and sober. He challenges a lot of my preconceptions about him.
I miss Savannah very much and cannot wait for her to live with me.
University is secondary, which is unfortunate.
I should resolve to stress less, and in all honesty, blog more. This has helped.

And now, cast this aside and return to bed, alone for the first ime in weeks. Seared in the flames of your thoughts, allowing yourself to be tormented by an insignificant absence, by a void. There is nothing wrong with you. You feel so strongly there is no room in you to doubt yourself. I love you.

I suppose that's all for tonight. I might try my hand at writing a few more songs this month. No promises, though. There's Case monologues to work on and subjects to finish and a house to move into. There's no room for sorrow. Life is being lived.

She and He

2011-09-27T23:47:00.003+10:00

I don't really know what this is.

She comes for you with gnashing teeth and the flesh of the others on her claws. She comes for you with wailing and with lamentation, she comes for you with the force of a hundred thousand, she comes and she shakes the earth and hearth beneath your feet. She comes and shatters all bonds. She comes to herald the god who never was, who breeds the weak and eats the strong. She comes and there's a darkness, a smothering, a shattering, a pestilence. She comes and brings frenzy and famine, rape and ruin, wrath and wrack and war. She comes and she clenches her fist around your beating heart and licks the lifeblood from your face. She comes and nothing will bar her way.

He comes for you with hands outstretched and the scent of lilacs on his tongue. He comes for you with praise and with glory, he comes for you with the desire of a thousand sighing courtesans, he comes and he opens all doors and hearts with his gaze. He comes and he binds you in threads of shimmering steel. He comes to herald the goddess who we all see, who smites the godless and exalts the holy. He comes and he brings peace and prosperity, happiness and holiness, smiles and sun and celebration. He comes and he wraps his hands around your body and holds you close. He comes, and nothing will keep you from him.

A little sickness.

2011-09-26T22:15:00.004+10:00

I've had a crippling sickness for almost a month now and the boyfriend is absent tonight for an extended time. Hello, teenage angst. Can't get away with it for much longer.

A little sickness here and there,
Is really rather nice.
An illness is beyond compare,
A fever thrilling, unaware
It floods and overcomes.

But when the illness lingers,
In your froth and in your fingers,
In your breath and in your bone,
And in the malignant monotone,
Of weakness and of lacklustre poise,
Your guts will rumble, make a noise,
Your neck will pulse, your throat will tear,
And you're no longer unaware.

A lot of sickness, near and far,
Is really rather shit,
A plague, a rot, a falling star,
A suffering that's beyond par,
And here's the fuck of it.

You're all alone, all in a flash,
Your frail flesh crumbling to ash,
Your hope gives way, your flesh ignites,
Your blood and brain no longer fight,
Abandoned and ignored in grief,
The sickness is beyond belief,
And nothing makes it go away,
So close your eyes, and weep, and pray.

He will return, and morbid thoughts take wing,
And banish the shade of suffering,
He'll touch your back, he'll soothe your fears,
For your sorrow he'll be all ears,
But till then, the light off silver screens -
Your words are not quite as they seem.
And though you quail, and weep and wail,
You shall yet live to tell the tale.

Turning

2011-09-22T00:22:00.001+10:00

Fuck, I need a drink.
Greasy haired and sick of all.
Catch this, and you fall.

The Witching Hour

2011-09-07T01:16:00.003+10:00

It's that hour between twelve and one.
You're splayed across the scene,
Shapes across tiles,
Crooked, late smiles.
Something's wrong with your hair,
And there's blue in your stare,
And everything is strange and twisty-wrong,
Like the words to some half-forgotten song,
That they sing over the graves of suicides,
And there's blue in your eyes.
Spilling over, round and round,
Your body twisted through the air,
Razor thin,
It draws you in,
A stranger looks back from the mirror and you're caught by him,
But he can't see your feet and you try and keep them
from him, he can't see them yet,
this isn't your time, your place, your hour,
it belongs to him.
And there's blue in your stare,
and there's magic in the air,
And everything is tangled.
Stretched taut-assured
and twisty as the tunnels that ants dig beneath your feet
that he cannot see.
And you don't even recognise yourself.
What sex are you?
Why are your eyes so sunken, your flesh so shrunken?
Why do you grin and blink out of sync?
And why is the blue seeping over your face?
That's entirely out of place.
But he'll come out in the wash.
And swirl down the drain.
But you're not quite the same.

Double over and you'll be fine.

Curtains

2011-09-01T16:18:00.002+10:00

The curtain's about to go up.
Or rather, I'm about to go under the curtain.
Under the knife, cut into slices and diluted under lights.
Things are such a sight, and I'm not sure if I can hang on.
Because everything is ruined if you over-think it.
And you can a be one-dimensional bastard on stage,
With your red tie, and sweet hat, and tidy lies,
But if you try and keep that out of your life,
Things go under the knife.
Can you really go against your nature?
Nothing certainer, nothing stranger.
And here's the rub -
You want what you can't have,
Fingers, where there's a nub,
Another when one is in your bed,
And all the extras live inside your head,
And can't go on the stage because they didn't get the lead,
Adulterers, take heed.
A dash of honesty early will save shattering later,
But you can't give it up,
You're weak.

The curtain's about to go up.

Fragments

2011-08-14T20:26:00.002+10:00

There's something tragic about a tank without a fish,
A meal without a dish,
And a life without a wish.

Buy me a hat,
And take my photo at the seaside,
And feed my words back to me disguised as your own,
And we'll miss the boat.

I am going to hug the fuck out of you.

Half a beard is rather weird,
But half a mind is taken in stride.
Beards and mind collide.

It can be easier to pretend to be somebody else,
When you're not happy in yourself.
But as the headache fades it gets harder,
So don't take the pill.

A vial of green goo,
Why would anyone drink that?
You're full of red goo.

There once was a man called Idoo,
Who featured in a haiku,
He was a little bit arty,
and boring at parties,
And nothing about him would do.

Even kings have to eat.

Crass. Crass. Crass. Crass. Crass. Crass. Crass. Crass.

I do not think they will sing for me.

Professional Writing

2011-08-02T14:54:00.002+10:00

Clear cut keys tap away the seconds,
As the whirring air conditioner siphons away each breath.
The silence hangs heavy, pallid and profound.
A shroud upon the bloated corpse of thought.
A world where the written word is king,
And governs almost everything you do.
Is studied and examined in the bowels of buildings bare,
Just read it once, and sigh, and then you're through.
For the whispered words of people used to shouting,
Make for awkward sounds for minds to grasp upon.
And for students of the word to fail and be silent,
Lends little hope to set this down and done.

This bodes even more ill.

Sevenfold secrets surrendered by sorrowful silence.
Terrible terrapins, toasted towards the turning.
Loudmouth larrikins, leaping and lowering lungs.
Bastard boys, blighted and blessed before.

Up

2011-07-30T23:31:00.004+10:00

You wrote a book of adventures and kept it on a shelf,

sealed away with secret plots and plans to escape.

Robots made of pots and pans and monsters made of felt,

You bound them all up in a book and left them on a shelf.

The seasons turned and tumbled, the golden years go by,

Nothing that we did was wrong, sordid, or unsound.

The dust in the corners of our world would pile high,

And then you died and I was forced to put you in the ground.

And then I went to that house that used to be a home,

And then I ate my breakfast, tied my tie and ran my life.

And in clearing out the cupboards I chanced upon that tome,

And remembered - remembered you, my adventurous wife.

If only I could fly away, and leave it all behind.

Coz the pots and pans are moving and the robots are alive.

And monsters made of felt arise, are marching through my mind,

And the world is softly buzzing with the buzzing of a hive.

So I'll sail away from all this, and see uncharted shores,

The places where no man has ever tread,

I'll sail away from nay-sayers, from bureaucrats and bores,

And sail with you, the lover in my head.

And the skies will be blue,

And the clouds will be white,

And the winds will be fair,

And we will both be beautiful again.

Caught, Spread, Fold.

2011-07-26T01:39:00.001+10:00

Caught up in the words.
Spread them before you, exalt.
Fold away inside.

Comatose & Prone

2011-07-24T21:43:00.002+10:00

Comatose.

Prone.

You're half covered and all exposed.

Gash, bright in your head,

Splayed, out on that bed,

Shattered helm, seeping red.

A cloying, stifling smell.

White bone, obscene under your pale face.

It made me feel dirty, somehow.

Like seeing you without your clothes,

Or seeing a woman without makeup,

After months of buying her face.

I suppose we're all whores underneath.

The dark fingers have put out your eyes,

The dark hands have closed over your throat,

But they weren't mine.

Never mine.

I never touched you.

I just sat and sipped my drink,

I suppose I didn't think about what would happen next.

But now it is done.

You are done.

And I'm left with the shell, your discarded clothes,

as you escaped free and clear into the night.

Damn.

Damn those dark fingers, those dark hands.

His dark body drove out your light.

And now you're such a sight, tonight.

Comatose and prone.

Of Lovers, Acting, and Housing

2011-07-20T22:39:00.004+10:00

Little Suzy Stardust, with the nova in her eye,
She flew over the seas and she flew under the sky.
And all who saw her loved her so she came to little harm,
And she touched down on my doorstep and she fell into my arms.

Happy birthday, Savannah.

But sorry, you're not getting a whole post to yourself.
I'm in a curious mood. Curiously furious, hah-hah! But seriously. I'm discontent. I can make no use of my discontent, look at me, I'm quoting Shakespeare! Alright, enough of my rambling, let's type. It's been ages since I wrote a deconstructive post about my life, so let's do that.

First off, Much Ado About Nothing rehearsals are well underway. And what's more, they are WONDERFUL. The cast is lovely. Funnily enough I've never worked with a cast I don't like, though, so that might not mean much. But I spend most of my time laughing in rehearsals, so nothing could be better. I am suspecting as time goes on that I don't have the knack for performing Shakespeare - not that I can't do the lines I have or play the character I have, but that the sheer head-crushing depth of the lines is difficult to commit to memory. "I know not that when he knows what I know" is deceptively simple but took me WAY too long to memorize. I can only imagine the brain processes of the more major parts. But I digress. I am content with my role (El Bastardo, yay!) and I am content with those rehearsals.

But.

But, there's always a but, isn't there? But right now I'm way more engrossed in my own work - The Case. I know, I know, I'm turning it into an obsession and I'm setting myself up for disappointment if MUST don't pick it up but good lord it can be a good show, and good lord I want to put it on. I only hope that I can keep it together right up until I get confirmation or rejection, because right now the narrative is threatening to explode out of me and I want to wait until I know birthing it will have a purpose. Still, we'll see. Are you getting the impression that my life is a lot of theatre? You'd be right.

What else? I have decided that I do not like my sharehouse. My room is strangely oppressive, uni hasn't started yet so I haven't felt the benefits of living so close to it, and my housemates don't know how to use a rubbish bin so the place is always a tip. It drives me nuts (and angry letters from the landlord about the state of the place aren't helping my nerves, to be honest). But in all honesty, the only REAL reason I'm not happy with the place is because it isn't Pat's place.

As you can probably tell from my last post, I'm still with Pat. I will try not to gush too much. But honestly. Two months now, and I not only want to move in with him, I want to share a room with him. It baffles me how much I've changed over the past year or two (for further evidence of this change, see http://jasiondrake.blogspot.com/2009/09/i-experiment.html). I'm in love. I told somebody I loved them and so far it hasn't exploded in my face. And I can't remember how it felt to be alone. If he leaves me I'll be so ridiculously wounded but I don't think he will, and somehow that makes me happiest of all.
Hopefully the first two of many, many months.

I suppose that's all for the evening. Or perhaps not. A haiku!

Not easy to love,
I tried, I failed, and I fell.
And then you were there.

Forth Floor.

2011-07-19T23:56:00.002+10:00

You're resting in your underwear,

Your flesh is sticking to the chair,

The lights are bright, the music's on,

The breeze is drifting in through a cracked window.

Four floors up.

Shores you up.

As the sound of youth echoes up towards the balcony,

And your lover sighs and turns a page at the edge of hearing.

As you drain your cup of juice,

And type away the night,

With dregs of meals past and passing spilt upon the floor.

As you tap out rhythmic signals to a light outside the door,

And the breeze sighs through the pot plant and catches your eye.

You can't say why,

But you feel at peace.

And if this is all there is,

This room on the fourth floor,

This breeze, the ease in which you sit your chair,

The ascent made by lifts with feet upon no stair,

If this is all there is, your lover in the bed with a book

And a hook to draw you in and make you forget who you were,

If this is all there is and nothing more,

And you are washed up upon the shore of the fourth floor,

Everything you were is nothing more,

And this is all there is.

Then you'll be pleased.

The lights are bright, the music's on.

The page turns,

And he sighs away your life with every breath.

Ecstatic death.

Fisher

2011-07-15T00:21:00.003+10:00

More work on The Case. Incredibly rough draft.

Alleys! Vermin! Filth and decay!
This does not suit.
This will not suit.
I am of quality stock! I am the best breeding!
A man with a pedigree.
Blood as blue as the sky.
Rolling in refuse with the rats.
But I must. I must.
Fisher I am, and fisher I will be,
In sewers, in streets, in cemeteries -
There's gold in the dross.
Diamonds in the muck,
And power to be had.
You shouldn't mistake me.
I am not what I seem.
A mogul, caught up in wealth and wealthily caught up.
But for a man of my breeding,
A man with a pedigree,
Blood as blue as the sea -
For a man of my breeding it isn't about the money.
These hands were made to rule.
This face was minted for coinage,
This brow for a crown.
I want.
I want to be powerful.
I will be powerful.
And if power's price is rolling in the refuse with the rats,
Then this blue blood will mingle with muck,
And consider it cheap at twice the price.
Alleys! Vermin! Filth and decay!
When I'm in power I'll sweep it away,
Jonathan Fisher will dawn a new day!
Cheap at twice the price.

Minus the Mask

2011-07-12T20:41:00.002+10:00

Shunted down railroad lines,

Sardines in tines, towards the fishery.

Get off at Southern Cross and climb the stairs,

Ramps and concrete everywhere,

Up, along, down.

To the milling masses in masks,

Cavorting and yelling and making a scene.

Somehow all beyond reproach thus far.

Scan the crowd, roll your eyes,

For this, you decided to rise

out of bed.

They hurt your head and you haven't even descended.

And you're counting down the seconds until this farce

is ended.

There's a pair of red and black pants in the throng,

So come along. You've got a friend to meet in there.

Descend the stairs, let out a sigh, give him a hug.

You've brought a gift, aren't you lovely?

He likes it. That's a plus. And then somebody comes along,

and reminds you bluntly that you're not

one of us.

You stand about the place for a half hour,

They get louder, cruder, shouting and singing.

For this you decided to rise.

And then at last you start to move,

Over roads and down the street with you at their head.

Better to be at the head then in the midst,

You wouldn't want to be drawn in and then ejected.

Your companions notice that you're dejected,

and try to make you smile -

And you do, for a while.

Until you realise that these cavorting, masked masses

are boarding a tram.

And you have to get on with them.

And listen to their conversations,

Spouting memes as if they invented the words,

Bitching about everyone they've ever met,

Cool story bro,

And she's a ho,

And did you see the Facebook page?

Or all the rage on the Youtube stage?

You pray you weren't as bad as all that

at that age.

And then you get there.

A few more streets.

A few more moments of sheer horror,

At the sheer vapidity and crass

nature of the milling mass.

And you arrive and ascend the final stairs,

To flashing lights and a sea of balloons,

And you realise that you're surrounded

by bodies awash with chemicals and motivations

that you long since discarded.

Turn your tail and flee.

Go! Get out!

Forget your companions,

They're lost in the roiling mess.

And you'll be next.

And the worst part is that the majority are masked.

From train station to tram to deafening club.

And somehow this makes their pathetic jibes,

their disgusting idiocy and youth

all the more horrific for the fact that you can't see their faces.

Can't see their eyes,

Can't remind yourself that they have souls,

and that they are like you.

Perhaps that's for the best.

Labyrinthine

2011-07-10T19:57:00.003+10:00

Lips aquiver,
Arm akimbo.
He leans foward and creates fire.
Lights my smoke.
Cracks a joke,
And then starts talking about some bloke,
Named Tyler, Larry or Hussein.
I don't know, I wasn't really listening.
I was lost in the shape of his body,
The fall of his clothes against his skin,
His shoes on his feet,
His eyes in his head.
The little things that are big enough to take up the whole world
if you focus on them.
I'm sure that whatever he was saying was fascinating, really.
And not just for the words he spoke,
About this bloke,
Named Harry, Kyle or Mussolini.
Whatever. I mean, I'm sure he's dreamy,
But I got caught up in the way his mouth formed the words,
The way the sounds were punctuated with little flecks
of spit that spattered on soaked concrete
as if to drown the sound upon impact.
The little things about speech that have nothing to do
with speech at all.
Almost labyrinthine, really.
I don't think that anything was meant by it.
Nothing out of the ordinary was said or done.
Nothing was overly cruel or fun,
But he leans forward and waves a hand,
As if to say 'look, here's the thing
I'm talking and you're not listening'
And I kept my silence in silence,
And watched his words meet words that weren't heard.
About some guy, some foreign, fucked up guy -
Named Boris or Steven or Stalin -
Somebody far away who had some things done to them.
Or did some things to somebody.
And served as an anchor for these heedless, empty words.
And then at last the ashes of the conversation
Fall from our mouths and are ground underfoot,
And we go inside to pretend to be people we're not again.

Thank God for that. For a moment there I thought I had noticed something relevant.

A Space In The Bed

2011-07-10T02:36:00.002+10:00

Okay Jason. Last song for a while. Tomorrow night, you WILL write something different. You know exactly what style you're thinking of. That's an order.

There's a space in the bed.

And a hole in my head.

Hot drinks, cold sinks,

Come lay with me instead.

My words are softly spoken,

But you're not coming back,

And I am all alone here,

But ready to attack.

You yet cast a shadow,

Upon the window pane,

I lie without your body,

Driving me insane.

Take you to the sky,

to the barbed wire,

The light shines off your glasses,

My soul is set afire.

We'll live under the sea, dear,

The waves will keep us free.

If you'll come back to me,

So come on back to me.

My legs are crossed,

My fingers too.

My heart is tossed,

Right after you.

Bound up in chains,

And cut in two,

There was a fire.

Burning for you.

My words are softly spoken,

And you're not coming here,

The bed is lying empty,

As if you disappeared.

The shadow is lifted,

You're in another room,

I lie here and hope that,

You'll come on over soon.

He Came To Me

2011-07-09T02:50:00.002+10:00

It is 3am, and this is my third post for the day. But it wanted out and it wanted out now. I think I underestimated the value of singing to myself in bed.

He came to me,
In the silent street,
He was after me,
No one else was there to see,
And for all of me.
I never want to be,
But he made me see,
It wasn’t up to me.

All those useless lives,
Just guarantee that you won’t deny,
All those useless verbs,
Just assure me of the written word,
Just assure me of the written word.

We’ll be,
Oh we’ll be free.
In the silent street,
And he took my feet –
And he made me run,
Run under burning sun,
He had a loaded gun,
And it was so much fun,
Oh we,
we will be free,
It wasn’t up to me,
Because he made me smile,
And then we ran a mile,
Oh child.

All those useless men,
Just didn’t know it was all pretend,
And all that useless world,
Just close your eyes and tell the girl,
Just close your eyes and tell the girl,
She’ll whirl.

And then it came to me,
As he kisses me,
And he made me cry,
And then he took my eyes,
And he made me see,
That there was more to be,
And it was all I need,
Something else to be,
oh free.

Oh what useless lives,
All these useless lives,
Just crying out to battered wives,
Silent streets all hypnotised,
Silence in the streets, we’re hypnotised.
Oh what useless curves,
Oh what lovely curves,
Curves in the road of a shattered girl,
Curves in the load of a different world,
Oh girl.
And then he came to me,
In the silent street,
And he had my eyes,
And he had my feet,
And he smiled at me,
And he held his hat,
And he turned to see,
Can you imagine that?
But it was plain to me,
There was an end to earth,
It wasn’t up to me,
No someone else’s turn, oh no,
And that was all to see,
It wasn’t up to me,
And he was after me,
I never want to be.

All those useless worlds,
All those useless words,
Just so we fall into lovers arms,
Just so we keep ourselves from harm,
All those useless lines,
All those useless lies,
Just to keep us hypnotised,
Just to keep you in disguise,
Just to keep my thoughts in time,
Oh time.

The Cradle & Named

2011-07-08T22:32:00.002+10:00

It's time for a double post. Hurrah, hurrah!

The Cradle

The air is cleaner here, you see.
The land is clear and green.
The tree roots roil and turn the soil,
And choke up where they've been.
The air is full of life, you see.
The water churns the shore,
The streambed fills and overspills,
To where it was before.
The air is deathly still, you see,
The rot and sweet decay,
Hangs misty in the morning light,
And drives us all away.
The air will never change, you see.
The time just cannot pass.
Things are born, they grow and die,
And then they feed the grass.
The air is choking us, you see.
The cradle, strong and sure.
It bore you to ignore you,
The filthy, verdant whore.
And now the air is clogged, you see,
With smog and smoke and ash,
The sprawling city is so pretty,
Toxic loving, loving trash.
The air is far away, you see.
In hills and shaded dell,
You want me to go back there?
I'd rather go to hell.

Named

One name.
Three words.
Seventeen letters.

One name.
Three words.
Seventeen letters.
Nineteen years.

One name.
Three words.
Seventeen letters.
Nineteen years.
Eight hundred kilometers.

One name.
Three words.
Seventeen letters.
Nineteen years.
Eight hundred kilometers.

One man.

Eight hundred kilometers.
Nineteen years.
Seventeen letters.
Three words.
One name.

One.

By A Witch

2011-07-06T00:48:00.004+10:00

Surrounded by people who kill,
With consummate, wonderful skill.
Ugly smiles in beautiful faces.
Men slit by knives and stove in by maces.
Ugly smile, ugly soul, bodies in a ditch.
Liars all thrown in a hole, slaughtered by a witch.
Flashing lights, shocking sounds,
Slayers, slayers all around.
A serpent does the murder, take him for a fool,
Mocking tongue and madness, jackdaw's rule.
Count up the stitches and chase down the stairs,
Spring the trap, cut the rope, catch him unawares.
No more use for tears now, no more use for life.
Death is at the doorstep, take her for a wife.
Blood is unbecoming upon your pale skin,
You ate all the food up and let the shadows in.
Grin, the show is over, and nothing's on display.
Eyes are glazing over, lights out - that's the way.
The spark of life, the seed of it, something you can borrow.
Departing with the sunset, leaving for the morrow.
Surrounded by the killers, happy as can be.
Surrounded by the skillful, powerful and free.
Surrounded by the smiles, ugly and wrong.
Surrounded by the faces that won't last long.
Surrounded by the liars, bodies in a ditch.
Surrounded by the fallen, slaughtered by a witch.

The Railroad of the Mind

2011-07-02T00:44:00.002+10:00

There is far more than you'd hope to find,
Aboard the railroad of the mind.
Your hopes, your dreams, your fears, your love,
From darkest depths? Sent from above?
Sneak out while they sleep,
The traintracks go deep,
No need for fare,
Just empty air.

Powered by flames that you left behind,
We're riding the railroad of the mind.
All those things you locked away,
All those thoughts are here to stay,
Burnt to ash,
Under the lash,
The train goes on,
The wrongs undone.

Maybe you'll be met in kind,
Aboard the railroad of the mind.
Held with love, and met with faith,
No need for pity or for haste,
Hold his hand,
You'll understand,
You felt this way,
It's here to stay.

But all the passengers are blind,
Riding the railroad of the mind.
Out the window, tilt your head,
The fields, forests, are all dead.
The tracks go deep,
Where giants sleep,
The landscape wakes,
And then it breaks.

There is far more than you'd hope to find,
Aboard the railroad of the mind.
Things that you weren't meant to know,
Places you weren't meant to go,
It lives within,
And wants to win,
We're all aboard,
It's our reward.

Nothing to Lose

2011-06-27T23:19:00.004+10:00

If I've told you once, I've told you a thousand crimes, my dear,
Be certain you leave not a mark as you fall through the air.
Somehow I knew from the start that you needed to fear, my dear -
Your teeth gleamed out bright as your feet kicked away the chair.

You must have looked lovely, that night in the snow,
Your tongue flashing quick as the shadows do grow,
Lovely and vicious and soft as the fog,
Upend the bottle and drink all the grog,
You stumble and fall into covetous eyes,
Enveloped in hands that seek your demise,
Blink back the tears and never be free,
But you'll leave all that to me,
All that to me.

If I've told you twice, I've told you too many rhymes, my dear -
Be certain to take all you can, possessions are rare.
I tried to say from the start that you would end here, my dear -
Smashed all to bits, broken beyond all repair.

And this isn't quite what you expected of me,
And this isn't quite what you wanted to be,
Lovely and weak as if wed at sixteen,
Full of false hope and incurable dreams,
Hips bulging outward, breasts weighed right down,
The dancer of springtime has torn off her gown,
And you'll take it or leave it, you won't understand,
This is according to plan,
According to plan.

If I've told you thrice, you've gone too far to hear, my dear -
Be certain to stifle your cries, the children will stare.
They didn't know the machine would break down right here, so queer -
But that life is done and the sightless eyes bulge and despair.

But your body was used up, alone and forlorn -
Lips painted red and body's all torn,
Bred for good breeding, a forgotten horse,
Couldn't live long once it can't stay the course,
Wouldn't fade quickly and die in due time,
Write a suicide note with a terrible rhyme,
Ascend the staircase and hang up the noose,
Smile once more, that there's nothing to lose,
Nothing to lose.

The Frenzy

2011-06-24T22:35:00.002+10:00

The street was dark, by darkened footsteps trod,
My step was light upon the grime, my purpose rather not.
For I was in the service of a wicked and grim god,
Who was mostly all-concerned with death and rot.
But the wicked are not bowed by guilt and pointless shame,
So I was light upon my feet, my hands were quick and strong.
I passed some shapes, their ends and means the same,
But without the understanding that we're wrong.
We're wrong and we do wrongs,
We're the monsters in the songs,
And we do not belong,
so come along.

And so we began to swarm, in the darkened street.
A swarm of men, I think you'll find, is quite a sight.
A school of small piranha fish around a slab of meat,
And when the meat has names, it tries to fight.
The frenzy may seem as though it won't arrive,
But it washes over the mob with great haste,
And though the meat endeavours to survive -
Well. Such a pity. Such a waste.
We're wastes, and we make waste.
And what a change of taste,
But they can be replaced,
Without a trace.

The sun won't rise - not for them, and not for us.
In punishment for the horror on our hands.
To think that we are monsters? Ludicrous!
I do not think you seek to understand.
For you condemn our place in all your hearts -
A bacchic wish, a cutting blade, a scream.
The frenzy that descends is expression of art,
A bloodlust, given form from formless dreams.
We're dreams and we can dream,
We're violently redeemed,
And we aren't as extreme,
As we seem.

Religi -

2011-06-24T22:24:00.002+10:00

Created sick, commanded to be sound.
Born lost and promised you'll be found -
Raised by chains and told that you are free,
I do not believe that your god is for me.

What vanity to mold us in a vein,
And expect that from impulse, refrain.
One would call that pointless work insane!
The product of a clearly broken brain.

And you seek to convince me with a book?
Your holy writ, your pack of lies, your hook?
Words are a -

You know what, fuck it, I can't finish this one.

Loyalties

2011-06-15T01:09:00.003+10:00

A box full of memories thrown in the sea.
A gun, with blood on the trigger. How did this happen?
A hood and a smile and proud words to a murderer.
A black heart, red lips and a shadow to hide in.

The mistake. A terrible, terrible mistake.
Your solution, morally dubious.
Take the plunge and don't sleep nights.
Poisoned blood, blooded poison, keeping us safe.

A daughter who kills with a sway of her hips.
A son who seeks to kill as you do, and must be stopped.
A virus that can change the way you see the world,
A father slain by machines he sought to control.

Utopia, surrounded by the weakened and dying.
You are king, hale by design.
But whose design? Your creator's whim?
Wombless, adrift, purposeless purpose.

Vengeance. All that remains, vengeance.
Take the shot, a clean death. Blood for blood.
Dead cells, empty cells, a bomb in a ruin.
Unnatural perfection bound up in rage.

A pair of legs that don't work.
A doctor who drinks brandy and severs ties, limbs.
A chipper young woman dragged away screaming.
A voice with no soul who makes you laugh.

A box of memories, thrown in the sky.

Winking Out

2011-06-11T18:37:00.002+10:00

All across the universe, the stars are winking out.
So we set off in spaceships, to see what that's about.
We fought across the galaxy, to bring them back the light,
But we didn't tread carefully, swallowed up by the night.

And all across the sky, they yet burn, they yet hunger.
All across the sky, they yet seek, they yet fight, they drag under.

No more dreaming of a world free from war, free from slaughter.
No more hunting like a hound for a torch, for a beacon in the water.
No more fighting like a fiend, like a god, like a sword -
Like a bow, like a beast, like a fist,
Like a man, so alive with the bloodshed.

All across the universe, the voices raise in horror,
For the stars are winking out, the light is fading from them.
We tried to save them from it, tried to keep their fires glowing,
But as they fade our fires are the only ones worth knowing.

No more dreaming of a world free from fear, free from chaos.
No more cutting like a knife through the sky, like a bullet from the madness.
No more praying like a fool, for a god, for a sword -
For a fiend, for a bow, for a beast,
For a fist, of a man in the darkness.

Hope is slipping through an open door,
treading where no life has gone before.
Hope is slipping through an open door,
so let's all cry, as there's no hope no more.

The Case 2

2011-06-08T21:49:00.002+10:00

The scene is a chamber, draped with thick red curtains. The air is smoky and the lighting seductive - the atmosphere is that of a sordid little bordello. Reclining on a couch in the centre of the room is L, a whore. She is arrayed in a manner and garb that suggests but doesn't reveal. Enter S.

L: Well hello -

She eyes him up and down with distaste.

L: ...love. What's your pleasure?

S: Huh. This isn't the men's room.

L: Oh, like that is it? I swear, they always send the jokers to me. And by the smell of you, you're some kind of joke yourself. A joking joke, how about that? Are you one of M's? She's been trying to get back at me ever since I left her to handle those two Scots. She couldn't walk straight for a week, you know.

She eyes him up and down again, lips pursing.

L: Pretty poor joke, even for her. Look, love - I don't fuck punters with lice. No offence or anything, but it's hard enough to avoid things like that in a place like this. And if M sent you along, tell her she'll have to do better than that.

S finds his tongue.

S: You've got it all wrong, madam.

L: I'm no madam. Not yet, anyway.

S: Right, miss. Whatever you like. Fact is, I'm here on business.

L (laughing): Business, is it? Instead of pleasure? In here, they're one and the same, love. Though you'll be needing a wash before you get to do the business with anyone.

S pats himself down.

S: Not that kind of business. Do you think I just strolled in here, looking like this? As you've so charmingly put it, I reek. I stink of the gutter and I look like I've been living in it to boot. And as a matter of fact, I have been. Too many people in this world'll turn their noses up at a nice, cosy gutter. At least you don't have to share a gutter. That bed looks pretty comfy. How often do you have to share?

L: Often enough. Okay, I'll bite. What's a walking garbage dump like you doing in a place like this? More to the point, how did you get in?

S: One crisp banknote to the gorilla on the door, three crisp banknotes to the lovely woman at the front desk, and asking for you by name. You're quite famous, you know. In the gutters. Is it true that a man died in your arms, and your kiss stole his soul?

L: I wouldn't know about my kiss stealing his soul. He was over sixty, though. What can I say? He got overexcited. You'd be surprised how often that kind of thing happens in a place like this.

S: Yes, I'm sure you've seen it before. After all, you've lived in places like this since you were fourteen, haven't you? Do you know what they call you?

L: Don't say it.

S: The Nun, isn't it? Funny nickname for a whore. I suppose it must have to do with all the time you spend on your -

L: What do they call you? And more to the point, what the hell do you want? You're not interested in fucking me, despite the fact that you can't keep your eyes off me. You pay rather a lot of money to get into a room alone with me and then all you do is insult me and natter on about gutters. State your business or I'll call the matron. There are rules, you know.

S: Very well, we'll get down to it then. What would you do if I told you that the sun was rising at midnight?

L: That the moon would wax at midday. But wait a second -

S: Would you really? Well, in that case, I suppose I should inform you that the contest is over.

L: The victor the loser and the loser the victor. And the whores shall inherit the earth and take all the pleasure from it.

S: And with that pleasure they will hold the pleasured to ransom.

L: Taking all that was taken from them.

S: Withholding that which they were given.

L: Reclaiming what they gave! And then, when everything belongs for those who served for coin, they will make an end of it. No longer will man be slave to the orgasm.

S: No longer will women be slave to the orgasm.

L: The whole world's an orgasm.

S looks taken aback.

S: That isn't part of the script.

L: Fuck the script. I know what you're here for now, and you know that I'm who you were looking for. So fuck it. Fuck everything. Everything fucks and everything is fucked. The whole world's just one big orgasm.

S: Really? I always thought the world was a gigantic shit.

L: You're wrong. Working in a place like this, you figure out a few things. The world's what we call a screamer. The build-up is long, tough, hard. You might even bruise a bit, and you won't be good for walking much afterwards. But when the actual moment comes...

S: They scream?

L: That's one word for it. Have you ever heard a screamer? You stand there and smell like a dungheap, but I reckon you've been around the block a few times. You've probably had some pretty good sex, right?

S: My cock works the same as everyone else's.

L: I bet it does. Working here...living here...you get to see the ultimate in sex. A screamer is like nothing else on this planet. When the moment comes, you can't hold back. And I don't just mean you come. I don't even just mean you moan and your toes curl and you pant afterwards. A real screamer is one in a million. A real screamer is where everything that you are, every part of your soul, every bit of strength in your body is pushed out.. So much pleasure that there isn't room inside you for anything else, and everything that you are is forced out of you.

S: Out of your...

L: No. There's already stuff coming out there, if you're a man. And stuff coming in, if you're a woman. Didn't you pay attention in sex ed? So everything else has to come out of your mouth. It's more than a scream. It's everything. And then you take a huge, juddering breath right afterwards and pull it all back inside you.

S: And that's life, is it? A screamer?

L: It's a screamer without the breath, drawn out over years and years and years. You fill yourself up with pleasure until you don't have room to be you anymore, and then when your body's rotted away by all that pleasure and it can't take anymore, you go to take that huge breath to draw yourself back in, and you fall apart. That's life. You're either coming, or you're dead.

S: One time, I saw a man slit another man's throat for the change in his pocket. He had three silver coins, and he had his throat slit over it. He wasn't coming. Neither was the man who killed him. In fact, I'm pretty sure there was a distinct lack of orgasms in the area. There was plenty of shit though.

L laughs.

L: Love, that's not life. Life is here -

She fondles her breasts.

L: And here -

She indicates her crotch.

L: And if you're not with them, you're thinking about them, missing them, wondering when you can feel them next. That man with the coins? He was dead before the knife touched his throat. The man who did the killing? Dead hands on the blade. Everyone is dead unless they're fucking. Fucking is life.

S: I can see why they call you The Nun. This is practically religion.

L: Better. It's real. Now, you've got something to give me. Hand it over and get out. You've ruined my evening.

S: Sorry. Is it the smell? I'll do something about it next time I feel like being alive. Before I hand it over, you've got to say the last line. Orders are orders.

L rolls her eyes and gets up, crossing the floor to S. She puts a hand against his chest.

L: The end will come when dead men do.

S takes her hand and plants a kiss on it. From behind him, he presents a briefcase. L takes it calmly.

Lights down.

Mind Vomit

2011-06-08T21:41:00.002+10:00

There's a towering heart that blots out the sun,
And there's a footsore runner whose race is won,
And there's a mighty king whose time is done,
And there's one, there's only one.

And there's this dreadful noise inside my thoughts,
Rolling around my head -
How can nobody hear it?
It's enough to wake the dead.

And there are bells that chime,
And there's a man that rhymes,
And we're all out of time,
Time, time, time!

And as I move my body towards you,
As your fingers grasp the air,
As I move my hands, my face, my feet,
To catch you unaware.

There's nothing left inside my mind,
There's nothing that there is to find,
There's nothing but this hellish grind,
Take mind, take mind, take mind.

For gods will weep, and beggars rule,
Wise men laugh and act the fool,
The sun will wax, the moon will wane,
And nothing will ever be the same.

Birthdays, Freedom, Chains.

2011-06-07T23:15:00.003+10:00

Oh thank god, the internet here is strong enough to blog.

So! Hi! Hello! It's been a little while! I probably need to catalogue a LOT of things. And then I'm going to write a bit of prose because I promised myself that I would. So, there's that to look forward to at the end, lovely.
Jeez, how far back to go?
The Witches ended. I don't think I did a post about The Witches ending, good lord, we've got a lot of ground to cover. So The Witches ended - phenomenal show, phenomenal people. The poster is on my wall, the cast photo is on my wall, the lines WON'T GET OUT OF MY HEAD and every now and then I sit for a bit and sigh and realise that the whole she-bang is over and I don't get to do it anymore. I met some amazing people. I did some amazing things. There were some amazing in-jokes (Millie's ready for dinner! Diagon Alley! Honey badger don't give a shit! Ah, in a year's time I'm going to look back and think I'm insane!) and all in all I was a part of a show that I'm insanely proud of.

"It doesn't matter who you are, or what you look like, as long as somebody loves you."

So. There's that. What happened next? My birthday happened! Yes, I'm now 19. That isn't going to get a special post to itself this year because I don't have a long list of gifts to catalogue and a whole lot of insane expectations this year. I'm 19. 19 is a number. I recieved one very amazing gift and I went out to dinner with friends. It was a good time. I spent the actual birthday alone in my room feeling morbid, which I think is the proper way to spend a birthday, but the dinner on the following day was very good. Let's move on from that. I'm 19, hurrah, hurrah. /throws paper streamers around the place.

Now on to less lovely things. Last week I had to move out of the Team Galactic house and into a sharehouse. I had to do this incredibly quickly, because I was being threatened with physical violence. I'm not going to go into the why and the how of it all because that's just going to make me feel bitter about everything (which I am, oh so very bitter - I mean, seriously? Over a fucking toilet? Did you just wake up and decide that being a cunt would be fun that da - okay, yeah, let's not go over it) but I will mention it here because this is a very abrupt end to something that I dedicated a very large portion of my life to. I loved Baesty, Jennifer, whatever you want to call her. I loved her like I've never loved anybody else on this planet; unconditionally, completely, utterly, with every inch of me. And in the end that was a bad, bad, bad thing, because for whatever reason she decided that I wasn't worth respect, and when somebody that you love that much won't treat you with respect, how can you respect yourself? So I no longer love her, just like that. I loved her for almost three years with everything I had and over the past two weeks I've had to shut that off like a tap. And somehow I've managed it. My self-preservation instinct is very strong. I suppose in a way it's a shame that she never had any interest in my blog, but then again, this probably isn't saying anything she didn't already conclude. Oh well.
Oh, and as an endnote on that whole situation - Brans, you're a cunt, and I'm a cunt, and for a while we were each other's cunts. At the end of it all, you were the only reason I was still living there, and although when I actually left you were the only person who abused me on the way out, I can't bring myself to mind. Sorry. You shouldn't have taken the side against me.

Right, enough of that, let's move on to something fantastic.

I have a boyfriend.

Me. A boyfriend. One that I want to be with and want to be monogamous with and do all of those lovely things. It's infatuation and romance and sheer, incredible lust and everything that's emotional and lovely and all those things that I didn't think I could feel for another person just erupting out of me in horrifying explosions of happiness and gay.
Keep your distance, people. Things could get messy.
Now I'm going to write a bit of prose.

Chained.

Threads of silk,
Stronger than steel,
Bound me to feel.

Marked your skin,
Marked my soul,
Swallow me whole.

Tie your binds to the foot of my bed,
Tie your face to the dreams in my head,
Tie my hands as my heart runs red -
I'm not dead.

Take my life, out into the night.
Take my eyes, for you're all in my sight.
Take my strength, take all of my might -
You blaze bright.

Collared neck,
And trusting eyes,
Pierce my lies.

Willing hands,
And smoothest skin,
Draw me in.

There. That'll do for the evening.

The Case

2011-05-27T18:11:00.003+10:00

J, a dapper looking gentleman in a suit, and S, a bedraggled, smelly man in torn clothes, collide in an alleyway.

J: Do watch where you're going!

S: Oh! Apologies, apologies, forgiveness, good master, forgiveness. I can barely see straight, what with the clouds covered by the moon. Or is the moon covered by the clouds? Ah, does it matter? Apologies again, good sir. I'm not right in my head. Why, just last week I was sitting to myself and thinking about how daughters should marry their fathers, and fathers their daughters, and the sun should explode and burn us all away as we bury the sun! I'm not worth worrying about, truly I'm not. I'll let you get on your way.

J has been listening to all of this with an expression of increasing horror.

J: Say that again...sir. All of that about the clouds, and the moon, and -

S: Clouds cover moon, moon covers clouds, daughters marry fathers, fathers daughters, sun exploding, bury the sun. I'm pretty sure I covered it all. Was anything unclear to you? Should I repeat myself? I would really rather not repeat myself.

His manner and bearing gradually become regal until he stands upright and looks upon J contemptously.

J: Alright. Alright, you needn't make such a fuss about it.

S immediately hunches over, the bedraggled begger once more.

S: Right you are, sir, right you are. So, if that's all that there is, then, I suppose you'll be wanting to hand it over.

J: Just a minute, just a minute. I'm not sure I understand exactly what's going on here. I'm supposed to hand it over to...a fine gentleman...such as yourself? I don't think you understand the gravity of the situation...

He pats his briefcase.

J: This briefcase has passed through the hands of a council that sit on the highest reaches of power in this city. It has been held by men who could kill - or at least, have someone killed - at the blink of an eye. It has been poured over, delivered, transported and locked away by gentleman who could cause wars at a whim, could tear babies from their mothers, could choke the life from schoolchildren, could burn down hospitals and execute nuns -

S: Well they don't sound very much like gentleman to me.

J: Yes, well. Be that as it may, the point I am trying to make to you, sir, is that this briefcase has been in the hands of powerful, incredible men, and now I am expected to hand it over to a smelly peasant! It boggles the mind, it really does. It makes no sense! Why, I should just open it and be done, here and now. Better that then to put it into YOUR hands. You'd probably palm it off for a bottle of cheap hooch!

S: I wouldn't do that if I were you. You don't know where it's been.

J: Yes I do, I told you. In the hands of powerful people.

S: All the more reason not to open it. It's probably swarming with powerful germs. Why, every moment you hold it you could be contaminated! Quickly! Quickly! Power is contagious, and it doesn't come out of clothes! Hand it over for your own safety!

He makes a grab for the briefcase, but J fends him off. He falls back, whimpering.

J: Idiot. If you had any idea who you were laying hands on...

S: Idiot? I'M the idiot? Oh, very polite, yes, very nice. You're the one considering opening the damn thing. You know, there could be anything in there? There could be codes to a nuclear device - or a beacon to one right under our feet. You open that case and you could blow us all sky-high, wha-hey, nuclear holocaust at your fingertips! There's power for you. All of that capability, and what most people need to do is spend all their time stopping it from blowing up in your big ugly face. Of course, it could be a treasure map. Or a deadly neurotoxin. Or full of candy! Or booby-trapped. Did I mention the clouds covering the moon?

J: Yes, yes. And you're right...in a way. I don't dare open it. But to pass it on to you? I'm not so sure.

S: Why? What makes me so different from all of those fine, upstanding gentleman?

J: Well, you're wearing less clothes.

S: And clothes maketh the man?

J: Well, they certainly make him better to look at.

S: And yet he chokes nuns and starts wars. Why make him prettier to look at? Why not, say, smear him with dirt, or let him roll about in the street? That's more suited to his nature. You'll have to do better than that.

J: Well, I don't mean to offend -

S: Oh, you've gone and offended.

J: ...but you smell.

Mock horror from S

J: And you have a certain...unsavoury air to you. Almost...subhuman, really.

S: Subhuman? You wound me, sir. I am the essence of humanity. Do you require proof?

He fumbles with his fly. J averts his gaze.

J: That really won't be required, I'm sure.

S: Well, just so's you know. I'm just as much man as those gentleman you seem to love so much. Probably more, in some ways.

He grasps his crotch.

J: Be that as it may...

S: Look, I don't have all day. I gave the words. I gave them quite well, really. I've done the little monkey dance and I've sat through about as much of your posturing as I can take - and besides, this place isn't exactly secure, you know? I don't know how they do things in your ivory tower, but around here, lingering around looking suspicious is a good way to get knifed.

J: Are you threatening me? You know our instructions are to go unarmed.

S: Sure, sure. And I am. But do you think the locals got those instructions? So hurry it up, hand it over!

J: Just one more thing...

S: There's always something...

J: What do you get out of this? I'm going to go home and look in my bank account and there's going to be a lovely six-figure deposit in there for this. What on earth could you be recieving? I got the distinct impression you'll be taking care of this for longer than I will, and I know that means the reward is greater. What could you possibly be rewarded with?

S: Piss.

J: Piss?!

S: Piss. And perhaps a bag of horse shit for afters.

J: I do not appreciate being made sport of.

S: Sir, look at me. Do I look like I'm kidding? To each man according to his desire, from each man according to our demands. Isn't that the motto?

J: Nobody desires a bag of horse shit.

S: Sure they do. It's all a matter of perspective, people want shit all the time. You've eaten an egg, haven't you?

J: That's an entirely different situation!

S: Whatever helps you sleep at night. What are you going to spend your lovely six figure sum on? Whores? A new house? Caviar? It's all shit in the end. In fact, caviar's practically shit beforehand. I'm just a little more aware of how everything else ends up. I'm well acquainted with shit. You could say I'm the other end of the spectrum. All you fine gentleman, making your vaunted, important choices, starting your wars, buying your whores, dancing that political dance - well, what you've really got is a lot of shit. And I'm the king of shit. So, I suppose you could say I'm the most powerful of the lot!

J: Fascinating. Well, time is ticking on. I really must be off.

S: Off to take a shit, are you?

J: I really wish you'd leave that subject alone.

S: Why? Nobody can, you know. Everybody shits. Everybody eats and everybody shits. Even your powerful friends. Shitters, the lot of them!

J: Look, just take the damn case and be on your way.

S: What's the matter? Getting the shits? I'm not shitting you, you know. Oh well, best be off. The weather looks like it'll turn shitty soon.

J draws himself up.

J: I fervently hope we never meet again.

He exits.

S: And I, sir, fervently await the day that you shits get what's coming to you.

Rusted

2011-05-26T01:11:00.001+10:00

What could be gained from the removal of the orgasm? Is it like a hinge, a bolt, or a screw? If you remove it, does the machine of sex cease to work? The act itself will still take place, surely. There are needs that people have that aren’t tied into the climax of their bodies – after all, people need to make more people, right? The human body is just a machine for making other humans, for keeping itself alive just long enough to reproduce, and then collapsing and decaying. Biodegradable! We’re all biodegradable, and eventually we’ll all be recycled. Eyes, hands, legs, feet, the brain, the orgasm – all just parts to a machine, to a factory for making machines and then collapsing. So what could be gained from removing a part?

You always saw more to the machine. What do you see in me, I wonder? You sit in that room and you write plays, of all things. Fucking plays! What purpose does a play serve? Can it reproduce? Is it churned out of a factory, does it serve a purpose and then die? Is a play a person, because the amount of time you spend with them, you’d think it would be! Waste of fucking time. Machines need fuel, and you pour yours into words. Words, words, words! Words are the smog from the smokestacks of humanity, words are the toxic waste from the reactors of the soul – words are the rust that permeates the joints of this machine. Your mind is full of rust, absolutely full of it. There isn’t a synapse, isn’t a single fucking cell in your body that isn’t tainted by it. It fills me with dread – what if it spreads? What if you taint everybody around you? What if you get to me? It pours out of you in a fucking tide!

I’ll never read your fucking play.

Injurious?!

2011-05-18T01:04:00.003+10:00

The following was sent to me by a complete stranger. I know not his face, his name, or his circumstances. I kind of like it even so.

Injurious Jason! Most ungrateful man!
Have you conspiered, have you with these contrived,
To bait me with this foul derision?
Is all the counsel that we two have shared,
The sisters' vows, the hours that we have spent,
When we have chid the hasty-footed time,
For parting us, -- O, is that all forgot?
All school-days' friendship, childhood innocence?
We, Jason, like two artifical gods,
Have with our needles created both one flower.
Both on one sampler, sitting on one cushion,
Both warbling of one song, both in one key,
As if our hands, our sides, voices and minds,
Had been incorporate, so we grow together,
Like to a double cherry, seeming parted,
But yet a union in partition;
Two lovely berries moulded on one stem;
So with two seeming bodies, but one heart;
Two of the first, like coats in heraldry,
Due but to one and crowned with one crest.
And you will rent our ancient love asunder,
To join with men in scorning your poor friend?
It is not friendly, 'tis not maidenly;
Our sex, as well as I, may chide you for it,
Though I alone do feel the injury.

Fuck. That WAS fantastic. I wish I had wrote it. There's a follow-up.

Asleep, my love?
What, dead, my dove?
O Japes, arise!
Speak, speak. Quite dumb?
Dead, dead? A tomb
Must cover thy sweet eyes.
These my lips.
This cherry nose,
These yellow cowslip cheaks,
Are gone, are gone:
Lovers, make moan:
His eyes were green as leeks.
O Sisters Three,
Come, come to me,
With hands as pale as milk;
Lay them in gore,
Since you have shore
With shears his thread of silk.
Tongue, not a word:
Come, trusty sword;
Come, blade, my breast imbrue:

And, farewell, friends;
Thus Thisby ends:
Adieu, adieu, adieu.
Dies.

Whoever wrote this, if by some manner you are stalking me, and if by some manner you see that I am reposting what you sent to me, please know that you have succeeded in literally impressing the pants of me. More please.

Marowaks and Plays

2011-05-09T23:49:00.003+10:00

I'm going to post two things this evening. Well, three things, probably. I'll tack a bit of prose on the end of this to satisfy myself. But two things to be going with. It's been a few weeks since my last post, so a big post probably isn't a bad idea at this point.
Let's get started, shall we?
First off, one of my wives made an interesting post about Crobat. For those of you not in the loop (or future me, if by some horrid twist of fate I forget what a Crobat is when alcohol starts to rot my brain) a Crobat is a pokemon. The favourite pokemon of the aforementioned wife. And there were some very well-presented reasons for why Crobat was a favourite. That got me to thinking - there are so many pokemon, and they are so utterly varied - inevitably, the pokemon you choose as your favourite would shed some light on your personality, no? After all, Ben's favourite pokemon is Scyther. Enough said, in my opinion. Thought confirmed.
So, what's my favourite pokemon? Marowak. Let's get a picture.

That is a Marowak. Would you like to know why I love Marowak so much? Well, you're going to find out. First of all, the skull. When Marowak is a Cubone, Cubones wear their skull as a large, bulky item. The skull is the skull of their dead mother, I believe. They wear it and it is tragic, really, a mark of grief and childhood. Adorable, yes, but weak. But when a Cubone evolves into a Marowak, that skull is no longer bulky and external. It is moulded to fit the Marowak and is used for protection and cover. It's a metaphor for grief. At first you're pathetic and you wear it obviously - but over time it shapes itself to fit you, or you shape it to fit you, and you use it, draw upon it. Marowaks have forged strength from weakness. Second, the club. I can't remember the exact expression, but it goes something like "Give me a big enough lever and a place to stand and I will move the earth". Marowak has that lever. Marowak knows that there is a tool for every task, and it has chosen a task and chosen a tool. Marowak has nothing to fear as long as it has that club. There's a lot to be said for the sensibility of this. I can certainly appreciate it. Everything can be sorted if you approach it with the right tools. Third, Marowak is fucking badass. When it throws that club, the club always comes back. In the anime, Marowak meditate under waterfalls. They are fanatically loyal and almost savage in it to boot. They are agile, powerful and dangerous. And that is why I love Marowak.

That was a fun post to write! Let's talk about some real life stuff now.

My name is Jason. I am currently two days away from opening night of "The Witches" my first play with Monash University Student Theatre. I am feeling...grim. Determined, I suppose. In the past few months I have befriended a lot of people, a lot of people I'm reasonably shocked have taken a liking to me. I have met lovely ladies and beautiful men. I have glared at cunts, I have argued with my director, I have performed in the freezing cold and I have forsaken hedonism for bloody-minded survival. I'm fast concluding that hard work is more satisfying than sitting on my butt all day. I may even get a job. My mind changes constantly. I am in flux. It is satisfying.
I am still incapable of romantic feelings. The few people who have stirred something within me in that regard, I have driven off or converted into an affection receptacle (hi, Ollie, you're getting mentioned twice in one post, Sav will be most enraged). I am not creating enough and I am falling slightly behind in assessment.
I am reasonably certain that I want to spend the rest of my life in and around theatres (and in and around actors, hurr hurr sex joke). I feel...right, here. Melbourne is seeping into my bones. I am pleased with this.

Fuck, let's get some prose happening, yes? Two out of three, don't fail it now, Jason.

Where there's a will, is what they'll say.
And put me softly to my bed.
But I'm not sleeping anyway.
For there's a poison in my head.

You turned the lights up and I turned to ash,
The smell of sulpher bright and strong,
The pretty ornaments you smash,
The feel, the scent, I do belong.

And I'm not giving up,
Two in the bush, nothing in hand,
Fair-weather friends will drink from my cup,
But they don't dare understand.

There's no bed to rest this ache,
No respite, no remorse.
This is as much as I can take,
No mercy! No recourse!

Where there's a will, is what they'll say.
And make me take my medicine.
But that's a pill I threw away,
And I won't let them in.

Success.

The Duke

2011-04-27T00:56:00.001+10:00

This is copypasted from an MSN conversation and edited poorly to fit a blog post. Apologies. I want to keep it, though.

There was once a city, populated entirely by happy people.
Everyone was happy, all the time, and the city ran incredibly efficiently.
One day, a stranger came to the city, and the people told him how wonderful it all was.
But he began to notice something...strange.
Everyone moved the same way, talked the same way, even acted the same way!
And they all wanted him to see the Duke.
So away he went, to see the Duke of the happy city.
So he went to see the duke, and the duke was a nice, smiling man who wasn't like the others, who laughed on his own and moved on his own and seemed to be his own person, on the whole.
And he wore the strangest crown.
It was bright blue! And made of bone.
And it reflected the light in the strangest way.
And the stranger (who was a young and bold man) asked the duke why everyone in his city behaved so strangely.
And the duke smiled.
And laughed. And told him not to worry.
And pat him on the head.
And sent him on his way.
And the young man didn't like this in the slightest.
So, late that night, when all of the happy people were asleep, the young man stole out of the rooms in which he was staying.
And do you know what he did?
He scaled the walls of the Duke's castle!
He just up and climbed them!
And he stole into the Duke's rooms in the dead of night.
And he saw the Duke, fast asleep in his bed, and he saw the crown sitting on the bedside table.
And do you know what he did then?
Can you guess?
Are you sure?
The young man was a bit cheeky.
So he put the crown on his head!
Right on his head, as if he was the Duke!
And do you know what happened then?
I bet you don't.
The crown began to hum, quietly!
It was a magic crown, you see.
And it made a humming sound!
And the young man thought, what a funny humming crown!
And then something else happened. For you see, this crown was magical in a very special way.
And the young man began to feel unsteady on his feet.
Because the crown began to work the magic it was built for.
And then at last the young man realised why everyone in the city was so happy.
You see, this crown was made of a very special metal that absorbed emotion. A very special, magic metal, that would absorb the emotions of everybody around it, as long as it was worn on the head of somebody! And this crown was absorbing the emotions of an entire city!
It was absorbing all the sorrow,all the suffering, all of the tragedy and fear and petty loathing and disgust in the entire city, and it was devouring them and distilling them and destroying those vile emotions before they could poison the city!
And do you know what it did then, with the ruins of these emotions?
It distilled them. Concentrated them. And then fed them, in a steady, steady flow, to the wearer of the crown.
As long as the crown was worn, it would free an entire city from suffering - and inflict all of that pain, all of that horror, all of that hate on the wearer.
And the young man stood there with tears flowing down his face as he felt all of that sorrow, all of that horror, sitting in that innocent crown of bone.
And he thought about the Duke, and how the Duke had met him smiling, and laughing, without a care in the world.
And he thought about the man who bore the weight of an entire city's fucked up thoughts every day of his life and could still smile and sleep at night, because he knew that he was doing good.
And the young man quietly removed the crown from his head.
Set it on the bedside table.
And slit the Duke's throat from ear to ear.
And stole out into the night.
And that's the end of the story.

Glistening Sound

2011-04-25T22:50:00.003+10:00

I'm running out of ways to name these things. So I'm going to make a habit of naming them by their first line whenever I'm at a loss.

Glistening sound,
And sight all around.
Three sixty degrees,
Of pleasure for free.

The liquid goes down,
And we'll hit the town
So hard that it breaks,
And you'll try not to shake.

Bars full of lights,
And fantastic sights,
And he tipped me a wink,
And he bought me a drink.

And we'll dance on the tables,
And we'll sing while we're able,
You'll stumble, trip, fall.
And I'll see it all.

The liquid goes down,
As we hit the town,
So hard that we break,
It's a thirst we can't slake.

Glistening sight,
And sound at the light,
Three sixty degrees,
Of bliss, all for me.

There's fragments of glass,
And you're out on your arse,
But you're feeling just fine!
And the feeling is mine.

And you'll give me a kiss,
It's a hit and a miss.
As the liquid goes down,
And there's bliss all around.

Sleet

2011-04-23T21:42:00.002+10:00

Well, time to put pen to paper again.
Which is a retarded expression because I barely put pen to paper anymore. There is no real joy in it. It was a tactile pleasure, once upon a time, dragging a pen across a crisp sheet of paper, thoughts slowly flowing out onto the page and out of my brain. Or even better, a really sharp, dark lead pencil. Bliss.
Not so much, these days. When I say put pen to paper, I mean sit in the dark and sleet my thoughts onto the screen. Little comets, spurting out from behind my eyes and onto the glowing screen. Normally, anyway. Normally, this kind of process is pretty close to an orgasm. Build up, build up, build up, hold it for a moment - RELEASE. Satisfaction. Tonight I'm working hard at it. I feel as though I'm getting worse and worse at letting it out onto the page (there it is again, page) but if I don't try, I'll go insane.

So. Where are we at the moment? What's sleeting around in my brain, causing me pain? Ugh. You'd think I'd be better at this - and you'd think I'd have the sense not to complain about it. I was introduced to the concept of 'first world problem' recently, and I must say I'm a horrible example. Can't write a blog post? Angst. Lose my phone? End of the world. So I sit in the dark with this hangover - one that I earned, wholeheartedly and completely earned. That's the fuck of it, isn't it? No hangover without drinking for it - but that's the wrong way around, reverse it. No drinking without the hangover afterwards. You've always got to pay the piper, and that's not just with drinking. That's with everything. I lose my phone, I have a threesome. Utter satisfaction and utter frustration - at least, in the only ways I know how to experience them. And you have the gall to tell me that there isn't karma in the universe? Well, you probably don't have the gall to tell me that. You'll probably sit there in silence and maybe chuckle every now and then if I prove amusing, and take nothing way from anything I say because hey, this is clearly a performance. This is clearly useless. Just a hungover kid bragging about sex and bitching about his phone.

The sleeting just stopped. That's...unexpected.

I live forever.

2011-04-15T23:46:00.003+10:00

I live forever.

I inhale, and civilizations are born. Nations rise, babies slither from the womb, a rush of limbs, life and love. Eyes meet across a crowded room. Inhibitions are cast aside. A gasp, a grin, a giggle. A handshake that took years to come together. A union and a promise. Hope. Great riches. A blazing trail across the sky.

I exhale, and cities topple. A crippled man breathes his last, alone and unloved. A mother sighs and wonders what's to be done with her children. A stool is kicked away from forlorn, dour shoes. A puff of dust from the crash site. The world is bathed in fire and destruction. Gods themselves are murdered, and their killers in turn are struck down. You are all struck down.

I live forever. The world is blessed when it is drawn into my lungs, held close to my heart. I exhale, after taking what I need, and the world crumbles into nothing. It is lifted in the taking and is forgotten and abandoned in the leaving.

It's a metaphor, you idiot. I don't breathe in the world. I just breathe in lives. I suppose I'm a vampire, in a way. In another way I'm not. Vampires are pathetic, really. They limit themselves to blood, drinking it. As if feeding is the way to satisfy an immortal appetite - in controlling people, seducing them. I have seen a million, million people cavort through their lives from cradle to grave, their flesh melting from their bones almost as soon as they come into existence, birth and death melding seamlessly together in a horrific display of atrophic decay - at least, a display that would horrify, had I not seen it enacted a million, billion times, with the knowledge that it would come a million, billion times more. Everything passes, but I endure.

I may live forever, but I only have one stomach, only have one cock. I could have a million swimming pools, but I can only bathe in one. I could order fish and chips from a hundred back-alley shops and still be sated in one serving. I could have my pick of any lover on the planet, any lover in history, and still be sated after an evening (at best!). How is anyone supposed to slake immortal appetites when the body only has so much capacity for satisfaction? I have seen every sunrise and sunset since this rock began to orbit this insignificant star, and I will see every one until the star itself ends, and still I will endure - but I gain nothing from the addition. There is naught to be seen in your millionth sunset that you could not have seen in your first, or your second. There is nothing that is greater for being viewed infinite times. And yet, I am infinite. Feeding is not the answer.

I inhale. I exhale.
I will never stop.
Somehow, I think they would be worth more if I knew that they would end eventually.
Somehow, I wish that feeding had meaning.
Somehow, I know that mortality was all that was keeping everything together.
Somehow, I will stop.
I will stop.
Stop.

I live forever.

Young Fool

2011-04-07T23:33:00.002+10:00

You're living in sin.
You'll pay this price eventually.
You've got nothing to lose? You've got nothing to prove.
Sincerest apologies, but I'll frighten you out of this.
Don't cry, young fool.
Young fool, that's the rule.
We can't allow you to quiver,
Allow them to shiver,
To let the fear in their bellies sleep and swell,
To lock your emotions to motions that grasp,
To condemn everything by your actions to hell,
To grip and to strangle, to love that last gasp.
Young fool.
Superior, inferior, hands held high and eyes downcast.
You should have known this couldn't last.
The answer is in there, you stare down the barrel,
The gun may not fire, but your sword's for hire -
Not anymore. Not anymore.
Shoulder blades sharpened like knives,
And knives in your eyes,
Shooting daggers,
Loving lives.
You'll pay this price eventually,
Young fool.

Oh, oh no.

2011-03-27T23:37:00.003+11:00

Not so good tonight.

Oh, they're talking,
Oh, they need it,
Oh, they want you,
Oh, oh no.

Standing on the sidelines,
Baffled and confused,
They've offered you sweet reason,
What have you to lose?
Take a penny, leave a penny, kill for pennies,
Have you any shame?
How have you survived so long,
Forcing us to maim.

Machines that give justice, mercy,
Mercy, human kindness from a screw.
Dials turn and displays flicker,
Just another cog with work to do.
Work for money, die for money, breathe in money,
Money is the way,
How have we survived so long,
Off our knees to pray?

Oh, you're weeping.
Oh, that's pointless.
Oh, you want them?
Oh, oh no.

Working by the guidelines,
Shattered and construed.
They've turned your soul to numbers,
And you've nothing left to lose.
Build a robot, see a robot, be a robot,
Cut yourself in two,
How did we survive no long,
With nothing to do?

Order gives us structure, glory,
Glory, working for the good of man.
Throw away what made you human,
That'll fit the plan.
Slave at something, slave at nothing, slave no matter what.
Build a soaring temple for the corpses,
that are all we've got.

How have we survived so long?
How have we survived so long?
How have we survived so long?
How did it survive at all?
How did it survive the fall?
How, how, how, how.

Oh, you've fallen.
Oh, you're worthless.
Oh, forgotten.
Oh, oh no.

Of Tattoos, Witches, and Men in Suits

2011-03-27T00:32:00.003+11:00

What an odd title.

Still. It's been some time since I've sat down and actually set down how I'm feeling, what I'm doing, that kind of thing. Y'know, one of those autobiographical dealies. So I'm gonna do that tonight. It's 12:30am, I am probably incapable of setting it all down coherently, but fuck it, I'm gonna try, despite confusion, exhaustion, a bit of a chill in the air, a housemate that WON'T STOP TROLLING and a cat that won't shut up.
What a brave little soldier I am.
First and foremost I now have a tattoo. Let's see if we can't get a picture of it.

There she is. Isn't she marvellous? I'm still a little shocked I took the step, to be honest with you. So the first half of this blog post is going to be me talking about it. It is a red mana symbol from Magic, a trading card game that I may have mentioned once or twice. Before you automatically assume that I merely got a tattoo from a trading card game for the nerd credit and I shall regret this later in life, swallow your critique and bear with me a moment. This'll be a good reminder to Future Me if I ever want to know my motivations (not that I'm likely to forget).
Red in Magic is the colour of chaos, of passions unrestrained and unrefined. It is primal, potent and utterly powerful, raw and pure and all-consuming. At the risk of sounding like some stupid animie kid who is all CHAOS AND POWER YEAH AWESOME these elements really speak to me. So the first reason I got the tattoo is that I like what it represents in terms of where it came from. The second reason I got it is because it is a fireball and my fondest dream now and forever is the ability to fling them. The third reason I got it...well, in all honesty, I got it because in a way I felt like I needed to mark myself to show what I'd been through. I went through what I now view as a trial by fire, to forge myself into who I am now. I've already been marked by those flames internally. Marking myself with flames on the outside is a constant physical reminder on my frail, frail flesh of just how strong I can be when needed. I've only had the tattoo three days, and every time I glance at it I feel good about myself. There could be no greater marking.
Okay. End tattoo wank. What's next? Witches!
I mentioned in an earlier post that I've been cast in the lead role of a university production. The production is of The Witches by Roald Dahl. The story itself is an utterly amazing testament to the ingenuity and daring of youth - a boy and his grandmother triumph against The Grand High Witch Of All The World by turning her own diabolical poison against her. And I'm the boy. The Boy, to be more specific. And in short, I am panicking. I'm surrounded by experienced student actors doing actor-like things like dramatergical work and all that jazz and I'm a kid from the middle of nowhere who's done one show and directed one show and is completely out of place and oh my god. I mean, I'm not saying I can't do it - and even if I can't do it, I'll be damned if I'm admitting that - I'm just aware of exactly how much is required of me and to be quite frank I'm scared.
It's going to be a good show though. I can feel it. So let's not freak out too much over that one, Jason.
A few little sidenotes now, I suppose, just to get them out of the way:

I am off World of Warcraft but miss being Liri. The past few weeks I've been a tiny fish in a gigantic pond. There was something fun about being the centre of a thriving universe. However, I don't miss being Liri enough to go back to the abomination that is WoW. I'm content being Mr Small Fish and I never thought I'd say that.
Financially, I am doing okay, I suppose. That doesn't stop me from panicking constantly. All the good video games and books I want are not making things easier. Did I mention the tattoo was two hundred dollars? Oops.
We were going to get a dog but the landlord won't let us, all of my hate for that.
I really miss Ben. Not for any particular reason, usually when he's around I want him to fuck off, but these days his presence and scent are sorely, sorely missed.
I still love my housemates like mad and in fact probably appreciate them even more over the past month if such a thing is possible. The people I live with are better than you, everyone you've ever known and everyone that walks this earth. Don't argue. It's true.
I am still involved in several dubious sexual escapades. I wish I wasn't some days, but old habits die hard. I also have feelings again. I wish I didn't, because feelings get in the way (oh god, now I sound like Jayd and before I know it I'll be an embittered, forty year old faggot who still uses Grindr and Manhunt and wants 'gym buddies'. Help me. Please.) but there isn't much I can do about it, so I'll roll with them for now and hopefully they'll fuck off in time.
My life is filled and I am content with it, even though some days I want to tear my hair out.

To close this (and to emphasis that last dot point) I want to share a feeling I had when I walked home today. I was wandering along the footpath when a black car pulled up and a man got out in a shiny black suit. He would have been about two years my senior if that, and he was carrying a sandwich board under his arm. He began to set it up on the side of the road, and I saw that it was advertising an auction or an open home or something like that. He then got back in his car and drove away.
I looked at him. Crew cut hair, pressed suit, not a distinguishing feature on him. Even the watch looked like it came with the company car. There was nothing interesting or unique about him beyond the fact that he looked quite young and was reasonably handsome. Nothing about him stuck in my mind and if pressed (as I am pressing right now) I could not remember a single detail about him. I think his hair was black, but it may have been brown. I think he was clean shaven but he may have worn some stubble. In short, he was faceless.
Then I had a look at myself...
Pierced ear. Pierced brow. Tattoo lurking under my clothing. Riotous blue jacket and patchwork jeans. Music in ears pumping out Placebo next to Crystal Castles next to Dead Letter Circus next to swing music, for God's sakes. Legs pumping, practically dancing along the path to home. Back from the gay rights rally with a head full of scripts, boys, dreams and soul-curdling contempt. Craving nicotine, nudity and other hedonistic things starting with the letter N.
And my god, it made me feel so much better about everything drawing that comparison.
The patchwork faggot and the man in the suit.
I'm so happy to be me.

I deliver?

2011-03-21T00:19:00.002+11:00

I can't say I'm a fan of this sensation,
Elected by a quick elimination,
Over my shoulder,
I told her,
You don't want someone older -
No, you don't want someone bolder?
Full of insinuation.

Nonsense, she said, and smiled -
We've watched you for a while,
And though you're small,
And untried,
You'll do fine.
Relax. We believe.

Masks are laughing,
Masks are crying,
Masks are what you need.
Ask the mask,
Be the mask,
Soon the masks will feed.

And now there's a room full of them; full of flavour,
And I'm starting to believe I can't compare.
I suppose the things they're asking, they just caught me unaware -
But they grin and laugh and act like I deliver.
I must not shiver.

I must not shiver.

HI BRANS

2011-03-18T00:05:00.000+11:00

HOW ARE YOU TODAY?
I'M PRETTY GOOD, THANKS FOR ASKING.

Roll The Bones.

2011-03-17T23:45:00.003+11:00

Break it down to the stones, she cried.
We'll tear down those walls, we'll tear it all up.
Contracts and cateracts and people who lied,
Before we can fill it, we'll empty this cup.

Roll the bones, roll the bones.
Run down to the river and drink till you bloat,
The world, it is flooding, and sinners won't float.

One nation, under God -
But who are YOU under? Why, and what for?
Conspire, conspire, and bring it all down,
The blood of the rich for the souls of the poor.

Roll the bones, roll the bones.
Get out of the city, there isn't much time.
The waters are rising, and nothing is mine.

She told me then with a grin that all of this could end,
So I offered what I could.
Out of sight, out of mind, can you do what you should?
Place your faith in your God, out of hope, out of need,
You fools - now they will feed.

Roll the bones, roll the bones.
On that day, life goes on, but cities will fail.
Rome burns, and their glories will pale.

We've left bodies in the houses,
And we've left houses in the night,
We've forgotten all our powers,
But now it's time to fight.
And you've left the light behind you,
For it blinded us from truth,
But what can we all do?
We can cling on to our youth...

Roll the bones, roll the bones.
They belonged to your mother,
But she was driven under.
Roll the bones, roll the bones,
Your father isn't here.
But surely he's still near.
Roll the bones, roll the bones.
Sticks and stones, sticks and stones,
Roll the bones on the ashes of the life that you led.
Roll the bones of the traitor on ground splattered red.
Roll the bones, but the bones only roll in your head.

The Past Few Weeks

2011-03-16T20:07:00.002+11:00

I have started university.
I have panicked.
I have recieved the leading role in a production.
I have sat next to interesting people and been quite, quite unable to talk to them.
I have sung quietly to myself.
I have sat on comfortable couches and surrounded myself with people I find distasteful.
I have smoked far too much.
I have had some of the best sex of my life, and I suspect some of the best sex I will ever have.
I have hugged people I did not expect to hug.
I have taken somebody else's medication.
I have eaten a great deal of cheese.
I have worried about money.
I have decided to get a tattoo.
I have flirted with strangers, and more.
I have played more video games than is probably healthy for me.
I have realised that my personality is undergoing massive, MASSIVE changes.
I have not been blogging.
I have felt guilt over not blogging.
I have decided that blogging in such a fragile state, while interesting, is probably fruitless.
I have forced myself to write something, anything.
I have discovered that it wasn't worth the effort.
I haven't shed a tear, and for that I am proud.

Am I?

2011-03-16T20:00:00.002+11:00

Your strength is a source that has weakened with age,
Your rules are something you'll no longer obey,
But when they are gone, what the fuck's gonna take their place?
You say that you're solid, you say that you're sure,
I say that's pathetic, you're nothing - I'm more,
And when they all learn, I will laugh - laugh right in your face!

Am I still all the things you saw, those things that I once was?
Am I still all this fire, am I still for a cause,
Well maybe I'm pathetic, and maybe I'm the same,
But I'll keep hoping you can't break this mould in which I'm made.

Clod

2011-03-04T19:57:00.002+11:00

The day drags ponderously onward,
Weighed down with the choices that I wasn't allowed to make - had to make -
For fuck's sake!
But it drags onward, and all that is desired is avoidance and serenity.
But that was not to be.

And here he is, the boorish clod,
The utter bastard, selfish sod,
A disgrace on the face of God!
Has set his sights on me,
and with a glare he demands;
"Are you listening to your MP3?
I mean, I don't mean to intrude,
And please don't think me rude,
But isn't that insulting?
We're all here with the intention,
To pay utmost attention,
and without intervention,
your inattention is revolting!"
He pauses,
Catches his breath,
One closer to his death.

I blink,
and try to think.
But before I can, he's back again with -
"I mean, the lecturer here is doing his best,
And maybe this'll be on the test,
I mean, I'm not one to judge,
And you don't look as if you'll budge,
Which is fine! Coz, I mean, you've got to be
True to yourself! Right? I mean, there's no need to fight!
Right?
I wouldn't want to fight! Right?
Right?
So if you don't think it's a big deal,
I can respect how you feel,
But don't you think the lecturer would mind?
I mean, you expect respect in kind,
So why ignore him?
Don't you care?"
And then he fixed me with a stare.
That stupid, stupid stare.

I look back ruthlessly, wondering where to turn my knife -
To destroy this mouth-breather's life,
For daring to presume that I,
Give a shit! I mean, he knows
Nothing of my thoughts and throes,
Nothing of my might and times,
Nothing of my solemn rhymes,
And nothing - NOTHING - of my life.
So, shall I turn the knife?
Shall I end the blathering fool,
The loud kid at this woeful school,
Full of fear and full of piss,
The point that he will always miss,
Lacking grace and lacking poise,
Hated by the girls and boys,
Without a scrap of social skill -
Should I go in for the kill?

I clear my throat.
He's got my goat.
"I imagine that the teacher cares,
About as much about my attention,
As I care for intervention."

Once a week,
The future's bleak.
But at least my barbs have scum to seek.

OUT NOW PLEASE

2011-02-25T20:16:00.003+11:00

Tiny apartment, on the fourth floor,
Room for a desk, a bed, and a door.
The bed is quite spacious, the lighting quite nice
And there isn't a hint of pretention, or vice,
Just a boy, in his room,
Who wants to have fun.
So to the apartment I've come.

But there's a cloud,
A trap,
A triggered snare, lying in another room,
Hiding in the gloom of the dimmed lights,
Waiting to bite,
And force a gap,
Goes on the attack,
With a rap, a short sharp rap,
At the door.

We're engaged.
Clothes off for the boys.
He perks up his ears at the noise,
Sniffs the air, is made aware,
Tries not to lose his poise.
Fails.
Slinks away and bites his nails.
The trap resets.

O Week

2011-02-24T14:29:00.002+11:00

The O is for orientation. Though considering the events of the week, it could also stand for 'orgasmic'.

It's been a while since I've posted, and it's because I've been away from my computer for the last few days, by and large, living life. So I figure I need to take a moment to withdraw into my cave, put on some music and type it all out. It's been the kind of week that future me will want to know about.
So why can't I put the damn thing into words?
Alright, so on Sunday I...
Actually no, that isn't the right way to go about this at all.
On Monday I...oh fuck it, going to simply start typing and not stop. Prepare for gibberish.
So I met a boy. Well, we didn't just meet, I suppose things have escalated a bit past that. We met on Grindr (see post about Grindr for why that's horrifying) and against all expectations we met up the next day and didn't have sex with one another on sight. We spend the day together. We didn't kiss or hug. We just spent two and a half hours in one another's company, talking. And it was great. It was REALLY great. We got along really well, and when it was time for us to part I didn't want to. So we made arrangements to meet the next day, after I had gone to the university for my first day of O Week.
We'll leave that there for a moment while I talk about O Week. O Week is an absolute fucking farce. A whole bunch of terrified first years pretending that they're not terrified. All it takes is ONE person to have the confidence to strike up a conversation with the person next to them and BAM, you have a friend. I've made a few friends. I may even see some of them again. Fingers crossed.
So I signed up for some clubs and went to a Socialist Alternative lecture (that'll have to be a completely seperate post, still thinking about that) and made some friends and then I went home and the boy came with me and we had sex. I didn't think we would have sex, because I wanted to have self-control because I felt like a relationship could happen if I didn't let this turn into just sex. But we couldn't help ourselves and we had sex anyway. And it's a relationship anyway.
I'm not single anymore and I'm content to be monogamous. I don't know exactly how to feel. Let's just leave it there.

The 'I Quit WoW' Post

2011-02-18T15:33:00.002+11:00

This post is titled so that I can find it later if I need to.

Well, I did it. I kicked the habit of four, five years. I quit World of Warcraft. This post is to list my reasons why - and god help me, I'm going to turn into one of those people who hate something they loved after they quit and preach at others about it. Oh well. May as well go with the flow.

Reason One: I am defending a game that no longer exists.

Every time people hate on World of Warcraft, I told them the community was amazing, the bosses were satisfying and challenging and PvP was entertaining and ultra competitive. I am always thinking of Burning Crusade when I say that. Burning Crusade was years ago. It is no longer WoW. Thus, I am wrong. WoW's community is shit. The bosses are not satisfying. PvP is not entertaining anymore and is dominated by flavour of the month classes. Even the levelling experience is hasty and dull. WoW as it is no longer appeals.

Reason Two: Five years is a long time for a single game.

Christ, I used to play all kinds of games. Even used to break out the consoles from time to time and play them. Now, I have nothing installed on my computer but L4D2 and WoW. This is a disgrace. There are so many other things I could amuse myself with, and instead I'm playing this shitty MMO.

Reason Three: Tolerance

I have too high a tolerance for WoW. When I first started playing, an hour long session was a treasure and I loved every minute of it. Nowadays I would play for twelve hour stints and be bored for most of that. But I did it anyway. Why did I do it? Because I was addicted. And now the quality of the drug is slipping so I can break my little habit. And I have done.

Reason Four: RIFT

I've been playing the RIFT beta and it's a much more appealing MMO. Very pretty, interesting lore, a community that doesn't suck. I'm going to go and play that - but WoW has killed my desire to raid, and if I'm not raiding, I don't need to sink hours and weeks and months of my life into another game.

I haven't touched WoW in four days. I'm not feeling the pinch at all. In fact, its remarkably easy. Even thinking about logging in makes me feel unhappy. Now I'm free to do whatever I want. Now I have to be a human being who isn't defined by a computer game.
Well, shit.

Flutter, gasp, die.

2011-02-16T02:12:00.004+11:00

Pleasure's my measure.
Electronic impulses, across the sky.
We beam our emotions and we never ask why -
Until our brains stop working and we crumble and fall.

I have felt your hands upon my hands, and I have trembled.
I have felt your mind upon my mind, and I have shuddered.
I have felt your soul upon my soul, and I have lost control.
We're far too comfortable, this time.

And shall I, when you pursue your point,
And leave me transfixed and struggling upon it,
And have transcribed my emotions upon your palm,
Shall that be cause for great alarm?

I do not wish to cause a fuss.
But this is not enough.

And should I writhe and wail and cry,
And lie awake, beneath that sky,
With beams that cross and intertwine?
With dreams that flutter, gasp and die?

I do not wish to cause a scene.
But that isn't what I mean.

And should you, in your victory,
Press me to the wall,
And demand that I fall?
Those walls were fallen long before.

Pleasure's my measure.
Physical impulses, across my skin,
With all this sensation, how can I not win?
When I give in and let them take it all from me.

I have heard your words against my words, and I have laughed.
I have heard your wit against my wit, and I have cried.
I have heard your love against my love, and it was greater.
Far greater than us both.

And shall you, when I deny your love,
And claim it lust, and call you liar; fool,
When I deny you, and your need for me -
Will you keep your cool?

You do not want to make me stay.
So cast me away.

Beat - Beat - Beat.

2011-02-15T02:10:00.004+11:00

I'm kind of obsessed with the word 'beat' at the moment.

You said that you'd be there for me,
I take the hit and pay the price coz this feelin' ain't free.
I was watching for you,
Coz I know that this is the only thing you know to be true,
But I can feel your heart, feel it beat,
Feel feel feel - beat, beat, beat.
Can you feel my heart, heart, heart?
Beat - beat - beat.

You said you'd be there for me.
I take the hit and pay the price coz this feelin' ain't free.
For the rush, for the thrill,
But now it isn't taking hold and I'm worried that I'm ill -
But I can feel your heart, feel it beat,
Heart heart heart, in the middle of the street.
Can you feel my heart, heart, heart?
Beat - beat - beat.

You said you'd be there for me.
I take the hit and pay the price coz this feelin' ain't free.
But the price is too high,
I won't be jumping off the cliffs if I don't think I can fly,
But I can feel your heart, right at my feet,
Beat beat beat, feet feet feet.
Can you feel my heart, heart, heart?
Beat - beat - beat.

You said you'd be there for me.
I took the hit, paid the price, and the feelin' wasn't free.
Now it's time to make a start -
With the beating, beating of my heart.

Some Beat

2011-02-10T02:26:00.003+11:00

It pulls you around, it sits in your seat,
It makes you get up and it turns up the heat -
It swirls this around, this dizzying beat,
You'll hear it aloud, in the people you meet!
Yes it spins you around, it's the soul of the street -
Deep into the ground, with your thundering feet!

In my head. Now it's out. Good.

Prose for Lyko

2011-02-09T01:38:00.003+11:00

Good lord, I'm writing on request. I haven't done that in forever. Let's see what happens.

There is this thing that's like touching,
But touching's too much.
There is this thing that's like fucking,
You're fucking it up.

And there is no time, and no hope, and no place, and no you.
And there is no soul, and no love, and no need, and we're through.

And there is this thing, and I'm shouting it over the wall,
And there is this thing that you need and you'll grasp as we fall -
And there is this thing - but you've burnt it, you've destroyed it all,
This thing.
This thing.

There is this thing, that's like loving,
Except I can't love.
There is this thing that was beating,
But now it has stopped.
And there are these things that you take
and you pray it'll mend,
But these are the things that won't run,
that won't work, that just end.

And these are the things that they bear in their arms as you wake,
And these are the things that throw out all the things you must take,
And these are the things that they sing -
That they sing, on the wing.
Of this thing.
This thing.
This thing.

Well, it could have been worse.

I quite like writing about myself. Have you noticed?

2011-02-08T01:14:00.003+11:00

The fitz will fix the fit, if a quick fix suffices.

There is this thing like touching, except you don't touch.
That's from a Dresden Dolls song. I think I've been doing something similar for most of my life. I'm down again, so I'm blogging. This is never a fantastic idea, but it beats the alternative. I mean, theoretically, if I wasn't blogging, I'd be sitting in the dark listening to depressive music and letting the words buzz around in my head like a swarm of angry bees, buzzing and buzzing and buzzing and you know eventually that if they don't get out they're going to get really mad and when bees get mad they don't limit themselves to buzzing, they break out the stingers.
So basically, I am blogging because I do not want to be stung by the head-bees.
Boy, and I wonder why the strangers that read my blog often say I'm a bit hard to understand. I'm so clear on everything.
I've done that thing I do from time to time where I draw up walls around my life and insulate it. It isn't what I wanted to do a long time back, which was turn off my emotions and desires. It also isn't social reclusion - not exactly. It's sort of a going through the motions. It's leaving the house to talk with people for a few hours, laugh in the right places, smile in the right places, and hug at the right moment, and then going home and shrugging your shoulders as if a chore had been completed to satisfaction and nothing of consequence had been accomplished. It's accepting strangers who add you on msn or message you through Facebook and casually flirting, questioning and teasing, for no real purpose beyond the ability to do so, and no real interest beyond leading them to conclusions you've already drawn just from their opening statements. It's a life that is completely untouchable from anything on the outside of it, and completely defeatable by anything on the inside of it. I'm not sure exactly why I've been doing it - probably because my self-esteem has come back in a rush and I'm under the impression I need nothing and nobody for anything beyond the people I already have. Over the past few days I've been fighting with one of those people who is on the inside, and this is making me miserable. Also over the past few days there has been a veritable rush of people on the outside who seem to be making a godawful noise to get in. Funny, that I complain about having no friends in Melbourne, and yet there is a practical tide of boys and girls who want a piece of my time. Now, the cynic in me knows that most of the boys just want to get me out of my pants, but the realist knows some of them would just want to be my friend - and where's the harm in that?
But I'm persisting in this wall. I need no boyfriend; in fact, a boyfriend would be an unfortunate drain I would sooner avoid. I need no sex; any minor sexual gratification I could gain with my face buried in someone else's loins has lost appeal when the cost is self-respect and even at times common dignity. I need no friends; I have my housemates. At least, that was how things were before a few days ago. And now I'm sitting back and going 'Well, shit. You're fighting with one of them. Now what, bitch? Maybe you should spend some time with a friend and talk it out until both of you cool down. Oh, that's right, you refuse to make any. Well done!'
And I'm not really all that depressed or anything, don't get me wrong, this isn't a hack-my-wrists-and-pay-attention-to-me post. This is more of a oh-look-at-my-folly-how-interesting-in-hindsight post. I feel better for it already.
There is this thing like touching, except you don't touch.
Now if only there was a thing like blogging, except you don't blog.

Take that, word bees.

Cat's Breakfast

2011-02-05T00:26:00.002+11:00

She told me that the food was on the table,
But I wasn't quite sure if I was able,
To drag myself into the kitchen and,
Salt the stew and chew the meat,
Swallow, swallow, time to eat, no!
But I would rather stay behind and stare at
The meal of the cat isn't the rat so,
I'm finding it alarming that the feline's meal is charming,
When the dish of which we wish is left to rot upon the floor,
Please take care,
I don't mean to stare,
But your meal is so appealing and I'm thinking I might dare.

This is for you?

2011-01-27T00:32:00.002+11:00

And look! It has a brain.

Something rather unfortunate happened this evening and I'm not quite sure how to go about dealing with it. Frankly I'm surprised that this hasn't happened earlier, but now that it has I think I should probably figure it out.
So, the issue is my last blog post was taken as a personal message to an individual. That individual (who is probably reading this right now, hello there) decided to say certain things and draw certain conclusions based on that post. Luckily, the situation was disarmed, but it got me to thinking a few things.
First of all, what if the post had been something worse? I mean, sure, it was pretty out there in terms of content, but what if it had been one of my pieces that sounds like rape, or torture, or something equally twisted? And what if someone construed that as a personal message? Ergh. It just doesn't bear thinking of. I really should try and avoid posts that have anything to do with things that are happening in my life, even remotely. Wait...how am I supposed to do that, exactly? Which leads me to my other thought, which is are other feelings leaking into my creations? I start writing about one thing only to look over it a day, a week or a year later and have it be about something completely different. I start writing about solitude only to have it turn into a rant about sorrow. I start writing about dreams only to read back over it and see that in reality it is an attack on someone who caused me nightmares. My intention and my execution are wildly different.
So I guess I have two options. I can moderate what I post to avoid trouble, or I can carry on shooting my mouth off without a care for anything. Second option's a hell of a lot more interesting, I suppose.

Missing Missive

2011-01-26T01:07:00.003+11:00

You do not love me.
That's fine, because I don't love you. I don't think I could. It's because you're unloveable, or because I won't let myself love you - probably both.
Which doesn't quite explain why I'm injured that you don't, or won't, or can't.
I was asked today why I even bothered, if I knew it was pointless. The answer to that is difficult. In a fit of melodrama I replied that everything in my life was meaningless, but I don't think its that. I think I did it because I want to claim someone. It doesn't have to be you - in fact, its quite apparent you were a poor choice. I just needed to claim somebody for my own - property, if you will. I wanted to make you beg, make you desire me, have you at my whim. Perhaps I decieved myself into believing that was as good as having you love me. All of the benefits of love without the regard. All of the manipulation with none of the trust. I'm not sure why I want that. Part of me knows that such a desire is pathetic - almost childish. I cannot love or be loved, so I'll take ownership of someone instead, that'll fix it!
Even knowing that it is childish, I still want it. I want you as property. I won't apologise and I won't stop attempting to own you. If I fail, it's probably for the best, for both of us. If I don't, at least we'll have some fun along the way.
Or I can break this cycle - not by loving, but by removing the need for it.
By the time you recieve this message, I will be beyond reach. I will no longer have a need for regard. I will ignore my stomach if I hunger. I will still my sweating if I am agitated. I will tear off my genitals if I am aroused. By the time this message reaches you, I will be perfect.
I only hope that this reaches you quickly enough for you to stop me.
D.

2011-01-24T00:17:00.002+11:00

We left then, you and I.
While the night was spread against the sky,
We refused to stop and wonder why.

We went down the dark and twisted street,
Our hearts bestirred, by that drummer's beat.
That roiled, twisted, and possessed our feet.

Anything additional here wouldn't feel right.
It's past midnight and I've spent the last two days in the city. One day meeting an old, old friend. One day meeting a new one. I met someone I want to claim and someone who has claimed me.
Not to mention I've more or less been on my feet non-stop with them both, and at least five games of DDR. I should really get a more comfortable pair of shoes.
I'm dealing in trivialities again. I suppose that's safer then when I try to deal with anything deeper. A deep thought is a loaded gun, sometimes. Or a faulty gas main.
I'll stop here. I told myself I would write before I passed out to stop myself dreaming weird. Here's hoping it works!

Life She Surrenders

2011-01-21T00:26:00.002+11:00

That night, I felt like I'd become something treasured - different.

I'm a bit of a mess at the moment, mentally. Don't get me wrong, not one of those OH GOD WHAT AM I DOING WITH MY LIFE ALL IS LOST THE HOUSE OF CARDS IS TUMBLING DOWN messes. I'm not in a high angst posting mood. Rather, I'm disorganised. I'm finding it hard to think. In fact I don't want to think. It's one of those 'Oh, my brain is doing that thing again, what a bore' messes.
And there is a boy offering to tell me a story, and a girl who is too tired to write about her own death, and a childhood cartoon being horrendously, horrendously destroyed, and I'm not quite sure what to make of the whole mess. So I'm sitting here, in the dark - well, the light is on.
Let me fix that.
Okay, now I'm sitting here in the dark listening to Flyleaf. This is becoming a recurring habit. Flyleaf has replaced sex. It has been about two weeks since I last had any sexual contact. I am unsure how I am coping. Tomorrow I am going to my university and deciding how the rest of my life is going to be, forever. I am again unsure how I am coping. In fact I'm not really sure of anything anymore, so I'm going to write and then probably go to bed and hope that this malaise passes. Oh, angst! I'm laughable some nights. Anyway. Writing stuff. Flyleaf lyrics keep seeping in. Oh well, let's start with one.

Her death has been swallowed up by life.
She was someone's daughter,
She was someone's wife.
The world keeps on turning as she turns in her grave,
The tide hugs the shore and her voice is the waves.

From the moment of birth, from the moment to rise,
She knew of her death, and she knew it was lies.
For what hope for the rot when grain grows in sun?
Rising to life, her new life has begun.

Her light has been swallowed up by night.
She wasn't mistaken,
But nor was she right.
She lies in the ground and her flesh fades away,
But the life she surrenders is reaching for day.

At least, so they say.

It Happened

2011-01-18T02:13:00.003+11:00

It is happening now.
Yes, right now.
The only thing more scary than it not happening was it happening.
It has happened.
It is going to happen.
It will happen.
It shall happen.
It must happen.
There is nothing you can do to stop it.
There is nothing you can do to change it.
It is part of who you were.
It is part of who you are.
It is part of what you will be.
It is bound to you, and you are bound to it.
All you can do now is cower before it,
Embrace it,
Defy and deny it,
As it happens, and has happened, and shall happen.
There is no future where it has not happened.
There is no past where it will not happen, eventually.
There is no present where it is not happening.
There is just you, and it.
And it is going to happen with you.
And you are going to happen to it.
It is happening.
What the fuck are you going to do?
Let it happen.

Snarling at the Sky

2011-01-14T19:39:00.002+11:00

A dark room that smells of must.
A pair of tight, expensive jeans. They hang straight and beautiful off the wasted legs that they enshrine.
Banded underwear. The skin is soft there, and yet the muscle underneath is firm and unyielding. It smells good - masculine and pure. It hints of more to come. Trace the contours of the body, to the hip bones. Perfection.
A pool of water that has been allowed to stand for several days. The sun has touched it, but the ground is saturated and the water has collected in an incline. It is brackish. There are dragonflies. It will be several days before it fully evaporates, but the clouds on the horizon suggest that it will not get the opportunity. It is starting to let off an unpleasant smell.
A god that encircles the earth and saves mortals with his innocent arms. He is not beautiful. His eyes are a bloody mess - he was blinded, and recently. Looking at him is horrifying, and nobody believes the words that spill from his lips, words of love and adoration. By the time that they listen, it will be too late. The worst part is, they will be unable to bring him back to life. Those innocent arms will still and fall.
A cat on a fence. It is clearly distressed, and yet intent in visage. It stares into a house, at a blue couch coated in cat hair. The tail lashes back and forth. Every hair is on end, and yet the cat does not betray another movement. Absolute poise, absolute stillness, but for that lashing tail. The fence is tall and green. The house is in the shade of a larger house. The couch is occupied.
A pair of hands on the back of a neck. The neck is hairless, but the hands have a smattering of light hair at the knuckles. The hair on the head is black and thick. The hands tense, to pull the head down, perhaps for a kiss. Yes, for a kiss. The hands fall to the shoulders as the lips interlock. A slight shiver runs down the spine. There is a feel in the air - a release, perhaps...perhaps something more, something sadder.
An abandoned cup of tea on a shelf. The tea has long since grown cold. There are dark patches in the water, and there is no steam. The tea sits in a saucer that is coated in biscuit crumbs. The shelf has a book on it. The title is not visible, but the book is bound in red leather. There is a sense of urgency.
Your eyes, looking back at you in the mirror. There aren't any words for this.
A figure, bent by rain, shrouded in the darkness, snarling at the sky.

A Battered Journal

2011-01-11T23:18:00.002+11:00

Entry 1

Great news, diary! I had a new idea tonight. It's a story about a little boy who dreams of hell. He has a great life and everything works out well for him and he's reasonably happy, but every night he dreams of hell. I was going to present it in sort of a fairy tale kind of way, a little dark - but hey, it could be fun! Might start work on it soon. I just haven't figured out how it'll end...

Entry 2

Not so great today, a few setbacks in reality that have made it hard to commit to writing anything down. Nothing major, just little stressful things. It's really killing my creative buzz. However, I did manage to start on that devil boy story, you know, the one I mentioned earlier? The beginning's nothing special, but I think the ending will be something to remember. Here's hoping.

Entry 3

I have no idea how I manage to work under the conditions I'm in! Petty little distractions, everywhere. It's getting harder and harder to commit to anything concrete. I'm worried my stories will start to look all schiziophrenic and unpolished. Still, with a bit of determination and good music, I'm about half way finished with the devil boy story. Ending still hasn't come to me, but I'm getting close.

Entry 4

No writing today. I couldn't bring myself to start. I tossed and turned in bed for twelve whole hours. Something is really screwing with my head - I think all this stress is giving me nightmares. Not to mention stomach pain. Still, taking a break from things was good for me. I got no sleep, but I went for a walk in the rain and got some fresh air, and that helped. Too tired to write anymore tonight.

Entry 5

Roadblocked. I didn't think it would happen, but I got to the end of the devil boy story and I couldn't think of anything! I didn't want him dying, but I knew the tone was too dark for everything to end happily...I just drew a blank. But that's okay, because I've come up with another idea! No point lingering on mistakes...especially because the dreams haven't gone away. I think I'm too emotionally invested in the devil boy story. Time for something new. My new idea is about a boy who gets a magic paintbrush, that allows him to set any emotion into a painting flawlessly. So he starts setting down things like boredom and anger and love into paintings and the people around him react to them. I have two endings planned, one tragic, one happy. Time will tell as to which one I use, I suppose.

Entry 6

I...I think I see it now. The problem with my devil boy story. It came to me in a dream, diary. I think my mind is trying to tell me something.
This magic paintbrush idea. I keep dreaming of myself with the paintbrush. In the story, the paintbrush tears away the veil between emotion and art. In my dream, I'm holding the paintbrush. If I can brush away that veil between emotion and narrative, if I can write the devil boy story without holding anything back...maybe I can finish it.
Finished the paintbrush story, by the way. I made it as a cautionary tale - the boy was drowned in a well. Some silly moral lesson about the foolishness of getting too emotionally attached. I'm not sure about it, to be honest. I'm sure any kid could see the value of such a paintbrush. Might set it aside from now, it needs work.

Entry 7 and Entry 8 appear to be missing entirely. Entry 9 is torn in half, with the bottom half visible. The lettering is jagged and unpleasant.

-imple really. Like moths to flame. I open the door, and the words just flow through. The dreams haven't stopped, but they aren't hurting either, so I'm pretty sure I'm on the right track. I just need to make sure that I don't hold anythi -

The next several pages are blackened, as if by fire.

Entry ???

so close. almost finished. i'm sure it can end with him surviving. everything in his life was good at first. he can realise that. he can realise that and go back to how things were. i'm sure of it. i have faith in the character. he'll realise that nobody can live if they don't seperate emotion from action. nobody can lie, nobody can -

The entry cuts off abruptly. The next few pages are blank.

Entry ???

can't sleep can't eat can't stop only the story only the story no time for fixing it no time for repairing it only time to end it it must end it must end it will be ended and then i'll be free of it

The last three pages in the book are browned and stained with a dried liquid. On the back cover, there is a single word scratched into the binding.

FREE

Grindr? I hardly know her!

2011-01-09T02:11:00.002+11:00

I'm sitting here staring at my keyboard, knowing that something wants to get out but not knowing how to let it.
It doesn't help that when I look down at the keyboard, it's only a slight tilt of the head to look at my body. Tight briefs and a pair of baggy shorts, my tuft of stomach hair, nipples (two, obviously) and my arms extended onto the desk. Yes, it's the usual view of myself from up here.
And this is going to be shockingly out of character for me to type, but I'm not satisfied with my appearance right now.
Luckily, I know why, and it isn't some stupid reason. Well, it is, but at least I can identify it and combat it. I hope.
Let's talk about Grindr, shall we? Grindr is a mobile application that effectively tracks any homosexual that is in your surrounding area. It comes up with a little picture of them, and it's basically a chat room that you carry around with you at all times that pinpoints locations. Think of it as a GPS where the G stands for gay. It's about as souldestroying as it sounds. A myriad of thirty plus men with their taglines as perverted sexual fantasies, a few younger guys desperately trying to justify being there, and of course, the 18-25 year olds who just want fucking. All the time. Nothing but it. Right now.
This application, combined with the gay youth forum I also use to augment my frankly pitiful social life here in Melbourne, construe approximately half of my human interaction. The other half is World of Warcraft. One social outlet where nothing but my appearance matters, and another social outlet where my appearance does not matter at all.
I am unsure how to cope with this utter separation. I find myself taking endless photos of myself, discarding them one after another. Pictures that would have satisfied me before are now not seen as 'good' enough - as if I am preparing bait, and the bait must be suitably appealing. I cannot fall back on my charming personality to smooth over an unfortunate physical perception - either I am seen as desireable, or I am not contacted. And, over time, the small satisfaction gained from desperate forty year old men who want my body lost appeal. I am content with my sex life - and my choice of partners; just because I haunt places full of old creeps does not mean I am fucking them - and yet I am not content with my body, and even flaunting it in front of ugly men will not prove to myself that it is enough.
This is a new and unsettling feeling for me. I hope university fixes this.
I seem to believe that university will fix everything. This cannot be good for me. Nothing works that way.
I have listened to Undenied by Portishead 57 times. This cannot be good for me either. That song is not conductive to a good mental condition.
I suppose its the lack of muscle, to be honest. I have never been one to go for muscle - in fact I usually hold muscle-bound individuals in contempt. I am not fat. I am not muscled. I simply...am, I guess. And up until now it was enough.
I will endeavour to remind myself that it is still enough.

Lying to our Tools

2011-01-07T21:39:00.002+11:00

This blog is ruining me.

Before this blog, I would go into strange moods. When those moods came over me, I'd think to myself 'uh oh. Here comes a mood. Best write something'. And then this vast vista of possibility washed over me. I could work on my novel. I would write a descriptive passage. I could set pen to paper and have everything that is sitting in my head come out in a horrible tangle and just like the look of the words on the page. I could rant and rave and write big words and write small words , or I could leap to my keyboard and just see how quickly I could churn out something, anything, that eased the sense of pressure.
Now, I get a strange mood. I immediately think of how I can exploit that mood and turn it into a blog post. I write a blog post. Sometimes, this mood goes away. Sometimes it doesn't and I have to go have a wank or something and wait till I pass out and troubled sleep erases the mood for me.
For those of you with delicate sensibilites, now is the time to navigate away from my blog. After much deliberation I have decided that this medium is as good as any other to express myself - but only if I stop lying and using it as merely a showcase for things I'm happy with. I'm not going to go on and on about what my blog is now because I don't feel like it. The only thing I'm going to to continue to do is to title my posts, because Future Me would like a frame of reference, my mind being a tidy sort of mind when it comes to text.
Other then that, I'm simply going to type whatever I feel is required to release the pressure in my head. No holds barred. That means I am going to talk about sex, probably in great detail. I am going to talk about my petty wants, needs and emotions (hatred and jealousy probably featuring most strongly). I am going to rave. I am going to not make sense. I am going to be pointlessly crude. And every now and then I'll continue to make something beautiful, as apparently I seem to be able to do.
If you think that the crassness is worth the risk, feel free to keep following this blog. The only way to access it is from my MSN or my Facebook - I'm not worried that I'm going to write something that will come back to bite me on the ass later, so I'm going to stop lying to this blog and I'm going to start writing what I need to write.

It's a nice sentiment, anyway. Here's hoping I can stick with it.

New Year's Resolution

2011-01-04T00:19:00.001+11:00

My new year's resolution is to have a New Year's Eve as new and different as the one I had this year.
Also, to stop making stupid resolutions.

Damage

2011-01-04T00:14:00.002+11:00

Parasites, parasites, under my skin,
I'm so afflicted, of course you will win -
Is she alive, or is she dead?
Does she scream with the bugs in her head?
Damage her, damage her, plague her to death,
Break her chest open, for there's nothing left.
Burn her and scour her and take what you owe,
Your condemnation has made her hollow -
Damage me, damage me, smash in my face,
Maybe you'll see I've been put in my place,
Tear us apart for the glittering shell,
And I hope it gives you great comfort in hell.

I am a difficult person to love.

2010-12-28T23:47:00.002+11:00

I only need a few moments of your time. I promise I'll be as brief as possible. Just shut the fuck up for five goddamn seconds, will you? Christ. I know you've noticed that something's been a little...strange, lately. Something I haven't been telling you. Alright, fine, I'll own up to it! I've been staring. I'm not made of fucking stone! The truth is...well, to be honest with you...this isn't easy for me to say...it's those jeans, you know the ones - probably picked them just for that. Come-fuck-me jeans. I can't keep my eyes off you in them. I guess, what I'm trying to say is...I think I might be falling for you. I'm having a lot of trouble controlling my emotions. All I can think about is tearing them off you, imagining what you look like underneath them. I've been trying to keep my distance, out of respect - I wasn't really sure you feel the same way I feel. I'm tired of playing these games. Either you want me to make you come, or you don't. Cards on the table. I didn't want to ruin our friendship, and I understand if this is a little confronting for you. I'm trying to be as considerate as possible. I'm thinking about it right now! Bending you over that couch, throwing you into bed, up against a wall, anything. Anywhere. You want it as much as I do, you fucking slut. I just can't hold in this feeling anymore! I...I think I'm in love with you. God, you want me right now, don't you? I just wanna feel you shiver, make you moan. Give me the slightest sign and I'll have you right here. Anything. Please, give me a sign. I need to know how you feel. Have I ruined everything? Do you want to be ruined?
I'm going mad not knowing how you feel. I didn't mean to take you by surprise, but I just can't hold back anymore. I'm going to come back later. Let me know how that felt...