We all wrote a poem of 8 lines, cut it up so that each line was separated and then each picked 8 lines - at random - from a great big piles of lines. Here's what I found:

Can't see the woods, for this pile of leaves

and there are more cameras than people here;

a darkness pulled over your laughter.

He didn't remember my name next time.

What happens next?

He said it couldn't be his.

I am going to fuck up your face with love.

What?

Lets go for a swim!!!!!

Tiny words on old stained paper. We read until our eyes hurt under the light of a nearby street lamp. We read and occasionally we giggle - singularly we laugh, singularly we read but together we are laughers and readers.

I read once that we are full of water. I am swimming all of the time. My bones, muscles, feeling fragments, and organs are all splashing around inside me. I am a giant water adventure park, made exclusively for the organs and bits and pieces that call my body home.

5 Ways to Kill Myself

I woke up today with a need to drown my sorrows.

I don't know why.

I think when you lose yourself it's harder to get back on track.

I've spent the entire day drunk/drinking.

I try very hard to wrap you in the steel trap of my thighs.

But we're all just dead/dying and maybe that's what you've taught me.

Who is he?

We were standing by the open window and conversing.

"Can you swear that you don't know him, Mark?"

I cried, half angered, half in a mind to laugh at his evasions.

"Not yet", he said "but I've got a grand memory for forgetting, Susan."

With that, his head rolled on his shoulder and he was gone. Never to provide a full answer as to my father's true identity.

Night fell as I walked home via the beach. If only I could spend a day with him in the house he had bought at the edge of the cliff - a house buried among rose blossoms and mulberry trees - the most beautiful thing!

I arrived home, trembling from the events that just occurred. Ready, simultaneously, to punch through the closest wall and to fall in a heap right there on the spot sobbing for answers and the soft tones of his voice delivering them. I decided, instead, to rifle through his office. The office he had kept locked from me all these years. A very peculiar, but not strong nor displeasing, odour came from his drawers. For a moment I worried he may catch me at any second. I remembered his recent passing and became overwhelmed with sorrow. My eyes grew wet and my legs buckled from underneath me. After a good twenty minutes, I returned to the front hall and grabbed my coat - I couldn't stay here any longer.

Easter Monday

We climbed up Tomaree Headland today. The four of us. Mark, Carlin, Alex and I. Once we had looked out into the ocean someone set a writing task. We had to reflect upon the ocean without using the colour blue or the word ocean. Then, we shared around our results for each other to read. I saw a group of girls comes up to the Summit while we were sitting there writing - one of the girls said "oh no!" and was looking at the metal floor. I couldn't see from my angle what she was upset about but, as she picked the item of her dismay up, I realised her shoe had broken. I began, almost intuitively, to rummage through my backpack. I don't know what I thought I'd find but I remembered quickly that there was supa glue in the side pocket. Sometimes, just sometimes, you can be the hero of the day.

sea poem without using the words blue/ocean/sea

When I was a child i'd dive under the salty doona at One Mile Beach. We would play games where you'd hold your breath for as long as possible and sometimes I'd hold it so long that I thought I'd go to sleep forever.

When I was a child I was scared of seeing an octopus in the giant bath. I wondered what I would say to him when I came across one.

When I was a child I got lost in the white. It's funny how colours can be manipulated into other colours.

When I was a child I became a mermaid while I slept beneath the salty doona on January 15th, 1995.

Bedknobs

we slept in a bed that we had made ourselves,

but now we don't sleep

we just sit up and talk about where it went wrong

but what made you think it was ever right?

Quoth Carlin

"The eternal struggle, symbolized
through eternal struggle."
_C.D.M

Amber Sand

sun fades
glows gold
feel it all
fill it up

every day
morning/night
around and round
like water & wave
never sombre
always always

doesn't care
gives so much
holy fuck

Observation # 23

so many trees that
they turn all blurry
like a photograph taken with motion
I lose my breath when I say it
I've got to exhale it all
like 'hopes'

Asking for it

Each of us contributed one word to each line. The vague purpose of this task was to create combinations and patterns one would usually not find. And whatever that sparks.

subliminal newton pitt abyssmal
fill constellation sure ship
strong michigan hamstring strung


OR

subliminal fill strong
newton constellation michigan
pitt sure hamstring
abyssmal ship strung

words in carlin's caligraphy pen

lots and lots of words
nobody cares
dreams all around me
carlin's cutting books again
sticking them in journals &
re-arranging them -
at the moment its a book of space
this is the only way we can move the stars

words between knuckles

ants from clouds
dance all around
from salt wind
to dirty ground
and here

secret no. 36:

i just thought, which would be

the best way,

to throw myself off this mountain.

from here, it is not a straight fall below.

i want to find a better advantage point.

-=-

i was thinking what it would be like to

throw myself off &

knew you were

thinking that too.

i want to know what it feels like

but i want to

keep on feeling

Oceans/Poem about sea without referencing h20

As close as I can see
infinity
As far and wide I spy
you never touch the sky
But we all always do






Breath until we die

Oceans

White lines whisper, wide words wisely
Worth while will wail whalesong inside me
Wings out for goodluck, cryptic leaves fall down

Ants crawling all over, not a twitch
Notebook bound, not a whimper
Just a wave crashing to ground

The flow back down the river
Leaves a sweet tasting trail of moss
That forms a picture more imperious
More mysterious, more heart felt
than the works & words of man & muse,
but you will never see
because it's surrounded by green leaves.

sea poem with out using the words blue/ocean/sea

there are so many different shades of you,

but when i concentrate, i can't seperate them

there are no lines just creases & turbulence.

you are restless.

for eons you've been sitting there,

waiting, for what?

you can tear down cities &

capture hearts, you are the mouth of god &

the grave of brave silent men.

you don't need to climb cliffs, you just

tear them down.

you are the path of best fit &

you never have to climb.

just content to sit there below all of us,

above the crust.

swallow me whole,

when i am old

sea poem with out using the words blue/ocean/sea

my eyes are covered in a certain shade of Gatorade,

my brain is experiencing an amazing amount of pressure,

similar to what the giant squids of Io would experience

after holding their breath for a really really really

really really really really long time and swimming

really really really really really really really deep.

virginia woolf would know how i feel.

some times i dream about virginia woolf and i,

we eat pancakes with gin,

we sit with out backs pressed against the

white of the lighthouse.

hoping our lives would align like our

spines and trying to define,

where the horizon is.

and when we realise

everything is gone from us

we will put on our coats

and fill our pockets full of stones.

sea poem with out using the words blue/ocean/sea

it could swallow us

rain pours into it

the sky sucks

it into it,

i believe that it's where people go

when they die...

in japan they fish with cormorants.

the bird is tied round the neck &

comes back with a fish in it's beak.

we want to fall

there are shipwrecks in us

if there is treasure in our chests

let's hope we don't drown deep.

destroyed poem one

just after dark one gusty evening in autumn,

i got drunk and told you i was going to fuck your mother

wearing the hat of an old latvian man.

one night

i held you tight,

not too tight,

but close enough for it not to be alright.

you dreamt of things malignant and

destructive. i believed

as holding you, your dreams could kill.

you absorb my attention even when the

sky had turned to iron and you have

swallowed your will to live.

i don't know how accurate it is to say

'will to live'. i mean 'swallowed' maybe,

'sipped' would be better.

I am petty and mean and a

sin machine.

at least i don't smoke, in a smock to

catch ash, what a joke. i have

everything i want but what left

a long time ago.

for jealousy/poetry/no loves.

observation #1

There is a man over there

who can't figure out

why oh why,

my friends and I

are writing in public.

Now he is talking to his friend

about it and

trying to figure out why

we are writing.

Why am I writing?

To observe this man's puzzled observation.

challenge no. 1

every garment was riddled by the holes burnt by flying sparks.

the fireflies danced in their weary eyes even though they were sleeping,

reddened by smoke

they awoke

& saw dazzling snow

every face was smeared with blood

and every belly was full

but by that evening the desperate hunger had

returned and another to go

and so they drank to it

and did not cease until

they were satisfied

and like from an opium haze

they saw they saw the next day's light all twisted &

red

which upset them, as it reminded them.

unspoken, one by one,

of their crime.

challenge no. 6

i thought i said i told you so:

that even if you didn't know

i'd still want to go with you,

please, don't say anything.

anonymous letters

Dear you,

on time when i was a kid, it was evening & it rained & rained & rained.

I sat in a circle with some really choice people & we all wrote annonymous letters which weren't too, too, annonymous. And I'm pretty sure we were all full of hope, which is a good way to be.

Dear stars,

how have you been lately, do you find your orbit monotonous? does the pressure of space constantly weigh upon you? And what of your neighbors? have they visited you recently? Or are you feeling lonely out there in the cold void of your constellation?

I was walking down the street in the dead of night a few days ago suddenly I stopped in my tracks and gazed into the sky and realised how similar we were.

Lucky Stars.

Love always

Dearest you!

It's you! It's sure been a while. Have you've been enjoying yourself? I hope you've been enjoying youself. I have, the geranium plant we grew for you is still going strong. It flowers each spring with flowers as pick as the inside of your ears. I've missed your ears. Sometimes I like to sit by that plant and remember the feeling of your quick heart beat against my hand. Is the place you went as nice as here? I'd like to visit it some day. If i'm allowed.

You were such a beautiful creature. The prince of the town. Charles. Oh, Charlie.

You were a good car,

See you 'round.

x

Dear dearest deer,

I can't seem to fall asleep without crying into my pillow first - it's not really as dramatic as it sounds, it's just a habit I have formed.

This is a reminder of the strength and pain of being young! And that it can't come again, but is for others, undiminished somewhere - where no whispers are in the dark corners. "Ah! my friend, you do not know. You do not know what life is, you who hold it in your hands"

How do you attempt to understand when there are so many secrets pouring out from everywhere? All of the sudden there are goodnight kisses that weren't there before and it's all because you're scared I'll abandon you and things will begin to disintegrate. It's all to easy to want to repair things when you realise something's wrong but I'm sorry. But it's far too late for that.

Dear you,

we went to the beach today. We're on holidays, its a writers retreat weekend. But I find I don't have all that much to write about. We can into one of our old friends down there, it was a happy coincidence. There was a little boy in the tree beside the woman's change room. I think he was looking in. We ate sandwiches. We are meant to disguise our handwriting for this task.

It's raining cats and dogs outside. I enjoy the rain. I enjoy the sun. I find it very easy to be content in life. I have few wants above my basic needs and I'm pretty capable by myself. I'm more creative when I am poor, fucked up & broken hearted. Not because I have more to write about, I don't really write much about the particulars of my life. I keep those to myself. Maybe out of selfishness. Maybe I don't think they're worth sharing. It's just another life. There are six billion of those. And that's just the humans. So yeah, I'm happy with myself & I don't need to share.

I don't know. So who am I?

How are you? Who are you? What is happening in your life? Deep down, underneath the drama & the triviality, what makes you sad, and what brings you the truest pleasure? Reading? Writing? Music? Underneath those connections? Observations? The boundaries of the mind & soul? Unanswerable questions. Ask me an unanswerable question.

HERE: _________________________________?

I'll tell you the answer on day.

Now.

numeric riddle

won the prize at the county fair

too drunk to realise i was the only soul there

free dom from my innermost fears

for thright/felt alright to disappear

f*#@ i've really lost control

sex is every clock that tolls

see ven dors pumelling theiving kids

ate fairy floss bought for a pocket of quids

nigh in every single ride

ten tative passengers arms up high

harp & diabet

Harp cooed munificently as he & diabet re-read their journals which detailed their magnificent and prosperous exploits as young teenagers. They chortled whole-heartedly to such reminisces as the time they spent on an aeroplane heading towards the MOON. My oh my, they were very excited on that day.

It began like this:

Harp: "hurry the fuck up Diabet! i can't keep this G.D. erection all day!"

Diabet: "i find it hard to take any of this seriously... anymore... there's an existential crisis gnocchi at my door... it's nothing personal"

Harp: 'nothing personal?! what the fuck man what gives you the right not to try anymore. I could strangle you you fucking fuck... goddamn."

Diabet: "it's not as simple as that man, the seismic techtonic plates within me are ebbing, too and freeing like a jealous lover with the scent of suspicion"

Harp: "Man, that excuses nothing. I'm confused to but I don't think that gives me immunity to care about anyone else"

Diabet: "Im not exempt man. As I get deeper I get more involved in my own ennui"

Harp: "Bah, i'm out of here"

- and so our hypoglecimic hero leaves his now pathetic friend. Diabet sits doqn thinks about killing himself, thinks about pussy.

Harp thinks these things too, but in a somehow kinder way like he could actually feel of these occurances, not just simplifiy them in either pole of an diachotemised way.

Diabet yells: "FUCK YOU HARP"

as the last pitter-patter of organised steps leave his appartment landing.

He drinks and calls a prostitute.

As the hooker arrives at Diabet's door he instantly recognises her as his true love.

They say a few things to each other, such as;

Diabet: "Hey..."

W: "Oh, hi"

Diabet: "so what's new with you?"

W: "um not much really, you?"

Diabet: "not much ay"

W: "so where's your faggot friend Harp?"

DIabet: "ugh, we had a falling out cause that lil' bitch couldn't deal with my beautiful realizations about how shit his life is."

W: "whateverthefuck dide. You guys are two peas in a pod, two testes in a ball sac, i'm sure he felt the exact same way as you. Just a dumb miscommunication, no doubt?

Diabet: "It goes deeper than that you two dollar whore, you couldn't understand. GET IT! Now suck my dick.

Chapter 2:

YOU COULDN'T UNDERSTAND

As Harp walked down the street he breathed heavily. He felt shocked that the friend he had first thought to be a bastion of sugar-free sobriety to ve so thoroughly fucked up. The Montréal snow kicked from the toes snow boots: His gait was by-no-means elegant. Due to his torso being the entrail of a nickle wound cross harp. He was perhaps, the only nice guy left on earth

"FUCK DIABET!:"

he deeply inhaled on a cigarette and got a bit out of tune.

Chapter III:

everyone cares, everybody understands

to pin-point the emptiness he felt inside himself.

These things were certain he decided;

a) he didn't love himself

b) he didn't hate himself

c)

He would return to work. Harp has a goal he had that ment he had a gaol, and more than just any rationality.

Harp settled into a new routine, (which involved frequent masturbation and the rare clove cigarette).

He thought he would never see diabet again.

Diabet thought he would never see harp again, cause his sweet strings to hum in sonorous rapture again.

But of course fate had other plans...

CHAPTER FOUR

'Diabet is a bad guy'

'Harp is a good guy;

'is this true'

'spread the news'

'spread the blues'

'cause it's a sunny city'

'and im drunk and blind'

and so wrote harp in his sketch book as he sat, propped up in his ugly spot on the New York metro, tearing him from his ex-lover/his ex-brother, he clasped the clips.

CHAPTER 5

CLIFF HANGER

HARP LIKED WANKING. IT'S ALREADY BEEN ELUCIDATED THUS. AND DIABET HATED HIMSELF, HASTED HIS HURT, HEROED HIS HATES. DIABET HANG HUNG FROM A CLIFF SOMEWHERE IN ARIZONA, HIS HUSSY SHOT THROUGH WITH ONE OF THOSE NEW FANGLED PIMPS. SHE FELL ASS -FIRST FOR THIS SUCK-FUCK-STRIP AND STRIP BARE, STEAL HIS WALLET HANG HIM FROM A CLIFF TYPES. DIABET, HUNG TO THE CLIFF, WEAKLY HIS ALREADY MEASLY ARMS WERE WEAKENING BY AN ABSENCE OF SUGAR, AND ABSENCE OF INSULIN, WHILE TURNING DIABET INTO LIMP A LIMP DICK. HE STRUGGLED TO STRANGLE THE SHEER CLIFF, THE IMPOTENCE OK HIS GRIP ACCENTUATED BY THE INDIFFERENCE OF HIS EXPRESSION. WAS IT A STEP TO FAR TO SAY DIABET WOULD DIE? PROBABLY NOT.

CHAPTER SIX

At this point in time as both sat crossed legged with impeccable posture, in Harp's dusty attic. The journal they were both reading aloud ended.

Harp: "Oh dude, what the fuck happened next? Did you end up dying? I can't hardly remember these young adventures of yours..."

Diabet: Oh hell man, who knows, I mighta died. Who cares, we are in the here and now and by J.S. Bach and by Krishna and Shiva, we made it through, past and beyond our ennui and look at us now!

Harp: Ummmm....

Diabet: Our pancreas's are in better shape than ever, And goddammitt i'm starting to appreciate all the sweet things in life again

existentialism is for chimps

the prolonged love letter

Dear lover,

it would have been nice if you hadn't left me naked in your bed with directions to find you later. Because it's morning and you shouldn't work - because it isn't worth it and I should know, because life is worth living, not working.

I did like it when you spend your hard earned cash to take me to concerts and you'd get me all liquored up before hand & afterwards too.

I would have rathered that you'd written me a nice letter though,

telling me why you liked me so.

All we ever wanted was everything.

The longest we stayed in bed together was four days we smoked tea & drank cigarettes.

We fucked & felt wildly confused - emotions were numbed and brains sundered in alcohol,

the things we required (or what we wanted) weren't appropriate

and would destroy the 'life' we had created -

though something needs to happen,

this ocean is not wild enough.

"i held her in my strong arms" he said to a friend

"he held me close 'til i felt so much BETTER" she to her journal.

"but it wasn't right but it was almost right" they both blurted to the unwild waves.

nobody dies in this part of the story but between plane crashes and eskimo kisses

- your face, if i begin. bears comparison the concrete block placed at end of the street to stop stolen cars.

that was the day neither of us died - one of us should have.

Every soul sinks or rises to its own level.

But we are here to give, and without even trying. we had invented a new history for this odd place and its opaque chill...

and i want to leave this house in the middle of the night blind and drunk for the heart of another person.

He wakes knowing that she wakes thinking "WHAT DO I DO WITH MY LIFE"

while he stumbled confused weighed down by nausea.

He knows that her body will never engulf like a blanket curled up naked against his body -

he ran his hands through his hair in an attempt to harvest his thoughts.

They'd been in love in 4 past lives but they had never crashed together like now.

Making plans to steal cars kept the passion spurting forth -

BONNIE AND MUTHAFUCKING CLYDE!

The recklessness of their minds was, unfortunately, never acted apoun.

And with the loss of their internet connection, they were crippled bitches now...

but they turned to the stars, the illusion of permanence.

cause gods come and gods go;

mortals flicker and fade;

worlds don't last and stars and galaxies are transient,

fleeting things that twinkle like fireflys and vanish into cold dust.

But I guess, what we feel (or feelish) do you think it would last long enough to fuck up?

please, i want you to laugh and i think if that is your real laugh,

go to sleep, i want to steal it.

don't go. please love me...

i need you to love me so i have someone to dream about.

he wanted a photo

at least now if anyone ever asks you

'so who is that carlin boy? do you have any photo's of him?'

you'll be able to say; 'yes; mirrored, twirled & normal'

the evidence of our vanity

is very apparent - for generations to see.

if only they gave a fuck. if only we did.

hey! my vanity is the best kind.

we know that now, that the

possibility of future generations

on my behalf - is something

we should discourage - uncouraged.

i am now without a hat -

it was probably lost within the atlantic.

so many things have been lost in that ocean,

but i lost my childhood in the pacific

it was night & i was drunk & i was swimming very far out.

The ocean is a romantic notion, it will never and never

should be forgotten -

i was drunk once, i probably said things

& urinated a lot -

this generally is what happens.

i wouldn't have gone in the ocean - it is too vast for me.

i prefer to lie at the base of mountains,

pretend that the constellations are various portraits of me.

when I got to the top of the mountains -

it brought to my senses -

crying out 'I AM ALONE!'

losing & drowning with indifference

the reintroduction into

breathing, sleeping and conversation.

once plumage is stripped it reveals

almost nothing about skin but

everything about it's itch.

i've heard that we breathe thru

our skin which means it's more than likely

i've been taking your oxygen by sleeping beside you.

i don't mean to critize, but your useless organs

make me forget all my favourite songs

i was born with only one working ear to

hear what you say is an exercise in futility.

i don't know, do you understand me?

we are on the same side

it might not be right

but we have enough sad songs

in our knapsack to tide us over

but sir, there is hardly room in this

sleeping bag. fajita for all the songs

i call my own and the heart of you and me

yeah, my heart is made of glass and before that -

sand and before that my heart was a stone.

kyle sanderlands style

anything I do I do out of the care for others,

that's the kind of RAT I am.

on occasion either my spirit or my soul

involves me beyond my sensible want for control.

too much of what we see in the media stems from

Kyle Sanderlands style.

poorly written as maybe and amorous quality

every icicle eats it's way though my morbid

off loom weaving

silent seething.

there was an earthquake in california

I wonder how we got this far gone

earthquakes/passionfruit

earthquakes/passionfruit

earthquakes/passionfruit

earthquakes/passionfruit

earthquakes/passionfruit

no, it is not gravitational pull, or the

off throw of the big bang that has

us spinning it is

earthquakes & passionfruit

challenge no. 7

what is this note

a note of sadness

a note of love

a note of words

curds and whey

whey and curds

what a dove love

little miss muffet

sat on a tuffet

her sadness gone

Igor

Igor was a lonesome soul. He lived his life through commercial magazines -

His favourite love story was that of Brangelina.

I mean who couldn't love that story?

Such a cataclysmic love.

Not many people know this,

but most modern pop songs are directly based

on the Brangelina narrative -

I like Brangelina, they are the perfect

German ideal family - lot's of children

though some of them are black,

some people think this is 'dirty'

Igor knew that it wasn't universal.

Igor did not like anything remotely

'dirty', he suffered from O.C.D.

He organized his cookbooks, not

in alphabetical order, but by colour.

He organized his dildos by size -

the largest of the 106 he owned being

12 meters, the smallest of the 106

he owned being 11.5 meters.

He did suffer from being a massive

gayist. A lot of people held this against

Igor... People like to tease him about the

order of his dildos and cookbooks.

Sometimes, he thought that this favourite

pair of tight pink alligator trousers

attracted most this ridicule.

But it also could have been because

his hands were always so sweaty

or perhaps that he had condoms covered

in aztec blood hidden in his computer.

Atleast he didn't have any cookbooks on

how to stir-fry dildos

'i'm too cool for this shit' he thought

& moved to melbourne like everyone else.

His ex-lovers all lived in melbourne, he wanted to fight

them all whilst standing on a table...

this made him able to know the difference

between fucking up and drinking coffee

alone which take threes thousand hours over four years -

in 4 years he had eight lovers.

That was plenty of full moons for each of them

an to wear each other's favourite t-shirt -

but they (his lovers) always parked in the

towaway zone of his confidence,

Igor loved losing lovers

because he always had faith that the

next one would love him more.

And being loved is better than being warm when it is freezing.

and if he couldn't be loved and no-one would love him,

he wanted to be the sky - and not the clouds moving fast

moving him.

i wrote what i knew

until i knew nothing for sure

anymore

i wrote til my hand bled

but i realised it was the ink

from my left hand's scrawl.

i wrote what happened 'til

noting happened so much.

I write 'til i can't hold a pen

and then think a thousand

times more

about the things

i wish i wrote

i am not sure whether i'd rather

i wrote better

or have lived better.

i smudged what i wrote last night

when i read over it tonight

who's that crazy kid i adore?

i more than forget his imperfections

the very person you adore is more imperfect than yourself

the reason you adore them is realness

the reason you despise you own writing is its

inability to convey the realness of your everyday.

everyday is mundane and you wish you were living

on the front porch with a flame

to your mouth and a dialogue

of rehashed stories of people other than you

doing things

My cigarette mingled with a million others. It was a protest for cigarettes: here we are, now deal with us. A million people danced with their cigarettes without their angry girlfriends. When I said goodbye they turned away and shrugged. I could have wept like a wife in the midst of a divorce. Suicide is always "back in style". I drew a picture of my face last night. I made seven mistakes. My nose was too straight. My eyes were too symmetrical. My mouth was too beautiful. My hair was too perfect. My forehead was too clear. And my ears. I forgot my ears. It didn't look like me. It was better. A me he could fall in love with. I hung it on my mirror and stared at it. I removed the mirror and threw it onto the roof.
I don't believe in the value of art.I wrote a poem last night. It didn't rhyme. It doesn't mean anything. It was mostly a list of things I don't understand. Why people believe the world will end in rapture or in nuclear fallout when epidemic is the obvious answer. Why scientists and doctors always dress in white. Shit like that. I printed it out and fed it to my turtle. All art should have a use. It was an art of a different kind. It was the art of standing in one place long enough to fantasize about the sky speaking to you. It doesn't happen often. No one has the patience. Mine was a fucking masterpiece. Brilliant.

something nearly all of us wrote together

The east coast of Australia, running up and down is the town, of Newcastle.

Wandering the streets of this town in many a character otherwise known as 'bogans'.

The death of existence happens within this town, individuality criticized with singular

words, there is only 2 degrees of separation between breaths and our only aim is to escape.

DEATH TO PANCAKE!

We forget the past. We start again. But less naive though.

Scrutty walks on by. You wonder is it a choice, a sentence or a crime? The answer doesn't matter but the question does.

CHOICE is debatable - did the universe choose to exist? Do we have individual choice because of this? How can we choose anything when there is the possibility we have chosen nothing.

There are 36 spaces on a roulette wheel. There is a 1 in 36 chance that you will fall in love/lust next summer,

AM I EVIL?

The devil is scared of you, 'hades' is what the devil describes as your soul.

Magic eight ball, all signs pointing to yes?

Being absent from home, has readily made us drunk. Ransacking an old Latvian's home with vanity and alcohol - this is a great secret. It is not falsified.

Spanish. English. French. Dutch. German. Love/Hate. Home/Hell.

Je suis (INSERT WORD FOR INTOXICATED HERE)

[insert 1000 reasons here] look, i guess it all come down to this, you are not evil. You read DOSTOYEVSKY. You get me?

Bligh is a kind of Quetin Tarantino crossed with Lady GaGa.

He needs to find some 'Kermit the Frogs' - to be some kind of Cruella De Vil - to murder,

green slimy things.

hand poem

Einstein misses air.

Blindness is pretend.

Breakfast is propaganda.

I want nothing.

Am nothing.

he is wobbly as a one-legged stool and can taste the coppery tinge of blood on his cracked lips

his red hands steadier than they should have been

he placed on hand over the other,

hand on hand - and like the sky, he refused to weep

man is primate

so what the fuck are you?

i am the rising sun, i am the entity of a gypsy

the northern sun hit my back as

i masturbate in public bathrooms

while monks are wrapping brown paper

around skeletons...

I AM GOD! I AM LIFE! I AM ALIVE!

I BREATHE! I EXIST!

i am very very very very very very very very very very

very very very very humble

you may have heard of me

my name is scrawled on the

walls of many sewers...

disguised in the underpaths of the cities, i exist with forlorn hope for lovers,

likers and haters, and you,

as myself alive. breathing. existing.

you must know that i like you,

through heavy breaths. urination.

moonless nights. nostalgia. crying.

sobbing. yearning.

i need you.

i want you.

you are like the stars

except you are brighter

you are like words, except

so much (less empty) more...

but life, will not give us the...

want we want to be, as the

great lovers of our time -

napoleon and josephine,

antony and cleopatra,

brad pitt and angelina jolie

we will never compare

as lovers with archer’s arms

and matador hands

we are smoke

they are fire

we are smoke

we are smoke

all the lovers

all the lovers are in

separate graves

where’d their hearts go?

we are lost beyond our own comprehensible

selves... lost, deserted.

lovers mean nothing for we search for them everyday

thus, meaning under garbage

within smoke, feathers, forests

and fog...

we are searching, where did our hearts go?

this century

that century

my century

your century

we collided

your nothing heart

my nothing pen

lets start again

she should have said...

“i don’t know what i can say, to show you,

to tell you, to let you know...

i love you...

i guess”

-tentative actions always lead to nothing. life stops.

stops. stops. stops. stops. stops. stops. stops.

i’m stuck...

“i love you, i guess...

maybe we should do something about this”