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”