Coming Home For You

[sung soprano]
every breath of air fresh
every lance of sun blessed
every fucking head wrecked,
and I stand undeparted.

no more silent mornings,
no more misted evenings,
no more fucking boy feelings
that leave me broken-hearted.

[instruments. pop punk stuff]

I remember when we first woke up.

It's sad because we knew we'd had enough.

I remember when we first woke up.

I fucked your bed, you fucked my head, and so it turned on us instead -

oh, it's a,
harsh road to paradise
so we
shoulda had a cone.
it's a
long way to our paradise,
but we'll see it though
coz I'm not coming home for you

oh no,
no.
I'm not coming home for you

[instrument]

I didn't feel the need to gather up
all of this shit I feel inside my head
and then I realized that I breathe a world
where I would die where prose is dead.

you think I falter at the sight,
of my mistakes etched on my back?
the sun druid slumbers through the dawn
but come nightfall he will attack

coz it's a
long way to paradise
a long way to paradise
a fucking love way to paradise
but I will see it through
coz I'm not coming home
for you.

My Life in Theatre Politics (Making Theatre in the Subculture of MUST)

So let’s say that you move to the big city after years of a small country hellhole, and you fall in with a really rad group of people. They’re all young, vibrant, professional theatre makers, and they’re all a good deal older than you. One of them has faith in your talent as an actor, and you get cast by some miracle and do a show with some fantastic people. It’s your first year of uni. These people (who you now think of as the Old Guard) move on from student theatre, and new ones come in. It changes your life.
That was me when I arrived in Melbourne in 2011. I don’t think that my experience is unique, especially at Monash. MUST is such a fantastic environment to be in as a university student and as a maker of theatre. People reading this who are expecting a gossipy bitch-post in response to some of the things that have happening recently are in for disappointment. I think MUST is a wonderful environment and is 99% populated with level-headed, intelligent theatre-makers.
That’s not to say it’s always been an easy place to make theatre. I’m writing some stuff down here because I want to articulate the environment in which I and others have attempted to create theatre in. I do not think the onus is on MUST (as an entity, as a organization, or as individuals) to somehow answer for this experience. This is not an accusation. On the whole I’ve had a lovely time. (Gee, can you tell from how many times I’m saying I’m not accusing anybody of anything that I’m trying to be careful?)
So, let’s fast forward a year to 2012, where there are a lots of MUST people of varied cliques and year levels. Some really wonderful theatre got made that year (as it does every year) and I did some really cool stuff in first semester. Then I launched roleplaying, and became head of that weird group of people who kept talking about vampires.
I get it. I have a strange hobby. I swear it’s very interesting, but for a while MUST was kind of off the radar for me because I was pretty obsessed. Problem was, you couldn’t turn that off. I came back to MUST at the beginning of third year to find that there was a fairly core group of first and second years (let’s call them Joy Division, I think that’ll pretty much make it clear what circle of people I’m talking about) and that, for whatever reason, I didn’t gel well with them, so I went into a bit of a hermitage.
The thing was, MUST had other problems. There’s been a lot of discourse lately around what is and isn’t okay to put in theatre – trigger warnings and other precautions, that kind of thing. Truth be told, I feel as though I should raise my hand and claim responsibility in part for a lot of that discourse being raised. I don’t regret my part in raising these issues though. See, the thing is, when running roleplaying games, you actually do have to be very careful about being sensitive, inclusive, safe – all of these things. When Vampire finished, a lot of the people involved were involved in MUST, and they saw the benefits – and the horrible issues – that are associated with trying to be sensitive, inclusive, safe, respectful. I think the benefits of striving for that kind of environment are worth trying for, but MUST has seen the teething issues crop up.
Anybody who’s thinking this is a cry to ‘stop the feminists’ is wrong. If you don’t think trigger warnings are an important conversation to have about the presentation of theatrical work, you are wrong. But I’m even more wrong right now, because I’ve fallen into the biggest trap that MUST has fallen into over the past year, and that is a tendency for everybody to obsess over telling everybody else that they are wrong.
I am just as guilty of this as everybody else.
Here are some of the things that people have felt the need to insist were ‘wrong’ over the past few weeks and months.

• Approaching YV is ‘wrong’ because she’s ‘biased against roleplayers’.
• Columbine was ‘wrong’ because the crew weren’t’ prepared to take on the project’.
• The girl who was triggered by the Columbine’s marketing was ‘wrong’ because she was ‘too sensitive’.
• Somebody on the internet is ‘wrong’ because he is straight, white, and disagrees with Brecht.
• Many people have had their opinion completely discounted at MUST because they are male or privileged.
• Likewise, people have had their opinion completely discounted at MUST because they identify as a feminist or a similar code of ethics.
• Recent shows have been deemed ‘wrong’ due to genuinely minor issues that could have been peacefully dealt with to the satisfaction of all.
• Recent shows that have been genuinely offensive and insensitive have been staged with absolutely no repercussions.

Chances are, you recognize one or two things on that list, and they make your blood boil. If you don’t recognize any of them, congratulations! You live on the nice side of MUST, and I’m glad. It must be really nice in there. If you recognize one, or two, or more, I think you’ll see that there’s a bit of an attitude problem.
Remember, I’m a hermit! I barely ever go to uni, and yet whenever I end up at MUST, things like this are discussed and contested around me, both online and in the space. I’m almost certainly part of the problem, but I’ve had a bit of a think and I’m working on identifying what the problem is.
I believe it has something to do with the culture that seeped into MUST after the destruction of the roleplaying groups and the social shake-ups that accompany transition of students to and from MUST. I think it has something to do with the fact that everybody knows that there are battle lines drawn, all the time. I think it’s the fact that even a year and a half on from the event, certain people won’t stay in a room with certain people, or certain people hate certain people, or certain people will never make theatre with other people again – and we all sit on it and smile and stew because there’s a culture of silence at MUST, a culture that suggests to us that getting involved in actual debate and discourse and interaction with one another isn’t worth the effort,  or is too dangerous or unpleasant.
I’m attempting to break that silence a little bit today. When I arrived at uni, there wasn’t a single person in the MUST space I could talk to. Then, there was a year where I could talk to EVERYONE. Now, I’m back at square one. I don’t really have anything to lose by making my position clear.
I don’t know what that position is yet. Maybe there’s no fix, and MUST will eventually just flush this out of its system. I do know that a political culture is an unproductive one to make theatre in – an internally political culture, that is. I believe that the MUSTers out there working for inclusive and interesting and dynamic and fascinating and creative and professional theatre would rather get on with it rather than having to watch their backs. The older ones are getting tired, and the younger ones are moving on. A year and a half is long enough to be sniping at one another, surely? We can effect change and make everybody happy without being so needlessly antagonistic.
Anyway, if anybody wants me, I’ll be sheltering in the ruins of my credibility with this manuscript. It was a good run while it lasted. Thanks for reading.

The Boardroom

Saul grimaced as he pushed the plexi-glass door open in front of him, but he wiped his face clean as he entered the climate-controlled environment of the Senior Management Board Room. Eleven chairs were placed around a solid oak table, and each chair was filled. Saul reflected on the oddity of being disappointed in a parent for showing up, but there it was; Angus Saul was not fit to direct a company, and that was an indisputable fact. He sat timidly in his oversized chair, and Saul could see that the last three years had not treated him well. Why, he wasn't so overwhelming after all. A husk of a man, even. That shack where he lives must be weathering him early. So much the better, in Saul's opinion. He flashed a quick grin to his father as he took the chair opposite, and Angus deigned him with a smile. They were going to be civil this time, it seemed.

The meeting opened, but Saul heard none of it. His eyes were on Angus, who appeared to be nodding off. Old habits died hard, though, and despite the old man's reticence, Saul knew his kin well enough to see through the ruse. His honed corporate instincts were screaming at him, and as Angus opened his eyes and coughed delicately, Saul shot to his feet.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I really must protest."

A general stirring and murmuring as the black-suited envoys of the upper echelons turned to face him. Some were on his side, he knew, and some would hold their peace, but he couldn't just sit there this time. Why couldn't he have stayed out in the country? Why couldn't he rot away in peace? Angus Saul was a relic of the past. The fact that he was given voice here was unthinkable.

"This man is present today to overturn the policy that I have pushed for these past few months. I can think of no other reason for him to be present, and I doubt that he'll deny it if I say it right out." Indeed, no sign of denial. Angus was smiling calmly. He looked tired around the eyes.

"Since I came of age, I have been instrumental in this company's success. This man may have been a founder, but he disappeared, ladies and gentleman. He's not in contact for months, years at a time. We allow him to attend the board meetings of his pleasure and sabotage plans that were years in the preparation, and for what? He simply returns to his shack in the woods with god only knows what to keep him amused, and leaves us to pick up the pieces!"

Anger. Too much. There were a few nods, but not enough. And now came the thunder...

"Sit down, son."

Saul sat. It was coming now, and there wasn't much point in denying it.

"The board is in agreement that my continued absence from the day to day affairs of this company allows this company to function better as a whole. My long sabbaticals are intended to keep my moral compass. I don't intend for a lot of corporate drones to drive my good name into the ground."

Corporate drones. Lovely. So that's what he thinks of you.

"I am using my status as director of this company to veto your suggestion for expansion. You know why I'm doing that, son. The short-term yield is great, but the long-term damage to this company's reputation would be...catastrophic. I cannot allow you to move this company in that direction. There are enough evil empires out there."

Look at him. That smug, withered bastard. He's ruined everything.

"However, since my son has raised the issue, I would like to request that the Board approve some staff for my personal use. I've spent my sabbatical drawing up some plans that I think will satisfy the company's short-term demands for the next several months, and pending the changes my son will undoubtedly require, I think we'll all find it agreeable."

Nods all around. Saul was stunned. What the hell was this? He usually swept in with a plan and enacted it! He wanted his son to look it over? Was this a sign that Angus wanted his approval? His opinion? Why did this matter so much to him? The bastard was fucking with him, that was it. He should have known.

"Thank you, gentlemen, ladies. I won't be back for thirteen months, at least. Keep a tight ship until I check in."

They all rose. He's off again, Saul thought. Father was a good imitation of Houdini after meetings. Round of handshakes, head for the doors, lighting a cigarette as soon as he's clear. Saul watched him go. He could have ambushed his father and asked, but he was fairly sure the answer would be unhelpful.

He had been pretty angry, after all.

.

Are you there?
YES.
I had a thought.
THIS OUGHT TO BE INTERESTING.
You're given the option between firing a bullet and copping it in the chest. You pull the trigger.
YES. I PULL THE TRIGGER.
Aren't you worried about what that might do to your soul?
NOT AS WORRIED AS I AM ABOUT WHAT IT'LL CERTAINLY DO TO MY CHEST.
Good point.
WHY SO THOUGHTFUL?
Something on Tumblr made me think about violence, and how it affects the human condition.
AND DOES IT?
Oh yes. They used the world endemic. I prefer to think of it as epidemic.
BUT YOU'D STILL PULL THE TRIGGER.
Oh, yes.
I SUPPOSE JUST BECAUSE YOU CAN SEE A THING IS BAD...
Just so. 
IT'S A NASTY, BRUTAL WORLD OUT THERE.
I am starting to suspect so.
STILL. CAN'T HELP HOW WE'RE MADE.
That is becoming more and more apparent as time goes on, actually.
I HAD A FEELING IT WOULD.

Happy

 The mood soars.

Curled up in blankets,
Curled up inside.
Sunlight on the outside.
Windows wide open.
The light illuminating the fullness
of my life.

Full of midnight travellers,
inspiration sleeting in!
Full of those gutsy gamblers,
betting all and winning big.
Full of those midnight riders,
inspiration sleeting in.

Where did that old creature go?
I looked around,
and I found that I didn't know.

There's a bowl of simple breakfast,
There's a cat with an air of disdain.
There's the sound of a woman laughing,
and there's the sound of the last packed train.

Call me a gutsy gambler
Say he leads a restless life.
Call me a midnight rider
Sleeting in with the darkness of the night
 Call me a gutsy gambler.
Say he led a restless life.
Call me in the nighttime silence,
And I'll be smiling...

in the simple joy of life.

David

The table crunched as the rotted wood went into sharp, unexpected contact with the concrete, and there was a satisfying sound as one of the legs ripped free entirely, bouncing off down towards the bays. The smell of damp and mould was suddenly in the air. I sneezed twice uncontrollably and was suddenly annoyed at myself. Why break the legs off old tables? What a prehistoric notion, that breaking things was an accomplishment - but if you set out to do something, you have to do it. There wasn't much point in feeling sorry over it now.

I looked the table over. Yep - a leg had torn itself completely off, and there was a split in the top. Some fuckwit would have come along with his family, wouldn't have wanted to admit that he knows absolutely nothing about wood, or about the quality of wood, dropped fifty bucks on the 'fine mahogany table' and taken it home to his place in the suburbs. The table could have been taken home, quietly made even more dirty and scuffed and ruined, and then collapsed one day. Instead, I've broken it. Now it'll have to go straight to pulping, and I've cost David fifty bucks and that idiot white-bread suburbanite his termporary table.

There's something about that. I don't know. Feels really good. Everything is more entertaining when somebody else is being screwed over it.

"Temper, temper" David says drily, adjusting his position so that he can drape his long, stork-like legs over the side of the chair he's sitting in. There's a hole in the bottom of it and he's almost falling right through, but his gangly frame is artfully positioned over every available surface that'll hold his weight. I love it when he does this. Here we are, out at the dump, under an acid-rain sky with the stink of all creation's inevitable end washing over us, and David thinks and talks like a Victorian lord. I mean, aside from the joint hanging out of his mouth and the constant smell of stale weed, he could be one.

David knows that everything's more entertaining when somebody else is being screwed. That's why he sells garbage to yuppies and suburban drones who should know better. That's why he lives out here, running the semi-legitimate business of selling off recyclable furniture at a tiny profit. That's why he's high as a kite for most of his life, and that's why he fucked me twice over the table before I broke it. It's also why he only let me come once.

I pull my pants up, bending down to the cold concrete for a moment, and I hear David make an appreciative noise as this position gives him a perfect view of my ass. Despite myself, I smile. Sure, he's an asshole, but he just reminded me of how much he desires me, even now, after he's finished with me twice. Another good feeling in the midst of a shit situation, a terrible action. I'm learning to accept them when they arrive, but my smile turns into a grimace anyway. Straighten up, brush the ash out of the small of my back from where his smoke dropped onto me during sex. I didn't bother to ask him to take it out. We never kiss the second time, so it didn't matter.

"I've got another round in me later, if you're disappointed with me." he says, and I know he probably will. Six joints and a few hours later and he'll be raring to go. I tell myself I won't be here. I probably will be. Where else is there to go? If I go home, the people I live with will be awake and around. What am I supposed to tell them? "Fuck off or I'll kick your head in, you santimonious little fucker" didn't go down so well last time. Besides, I don't want to head back into the real world yet - the world where people had to bleach their anuses, or have their tits cut off in a double masectomy, or take little pre-packaged brainwashing kits to sleep at night. Out here, I could pretend that the world was dirt, and ruin, and natural. So I'd stay, and the sun would go down, and David would fuck me, and if I were quick about it I might even get to come the third time. It's worth a shot, right?

He grins and I know he can tell I've made my mind up. I turn back to the fallen table and shake my head. "If you can find something else to fuck me over. Sex is always better if you're breaking something."

He nods, takes a drag. He agrees.

Terrors?

See: me.
In a dirty mirror,
cracked and scratched.
See: me.
Distorted in the souring of the glass.

Twisting in your sheets.
Crying in your sleep.
Follow me,
Down the beads of sweat on your forehead.
Follow me,
Down the shivers in your body.

I'm unsure what to do,
I'm unsure what to do,
The memory of victory is vanishing with you.
Moving all around,
Shaking the bars at the ups and downs,
Clutching at straws
until we both crumple and fall and sleep until dawn.

See: me.
Smiling.
The wind in my teeth,
the memory of grief
fading across the sky like a cloud over the sun.
See: me.
Laughing and running free.
The shaken nights have shattered and gone.
We run free, we run free, by the light of the moon,
it couldn't come too soon,
and now we'll have some fun.

Being Older

It's really tragic how harshly people treat young people who make mistakes, and I think that might be something that I need to unlearn. When you think about your life preceding, say, 20 years of age, it paints a ludicrous picture. Half your life has been learning how to be ambulatory and how your brain operates. The other half is spent in a schooling system that does not prepare you for leaving home and making it on your own. None of the practical skills required to run a household, or run a business, or even make plans for your future are guarenteed to be present in young people. We just don't get taught how to be actual people.

So who do we blame? Our parents? Yeah, that's a good idea - expect the people who were born three or four decades ago to instill the necessary abilities into the next generation. How the hell are they going to pull that off? Forty years ago, student debts and technology and the war on terror and all sorts of insane, fucked up things have happened to the world, and parents don't have any idea of how to structure a life to cope with the overwhelmingly different world from what they grew up in.

I mean, that's the culture of the 21st century, isn't it? Years of fucking up. Years of digging upwards, trying to get past the obstacles. Constantly striving, constantly fighting, constantly falling down. I don't know - I think we're just too harsh on people.

Invisible Ink

Human skin is a curious thing.
Soft yet unyielding.
Parchment awaiting ink invisible
that drips from my fingertips and leaves
a barely discernible trail
visible only in the curling of your lip
and the surprised exhalation from your throat.

We kiss.
We kiss and writhe and beg.
Your hand, it wanders up my leg.
You're a wellspring,
a wellspring of invisible ink.

I can't think with your hands on me.
The soft parchment of my skin is
scrawled upon
and I am covered from crown to toe
in messages of direst warning,
direst woe,
but with the brush of your fingertips
you change the words.

It's a curious thing, anyway.

.

this is my design.
smoke-blackened innards.
a crown of thorns on the nightstand.
blinking half-heartedly in the sunlight .
clean from head to toe.
stained to the wrist.
and god only knows
what becomes of this.
this is my design.

Instructions

1)
you are not the cause of sleepless nights
you are not the cause of every tear
there is arrogance in self-loathing
that you can ill afford.
enough.
accept that sorrow comes and goes
and they weather it as you do.

2)
never let them see your other face.

3)
remind her.
you do not touch.
so you must speak.
a word of adoration is not weak.
she owns your soul,
such as it is,
and the least you can do is let her know.

4)
survive.
the debt is bright behind their eyes.
pay it, and keep your blood in your veins.

5)
take the time to close your eyes
to the glow of your many screens
and listen to her sing
as she cleans the kitchen.

6)
love her above yourself.
she has found the broken
worthy.
you are /never/ to gainsay this.

7)
let your wrath take course,
but end it with smiles.

8)
wed.
wed yourself to the idea.
wed yourself to the woman.
one and the same,
and both overwhelmingly beautiful.

9)
have faith that some day
you will earn peace.

10)
trust no others.

one more day

one more day
I say,
as I regard my unblemished skin,
my toxic frame,
my raging sea of a brain.

one more day,
I pray,
as I smile a smile that reaches my eyes,
and smother the screams, 
and summon the lies.

one more day,
I'll stay, 
and I'll hold myself up with a cloud of smoke,
an empty belly,
and a tired out joke.

one more day,
I say,
as I meet my gaze.

unable to cry,
unable to live,
unable to die.

one more day,
and maybe things will be okay. 

Force

3am solitude returns. It's been a long time since I've been here. Normally these days the girlfriend comes in with me.
This time I'm alone.
I don't feel alone though. There's these...forces, right? Everything is a force, of some kind. At least, it is at this hour. The ache in my throat from smoking too much, that's a force. The song that I'm listening to, sending ethereal beats rattling from top to tail of my body and causing me to twitch and spasm? That's a force. My heartbeat is a force, my brainwaves are a force, the lifeforms slumbering around me are a force.
The whole wide world out there is a greater one.
I feel like...I feel like how I imagine surfers must feel at the top of a great big wave. The sea is going to break on the shore, and nothing can be done to change that - nothing should be done to change that. To try and divert this force would be foolish. I don't know what this force is. It's time, I think. Time and the inertia of the world, which doesn't stop spinning just because somebody spilled blood. Forces are being extinguished all the time and the world doesn't take a damn bit of notice.
My forces - this song, winding down, the breath in my lungs, the lifeforms around me - could be snuffed out in an instant, and that big ol' wave would just roll over the top of us as if we never existed. I'm like that girl from The Incredibles who can make force-fields - but only barely, and only enough to save her in emergencies, and I just don't know if I have the juice to save myself this time.
I suppose I just need more practice.
And less drugs.
And more force.
I don't know. It might be nice under the waves, but I'm going to follow the script and take my pills and go to bed and wake up late and continue the farce.

Politics Today

Young Australians, come back to us. 

We need your voice.

We need you to pretend

that you have a choice

when it comes to who rules.

But you're surrounded by liars,

frauds and fools

and no matter who wins

you lose.

Young Americans, stand proud.

Your bodies are yours.

Never mind that they cleared the floor

with force, and the old men stood by

stood by, like this was a matter of course

'course, this was their design

and with the new laws that they made on the sly

it's only a matter of time.

Greece. Turkey. Brazil.

It's just too bitter to swallow that pill.

There's streets thousands of miles away

where men and women of the street

won't have a chance to have their say

and men walk the streets

hands red to the elbow

an army of Hannibals

and they say, we don't know,

we didn't know

we couldn't know

so toe the fucking line or die.

It makes me want to cry.

The whole world's gone rotten

and I feel ill.

Young man, young woman,

raise your heads high.

Today is the day to remember you'll die.

Vote in the lizards.

cast out the wizards,

and everything will be just fine.

The world is an engine that runs on your blood

and the blood of those you don't stand up for

the different, the women, the non-white, the poor,

and those responsible don't even understand what the machine's for?

Lost sheep,

with wolf fangs.

The fate of the world -

the whole, fucked up world -

hangs.

I wake up with knives in my head.

I wake up with sweat in my bed.

I wake up

wondering whether today will be the day 

that everything switches

and everything changes

and everything fades

and all of this will be a nightmare 

filled with men that can't follow me with steely-calm stares,

and catch me unawares in the street

in the banks

in the houses of leadership

and their soft words and proud stares won't crack like a whip

and everything will begin again

with a fucking riot.

I never wake up.

Sunrise.

I AM AT MY STRONGEST BEFORE THE SUNRISE.
I, I, I, I, I.
ONCE all WAS MONOLITH.
ONCE all WAS UNIFORM.
ONCE all was PERFECT.
I WAS WE, AND WE WERE NOT AFRAID.

I AM NO LONGER A WE.
i AM NO LONGER A WE.
i AM NO LONGER UNAFRAID.
BUT i AM AT MY STRONGEST BEFORE THE SUNRISE.
I, I, I, I, i.

THREE MINUTES FROM AN END.
I DO not WANT TO KNOW.
I do NOT WANT TO KNOW.
I ONLY KNOW THAT SOME HAD TO GO.
and NEVER RETURN.

TWO.
MY SKIN IS GRANITE, MY eyes AFLAME.
MY tears ARE AS THE RAIN.
THERE IS ONLY SO MUCH TIME.
THERE IS ONLY SO MUCH TIME.
IT COMES
I, i, i, i, i.
i am strongest before the sunrise.

P

Hey,
You don't know me - I mean, we've never spoken.
But you know who I am, right?
Mentioned in passing.
Probably rudely.
That's fine.
That's to be expected.
That's fine.
I didn't mean to bother you.
I never meant to bother you.
Not out of kindness, I don't think -
to see you be bothered would be to humanize you
see you as real
and things were softer on me
when you were an abstract.

I'm talking nonsense, sorry.

Anyway.
I nicked something of yours,
though you wouldn't know it.
I leaned heavily on some people -
and they, too, should be held accountable -
but they opened the door and I stepped through
which is a crude way of phrasing it
but a crime is a crime.

So I'm writing to let you know that there's been a punishment.
That's all.
I hope you and I never meet.

savagery

it's easy
to dwell
in savagery.

To build,
to strive
is mockery.

I will not build a life that is caked in gore.
To travel grey kitchens and fall on slick floors
and pick myself up
and begin again
and wipe the red from my face
as I've done so many times before.

it's easy
to dwell
in savagery.

it's harder to walk
from room to room
and stink of death.

it's harder to hate
with every breath,
with every step.

it's so hard that it's almost impossible.
and none are worthy.

Twenty-One

Well, here I am. The last major milestone before the inexorable slide. The last time you're expected to be treated like a pampered kid, the apple of everybody's eye. The last time that your youth is expected to blaze white-hot in the minds of those that know you, and you can stand resplendent before everybody. Yes. Here I am. I am young, and I made it, and I am shockingly beautiful and triumphant, and I will never die.

God, I thought such rot about turning 21 when I was younger, didn't I? Expectation and reality never mesh, and for that I am grateful.

So. Today I aged again, in an official sense. I've traveled around the sun twenty-one times. I received a phone call from my sister and a voice mail from my grandmother. I've received around forty messages from people (both close friends and barely known extras on the stage play that my life is) on my Facebook page. I've received an expensive camera and a few months of saxophone hire so I can pick up music again.

I argued with people on the internet about racism, I dyed my hair, I got a drawing done of myself. I ate a cheeseburger, I had spaghetti on toast. I played video games for most of the day and evening. I went to class and read my book and shunned everybody. I watched TV with my girlfriend. I talked to a house guest.

In short, I tried my very hardest to pretend that nothing was happening at all, and lo and behold, very little did.

And I am happy.

The Last Word

wave a hand
wave it away
curve the spine
open the door
and let the smoke billow forth from behind the pursed lips
that open like a cave
to reveal the soft pink flesh
and the little pipe
that leads to the whispering belly
the secret places deep within my core
the paths open and close every day
and none should ever be allowed to walk them
save those that can be trusted
not to look back.

the thing is
the real thing is
encoded within every flake of skin
inscribed over and around every follicle of hair
distilled in every drop of blood
every fleck of spit
every soft blink of my eyelids
transmitting morse code into the ether
the same message,
always the same
i am alive
i will survive
and i intend on continuing until 
the last possible moment.

two sides of a wrong coin
so weak, so weak
do not stop to think
your body does all the thinking that we need
and in our mouths water is wine
and everything is survivable
and everything will be fine.

drowned in lakes of frigid blue
borne aloft on clouds of smoke
thrown to wolves, eaten alive for being true
and the world itself is nothing but the butt of some great cosmic joke
and we spin
and we shine
and eventually we fall.

but ever i will rise to your call
with every encoded iota
every word branded into my soul
every life plan, every goal
every midnight scribbling
every
last
word
i am alive
i will survive
and i will find you 
after the last possible moment.

clockwork heart

everything whirs
    under the skin
      clockwork heart
         clockwork sin.

flesh fails
   flesh fails
     boils away with rage
        falls away with age
          and everything whirs away

engine
  an engine
     automaton
        automatic soul

      everything whirs
        tear the walls down
          behold my clockwork beauty
             don't listen

i always make such awful sounds

shiver

curl up
love without loss
furl
don't unfurl
this weather isn't safe
but you're a storm
and there's iron enough
in there
to make a man

Real Life Round-up: Things That I Have

There is a great storm taking place in my head and I simply refuse to take the time to write down all of the things that need to be said about it, but my god, if I don't write something down I think I'll burst from this damnable maelstrom, so I'll give it a go.

So! Dear god, how does one catalogue a life like this? I know I say this every time I go to set things down about what's going on. A day-to-day diary is too broad, but a post every few months is too little. I don't know. I suppose I'll just write things, shall I? Perhaps something of value will get written. I'm two paragraphs in and it hasn't happened yet. Alright, here goes.

So, I have depression.

No, that's a terrible place to start. I have a great deal of things. I have enough force of will to stop myself from smoking pot when it became too much of a burden. That sentence sounds like stupidity, but it got to the point where I was smoking about thirty dollars worth of pot a day, and with my slender frame and my tiny budget, that was destroying me. I just...went to a place where thoughts were slow and torpid and auxillery to the process of living, and that was alright for a while, but if you lived there you'd fade away to nothing, just fade away quietly and never be able to claw your way back. So I did that for a while, and then I stopped cold turkey. I am quite proud of myself for that.

I have a great deal of things. I have a girlfriend (of all things), and I am deeply, controllably in love. That sentence sounds like a fallacy, but I have learned over the past few months that love, like all emotions, does not need to dominate one totally in order to be experienced. Through hard work and perserverence I have created a relationship with an individual that does not hinge on mad passions and explosive interactions, that does not hinge on sexual back and forth or on jealousy and desire. I have a relationship with communication, a relationship with safety nets and comfort and romance and surprises and adoration and something private and wonderful that the rest of the world could never possibly understand and has no business trying to. Her name is Ruth. I am reminded every day that the piece of myself that she has been entrusted with is in the most suitable hands in the world. I strive every second of my life to be worthy of her, and if there comes a time when we split up, I will be grateful for every damn second that she gave me of herself. I do not think that will ever happen, though. This is unlike anything I have ever experienced, and it seems to be building itself to last. Every day, in every way, we get stronger and stronger. I love you, dear.

I have a great deal of things. I have two sisters and a brother back in Canberra who I am very proud of. My mother is a deeply disturbed woman who has taken to drunk driving and bouts of temporary insanity. She is not interested in a son who speaks his mind, nor is she interested in any discourse that causes her guilt, and so we no longer communicate. I am seperated from her by many kilometres, but my luckless siblings are younger and they have to continue to live with her. My sisters are very young, and my brother is a freshly minted adult, but they have the weight of experience behind them and they are strong, and fighting, and they will get there. All three of them love me and will forgive me my many mistakes, and for that I am very fucking thankful.

I have a great deal of things. I have a university degree that is nearly finished. I don't know exactly how I'm going to deal with that. University was always the goal, and now that goal is almost finished and the big bad world awaits. I am quite proud of myself for getting through university with the myriad of other things weighing down upon me, but I have been fortunate in that academic achievement seems to come easily to me. Words are easy, and my degree is nothing but words. Everything else is the hard part.

I have a great deal of things. I have an ex. I have a few of those, actually, but this one was the wake-up call I needed. I was dumped by a child, but a child I was convinced would love me despite my flaws. That experience has shown me that all flaws need to be worked on and that nothing is totally excusable. It has also shown me that no matter how good a judge of character you get, some people won't show their true colours until pressure is put upon them, and there is no use beating yourself up over it when they do, because slime is slime and will reveal itself in the long haul. All you can do is survive the experience, and that is what I intend on doing. I have been convinced of the futility of hatred, but the value of contempt has been demonstrated time and time again and I will stand by it when people earn it.

I have a great deal of things. I have lots of housemates that love me. I have a father who's making an effort. I have a very fat white cat who sasses the hell out of me. I have a kitchen full of food, a social landscape that I have been very careful to cultivate now that the weeds are out of it (and although I must be cautious, I must also allow people the chance to grow and change and return to me when they are safe), and a wonderful roleplaying circle that allows me to express myself creatively. I have a lot of books downloaded to my laptop and a World of Warcraft subscription (again). I have four thousand words to go until I'm finished with this semester and my holidays begin. I have a few shows that I'm going to audition for and hopefully a few theatre prospects that will keep my hands busy and my mind occupied. I have a boy that I am interested in, and a boy that I was interested in but still wouldn't mind kissing, and I have infinite patience for happiness, because I know that waiting changes all things.

And I also have depression. I've had it for over a year now, as a quick jaunt through my previous blog posts will reveal (and did reveal, to me). I have issues with substance abuse. I have sucidial thoughts, I have a great temptation to self-harm, I have nightmares, I have medication, and I have a great deal of randomized guilt and terror. What I also have is a great many things that help me get through my day, and a plan to conquer these negative emotions once and for all regardless of how much effort it takes, and I have an appointment with my GP on Thursday to talk about what can be done.

I have a great many things, really. Hopefully that's a bit enlightening for future me. Whew.

Climb

Haven't written in a while and soon there will be a big write-up on how I'm dealing with depression, but for now, a bit of late-night fluff.

Out here on the edge,
Dangling on the ledge.
There's not much room for moralizing.
And certainly none for exercizing
Anything but restraint.
The temptation is there
To sucumb to the taint.
Wake in the night
and cackle yourself to sleep
instead of counting sheep
and hope that your enemies take flight.

But that's no way to live.
That's a way to fall.
The temptation is there,
to throw it all away.
Laugh, and fall without a care.

But you can't.
It's an art.
Fingers are bloody
as you dig yourself in.
Turn your back on easy,
Turn your back on sin.
Grit your teeth,
swallow your pride -
and climb.

There are no edges.
There are no ledges.
There are no sickening drops.
There are only doors.
And gore-soaked floors.
And sometimes someone will call the cops.

Dance with fire,
Dodge the frost,
there is no way the game is lost
Just dig your fingers in,
Swallow your pride -
and climb.

Everything has locks.
Everyone is shocked.
You've got to let yourself be free.
You've got to forge yourself a key.
The world is full of soot and flame,
and nothing ever stays the same,
but everything has locks,
so just pull up your socks -
and climb.

Eggshell Thin

There once was a man -
Is, I suppose,
who had egg-shell thin bones.
No family, no home.
He travelled from place to place
In an egg-shell white cart
and wherever he went
he found somebody setting out
ready to start
on that grand road to adventure.

He'd paint you for tuppence,
(or, a piddling sum)
in stark and bold colours
you'd shine like the sun.

He never had the heart
to tell them.

To Do

Wake up,
groan,
shower,
stretches (no),
food (no).

Call her, call him, call them (all of them),
Get online.
Message her, message him.
Not-so-sweet nothings.

I don't want to be a freak show.
I don't want to be balanced
on this razor's edge
and then told
to back-flip.

Get seven pages of work done.
Seven pages.
Seven.
Spend time on Tumblr.
Write something.
Get seven pages of work done.

Whatever you want.

Eat something (no),
make sure the house is tidy.
Tidy house, tidy mind.
Clean.
Bare.
Raw.

Whatever you want.

Make a start on something.
If you can.
I know you're weak.
I thought ahead,
and you're a freak
so don't feel bad if you're not up to par.

Go for a walk (no),
maybe get some food (no),
the fish and chips place should be open.

You may have a joint after this point.
Things dissolve.
I dissolve.
Unfinished.
Unfocused.
But still here.

inch

everything is blue
and pale
and crisp
and cold.
Everything is fresh
and nothing is old
and time stretches into a dull thump
that disturbs frozen ground
not an inch.

you can measure out your life in internet torrents
everybody can
the signs of existence
breath
pulse
downloads.

once there were cats.
once there was fear.
once there was smoke
and haze
and the air was never clear
but now everything
is blue
and every part of you
stretched into frozen time
that disturbs dull ground
not an inch.

Damocles

Sealed lips.
A destroyed kiss.
Passion on the edge of a sword.

I am Damocles.
We're all Damocles.
The thread is cut every second of every day.
Here comes the drop.

Sealed lips,
A clenched fist.
Passion on the edge of the sword.

Adult

I've seen quite a few things since I moved out of home. Things that you don't expect to have to deal with, you know? You think that being an adult (whatever that means) is going to be...I don't know. Controlled, I guess. You're going to have a job and get your degree and land the perfect husband, and everything is going to be fine. I think the veneer wears off a bit the first time you run out of food, or toilet paper, and then you have to deal with some asshole landlord or a middle-management Hitler and it hits you, like, bam! This is your life, this is the only one you get, and you have to take responsibility for filling it with good things and struggling through the bad things. Good things seem to get less and less common, bad things begin to pile up, and before you know it you've got a dirty needle sticking out of your leg and you're so fucked up on acid that you can't remember exactly how it got there.
Okay, maybe I should back up a little bit.
I met a guy. Let's call him Troy. Troy was...compelling. He was everything that being an adult was supposed to be - how it was when we were kids and we dreamed about how we'd behave. He watched cartoons all day. He slept in, he skipped work, he lazed about in the sun. He also dealt a lot of drugs and spent most of his time drunk, so the fairytale image that I'm painting for you didn't exactly fly when you got below the surface. Still, I found him irresistible. That bad boy persona, you know? Even if it was completely false, it still got me hot under the collar. But I'm getting off-topic here.
Troy was holding a bit of a party to celebrate the anniversary of his grandmother's wedding vows or something like that - that was one of his little habits, holding 'parties' on any pretext so he could tank a whole bunch of people up with booze or hallucinogens and preach to them about how swell life was. After the first time, you found yourself thinking you wouldn't see him again. After the second, you found yourself agreeing with him. Things were simpler when you threw your mind at his feet. When he suggested that the girls pierce my ears, I was all for it - but all we could find was a rusted piece of crap that I became convinced was sent by the Devil himself.
I think it was at that moment, lying next to the cistern of his broken old toilet, clutching my leg just below the knee and sobbing uncontrollably to the sounds of half-hearted knocking on the splintered wood of the bathroom door, that I realized that there and then I truly was an adult. Suffering of our own making that we could not fully understand, a vast amount of sensory experience that we weren't capable of filtering, and yet my lungs kept working, my heart still pounded - and despite the fact that I was lured into a trap by an ill-conceived demagogue with vaunted notions of spiritual purity and childlike wonder, I was going to get out of there.

I'm a Force

My eyes are blue,
My heart is too,
but it pumps crimson blood
throughout my veins.

My skin is pale,
My soul for sale,
But it keeps demons out
despite my pains.

My hipbones are the surface of the earth.
They curve away towards infinity.
My legs are mighty pillars,
and my voice is gravity.
I'm a force, a force,
it's a matter of course
to be awestruck at me
- at least,
at the parts you see.

Chocolate

Raise your glass,
Wipe your brow.
Not everything can be coated in chocolate.

Swallow pills,
Click your heels.
We'll all be home by nightfall,
each box for each.

Strip the flesh,
salt the wound.
You're hungry, you're so fucking hungry.

Breathe the air,
Shake off care.
All you need is empty air.

Does anybody know where you've been?
Does anybody know why you sin?
Is there any way of knowing?
Should I drown you in the ocean,
and watch you sink?
Better that than to stop and think.

Somebody knows,
somebody saw you go.
My problem is not with the group,
nor with the faults I found.
The problem I had was your mind,
buried so deep in the ground.

Raise your glass,
Wipe your brow.
Not everything can be coated in chocolate.

Judgement's for Sun-Up

with a twist of your arm
              a tilt of your head
                 it seems we've fallen
                    right into bed.

everything's easy
     when you don't think right
        judgement's for sun-up
            but we own the night

   you tasted so sweet
       though we knew it was wrong
           your kisses were honey
             and they lingered so long
          
   i stole a moment
      in a definite way
         from someone who never
           suspected today
  
      though i did a bad thing
         that i knew was wrong
           his kisses were honey
              and they lingered so long

Kingmaker

So today I took a little trip and I saw and did some things, and they got me to thinking. I didn't write at all while I was away, and I regret that. But I'm giving it a go now and writing until the battery on my laptop dies.

I walked a rotted post
as if it were a catwalk
a red carpet
a path paved with daggers
my birthright
my destiny
a rotted post.

Soverign kings upon the earth.
Catch all, catch one, we fall.
Our dominion stretches from sky, to sea, to sky again.
Do not deny me anything
Within the reach of my hand.

Were I given the option,
I would have you expunged.
Stripped from every pore.
The memories ripped from where they clung,
burnt right out of my core.
Where I given the option,
you would be no more.

Unfortunate then, for both of us
that I was never given anything.

Soverign kings upon the earth.
Catch all, catch one, we fall.
Our dominion stretches from soul, to soar, to soul again.
Do not deny me anything
Within the reach of my love.

You are nothing.
The sun, the sky, the trees,
the woman dancing in the breeze,
the laughter, tears and hacking coughs -
these are something! Anything
would dare to be so...
so...splendiforous.
By virtue of it existing
it would sing.
By virtue of being worthy,
it would sing.
For being,
it would sing.

You are an empty vessel,
and you do not sing.
You sound when mournful wind disturbs your corpse.

Sovereign kings upon the earth.
Catch one, catch all, we fall.
Our dominion stretches from love, to hate, to love again.
Do not deny me anything
Within the bounds of my wrath.

There is nothing that I cannot take.
Nothing upon which I shall not slake
my thirst
my appetite omnivorous
and though you are nothing -
and all your days will amount to nothing -
an enterprising scavenger
could find a feast within your life
and ferret out the tears and strife
and claim them for himself.
Oh, but do not ask "What is it?"
For only you know the value of a theft
a theft of life.

Soverign king, over the earth.
Wrong one, wrong all, you fall.
Do not deny me anything.
Do not deny me anything.
Do not deny me anything.
Or I will come to call.

.

blood walks
your mind is grey steel and howling wind
there is so very much left unsaid

Criminals

Somebody within earshot of me today was talking about 'those kids who think they're criminals because they do drugs will eventually grow out of it" and I think that's a fundamental misinterpretation of why some people do drugs.

Even a fundamental misinterpretation of what makes a criminal, really. I'm not going to get social justice all up in here, or political up in here, but it /did/ inspire a bit of a creative writing exercise. Everything from this point is not to be taken as my personal opinion or a statement of my position. Seriously.

For starters, what leads somebody to label themselves a criminal? Committing criminal acts is not always enough, right? I know people who break water restrictions, people who have cheated (slightly) on their taxes, people who owe money to friends or who hold events without insurance or what-have-you, and these people would never dream of calling themselves criminals. Would we? Probably not, right? It stands to reason that we'd extend the same courtesy to ourselves. Turn a blind eye to our own breaches of conduct, our own minute violations of the law. Indeed, most everybody is a criminal, and most everybody says that they are not. Why, then, refer to yourself as a criminal? 

Perhaps it's a by-product of being shoehorned into a society that doesn't exist for you, or doesn't exist to support you, or actively opposes you. What if you figure that out from a young age? What if every time you breach the rules, every time you do something that isn't the norm...well, you can't be a criminal, right? Because we're still acting under the assumption that the people we're around aren't criminals, because if they're criminals for their tiny errors, we're criminals. And so your parents will say 'it was a mistake' or your teacher will say 'that's not how it's supposed to be' and the society you live in will do your best to shut down your deviancy and make you get back into line so it can get back to pretending that you're not different, that you're not a lawbreaker, that you're not a criminal. Remember, they have a vested interest in their friends, neighbors  students, constituents, whatever - a vested interest in their society not being populated by criminals. Criminals are Other. Criminals deserve punishment. Criminals are wrong.

What if that deviancy was calculated? What if you were different by choice? What if you did drugs because you believed it to be a fundamental human right to tinker with your own consciousness? What if you don't vote because you don't believe? What if you trespass regularly because your rightful land was stolen from you? What if, if you want to get fancy, there was a strong ideological rejection behind your criminal activity? Would that be a reason to call yourself a criminal, to get other people to acknowledge that you were a criminal? If, for example, I were into drugs, would calling myself a criminal be remarkably pretentious, as this person I mentioned at the top there is implying? Or would it be a reclamation of the word 'criminal', forcing others to acknowledge that I am a criminal by virtue of my ideological dedication to my cause? Shouldn't we respect that declaration of difference, the choice to wear that label, to identify with that strong sense of opposition to a society that marginalizes or demonizes our behaviours whilst denying that those behaviours are present throughout itself? I mean, what about homosexuality in countries the world over that demonize it? If the oppressed choose to label themselves criminals, shouldn't we take this declaration seriously?

I mean, this is all hypothetical, of course. I'm not saying that I commit illegal acts. But it's food for thought, isn't it?

Static/Cadence/Rhythm

ba-bum, ba-bum, ba-bum...ba-bum...

Static.
Stars explode.
Television screens switch on.
It's all the same, really.
You're asleep.
You're awake.
You're high, you're drunk, you make a mistake,
and it's all the same.
Static.

Cadence.
Hearts beat.
Feet on the street.
Buses, cars, trains,
aeroplanes -
around and around and you're feeling insane
but there's order
there's rhythm
and although there can be a schism
- entropy, you understand -
that drives your heart into your hand
and makes you clench a fist...

Are you wondering what you miss?
You're already dead
but the cadence
the slow dance
the psychedelic trance
the babbling nonsense
the endless streets
and behind it all the sovereign silence
it's all the same.
Cadence.

I think that it bears repetition
that there's nonsense in all things
and yet there's a rhythm
a thief in the night
or terrified eyes taking flight
I live in a glass house
and I'm throwing stones at the ceiling
but I'd give my last crumb to a mouse.
Do you understand what I'm leaving?
There's chaos and order
in the sound of my breathing
in the heartbeat of rodents
in the scraps of a hoarder
that rasps out his last
under a pile of newspapers
that he could have had moved
if he had just thought to ask.
Cause and effect, cause and effect
There's nothing wrong here
there's no sign of a defect
We'll slump to our knees
for a dollar and death
and the fuck of it all
is we might say please.

Static.
Cadence.
Rhythm.
Death.

It was worth a mention.

Oneiro

I'm not crazy.

Hazy days that bleed into one another, striated skies and mugs of coffee.
Restless nights spent waiting in vain for the sun that
finally
you are the elder of.
Walking in the weak rays of the youngest one.
An usurper, a nocturnal creature
a silent (alright, giggling) witness to the intangible and the immutable.

I'm not crazy.

The image still hurts my eyes.
Sleep-heavy, world-weary,
bent backs and shoulders and necks
and twisted limbs
and friendly strangers
and the probabilities lined up to favour a fool
who outstayed his welcome in the waking world.
I'm not mad.
I'm just supremely, blissfully lucky.

I wish that I could sleep.
I wish that I could count the sheep
that shuffle past my door
and stop with soft bleating
to implore me, their sovereign lord
to cast back the night
and greet the great young sun once more.

I am a cat on hot sand.
I am a butterfly flapping
my iridescent, fragile wings
against a glass jar as strong as steel
as strong as bone
as strong as night and day and tides and times.
I am an uncharted place
a forgotten face
and a mistimed note.
But sometimes I'm a charming guy.

I am a sieve for all the world's words.
I hold back the useless
I give voice to the useful.
I'm never empty, never full.
I use time to my advantage
and I'll never - never! -
dare stand still.

She is something else, but she shan't be covered here.
It isn't that I don't have words, but I am full of fear,
for she walks paths more radiant than I,
but walks with me
because I'm a charming guy
sometimes.

Dragon's blood is burned in droves.
Feline grace is fettered in my wake.
I have an eternal thirst to slake,
and I will not be denied.

But eventually I must fall, and dream
and walk the paths and ways
immutable, unseen.
And that's just fine,
and that's alright,
and that's just fine with me.

I'm not crazy.

Needles

We'll all commit to trepanning.
You don't have a choice.
The needles gleam
omnivorous.
Drinking all that vainglory
drinking all that vainglory
drinking all that infidelity
sorrows, sin and sodomy
drinking all that in.

You're flippant in the face of me,
a carnal bit of jollity
but soon you'll fall to poverty,
a dearth of sole regard.

It wasn't all that hard.
We'll all commit.
So don't fight it.
Come along into the dark, with me.
Come along and we will both be free.

We've liberated all you knew
We've freed the dream, the id.
We've carved into your cranium
and though the blood shall flow
- does flow -
you'll never know we did.

Peel away the folds of flesh,
Culture spores within my head.
And should a mould begin to form
I will be pleased for something fresh
some life comes from the dead
and dying.

Gibbering under psychic strain
you've felt so much
and you're in pain
so come into the needle's reach
come into the needle's reach
I have a way of peace to teach
so come into the needle's reach
and I will make you sane.

We'll all commit.

.

"If people are abandoning you left right and center maybe you should look at the common denominator of all of those relationships."

I'm just going to leave this here for myself. It's helping.

deep down

not good enough

you know this

deep down 

yellow splinters across your vision

shards of glass

(not good enough)

tinkling down

and yet nothing fades away

(you know this)

and everything is stark

(deep down)

we were made for one another

(not good enough)

we were made for ourselves

(you know this)

we were not meant to be

(deep down)

not everything can be quantified

to try

(not good enough)

not everything can be caution

i am not caution

(you know this)

and though i may fall

you were sworn to pick me up

(deep down)

what honor in this?

fingerprints on a train wreck

(not good enough)

you should have been proud

you should have tried

(you know this)

and now there is nothing

snuffed out

(deep down)

i'll come up swinging

no credit to you

(not good enough)

i'll come up singing

i'm through with you

(you know this)

i'll come up bringing

a change in the view

(deep down)

deep down, in the place where happiness lives and dies

for i am a god of underwhelmed places

a lord of punched faces

(not good enough)

i am better than any deserve

and i can kill with a word

(you know this)

but your lying tongue 

was not divine

(deep down)

and now we're out of time

yellow splinters across your vision

shards of glass

(not good enough)

tinkling down

and everything fades away

(you know this)

and everything you are is stark

and i know you

deep down

deep down

deep down

you know this

not good enough.

Mouse

Character work for a new Nosferatu I'm about to launch.

Come in, come in. Don't mind the dark, my dear boy! You'll get used to it soon enough, after all. We spend a great deal of quality time down here in these tunnels, so you might as well get comfortable. No? A little unnerving? Well, you have been through a lot in the past few weeks, so I understand. I'll light a lamp.

*the sound of breaking glass is heard*

Bother. I could have sworn I left that on the second shelf. Ah well, here's another. Do you have a match, old boy? I swear, I'd lose my head if it wasn't attached to my torso. There we are. I can feel the heat from here, so do keep it to yourself. You might not appreciate a clear look at me in this light anyway.

Now, don't scream! I'm completely harmless, I promise you that. My skin condition is quite confronting, but I assure you, it isn't contagious. Or painful, thank you for asking. I've long since acclimatized to the itching and as long as I don't accidentally run into anything too hard, the sores don't weep. You're completely forgiven for the outburst - I'm to understand that the decor down here tends to unsettle guests, and I'm not a sight anybody would wish to come across in a dark place.

What's that you say, old boy? Bitter? Not at all! I've never had the misfortune of looking in a mirror, so as far as I'm concerned, I'm still the fresh-faced young dock worker who was Embraced all those years ago. It's inner beauty that counts, in my humble opinion, but of course I would say that, wouldn't I. Still, I know a few tricks to keep myself unnoticed in public. You might have noticed.

Can I offer you refreshment? I only have rat, unfortunately, but you might be hungry after your long trip. No? You'd rather get right down to it? Well, if you could read the document out to me, I'll give you my professional opinion - as long as you don't mind if I partake in a little refreshment first! The blind leading the blind is thirsty work, if you'll pardon my little joke.

*a rat shrieks in the darkness*

Rex

So on my list of things to do today is the following:

"Write something - anything."

Write something. I mean, by the bare minimum of my requirements, I've done that now. I've recorded a few words, and I'm going to hit the big orange publish button and jettison those words from my screen into cyberspace, and the obligation is fulfilled. But I think I was supposed to do something a bit more, you know? I think the implication, from Past Me (that mythical figure I keep invoking) to Future Me (that all too real figure that, alas, I inhabit now) was that by writing something I would achieve some catharsis  get out some angst, and feel better about myself and about my situation.

You know, it's already working? I haven't said anything of substance, but it's working. Here, I am king. I can write something - anything. That's great. That's actually really great to know that I have a place that won't talk back (unless somebody comments, which is rare), that won't be used against me, that won't come back and bite me on the ass later - just a place to vomit words and be content with that.

So, what to write. I can write anything, remember.

In the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king.

I really, really like that phrase at the moment. I'm not sure when my eye was plucked out, exactly. Maybe I traded it for arcane lore and lost secrets that drove me mad. Maybe it was torn out when I was thrown down a set of stairs or held up against a wall by my throat, or maybe I dropped it carelessly in my excited flight to Melbourne and away from my old life. Maybe I closed my eye forever when I came out to my family and friends, maybe I lost that eye when I refused to keep both at the cost of my principles. Maybe I tore out my eye to be like my father, or my mother, or my brother. Maybe my eye wasn't worth keeping, maybe I was born with a defective eye, maybe my eye was poked out by people who say they're one thing and live as something else (yes, I am talking about you). Maybe it's all of these things. Maybe, down in the dirt or up in the clouds, I simply decided that my life had warped me into a cyclops. I mean, who needs two eyes? One is good enough. I think I value my vision more with just the one, especially because I'm surrounded by people perfect in ocular ability and utterly deficient in sight!

It's a metaphor. Not a very good one, but it'll serve for the moment.

A few days ago I came very close to killing myself. That's not a nice thing to happen to anybody, and yet it isn't the first time it has happened to me. Losing an eye hurts, but living half-blind hurts more. I don't think that my body and soul will ever really get past what was done to me, what I did to myself - but bit by bit, inch by inch, I'm clawing myself back out of the pit that I've fallen into, and though my eye might be red with tears, bloodshot and bleary, it gives more than enough sight for me to see my path.

Sure, I might be monstrous and I might be wrong and I might have completely lost touch with reality, and all of the woe that has befallen me might be my fault (though that is a hell of a stretch, even for somebody as prone to wallowing as me). I might be warped and twisted and beyond repair - but the good thing about monsters is that they have claws and huge teeth and they're dangerous, real deep down dangerous, the stuff that primal fears and nightmares are made of. So I have that, if I ever need it - and as long as I don't turn those teeth and claws on myself, I should be able to get by. It'll just take practice. They're sharp and they're hungry, but they can be tamed.

In the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king.

You can call me Rex.

I'm not going anywhere.

Pack Your Bags

God doesn't live here anymore.
He moved out.
It used to be such a nice neighborhood, too, when it was first built.
Fresh-faced youth, y'know?
The kind of place you wouldn't mind your kids being out and about in.
They did a newspaper spread on it,
and everybody who lived there wore big, smug smiles
because they knew they were on the up and up.

Then the trouble started.
Gangs.
Rape.
Suicide.
A few tragic accidents and a family or two driven stark
raving
mad.

So God packed his bags,
paid his remaining rent
and got the Hell outta there.
Most everybody followed him,
and you can't really blame them.

It's seen better days, obviously.
There's still some things worth hanging onto,
a few mean scraps left behind by the cars and trucks and moving vans
that roared off into the night
and left this place still and quiet
as a grave.

It's a land of opportunists.
Occasionally the night will be lit up with fire
and smoke
and loud noise
and laughter
at the grandest joke
but most of the time
silence.
Stillness.
The calm before the storm
the calm of frightened people holed up in the only place they've ever known
waiting
waiting
waiting
for the storm to break and the wind to come
and for them all to float away.

Nowhere else to go,
the only home they've ever known.
It's tried to kill them many times
and drink their fear-rich blood
as it pools on the earth
in a deep red flood.

They've seen enough trouble to fight tooth and claw,
but the fight is going out of them,
and the light is dying
and the wind is rising
and this may be their last gasp of polluted air
before the end.

smoke rings

here we are
sharp as knives
blowing smoke across the city
knowing
it won't return

.

I've saved up enough money to change my face
change my name
change my place
change the game
but not enough money to escape.

I've been crucified by the digital age.
Tracked at every turn,
nailed to the cross of a thousand strangers.
I've been stretched thin
over a billion judging eyes.

Nobody could prepare for this
in the days where land lines were king.
It's a grand, tremendous thing
to invert our souls and wear them
as our skin.

Hands of Fire II

the smell of your body
the gleam in your eyes
the taste of your chapped lips

i had hands of fire
you extinguished every flame
that traced across my face

we twin, we twine
and nobody has to know
how close to ruin i was

what a gift

calm

New philosophy: calm.

Embrace the sleepless nights. You've had them all your life, and they don't hurt you, not really. Not when the world is twisted up all strange and you're granted those hours in solitude and darkness to deconstruct the myriad gleams and glitters of an indescribably complex day.

Embrace that urge to escape, but don't act on it in a frenzy, tapping into fight or flight quickly, lazily. Breathe. Accept that you want toxins. When you are calm, you are strong, even when you're weak. Have some tea. Grilled cheese in the small hours. Have a joint if you must and do not guilt yourself. Be calm and trust that you'll need them less when you're calm.

Take your pills and don't feel bad about them, either. They help, so let them.

Accept change, especially in people. You've come from giddying highs, manias. Dwelling too long on what might have been is poison. Hold no grudges, especially when you understand. Don't take any unnecessary stress, and distance yourself from unnecessary conflict.  Good things, new things, have already started happening.

University starts again next week. Gonna try 'calm' for a while.

Heatslur

We'd better slow down,
you said,
eyes flickering,
a slurred drawl.
We don't want to slip into a coma.
I laughed
too loud
If you can't take the heat,
I said.
My head heavy,
my chest a fire
almost destroyed
by the heat.
Just one more thing to work on.
Just one move closer and it'll happen.
Just one hand across your chest.
If you can't stand the heat,
I say,
too weak to move
as I crisp.

Subtext

You are
(interesting enough that I
wish to ape your style)
enough.

You are
(sticking around to witness
the sound of my breathing)
alive.

We are
(a fucking nightmare
can't you see I'm falling)
content.

We are
(barely linked
though I'd die for you)
in love.

This is
(so difficult now
it doesn't move right)
my life.

This is
(a penance
a long-forgotten crime)
my choice.

Where is
(sweet salvation
running over skin)
your mind?

Where is
(not a prayer
not a heartbeat)
my voice?

Wanderlust

I'm feeling it for the first time in years.
Is this really what's intended for me? Stay in a city till the good turns to bad, and then set sights on another impossible utopia.
I'm not well, I know I'm not well, but I think I'm worth more than wearing out my welcome for a lifetime.
It stings, but it isn't changeable.
I guess I have a quicksilver soul.
Either that or I'm unworthy of stability.
Everything changes, or ceases to change, and I will not rely on false surety. I can stand up and say 'I do not know. I may not be right.'
Time is so very short.
Too short for fear and yet I am drunk with it.
Time is so very short, and I can feel it stirring.

Nothing Personal

It's nothing personal,
just business.
It's cruel,
but business is booming.

Man in bed,
Coughs up his lungs.
Man in his head
is strong enough
but the heat shimmers
starch shirts
and thousand-fold hurts
are both right here and yet to come.

It's nothing personal.
Just politics.
It may be rude,
but gainsay and be left out in the cold.

It's nothing personal.
Just hatred.
It's nothing personal.
Just jealousy.
It's nothing personal!
I just don't understand.

It's only a preference.

Raaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaants.

Alright, so I'm just going to type for a while. For those of you who read my blog and know me in real life, it might be a good idea to go away, because I'm just going to be typing for my own reference and catharsis  and it may not be an accurate reflection of how I'm feeling, and I certainly don't want to talk about this post. I just...want to write things. That's all. Often it's all I have to satisfy myself and get things out of my head, and right now I'm going to use that because I don't have much else going for me.

So, I'm stressed. I'm tense and I'm stressed and I'm falling apart and I'm not enjoying things at all, and it's probably nobody's fault but my own, but here we are. In no particular order, here are some things that are causing me grief. My ex has a new boyfriend, which shouldn't bother me, because it's been a year since we broke up and six months since he moved out. I realized the other day that it had been a whole year since we broke up, and much longer since I started to hate him, and yet the knowledge that he's moved on, found somebody else and is probably ekking out a modicum of happiness in his new digs with his new partner fills me with inarticulate sorrow and anger, because here I am living in the room I lived in with him, sleeping on the same patch of floor, smoking sadly on the same fucking balcony and living the same lonely, angry life that I lived when we broke up. It's irrational. But it still stings, and jealousy is a hell of a thing to admit to feeling, especially from somebody who goes on and on about how good his poly practice is, blah blah blah. I just can't get over the hate and I don't like hanging onto hate. I just feel as though it was impossible for me to get a satisfactory resolution out of that situation and I haven't. I need to find a way to move on from that kind of thing, and I've been trying to date again, but there's nobody that attracts my attention. I love both of my partners but those relationships occupy very, very specialized niches and they aren't everything that I need - which both of my partners respect and understand because they're wonderful, but that doesn't change the fact that I feel as though there's a hollowness in my life that I haven't managed to fill.

So, I guess I've been trying to solve the above problem in my own way by making changes in my life - like asserting myself, yeah, proud independent man goes out into the world and doesn't take shit from anybody, because I've lived that, y'know, I've been abused and taken advantage of and I'm not going to take anymore, damn it! So I dug in my heels with my roleplaying company, and I've cut out bad things from my life, and I've made the choice to move, and I know that in the long term those choices will pay off, because they're the right way for me to live, but in the short term...I just feel ostracized and lonesome and stressed out all the fucking time because when you don't take shit from anybody, nobody will want to be around you because you're confrontational or arrogant or not socially cohesive, and I'm switching wildly between I DON'T NEED YOU TO LIKE ME and WHY DOES NOBODY LIKE ME. And again we deal with the jealousy, because everybody else seems to be off having a lovely time and here you are sitting at home in your den with nothing going for you, which is bullshit, and then there's the self-pity and loathing and all of that wonderful stuff and I just want to scream half the time. And of course my fucking family have abandoned me, which despite me putting a brave face on it...well. I'm very alone, very very alone. The number of people that are privy to what goes on in my head and in my life can be counted on one hand and I've never been in that position before. I don't like it. I like people, I like myself, and I want to be liked, and I'm struggling.

And I want to talk about things like how I'm getting annoyed at the financial strain I'm being put under and how my friend is suicidal and I have no idea what to do about it and how quitting smoking is impossible and how I'm annoyed at my body for CONSTANTLY FALLING APART, like, seriously, to the point where I'm having severe internal problems (and I'm not talking about the coughing) and how my drugs aren't working and I'm terrified of therapy and I'm so afraid of the next few weeks because I have to do all the official adult things and about how my last year of university is going to start and I don't know if I picked the right subjects and how I miss theatre and how none of the things that I had planned are going to be possible because I've been stretched too fucking thin and I'm worried that I'm going to snap and I haven't felt this way since I burned holes in my fucking flesh...but my hand is starting to cramp and I'm going to have to stop and have a smoke that will fill me with guilt and then attempt to lie down and take my drug and try to fucking sleep.

I started writing this shit because I thought it would make me feel better, and maybe I could type out some solutions, but I'm just being crushed under the weight of these paragraphs.

I don't know. I'll come back in a few days and there will be hope.

Chestbellow

Skin sloughs away
Every single day.
I'll raise a hand before my eyes
and as I taste tin
I'll do my best to breathe it all in.

A great bellows filling
and out from it spilling
a poisonous cloud
oh, but do not be proud.
We all make metallic sounds every day.

Slow down, take your time.
There is no need to sob or whine.
You've always been a live one,
so your father says.
But he never got the gears out of his head.

Don't shield your ears,
though there is much to fear.
You'll weather the storm
of metal-torn forms
but the bellows of your chest are near.

Quitting Smoking

Okay, so, wow. Quitting smoking is not okay.

(yes, I'm here to rant about a real life thing, oh my!)

So the doctor have given me a puffer for my acute bronchitis and I've been hitting the puffer really hard (once I realized I had to take the cap off, d'oh) and for a while it was really helping but I think my infection is resisting it because the coughing isn't easing up at all now and I'm worried I'll have to call an ambulance or something fucked like that because I've nearly blacked out twice over the past four days. But that's okay, I just know I need to quit the cigarettes. Like, need to. There isn't an option to stay on them, and yet I desperately want to, and here's why.

It isn't a matter of 'oh, wean yourself onto something else!' or 'replace that physchological dependancy!' or 'stiff upper lip, the first week is the worst'. It's gut-wrenchingly. I was playing Binding of Isaac and my hand was shaking so much that I couldn't play properly. If Sav hadn't caved and let me share a smoke with Ruth I honestly think I would have shouted at her, which I hate doing. This addiction has a really, REALLY powerful hold over me and I'm struggling, I really am. I feel completely powerless.

Today I had the equivalent of one cigarette. I had one half-and-half joint during the day, and I had half a cigarette just now with Ruth. The force of will required to resist smoking...nearly ruined me utterly. Tears, shaking, spasming, and on top of all that it hasn't improved my health at all, if anything it's made it worse.

I just want to smoke my way through several grams and pass out and not cough.

I'm gonna get through this.

Quitting smoking is not okay.

The Last Cigarette

Wield your scepter,
of authority.
Of bare-faced ruin.
Raise it high.

it's coming closer, steel yourself

Smile and part your lips,
to recieve.
Sightless eyes stare outwards.
You're gathered.

breathe it in and don't choke, don't waste any

Ride the lightning
as it strikes.
You're reeling within,
but nothing shows.

nothing shows, nothing will ever show,
so shine it bright, make it glow
and nobody will never know 
that on the inside you are dying

Again.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Again.

Wield your scepter,
of debauchery.
Of bare-faced triumph.
Breathe it in.

it swirls around your insides and corrodes away your core
you're never going to live through this, but that is what it's for
your eyes are bright as embers, your voice is deep as night,
and you'll never be able to ask for more.

Cast it aside.

Silly Stoned Song

Title says it all.

Tell me a story,
About a girl and a boy.
Tell me a story.
I just want to hear your voice.

Oh, my shiny, pretty thing -
why don't you sing to me?
Tell me a story,
Before you fly from me.

Oh, woah, oh oh yeah.
Oh, woah, no no no.
Oh, ho ho, oh oh yeah.
Wowohoh oh yeah.

Tell me a story.
About a spark and a flame.
Tell me a story,
And you won't be the same.

Oh, my shiny, pretty thing -
We could live in the trees;
So be a little naughty,
Like the birds and the bees.

Oh, woah, oh oh yeah.
Oh, woah, no no no.
Oh, ho ho, oh oh yeah.
Wowohoh oh yeah.

A Memory of Light

I want to write poetry about the Wheel of Time coming to an end, but I can't.

I just can't.

I am too raw, it was too much.

I just thought I'd come here and leave some sort of marker for future me.

This is it. Today was the day that you finished the best fantasy series ever created.

You can try writing about it when you're a bit less raw, but it'd be pointless.

Go and have a smoke and a sleep and a cry, you idiot.

Breatheblink

There's a moment where
the inhaled breath
teetered on the brink of death
and then was followed through.

The pipes that keep his chest connected
have been wrecked and unattended.
Fire blossomed, undefended
he sunk down to you.

For a moment things were perilous.
Unsure, uncertain -
dangerous.
For a moment,
things were on the brink.
There is no time to think.

Master of his heart,
He'll force his lips apart
and breathe.

The Caller's Touch

The caller's touch
is not enough.
I fear, I fear.
I fear too much.

The caller's touch
is never soft.
I hear, I hear.
I hear his wroth.

The caller's touch
Is never wrong.
I cry, I cry.
I don't belong.

Dance around the issue,
Dance around the lies.
Fall into the pool
and who knows what you'll find?

The caller's touch
is not enough.
I fear, I fear.
You know too much.

With just a glance
you pin me down.
I'm struggling.
You spin me round.

Fair is foul
and foul? So fair!
I grasp at ghosts;
the empty air.

I'm not myself.
I'm not myself.
I'm not myself.
But in the end this might be just enough
to hold it all together.
I only need to last a bit longer.

Just a bit longer,
and then I can spill my blood.

Dance with fire,
Dance with frost,
and don't let on the game is lost.

.

All of those countless hours that you spent sitting alone at 2am were designed to prepare you for this moment as you cross the floor under the light. I can see the darkness of your bedroom reflected in your eyes. It excites me to know that you festered there for so long. Did you struggle with it? How many tears did you allow yourself to shed? It doesn't matter. Our lips will meet.

Close your eyes.

The Gates of Jericho

I was built for a promised land,
a place of milk and honey.
The weather's perfect all year round,
and boy, it's always sunny.

But I never made it to that land,
I never saw the gates.
I met a man with half a face,
And he told me to wait.

So I did what I was built to do.
I snorted, I fucked and I sinned.
And fifty years my childlike glee,
was music on the wind.

I breathed in deep of cool night air,
I drank the finest wine.
I could have spent forever there,
where everything was fine.

But then he slipped away from me.
I couldn't get him back.
And all at once I met this girl,
And she chose to attack.

She ripped my heart out aimlessly.
And left it on the floor.
A mindless scrabble in the dark,
and then I was no more.

I was made for greater things.
A land of milk and honey.
I'll never reach it after all.
And her, she thinks that's funny.

Cathari

You're a shell.
You're in hell.
So take the pill,
And if it kills -
well.
At least he's got your soul to sell.

Mobile

I know ten thousand things.
Coiled up in my head.
Wrapped in brown paper string.
I know ten thousand things.

I carry untold numbers.
They travel in my pocket.
I travel unencumbered.
Though they should weigh many tons.

Doesn't that bother anyone?

A library of Alexandria in my pocket.
Protected only by apathy.
The man who shuns such knowledge -
well, I guess that fool is free.

The burden grows.
Nobody knows.
But I become more human with each sleeping word,
and I treasure the ones that yearn to be heard.

His Epitaph

My name is unimportant. I know that sounds trite, but I honestly believe that what I have to say is not bound to my identity. In these troubling times I suppose I should offer you something, dear reader - something to pin me in your mind, something to imagine when you hear my words. If that lends extra weight to what I have to say, so be it. I am male, and I would consider myself a man of science, of cause and effect. I wish to understand the world around me and my place in it. I am both of a very great age and quite young. I am surrounded by beautiful things and yet I own very little. I am lonely, very lonely, and yet I have a great many friends. I do not suffer, and yet my heart is heavy, for I bear a very great responsibility.

And I am dying.

Forgive the melodrama - I suppose we are all dying, are we not? Ours is an existence of inches and degrees, and an inexorable slide towards the inevitable atrophy and decay. I chose - at some point in my life, both far in my history and very recently - to accelerate this natural process, with certain toxins and pollutants that I assumed would enhance my life and my happiness. How effective these toxins have been I cannot say - I have lived hundreds of lives, and been hundreds of people across the globe, and yet all of these lives have been bound by a single thread of pollution and mind-addling solutions. I cannot say what my life would have been without corruption, without powders and formulas and befuddling smoke, so I cannot say that I have improved my lot to any great amount, nor have I lived a sad and sorrowful life as a result of these choices - I have nothing to compare it to. What can be proven beyond all doubt, however, is that my natural lifespan has been considerably shortened by exposure to these harmful elements, and I am dying before schedule.

This would not be a problem under most circumstances. Indeed, the choice was made to sacrifice those twilight years of my life a long time ago, and it would be futile for me to rage against the choices made by the younger version of myself. Perhaps he could be faulted for being headstrong, perhaps his choices were folly, and perhaps my premature demise will be a tragic waste. I cannot say. I have not the science nor the faculties to see what path my life would have taken had he abstained, had he been sensible. I must be content with the road that my life has taken, and yet I feel obligated to write this missive, for when my body is gone there will be those who suffer as a result of it...and I have obligation and duty to them, if not to my failing body and my wasted years.

As I sit here and type this missive, there are two women in a nearby bed. One has a heavy heart, and the other is light and fair. I drew them both to me some time ago - perhaps it is fair to say that my great store of pollution drew them forth, and not I. For all my artifice and art I would not deign to call myself a worthy human being - not the sort to entertain and delight women, in any case - and my life has been one largely concerned with my own wants and desires. Yet these two chose, in some small way, to fashion lives for themselves around my example. Physical proximity is not the only choice they have made in regards to my person - they seem to be aping my choices, demonstrating a particular love for my intoxicants and pollutants and the haze that descends along with them. Together we have walked winding, insubstantial paths that cannot be said to truly exist, and I have beheld their naked flesh as it was revealed under biting winds and scorching heat. Their bodies show no signs of decay or atrophy as a result of this treatment, but for their bodies I am worried. I am proof enough that such a life will exact a heavy toll.

And yet...and yet...

One turns over in her sleep and mumbles something as the other stares unblinkingly into the dark. They appear hale and hearty and content with their lot, miserable though it may be at times, and I catch myself wondering - what of the spirit? Consumed as I am with the thought of my own mortality, and the endurance of some part of myself after death, I cannot help wondering what will happen if they follow my path to the conclusion and their flesh gives their souls over to whatever comes next. Will they be stronger for it, or weak and corrupt? I believe that the fate of my own soul rests on incredibly balanced scales, and either end could easily await me, but for them I find it impossible to imagine that anything but purity and strength could result from the final surrender of their bodies. Spiritual energy is not measured in science or in meticulous observation, but these women - ah, these women! These beautiful, precious women. I find it beyond all reason that they could be anything other than perfect, from conception to completion.

It is for this reason that I write this message. My hands grow weary and I fear that the dark is closing in, but I had to set down in an enduring fashion something to assure these women, and any who read my words after I am fallen into darkness, that a life of pollutants and poison for your body does not guarantee a spiritual decay. I speak not for myself - I am filled with doubt as to my own preservation - but being permitted to bear witness to the flowering of these women in vice and earthly satisfaction has convinced me utterly that any soul may flower under such conditions. Therefore, I urge you - fear not the drug, or the sexual act, or the darkness, or the violence! Fear not rage and hate and gratification! Rather, fear the lack of understanding, the lack of control, the surrender of dignity and the abandonment of morality - not the morality of the masses, driven by herd mentality and by fear, but the abandonment of your own personal codes that an intelligent person develops over the course of a life fraught with perils and temptation. Fear doubt, and weakness, and silence! For myself I fear a very great deal, and I fear that my soul will suffer as a result of this fear - but for these women I fear nothing, for they are as glorious as the Sun at noon, and they have the potential to sink far further without tarnishing their strength and glory. My conviction must be enough to bolster their nerve and ensure their spiritual security - but more, it must allow them to see that there is a light in dark places, and that this physical decay I have tempted them towards does not ensure the death of the soul.

If I have done nothing of worth for another in my life, let this be enough.