Art Intimidating Life: The Ruins of My Mental Empire - Part Twenty-Six

pain melts - self inflicted pain sparkles upwards - a man on the street - so many strangers in this strange, strange world - our home town, tonight - some thunder and lightening, and a rain that drenches everything into a deep, rich green - we lie on the couch and think about the birds and ducks and possums we've seen before in the parklands by the lake - i think about how they are managing in the relentless rain - i imagine their silhouettes stamped proudly and unafraid as the lightening strikes again - i imagine their wide open night time eyes dart sharply as the thunder take over everything - we've eaten dinner and under blankets we drift in and out of an ever-tempting sleep - a sinking sleep that allows us to let go of everything this body and mind put us through - a sleep to remind and teach us further, that death is not something to be feared, but is something beautiful and rewarding - we all work so hard and put up with so much in this life, surely death is the ultimate reward - the sleep to begin an eternal rest where our bodies are soon forgotten and our minds lead us through the infinite possibilities - dreams are limited by time and alarm clocks and routine, but soon, in death, we'll be able to comprehend infinity - we will be infinity

but now i am sitting on my couch, drinking a beer, thinking about the things i did, said, and thought today - im thinking about jelly-beans, i'm thinking about the stasi book i'm reading, im thinking of the younger version of myself i walked passed on the street - im thinking of the people i spoke to on the phone, and the people i said hello to - im thinking about what i should do with myself, and how to show those select few that they really have no idea and shouldn't be so self-centred - no-one is that important - i write here, but rarely draw anyone into it's realms on my own accord - i take photos of myself and make videos of myself, but that is simply because i have a vision - i don't take myself too seriously, despite being quietly convinced i am the true sole chosen one, only because i am in fact me, and know no-other way, and therefore, no-one else does - one day, within a great depression, or an endless, endless energetic bliss, my story will be told and the world will never be the same again and it will be the one true direct avenue to god and existence - however, there is a good chance i was find it alone, and therefore take it alone

two nights ago i was sitting in a luxury apartment in the city, alone - the windows were massive and the view of the buildings and lake and bay and people and yachts and sky were instantly impressive,especially as they were being viewed from such a comfort - after sharing a couple or few bottles of red wine with a loved one, i stayed up all night drinking beers after beers in my underpants and a flannel shirt - i sat by the window and rested my legs on the window sill - sad music played like the late night sad-man who'd come to accept his misery and heartbreak in the arms of an ignorant and confused loved-one - it was beautiful and the lights were off inside my luxurious state of being because the city lights painted his picture for me, and i couldn't take my eyes off it - if the stars are god's, then the cities at night belong to the sad-man

the sun has set, and now it is time for me to walk amongst the trees and grass - i have nothing to take with me except this beautiful mind-set i've found myself in this evening - a deep, rich green, a need for nothing, but an appreciation for all thing available in this strange, strange, lucky little life.

Art Intimidating Life - The Ruins of My Mental Empire: Part Twenty-Five

upon arrival the jazz band played - with no introduction, as a jazz band should - they played the celebratory section of the cerebellum, igniting the mind and tantalising itself into a warm and slow haze - it drifted as swayed along with the movements of the sweaty bodies that drifted and swayed along with the movements of the music - if jazz be music, that is - a man younger than myself finds himself next to me and puts his hand on my shoulder - his head has sunk with drunkenness, yet he still finds the ability to nod and shake his head in appreciation to the jazz that plays - i rest a hand on his cheek like his father never did and it makes sense of the jazz now and he's back at the bar before i know it - im alone - we all stand and watch the cats blow, but i don't notice a thing - inside my mind is sifting these notes and taking notes like a neurotic art-man - i don't see what everyone else sees - fame is a teenage wet dream and best left sleeping - art is sex when you never want to sleep - i appreciate art - and you don't need eyes, ears, taste, touch, or lobes to understand it - just a heartbeat that keeps the universe alive - if the universe existed, and life on earth wasn't around to see it, would it really exist? - if we stood here right now, and no jazz-man gave us his soul, would we be confused? - i head to the toilet man, and walk and stride like im being watched by a million ex-girlfriends - i piss nice'n'easy and my hair looks good as i wash my hands - a drunk man says something funny and the rest of us laugh, but we all eventually head-on back out head-on into the jazz sounds and stand with our friends and loved ones - eventually it's time to go and we're all a little sleepy - someone wants another drink and we tolerate them for a few more minutes - by the time we've found a ride home there are more drinks being bored and we're back ridin' - somehow the dude in the back-seat is your new best friend and you never want to stop or getout of this ride - you joke about keep on ridin' man, but everyone gets it - by the time youre home you're simply tired - sleep is easy but sometimes you dream of nightmares and wake in the sweats and you can't explain any of it - things so traumatising demand an explanation but as you lie awake listening to the heavy breathing of the girl next to you and looking at the gray-fuzz that is the ceiling and it's fan, you cannot explain the terror-dreams that your mind just put you through - where did that come from? - so much death, in such a fashion, and why did those particular loved ones deserve to be a part of such a horrific scenario - i gag myself awake again, think of new ways to apologise to my loved ones, and scan my cd collection for some music to drown out the trauma

Art Intimidating Life - The Ruins of my Mental Empire: Part Twenty-Four

bring it to me wrong - i want to see smiles on my face when i think of what human flesh tastes like while stuck in saturday afternoon's traffic - a bland type of beef - why is it so frowned upon? - i see myself as a beast at feast-time as i gnawr on the chicken bones during lunch - i imagine the confused chicken wondering why we springled it's carcass with herbs, spices and sauce - why we cherish the smell of his cooking flesh - m.gira screams jesus christ as the airconditioner only serves to remind me how hot and humid it is outside the car - outside a fat man with no shirt on pushes a trolley carrying four slabs of cheap beer - taking it back to his hot and run down house that doesn't have any locks or windows or doors that work properly - i watch him walk and see the sweat glistening off his tight skin, struggling to contain the pertruding lard underneath - i picture myself slapping a small log against the back of his head - i imagine his initial look of confusion, and the anger in his eyes as he attacks me and i realise i've bitten off more than i can chew - but that's okay, since he's a fat-fuck anyway

sometimes i laugh and smile for no reason - i laugh and smile to myself and it's because i think about the absurdity and my role within this mundane existence - the car is full of groceries and beer and wine and there are cds scattered around on the seats and the floor - my comfort level is at an eight, as a man in a white car cuts in font of us, only just - the traffic is crawling, and so i laugh to myself - i imagine the man in the white car commiting some horrid crime and can see him crying silently in his cell throughout the first night of the rest of his life in prison - there is dust and dirt on the concrete floor and the flurencent light above gives the cell a sort of scout-hall feel to it - quite fitting actually, as it was a scout hall where his crime was committed

i scatter my hands through the glove compartment looking for some sort of relief - a bo diddly complilation looks good but the cd case is empty, and i wonder where that cd is - the knowledge that this cd case is incomplete irritates me and i run my fingers over the air-conditioner vents - i turn my head see a cute young girl sitting in the car next to ours - she's wearing a singlet top and her brown hair is in a pony-tail - her car is scattered with playboy bunnies - i wind down my window and genster with my hands, pretending to take her photo - after a moment or two of pretending not to see me, she looks at me through the corner of her eyes and soon her head follows - she laughs but i only nod my head slowly, thankful im wearing black sunglasses

over time, the traffic begins to movea little faster - i lean back in my seat and try to fall asleep - i welcome the dream-lands of twisted tales and familiar faces - i succumb to my exhaustion and try to ease my mind - the sun still beams and we still have a while to go - moving slowly, we eventually see what has been holding up the traffic all this time - two cars have ying and yanged, and somewhere around there was supposed to be a motorcycle - the ambulances and police cars protect the area and their lights flash silently - a police officer wipes his brow - and we continue on our way alone the open road to nowhere special

Art Intimidating Life: The Ruins of My Mental Empire - Part Twenty-Three

the ritual

for j

it sits in the corner like a staving and caged beast-child - snarling and hissing hell and it's demons at my feet each time i move, or walk about my room - i can smell it - it's as though somehow it has the ability to control it's own reek and uses it to taunt me - it's stench taints my thoughts and my memories, completely consuming everything i can come up with to distract me - it's pink eyes scream like the girl-child, sharing their eternal torment relentlessly - it's rags and shaggs are continually finding new and more putrid ways to stain themselves - fluids often seeping from the skin and oraphises in a death-breath slow motion - it sleeps at times, but never for long - and when it wakes it's in a sudden rage of thrashing convulsions, somersaulting itself in every direction until it realises it's places again, or simply runs out of energy - the cage, rusted sharp cuts and gashes the beast with each move it makes, and it shows no sign of pain - it shows no sign of pain, because it itself is pain - and then we just stare at each other, tempting one another to make a move - to strip and skin our souls, if there be any soul left to bare - though i win out – the beast couldn't help the itching - gagging in ecstatic relief as it clawd itself, peeling away it's soft rotten flesh-meat - soon there won't be anything left of my beast-child, but i know i'll be gone sooner still - i know

it's dusk, i can tell as i can hear the peak hour traffic choking the freeway outside my window - the car fumes slowly ghost their way into my room, and make a fine combination with the cheap watery beer i drain down my throat - the beast-child is rubbing it's anus against the rusty cage slowly, in some kind of ritualistic mutilation - i watch it from my chair, stroking my beard and breathing in the fumes up my nose nice and deep, balancing the head-spins with my cheap beer till it feels like my head is tightly wrapped in electrical-tape and my mind pulses like a lustful black-heart

after sometime, beyond dimention, the traffic outside eases and my pulsing head returns to drunk and madness – beast-child is feeding on some old spaghetti i puked in it's direction a few days ago - and it's shitting at the same time - a glistening lime-green ooze that makes no sound, but spasms the beast’s legs and torso that almost looks as though it were making love, if such a thing were possible from such a being - mid-shit there is a knock at the door and i only notice because of the beast-child's reaction - it being of liquid-shit and harks and hisses and summersaults all within the thrashing of a deathtime - it's black blood splats blue against the corner wall - the door knocks again and i blink my eyes trying to make sense of my surroundings - a bad-dream rusty sunday zoo-ground, sun-beaten and neglected by the grown-ups who have left us to commit painful sex-acts somewhere behind their laughter - i finish my beer and as i heave myself to stand up, i throw my bottle at the cage - it shatters and pieces of beer-glass prick and stick the beast as it squeals in a girlish-giggle - stumbling, i make my way to the door, but find the energy and ability to kick the cage with the side of my bare foot - if the beast drew blood, it would've been over one of the many other scratches and scabs and infestations - so i don't mind or care or notice

i respond by opening the door - there is a young man and girl-child standing outside my doorway - the sun and sunshine are unbearable, and with squinted invisible eyes and bared-teeth i greet them - they speak something and i wipe the sour sweat from my brow - they are the beautiful and my breathing blankets the sound of the beast-child's breathing and pulsations merely a meter behind me - they regret this, as the man hands me some kind of beer and introduces himself - the beer is cold in my hands and i laugh a little, ignoring the words he'd just spoken to me - silence looms a while before i rip one of the beers from the package and open it and douse it down my throat, dropping the rest of the beers as i guzzle - the beast-child hanks and honks in it's cage at the sound of the beers crashing at my feet - but i keep pulling back that one beer as the couple notice that something is not quite right, and turn and move back down the path, to their house next-door

and i return to my beast-child

Art Intimidating Life: The Ruins of my Mental Empire - Part Twenty Two

he took the short-cut home
past the dodgy japanese take-away
across the street his old friends used to live in before they died
past the bank
before taking a turn down the alley-way
where that old shack festers still in the humidity of everyday
outside the bank stood a man in a dark blue suit
with slicked black hair
and slicked black sunglasses
he held a black leather folder against his hip
unable to see his eyes, he was sure the man was watching him walk by
you see, he wore sunglasses also, and so both men assumed
comfortable in their paranoia and suspicions
he caught a glimpse of himself in the tinted windows of the bank behind the man
his jeans looked good
his black tshirt looked cool and tight
his hair moved in the wind of each step
his sunglasses were darker
and with his beard he was unstoppable
he curled his lip the moment he walked past the folder-man
just slightly
just a touch
just enough to confirm his lifestyle against his

arriving home his room was cold and empty
brown dusty carpet - rarely seen sunlight
removing his sunglasses he replaced them with his perscription specs
in the lounge room his noticed a man in a dark blue suit sitting in the corner chair
with slicked black hair
and stylish black-rimmed glasses
he held a black leather folder in his lap
ignoring the folder man, he turned on some music
and pulled himself a beer
with a sigh he savoured his first sip
and lay back on the couch and stared at the ceiling
the music played
and eventually he finished his beer
until he got up and pull himself another one
soon the music finishes
the man in the suit remained silent but took some notes from time to time
upon noticing this, he picked up his own notebook
and begun to writing nonsense words
and nonsense poetry
and smoked them
blowing smoke towards the corner chair

at his thirtieth birthday party there were many people
the park was green and the sky was blue
the air was cool and moved a little
it was this birthday in which he first noticed
a considerable increase in the amount of children running around
his mother welcomed more people than he knew she knew
his father sat drinking with some people he'd never met before
at the picnic table behind the monkey bars
and see-saws
and the slide
sat a man wearing a dark blue suit
with slick black hair
and slick black sunglasses
he held a black leather folder in his lap
he ignored a ball that bounced out of the grasp of his niece
and continued to stare and study the birthday subject
soon it was cake time
and at this time they brought the cake out for him
they sung a song
and stodd around and smiled at him
hoping their presents were good enough for him
as be smiled back and bent down to blow out the candles
he cocked an eyebrow
and looked towards the man in the suit
and blew out his thirty candles
as his family and friend
clapped and cheered

at the football his son tapped him on the leg
and asked him who number eleven was
his leaned back in his seat and took a sip of his beer
his team was five points down with little time left
but he'd seen it all before
and felt at ease with the world
and the screaming crowd around him
well, they lost their shit
and his team won
his son jumped up and down and screamed with the crowd around him
engulfing him
knowing all well he would never be this happy again
he stood up
applauded and took his son to the bar to celebrate
standing at the bar was a man in a dark blue suit
with slicked black hair
and slicked black sunglasses
and rested a black leather folder on the bar
walking to the bar, he signalled for some attention
when he got it he ordered a double scotch on the rocks
and an apple juice for his son
because his son was sick of orange juice
both father and son slammed back their drinks and toasted their victorious team
though father, more experienced, slammed down his empty glass
slammed it down hard
and slammed it down so that it shattered
and shattered in hundreds of tiny pieces all over the bar and floor
without even looking at the man in the suit
both father and son walked out of the bar
and made their way home
to drink some warm homemade soup

at his funeral he lay in his coffin
inside he was smiling, happy and proud of his life
proud of his dark sense of humour
proud of his loved ones and how he treated them
proud of his life and how he used it
at the funeral his friends and family gathered all around him
and laughed and cried and played music and thought about him
both of which he could feel and enjoy from within death
his son gave a wonderful reading and everyone was so proud of him
standing in the doorway stood a strange figure
a man in a dark blue suit
with slicked black hair
and slicked black sunglasses
holding a black leather folder by his side
at the end of the reading the son looked up
looked up with an anger in his eyes that went past the gathered family and friends
and he saw the man in the suit
and his eyes pushed hard
and he silently made a pact
and keep this pact silent
clicking his pen shut
and sliding it into his suit pocket
the suited man turned and left the funeral
and he drifted towards a wonderful
blissful
fulfilling death

Art Intimidating Life: The Ruins of my Mental Empire - Part Twenty One

he taught us well, and given some time, one could even learn to love him and his methods - unsound as they may be, as unusual as they seem, given time one could learn to understand and appreciate the man and his work - despite being of average build for a man of his age, he looked like dwarf - his eyes were uneven and his forehead seemed to be weighed down by the things he saw, and the things he'd seen in his life time - i don't know for sure, but i had the feeling he'd seen some things in his time - it was not only written in the wrinkles and permanent frown on his face, in the way his eyes would calmly stare through yours, and torment something deep and unknown within you - he taught us with torture, and he taught us well

mental torture that became physical torture upon it's own accord - like a bad dream or nightmare where nothing really that bad or weird or disgusting takes place, but you wake up terrified nevertheless - that was his discipline - a look and a weird grimace would send you into a searing bout of mental convulsions that ensured you never made the same mistake again - it was also painful to see others in the class get taught their lessons - they were my friends and they gagged themselves stiff in agony whenever he found them to be doing wrong, or incorrect.

he taught outside - i remember quite often the sky to be a pinkish grey and we were on top of a hill or small mountain - we would sit at tables of two and i sat next to a young artist girl who later became my friend - he would walk amongst us and maze himself through the tables - talking and teaching his wisdom - he wore a wizards hat, that one could assume once belonged to a wizard friend of his - and he'd poured mayonnaise over his hat and head the same way an academic would point their fingers or move their hands as they spoke - he emphasised his whole being with mayonnaise - mayonnaise that seemed to bounce off him like hail stones - my young artist girl friend and i never once questioned the use of mayonnaise - we had seen the repercussions of doing so.

he was present at my birth, or so i've been told - i often wondered if that was why he tormented me more than the others - he was my teacher, but he may have also felt as though he had a fatherly role to play in my life - he'd grab my shoulder at times, from behind and send hellish demon shrieks straight down one side of my body - one side only, so that the other side could watch and experience the unknown-terrors of hell - like a child witnessing a rape, however he found a way to use this type of torment, terror and abuse to educate and empower the individual - it's clear to say this wasn't an easy process as a student - however over time, those seeds begin to sprout, and you begin to realise, and you learn to love

the last time i saw him he was walking out of a church - it was the day before my last assessment and of this he was well aware - we spoke shortly of the weather and the woman he'd had sex with inside the church - he wished me luck and told me to say hello to my mother - tipped his hat to me and assured me that i would do well and that i was also a good student to him - before saying a final farewell, he placed his hand on my shoulder - the agony and putrid pain still remained, however at the end i felt a slight tingling of ecstasy throughout my whole body - continuing on my way, i thought about the beautiful meaninglessness of all people everywhere

Art Intimidating Life: The Ruins of my Mental Empire - Part Twenty

i dont wear those jeans anymore, but they're on the clothes line and a bird took a shit on them - they're left out there now and none of us know what to do with them - run hail and shine all in the last week, and now they're getting shat on - i can see them from my kitchen window, hanging in dusk's spring air as i do the dishes before dinner - later i go outside and fill up the bird feeder with seed - pretending to ignore my old jeans with bird-shit on them

monday night - lets call it champange night - forget bowling and mrs jenkins knitting class - every monday night for the rest of my life i want to pop the cork on a bottle of chilly chilled champagne and drink with loved ones and succumb to the bubbles, pop and fizz of meaningless celebration - everyday is a funeral - everyday is sleep's tool - what can i do to make sure i'll be tired tonight? - and so now champagne is in my life i'll sip it slowly and think and speak without any thought of my artistic destinations - beer is the tool of art, and that's something i stand by, and something that i want and allow to interact with and influence my art - i don't want my loves and loathes and problems and probes to have anything to do with my course - i want to be universal, and understand the existance of myself on a universal level - this, i swear, is something i ponder for the majority of my waking life - some say taking photos of yourself, or making vidoes of yourself, or writing about yourself within yourself, is conceited - arrogant and up oneself - i look at those young men styled out like idiots singing songs - on a stage - in front of a crowd - expecting the world to give a shit about how they feel about some girl, or how heartbroken they are - or how that they've somehow found something worth telling me/singing to me for $15 and two hours of my time - i may write about myself and my unique situation here but you're reading this at your own free will - i don't promote - this is written and thought about behind backs and in alley ways and in the corners of the bars and pubs that they're now too cool to go into - nothing, unless it's secret

im on the wrong side of the week right now, and i always learn from the neverland - i've learnt what people want and what they want to hear - all type of people walking this earth, and im pretty sure i know what they want - and so i give it to them - a small price to pay for my quiet and mystical times alone - like just last saturday, i knew lady-elle had things she needed to do, and so i let her be and walked outside - we were in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by trees and untouched australian bush-land - i walked through the trees and shrubs and spooked the kangaroos and discovered creeks and perfeft little spots to rest and lie down, and logs to rest my head on and drift into easy thought - sometimes it would rain and so i wore my big jacket tight and found a tree or bush to shelter underneath - soon again id be on my way to find a spot by the creek to lie down and think about how amazing my life is, and how amazing and - crazy - trees are - i pick up and small stick and study the particulars of it, and think about how things within nature were the cause of all the little imperfections and unique divits and grooves and bends and twigs - if every twig and stick if as different as the one i found, then surely something as complex as human beings should be to - sadly, we're not - thanks to each other, and the safety and security we find and depend upon in each other - thus, my teasured time alone

where was i? what was i saying? the word of god? of course, as always...

i spent maybe an 45 minutes to an hour of my time looking for a copy of m.gira's the consumer but could only rarely find it anything below one hundred dollars - eighty five if you can read german - i even looked and tried to find someone who had it up for some kind of illegal legal download - not much luck - i had a tattered photocopy of three of m.gira's short stories in my leather jacket pocket that j had sent me some time earlier - stories i loved, and envied at first read - i'd often pull out those tattered and tarted short stories from my leather jacket and read them to remind myself who i truly am and where i should be pushing myself and my mind in times of doubt - like on the train - in line at the supermarket - weddings - and so i couldn't find a copy that would be mine - i found a couple of other books i wanted- w.vlautin's new one, and stasiland - and last week i wrote of conicidences and sent it to j and someone else on i don't really know on the train - and so really, i should've known that at that very moment, while i was looking for a copy of m.gira's the consumer, my friend and brother and partner in grit - j - was mailing a copy of m.gira's the consumer to my home address - i should've known - i feel the word and hand of god now as i hold the book in my hands - i plan on must sending it back tp j knowing all well it must be rare, even in our relationship - though before i do, i'm going to obsorb, read, study and open myself to the consumer - on the train, in line at the supermarket - weddings

Art Intimidating Life: The Ruins of my Mental Empire - Part Nineteen

i am listening to a pirate tv/radio beamed from anton a newcombe into my study and music room where i can sense a new sense of inspiration about to pop like a cork, as wine bottles used to - it comes from the mind and is fuelled by the soul - i just opened the window - the rain and wind and the cars slicing the roads as they speed around to all those different places they go to - i haven;t heard it all, and despite seeing a few things in my day, i don't know where to find everything - i am the war of the worlds - i am world war three am - i write like the sound of rain - the coincidences never quit following me around everyday - 12 hours into a world war - what a coincidence that was - a series of human activity ending in the death of millions and millions of people

lady-l reminds her friends that her life isn't perfect and we both know that and do our own thing and don't blame each other for that, and encourage it - we both know when the time is right - we're in synch and i have to tell you about saturday as i woke up early in the morning and put on my sunglasses listening to a song called invisible by the church and walked to the shops and bought some vegies for salad rolls and made sure the champagne was in the fridge and so we made these massive salad rolls and took the champagne and rug down to the lake and drunk it and ate our lunch in the shade of an anonymous tree - the sun was out with some clouds morphing and the air was cool and we ate with hungry taste buds and drank our fizz will foggy eyes as our relaxation hung heavier and heavier as the day carried on - we laughed about explosions sung in the distance - just like in that strange story i wrote and sent you - i spoke about how certain things make me feel psychedelic, and she is beginning to understand - and as i see it i see it as something pretty amazing - i push for it in the people around me, but rarely does it eventuate - later that afternoon we lounge at home, and i opened the doors and windows and played the dirty three's ocean songs on repeat and drank some beers and watched the clouds continue to morph through the thick vines of our courtyard - lady-l read and from time to time i heard her turn the pages - it's amazing how her views have changed naturally with my life in the background (as hers is in mine) - however, i cannot simply thank the ocean songs for this mental lock which was one massive cycle and as hours passed the cycle become something of a force, both of us careful not to damage - an hours worth of self-spiritual realisation in one side glance from my psychedelic eyes as i sat outside in the court-yard - she was reading about icelandic people living in Iceland

there is this ability among plenty of people – by no means is this simon lawlor and the realisation and lady-elle exclusive - but it’s all too often dumbed down or dismissed – coincidences simply brushed aside as nothing more than coincidences, and there is no such thing and nothing could be further from the universal, and sole truth – coincidences are the gods telling us that we’re on the right track, we’re on our true path towards our own chaotic lives –not that everything is going according to any sort of plan, but more so that we’re doing alright, no matter what it is we’re doing, or how fucked up we’re feeling

oh no, oh no, oh no – thats the sound of the realisation – fuck yes, too – now I look forward to putting on my great big jacket that I took to Iceland and Greenland and wore in the snow and rain and volcanic ash, and wore in northcote while cooking and reading and writing for the three years I lived without heating – im now going to take and wear that great big warm jacket in the bush out east near your old home town where lady-elle’s grandfather built a house with his own hands and with no one else’s – doesn’t that sound too good to be true?

im going to walk around in the rain and trees in my big jacket and smell the air and the birds always come out when it’s raining and – last night I said “we should just bring a shit-load of food” and I can see us eating a feast as the sun sets early due to the terrible weather and rain – I’ll bring some beers and listen to scott walker – and maybe I’ll pack some champagne as well – and I’ll be a good person and a nice person and considerate

the bird seed I bought was cheap – the bird feeder I use was built with scraps of plastic and wire that the previous owner had left littered behind the feral plant-bushes – I hung it on the clothesline next to my dirty old jeans, so i could see it from the kitchen window while cleaning my pots and plates – one day I hope to see some colourful parrots or rosellas, but for now im happy with the happy pigeons

Art Intimidating Life: The Ruins of my Mental Empire - Part Eighteen

my heart is out of tune - my humour is evil - my evil nature is laughing and the desk stands still - it's solid and it's old - there are some papers and some pencils, and concrete walls - the nights are driving my madness - i hear the footsteps and the whispers - my daily meal consists of carrots and water and a mug of warm milk before sleep-time - i assume they are drugging my milk - it would explain this act of kindness - my dreams are terrible and i wake up in a sweat with the breathless feeling one gets once discovered that they're not alone, when they should be alone - i opened my bedroom window one night and saw an ugly young boy pouring cold water onto a man - he looked at me with his distorted face and it's unnatural expressions and yelled something in words only known within his inbred state of being - yellow
foam spewed violently from his hank-words - he soon lumbered away with his hump and limp - i closed my curtains to the sound of the poor old man howling in fear, covered in water

that's how i feel every time i wake up from my evil dreams - i feel like that foaming young boy is walking away from me, leaving me with my fears and vivid-nightmares, wet and cold in the middle of the dark night - i see his beast-feet limping

and now here, at my desk - the walls are silently moving in on me and warping in shape - my milk, now cold, sits invisible on the floor - i toy nervously with my pencil, damp with my palms - as i fumble and drop it to the floor i hear it snap in two and i shudder at the sound of it - bending down to pick up the snapped pencil i catch a glimpse of the grey concrete wall behind me - fearing not to look directly, my terror and mad mind confirm what my peripheral vision thinks it sees

the yellow foam seeping from the walls is beginning to smell

Art Intimidating Life: The Ruins of my Mental Empire - Part Seventeen

know what you know - take it with you - a jungle of days and nights - a circle of friends circling around you - a hoard of enemies make their way down the dirt road - chanting and stamping their feet - beating their chests and point in your direction - know what you know and carry it with you - blue diamond eyes and the flowers in her hair - that's something - that's the dust in the country bar and the simple guitar music that played there - the people were friendless and they only had one way to spend their remaining days, and it was there, in the yellow sun-lit dust of the country bar - drinking and watching the horses slowly die in the paddocks outside - you ordered a beer, and took a seat at a small table in the back corner - your back to the wall, fearful you'd just taken someone's "spot" - the bartender started calling for the number fourteen - the lost souls he served each day tried to dodge and rob him - rob his money - a mumble of lost souls drinking their remaining days away - i see you sitting there - so i finish my beer and quietly leave via the back door

fourteen - fourteen - fourteen - for miles i walked - miles of road and weed and dust and yellow sun keeping it distance from the storm clouds all the way on the other side of the sky - black cloulds angry with lightening - i knew eventually one of them was going to get me - was going to come and get me in the end - my feet were sore and my boots worn down to a cracked and thinning sole - the weeds irritated me, as there was nothing left around - the continous spread of pesting life on earth

after the fourth day the road began to thin and bend slightly - i finally felt like i was moving and headed towards something - i felt like i'd returned to earth - the thoughts of food and clean water and somewhere to rest easy spirited my lost soul and i walked faster - my friends were waiting for me when i arrived - a circle of friends hugging my tired frail body - i hadn't eaten anything except for weeds for five days - they fed me bread and salads and gave me water to drink - they took me inside and i slept in their guest room with the nice wallpaper - i must have slept for days and nights and days again - momentarially interupted by spood-fed soup and bread - i was soon again rested and walked to the small window of the guest room - outside stood a giant old tree with purple and orange leaves that were at peace with the wind and sunset - despire my circle of friends pleading with me to keep resting, i insisted on walking outside to look and study the tree - transfixed, mesmerised and tantalised - maybe i was delerious, and maybe i was right, but this tree was the centre point of the world's wisdom - my friends joined me as tears flowed like a funeral, shared amongst us all, in silence

in silence, until the chanting and stamping of their feet made it's way down the dirt road

Art Intimidating Life: The Ruins of my Mental Empire - Part Sixteen

the conversation starts turning weird as soon as the vine moves down around his shoulder to his waist and thigh - he continued talking but i had lost track of his words, my attention on the dark green vine - a mushroom puffed into dust as i tapped my feet nervously under the table - he didn't notice the purple dust - i did - my breathing grew deeper as the vine continue to consume his body, seemingly without his knowledge - however i knew otherwise - he must have known - im sure he knew - between you and me, i think he just didn't want to admit it

within minutes his whole body was wrapped in the vine - the last i saw of it was a finger poking out of the forest-weave - it didn't last long - eventually he was just a head on top of what looked like a giant green bee-hive, and the green-bees begun buzzing in formation from a safe distance behind him

my foot begun to tingle - like pins and needles, but in reverse, and slower - much, much slower, than pins and needles - i shooked and stretched my leg out in front of me, as descreetly as possible - like his vine, im sure he noticed, but chose not to say anything - the tingles continued uo my leg and i felt the bone vibe to the sound of his voice - as hard as i tried, the realisation of this actualisation distracted me from what would surely be his final words - my shaking and kicked grew less and less descreet, as the dust on my foot caked solid, leaving me with what looked like a shiny purple boot on one foot - there were no more mushrooms

the clouds sped up and the wind slowed down - the grey air was mixing with the yellow air, for the first time in centuries - the only centuries history chose to remember anyway - who could really know? - i don't know why, but the thought of this calmed me, and i returned to my slouch - the rare knowledge of a dishonest and criminal history made any fear of a natural death simply diminish

in my calm and wisdom, i looked at him in the eye - the green-bees haloed his head, and all of him remained despite the vine were his blue lips - before the vine could make one more move, he spoke his final words

"the dust munchkins... behind you"

and they were.

Art Intimidating Life: The Ruins of my Mental Empire - Part Fifteen

i arrived at the train station and saw that i had a two minute wait until the next train arrived - somehow knowing that made me feel good for a moment - an unexpected piece of good news - only two minutes - only two minutes left - the rain drizzled down and the clouds were a light grey - i thought about walking to the shelter down the other end of the platform, but with only two minutes left, I didn’t feel it was worth it - i thought about the book I was reading at the time that was in the small bag on my back - i thought about listening to some music - i thought about turning on my mobile phone - but i did nothing - i stared at the train tracks below the platform and imagined jumping to my death a split second before the train pushes through - i felt the rush of pre-death, knowing that one day i just may act on these day-dream-death-visions i put myself through - but that time i missed my chance as I was distracted by the heavy hanging smoking coming from the gaunt-business lady sucking down her morning cigarette with a take-away coffee - she saw me watching her smoke melt into the drizzling rain and cold morning air, and gave me a dirty look - i missed my chance in asking her if i could have one of her cigarettes - the train arrived, and i took a seat next to some school girls

a few stations down the line im surrounded by some old women with grey hair wearing cardigans - i sat wearing my black leather jacket and thought about the book I was reading at the time that was in the small bag at my feet - i should read it, I thought to myself, and make the most of this time - the women didn't talk, two of them were completing sudoku puzzles. quite successfully and much better than i ever could, and two others were knitting wool - one knitting some small baby booties and the other knitting a jumper for a little boy - one of them who was doing a sudoku puzzle took a breath and looked out the window of the carriage - i followed her eyes and outside we blured past a multi-story retirement village that looked like a fucking shopping centre

i don't even have to look and i don't even need my eyes so i kept them focused on the footpath a meter in front of me - it's my walk to work and i take it like pill every morning - it keeps me sedated and successful - it's keeps me comfortable - however there was something in this city's air that tells me everyone, everywhere was miserable – I was surrounded by people who hated their lives, and we were all thinking the same thing

later that day i took an extended lunch break, or to put it simply, i didn't go back to work for quite a while - i walked the park grounds not far from where i work - wide open green grass fields that sucked up the drizzling rain knowing all well that the pending summer is going to be brutal - i walked through the park and ignored the power-walkers and lunch-time joggers, all dressed in tight expensive exercise clothes - i recalled my days as a successful young athlete - thirteen or fourteen - i ran in dirty t-shirts, board-shorts and supermarket-sneakers, and never came anything below third

it's only on my way home i realised i forgot to pack the lunch that i made myself the night before - i never eat it, but not making it and not taking it with me causes more trouble than I need - i usually stuffed them in my bag and flipped them into the bin at my desk, knowing that the cleaners at work would never meet my wife or disclose my secret - i don't eat much, and never eat breakfast or lunch

arriving home there was a young boy on a black bmx delivering the local newspaper outside our house - he was still wearing his high-school uniform, though his shirt was untucked and he was wearing sneakers – he was a handsome young kid, light brown hair with deep-cut eyes - he smiled as he saw me arrive home and hand-delivered me a newspaper - "thanks mate" i mumbled as i headed to the front door, determined to dispose of my homemade-lunch
"hey mate" the delivery-boy called, "gotta smoke?"
"don't smoke, sorry" i momentarily stop and turn
"yeah ya do - we see ya at the station all the time"
"jesus man, what do you think you're doing?"
"nothin'"
"keep it up,” I said without thinking, “piss off" i instantly felt bad for the young guy, as he actually did what i said, and left - walking inside i put my bag down by the front door, disposed of my lunch, got myself a beer, and thought about my days as a delivery boy.

The phone rang – I was sitting on the couch watching the motionless phone ring – I picked it and simultaneously turned on the tv– it wasJason
“hey”
“Hey”
“just get home?”
“yeah, watcha doing?”
“having a wank”
“right”
“nah, you doing anything?”
“umm...no not really”
“wanna get a drink?”
“yep”

From the worn out couch I heared the car pull up in the drive way – I turned the tv off and stood up, looking for my boots – “hi” she said as she walked inside “whatcha doin?”
“im going out with jase”
“okay”
She looked so happy. She was such a nice person, and deserved better. I kissed her on the forehead and felt terrible and sad. I loved her so much, and hated myself even more.

It had gotten dark quickly and the air moved and chilled the trees above the suburban streets – a car or two moved past me with their headlights on – I imagined them driving home to their families to watch the news and talk about it – turning the heater on and having some soup while mum cooks dinner – I took a turn onto the main road and noticed the flashing lights of a police car and a couple of ambulances – traffic stood still as I walked down to take a closer look, but stopped short upon seeing the twisted remains of the black bmx.

Art Intimidating Life: The Ruins of My Mental Empire - Part Fourteen

a festival fell upon us - the rain we dealt with made mud with the hoards of families making their way home at the night-time - together the beasts were held and hidden, and my friend and i walked with them, laughing and talking like hiccups to their mass parade of normality - there is no mud on the ground, the ground is in fact mud - we trudge on - we trudge on this ground that has been for millions of years, and right now, my friend and i walk together, amongst all these people and families - the surpreme value of byo beer going right, not rightous - and crow's animal husbandry rips my heart out and brings it on home and shows it to me to remind me that this is it and it's byo in this life - not so much in death

i wonder about my flat - i know the person living in it has a fold-away bike, and lots of pot plants in the outside - i never knew! - apart from that, my sink, my toilet, my kitchen and my room is now belonging to another - someone not me - i sit here now and think on my memories of that place - my flat - the centre of the fucking universe - i sit here in a room dedicated to study and music and shadows, and i think of my flat that was not much bigger than this room - i think about my times there - manic, literally - and yes, the depth and a nasty depression or few endured alone - my weekends alone there consisted of beers, music, the nsc, a bike ride, and some written words writted after watching my favourite movie - and so whats changed now? - not so much nasty-jenny - but i can't change peoples minds - i spend my time doing as i wish - i sleep when i want to sleep, im gone when im gone, i read when i read- the music always plays and the tv is cursed in my place now - i converse with lady-l over the stove we discuss ourselves and the dinner table we talk of the world and i lean back when i finish my meal and think of life - sometimes i walk around the lake alone late at night, really late at night, and i see the ducks swimming at moonlight and i remember trying ti write about that after walking to my friends house maybe five years ago, and here i am now, living over yonder - those ducks i fed as a youngling have of course died by now-time - but the ducks i see swimming now in moonlight are connected in a long line of blackburn ducks - some of which i've known, some of which i've missed - this now generation see me three times a week - sometimes running like a madman - sometimes walking like a poet-man on a saturday afternoon, feeling psychedelic as the path leads me and the trees smell- sometimes walking the night-time paths and disturbing the bats and possums as i think about the sadnesses of life, and the beauty of all this time we're allowed

the woman opposite me is another woman i sit opposite on a train on my way to or fro worktime - i step right up and sit down in the disabled seat and ponder over my book and/or music-ears - book wins over and so i pull it out and begin to read in my black leather jacket - the woman opposite me is a yuppie - old, almost elderly - impossible hair, fancy nails i don't care to recognise, clothes that don't remind me of sex and clothes that i therefore don't recall - she does nothing but sit, but doing nothing but sitting is something i can understand - i picture myself from her point of view and i see the patrhetic-man trying to be the scarey-arty-man - no matter how much t.waits i listen to, and no matter how much i try to hear the saxaphone of the lonely-night-time-city-man im still this gangly silly-man who says the wrong thing all too often - i look at the woman and see a newspaper at her feet - i think about grabbing it but remind myself i have a book to read - a book about a good soul girl who keeps fucking up her life and find herself surrounded by fuckheads and drunks and losers - it breaks me in two - one half sad - the other miserable - i've seen the writer of this book play music live, and i get the feeling he doesn't get his inspiration from nowhere - it makes me sad - i live in such a small populated country, and there are so many more sad people out there in such large populations - to meet a few of them, in my lifetime, is enough to kill me

i don't want to finish this now - but i love antony and the johnsons, and im thinking of their albums now - and so now i'll listen to them - but you'll hear from me again soon

lets hang again soon - i think it's time again to hang again soon - (for today i am a child) - i know somehow you are northbound along a northline - i love darwin - if you're melbourne, then im darwin - i love it - though im sure the heat could irritate, like football for someone how doesn't care in melbourne - anyway, whereever you are right now, think of me in darwin - i see myself there sometimes.

Art Intimidating Life: The Ruins of My Mental Empire - Part Thirteen

smooth it out - my days ahead of me, rolled out like a dusty persian rug - the dirt don't mind, because i see them the second she wakes up, and when they wake up i see you're born again everytime - lets treasure this morning, with some food, a drink - coffee, juice - i'll play some music, something plush, accoustic, as the cold morning sun fills our kitchen table - all these combine to speech for our thoughts and silences - and so it's agreed - thy will be done - we'll waste today

im standing as still as possible, trying my best not to sway - not to sway to the music, not to sway to the vibe im feeling, and not to sway to the booze i've consumed this afternoon - i've read the last chapter of four books in the place - wood, and carptet, and drinks and beers and friends - people spend their spare time in a place like this - i know i used to quite a bit - just sitting and thinking and drinking and writing - i'd have conversations with my friends in my head, but then when i see them, im confused and keeping saying - i might have told you this already - the band is playing good, and i was going to go home but now im staying - the singer reminds me of myself, which hasn't happened since i was a delusional teenager - funny long hair, strange leather jacket, and some spoken word read from a4 sheets of paper - they're songs about sex and being fucked up and drinking - i like those kind of songs and stories and people - i can apprecaite them - i find them funny - like when he took out his hipflask mid-song to have a swig - is that sad? - is that too much? - i don't know, i find it funny

im coming home, and i can see the sad little light left on for me outside - someone's fastfood wrapper has blown up the driveway - the wind gives me one more before i find my keys and jiggle the locks until i walk inside, find a place to dump my boots so they don't wake her up as i walk down the hall looking for a cd to play - and it takes me a long time to decide - until i slide back to the lounge room in my socks and drag a blanket behind me - i pull up and beanbag and lie on the floor, dark and warm with the xmas lights ive drapped over the windows - the music plays and i have a couple of the beers i have kept in the fridge - now i dream and later i'll sleep and then i'll wake up

we imagine the possibilities - i spend my time trying to touch upon the greatness i see in the artist - alice's mad-hatter doesn't come across as a great performance to me, he comes across as a great friend - the colour world left to it's own devices now that the money-man has gone - i see freedom in everything now that the money-man has gone - free walks, free time, free fruit, free talks - i see the artist chatting to the man about town for free in the town centre - no money-man here man - free message left under rocks and leaves and trees are the message board for all of us and our friends - we snoop around the forests - we hind behind the rocks and at the end of the day we talk and laugh and drink our wine - and i have a twin here! - he joins me sometimes, but sometimes he doesn't and he does his own things - he's a great guy - he plays tricks with the younglings and i once heard that one of them was his - he's better looking than i am, but i like the way i look - we both have long hair and glasses and our girlfriends are both very beautiful - i met the artist last year, and the other day the artist met me

my wallet, my keys, my coins, and demons - underage drinkers follow me around like apostles - the write down my words for me like matthew mark, luke and john - they ask me questions about life and death, love and sex, brotherhood and manhood, sisterhood and the woman - they harvest my love of music and the written and spoken word - the find me the sun as it rises and sets, and find me the shade to me cool from the the day's australian heat - i take them to the parking-lots - i show them the great albums of yesterday - i teach them of the church - i speak of kilbey - i explain the graveyards and i explain the gold courses - they ask me for money man, and the offer me money for cigarettes, and i decline - the streets are followed to our destinations and they're used for so many different reasons and destinations - it's not a religion, it's a lucid dream - it's not a dream it's an amazing life

im pompously jazz - i am the invitation - strangers thanking strangers - strangers hugging strangers as i carry on with my face to the suburban wind that i call my own - and the clouds, still the clouds - i see them every evening and it makes me feel so happy to be doing this, and that

dear john 280810

dear john,

im writing to you today - i sit here on the couch listening to a dream syndicate album that i downloaded yesterday - the football is on and im eating some pizza shapes and drinking vb beer out of a beer mug that has "the beatles" printed on it - these things, and my laptop are on the coffee table which has a carlton draught beer mat on it, along with the local newspapers, some nail polish, the latest edition of your zine, and a spot of sunlight - i am alone and slightly cold, wearing white socks, blue jeans, a church tshirt which has a topless lady on it who has stars for nipples, and a red and black flannel shirt - i haven't shaved in three or four days, and my sideburns are hearty - lauren is out somewhere and just before i walked up to a second hand cd store and bought a robyn hitchcock album, and a screaming trees album just because i love mark lanegan's whiskey voice - on the way home i stopped off at an op-shop and had a look at the shirts, but always knew i wasn;t going to find anything - i then went to the supermarket and bought some soft drink and a sports drink to take the edge of the depleted feeling i felt, and now i feel good - i bought a slab of beer as well and was awarded a free stubbie holder which i appreciated - it as "for me who have had their arm up a cow" printed on it, as a small sillohetted image of a man with his arm up a cow - i look forward to lauren's response when she sees it, and now im thinking about how she is so funny and how many people don't see it - she will be home sometime, and i liked the idea of having nothing to do tonight, but then i got a text message from my friend XXX(you also wrote about your friend XXX) and the text message says "okay, are you up for drinks and strippers in the city?" - i assume he's joking but i know he's probably not - he's such a nice guy, - YYY once spoke to me about her concerns of XXX being depressed - i never saw it and spoke to him about - "XXX, do you feel you're depressed?" i asked out of nowhere at a party once, and he replied "yeah, probably" - i was surprised but i shouldn't have been - i said "you and me both, but we'll alright" - and since then i've always looked out for him and stood up for him - if i didn't have lauren i would be a mess - maybe i will go out with XXX tonight - i don't know - i look forward to my bucks party - XXX's a tits man - i have been to strip clubs before - i remember befriending this guy who could've been my best friend, of life, but we lived in different areas of the planet - this mexican man took us out to a few bars - little did we know they were strip clubs and my shy friend had the mexican treatment that night and i thought it was hilarious - "what would you like sim-on?" - "ah, barcardi i guess" - and slam, and bottle of barcadi is slammed on the table in front of me - that was the night i fell asleep in my boxer shorts on the floor of a hostel in mexico city - i owned that place - i think about my drinking - it's definately a possibility, but i don't really know why - i trust i am intelligent to know what im doing, and to ensure i am living the life i want to live - i remember something i learnt in year twelve psychology, and it was that normal was being able to cope within the society in which you belong - whatever - i never want to hurt anybody, and i like the life i live - it's mine and it's how i want it to be - i can see the world in a way nobody else can, and i can switch it on and off at will - like now, how that strip of sunlight is randomising with the shadows of leaves and wind makes it a priceless work of art on my living room wall - like how i can look at lauren and think about the time we first met, and how neither of us could have ever understood how life-chaning that moment was, and how we must always remember that as at anytime another moment like that could take place - maybe i've just created another one? - it keeps suicide at bay - ive just changed the music and thought it would be funny to play the latest gorillaz album - snoop - i just went to the toilet and find it strange and funny how we have a trainspotting poster in there at that place, a large "photo" of superted, a self portrait of steve kilbey, and a painting of the universe by steve kilbey - being such a small little room, it positioned so that the self portrait is looking at the painting of the universe - you should come over and see it sometime - the universe, not my toilet - i always screw it up, don't i john - smashed and clingy at all tomorrow's parties - loaded and blokey at my birthday - who am i kidding, i am a mess - i do hurt people - it's halftime and the spots of sunlight have gone away - i pat the beat of the gorillaz on my inner thighs and maybe i should drum - i am writing to you today john because i love you and i don't know you and i am in debt to you - i will continue this - do you see me as a writer? - do you see me as a bogan? - do you see me as a bloke and an embarrassment? - do you see me as an artist? - do you see me as depressed? - do you hear me?

as always,
simon

Art Intimidating Life: The Ruins of my Mental Empire - Part Twelve

i've seen her highness on the magic carpet ride and it can't be too much longer until she drinks champagne with me in the parklands over yonder - we laugh at the beasts that taunt our night times - they are immuned to the thumping that comes from the parked cars at this place - no lights there at this place - just the moon sometimes and the wind all the times - the beasts lead my way - i know where to take myself, they leave me no option - i walk with my head down, and my eyes up - always up - always somewhere to go, finding the perfect spot for a picnic - some fruit juice, sandwiches, sunglasses and champagne - the air is as cool as the green grass under the worn out picnic rug - children sing and prance and look to their parents asking if it's okay with no words at all and of course its okay and so they go ahead and do it - there are no children permitted on the magic carpet and so i dare not touch her high-highness - i merely feel the peace that clouds their careless playfulness - it makes me feel psychedelic - i feel at once, a piece of beautiful nothing at peace with the rest of the beautiful nothingness, yet also the reason and force behind all things - thy will be done - i eat my salad sandwiches and smile as i chew and think - my mouth is closed as i'm polite but shun etiquette as my toes toy with the skin on her legs - a rainbow hums anticipation as the children look skywards, but it never really forms - the gods must be as high as i am right now - i feel the soil and the earth shift, but don't dare interupt her, her high-highness and the story she is telling me - its one of laughter, silliness and it's universal - she plays with her hair and shows her perfect teeth - and she doesn't even look like she goes to the dentist - and she makes me feel i don't have to - i throw a ball back to the clumsy kids and she lights a smoke, making the purple smoke smell like a minty lavandar, and my mind feel much the same - a plunging mind in a liquid soul, and a body full of life and energy that now needs to run - and so i pick myself up and take off with no words or real reason - i always run fast - i know i should slow down for i know the pain that awaits me - yet i push myself fast, harder - my breathing starts to synch with my heart now beating - i feel the dust and cracks of paint and cobwebs tinker off my moving and pumping legs that pound the dirt ground - i don't recall how long i was sitting so still, i don't recall what i was doing there - it's getting darker, and my arms are caught between the winter air and my pulsating movements through the parklands - my sweat smell belongs here - the beasts tell me so in their movements and the harks and hanks and conks they make as i run my body past them and their tree-homes - the madness of continuous running keeps me running continuously - just up ahead now - just to this tree - just up to this stump - just up to this family of beasts - but it never ends - it's the world as it should be - a naked man running through the trees - ah, and the pain now pangs me - my breathing is stolen and my legs belong to the homeless-man - the automatic movements are no longer my life but my legs - i kick up beautiful little puffs of dust behind me, and like television, it's okay to enjoy them - sadly though and however now, i know the end is just merely hundreds of meters away - and so i push myself to ensure i am empty upon my end - i am completely empty like the dust-puffs - every anger and sadness that energises me is burnt out of me and drifting upwards to the sky-clouds - until, at last, my self inflicted pain and pleasure is over - i keel over and gasp for air - i feel my sides in pain and oxygen is what i need and i feel the nessesities of life return again - my sweat will soon cool, and my breathing will soon return - my pain will swank into endorphins and my post-shower beer will taste so nice after i do the dishes and put my rags way - i sink into the blankets and the couch and see the magic carpet rise...

Art Intimidating Life: The Ruins of my Mental Empire - Part Eleven

i murdered someone, quite soon - i would've told you earlier, but i was feeling too guilty about that prostitute i fucked wrongly, and silence festers in guilt - i did, actually, mean to kill him - it wasn't something i had planned - but given the time, and given the opportunity, i meant death - maybe it had something to do with my playful-suicide early twenties - maybe it was my facination with death and one too many nights listening to johnny cash with dole bludging friends drinking their dole-money beers - maybe it was a cry for help, that im troubled, disturbed and in need of a lock-down - i killed a man and there is a good chance someone will discover his slightly bloodied pale face, and his perfect jeans, early tomorrow morning - a sexy jogger in a tit filled singlet and a rolling firm arse, and her slobbering dog the silence afterwards, and the silence now, is maddening - i scurry for music and radio like a whore for a smack, something to slap that guilt heavy silence - what have i done? - something i used to dream to myself as i worked my office work - what have i done? - something i dont have to wonder now, now that my silence has gone - my old radio cracks on with song i'll never know - am radio annomisity - the old man at the bottle shop didnt even notice my blood stained fingers, or the stolen wallet that thankfully had a twenty in it for my soothe - somehow i always knew it would come to this - myself, in a lifechanging moment that will shock the small world around me - i wonder what its like, finding out the man you've been sleeping with is a snap-flash murderer - a crack back man on the run - a closet alcoholic dream sexy dream - one more beer, i say - sex is everywhere but no one wants it - am i insane, for thinking politeness, and etiquette, are human nature's unnatural way of saying, god exists? - desires are a slippery slope myfriend - though no matter how hard and deseperate and pathetic you work, climb and claw your way to your perfect life, momentum leaves behind a slippery trail of fail after fail - and you find yourself here - in a cold crackling room, alone - waiting for the inevitable - and you think to yourself, as i am now, nothing has changed - what is your inevitable? - what are you trying to avoid? he didn't make a sound, but his drift was beautiful - i now understand why death-row has no fear - they have seen the end, and it is peaceful - life is a bourden and death is a cold beer and a bbq, for those who want it - some people are too good for a cold beer and a seared peice of meat - but i must stop - im sounding like a mad-man i set my alarm clock for ten am - i still have half a bottle of my soothe and - well, it really makes no difference - would you believe me if i told you the body is lying outside my front door? - i can hear my neighbours arguing in their nonsense - maybe something is wrong, maybe my crackle is too loud - im no e.a.poe, but i feel a thumping - mine or hers? - or maybe theirs? - i have never heard them have sex, but i try my best - hell, once i even hung from the ceiling at a mere suspicion, only to be let down by pots and pans - fuck fuck fuc - i stole her panties the next morning, as punishment, and reward oh wait, i think i heard one of them sneeze - how delightful - or was it a smack deserved? - or perhaps a discovery? - you can never really tell - such loud nonsense they all make - but i digress, too much swig-swig and dunk-dunk - sinking into soothing madness, and allowing myself to dunk dunk dry and quickly - did you notice i refered to you as myfriend? - it makes me laugh, as why would someone, like me!, do this to you? - im asking too many questions - the truth is, i know now - murder does that to a man - clariity and a step closer to his own closurer, like a movie endured for the slight chance of running late fast-sex - yeah, it'll do - let me die if it was a sneeze, i'll wait it out - i'd rather be awake when it happens - im going away for a long time, which brings me to my real reason for writing this - if you're waiting for luck, i'll see you in hell - if you're planning on saving money to travel europe, i'll see you from heaven - if you're writing book, one that will stiffen backs, and open eyes, and liquify minds, well then, i'll see you again - if you're going to further educate yourself, i won't see you for a while - if you're going to drink too much and succumb, say hi for me - if you're going to get a job, get some money and get your life together, at least i'll be able to say that we used to be friends - if you're going to have a beer in the afternoon and feel the wind and see the sun set, drop by and say hi im not a bad man

Art Intimidating Life: The Ruins of my Mental Empire - Part Ten

how now?
lay down, my body needs me to lay down - and i fall asleep as though im agent cooper in the red room passing through the curtain - though this time laura is dancing for me and sharing all her secrets with me - i feel the need to apologise to her, as though i had something to do with bob - perhaps i did, perhaps i didn't - i was too far gone and mentally, living on another planet to really know what was going on, and what i was doing within it - i have photographs - old tattered photographs that fall apart a little more everytime you pick them up or look at them - they only have five or six looks left - one is of the sillohette of a leaveless tree and there is an image of an old man walking away - it's black and white - well, at least it is now - i keep it in my book, for the people i meet to look and see - i met a man who was fired from his job because he was too old, and his hands didn't work like they used-to-could - he had this look on his face of disbelief, shock in the fact that something like this had happend to him, after all these years - he shook his face with small tremors, and pursed his lips like the sad-boy - i moved to put my hand on his shoulder to show that i felt so sorry for him, but he moved away and never noticed - he picked up his old lunch box and umbrella and turned his crooked back to walk home in midday the rain - the children sang and laughed as they managed to play under the monsterous gum that has stood tall his whole life - i puzzled with the pieces he left behind - little pieces that lay forgotten just out of frame - nailed to the wall like slabbed-meat - soft and deadly, i waited for her to come home to me - my fingers in my dry mouth noodeling anxiously - i hear cars circling my birthplace - i hear helicopters thundering my lighthouse - i hear footsteps behind me, dragging their limp as best as they can, trying not to lose too much blood while at the same time trying to muffle their sobs - i feel a hand on my shoulder - neither pushing or pulling, but i sign to remind me that i'm on the right path - the continuing whisper of - thy will be done - i have no recolection of my actions last night, and i begin to get concerned why she isn't answering my calls, and why my routine expectations aren't being met this afternoon - and my head aches as my fatigue endoures my body yet the madness continues to whirpool my mind and thinking - how can this be? - i am merely a person - how now? - im using bubble-bath as a cleaning product, hoping no-one will notice how poorly bubble-bath works as a cleaning product - these old rooms with their walls - a life time of second-guessing the best of me and before i know it i'm out of view, deep and alone in the thick knowledge that no matter what, i will always be alone - no matter who i am with, who i am friends with, who i treat nicely, what i say or what i do, i will always be alone in this world - i am alone now - i will die alone - this lonely life of mine, how can i explain? - and to whom? - i dwell in myself like rain at night - i shadow myself like moon-clouds - the wind pushes last night's rain off the leaves and onto my head - i am in the parklands wondering alone, hoping no-one will bother me in a jacket like this one - bats and possoms pester the night and break the silence from time to time, and i allow them - i keep still, finding shelter in the soaking cold black grass and wood - my breathing irritates me and i wish it would stop so i could be alone - somewhere in the distance a car slices the wet road and i think of the endless battle of my love of all things and breakdown again - another breakdown closer to the truth - another breakdown closer to my demise - what more can i do for the pure souls and the mindless ways they break my pathetic little heart? - what more than stand in the middle of the rain, in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of the night, killing myself ever so slowly - dragging my melting soul as best as i can, hiding my disbelief

Art Intimidating Life: The Ruins of my Mental Empire - Part Nine

traditions i never took part in are dying around me
cafes built by tradesmen who don't drink coffee
new apartments for the stylish and the conversations they bring
cars standing still - and the people waiting for them
football supporters - supporting anzac day - heartbroken
nights out wasted - and nights spent in
days working - five days weak - two days strong
tourists photographing what i take for granted
mysterious eyes of strangers looking at the strangers around them
sunsets going unnoticed as i check my watch for the third time
thoughts of the weather that do no good
drinkers at the bar taking a break from being broken
spare coins that makes no change at all
passions wasted - once upon a time, in a land far away
heartbreaking summers, and warm winter soups
radio stations and newspapers everyday, all over the world
complicated relationships between everyone
people living their different lives in their different bodies
fights fought where tomorrow i buy my lunch with friends
moments in my life drifting away like a dusk lit seven four seven
children doing whatever it takes to own a bicycle
crimes discussed at dinner time
powerlines that make it possible
phone calls - four times as many as there ever was
walls scribbled with political statements i'm well aware of
post-christmas christmas lights
distant sirens - the worst day of someone's life
buildings that touch the sky and shade the sun
stars forgotten in the spotlight moon

Art Intimidating Life: The Ruins of my Mental Empire - Part Eight

it begun with a young man raising his eyebrows and smiling at me – I’d never met him before, but I took a few seconds to make sure – damp from the rain outside, and somewhat comfortable with the cosy wet-dog-smell of the tram, I assumed the young man was simply impressed with my jog and dash - jumping on the tram at the very last moment – landing it beautifully, dressed in long hair and scarf like the madman – and rest, the head leaning against the window as my home town full of strange and strangers move about and my mind focuses on writing something a little less psychedelic, something more like the song I’m listening too – the young man gives up his seat for an older woman – older, but not old – I smile and raise my eyebrows – you know, I would’ve done the same, but I thought you were younger than me – I joke – I also thought you were a man, so I was way off!– I keep this part to myself and add another two years onto my life– the woman has a nice friendly face – she’ll make one of those adorable grandmothers that light-entertainment tv presenters will exploit for a heartfelt laugh – but then again there is something about this woman, looking very much like Maude from Harold & Maude, and the way she’s so eager to talk to me that makes me feel that she’s lived an independent and adventurous life, and that she’s never had children or wanted to – she’s talking to me like we’re new best friends, and I can hardly hear a word she is saying – something about her generation and dorian gray, so I laugh hoping she would too, giving me room to change the subject, or at the very least say something – but she didn’t laugh, so I said – sorry, ‘beg your pardon? – she assumed I was a musician, and no matter how much I denied that I was, she continued asking about my music – I’m more of a writer, if anything – and so it turns out she’s a screen-writer and when she gets angry with people she creates a character based on that person and kills them off – she’s a nice woman, but this is the sort of thing that turns me off writers –this snug, warm secretive power they think they have over the rest of the world – but I run with it – she asks what I do and say that I work in advertising (which is true, to an extent, and shameful) and enjoy keeping my art and work and life separate – she says she understands, but I know she doesn’t – I say things like – there’s no reason why a man can’t open a door for another man – until it’s her turn to talk again – it’s raining harder outside, and my stop isn’t far away – I know I’m going to have to interrupt her at any moment, telling her I have to leave now – yeah sorry, but this is me coming up – I point outside signalling my stop is next only to realise I’m pointing to a fat man eating a sandwich – oh that’s okay – she says – you meet some nice people on trams – and some arseholes as well – I reply – but I’m glad you put in me in the former category – I tell her I’ll see her again sometime, which is something I only seem to say to people I’m never going to see again in my life – it’s something I learnt off the Indonesians – like when someone asks you if you’ve been to Greenland, you say either yes, or not yet – never no – never know, she calls out as I push by the fat bellies standing between me and the doorway – oh, and don’t give up on the music! You could make it one day – make it one day, I think to myself – make it – we ask each other - hey, what are you up to? - like we’re finishing a book or something – but it’s no big deal – I step out into the rain and dodge a couple of asain school girls eating some strange pink plastic food through a straw, before a fat man in a tracksuit walks straight into me, refusing to move – obviously he’s had enough of this tough rainy day – I say – fuck you – and walk around his fat stomach, disgusted by the warmth I felt from it pushing against mine – I find a bottle shop and buy two beers – they’re icy cold, and I like that – there is a young man stacking the shelves at the fridge next to me, so I give him a smile and a nod – I take the beers to the counter and I’m surrounded by idiots - i pay for the beers and go to the cinemas to watch a movie

Art Intimidating Life: The Ruins of my Mental Empire - Part Seven

im continually trying to find new ways to find home, and im in no hurry and content to stroll as long as it takes - if there is one thing i've learnt it's never listen to anyone who hasn't trusted me further than they knew me - i discovered a brothel nextdoor to a twenty-four hour fast food troff - how conveiniant - i want to sit back with a guilt free five dollar dinner and watch the business men, who have it all, walk in and out as though they're just visiting an old friend, to drop something off - "what? im just visiting an old friend!" - i could sit and watch that till hours become days, and days worth of freetime - but i dont as i have burritos waiting for me at my flat - interested in am-talk-back radio i listen like a humble alcoholic coming to the realisation he's three dollars short and has to admit it to the closet sex-offenders waiting in line behind him, and having to walk home empty handed wiping his nose knowing all well the demons that await him are going to be-
fucking
pissed
off



it's not easy living with a suicidal understanding of all things - not only to realise that there is "always some little thing you've got to do", but to actually see it everyday - little smiling heads popping up over yonder - the beast, it cometh down, and the angels come and go - some days we're congradulated - some days they don't even notice - some days the thoughts we have in bed, best stay in bed - i woke up in living hell, after being kicked out of living heaven - in a world where only the strange don't apply fake tans - in a world where facial hair is weird, unless the whole city plays along - in a world where people complain about how hot it is today, and how cold it is tomorrow - theres always some little thing you've got to do - pay bills and try and forget about them - pay rent and justify it to yourself - explain why you're smiling - answer phone calls from people who have the wrong number, and hang up after saying "see ya later" - buy mushrooms, and wonder if you'll finish that many in a week - explain to people what you're doing and why, for no reason whatsoever - the three days leading up to an apology for someone who really doesn't give a fuck

my heartbreaking love for guide-dogs sometimes seeps into my consciousness - when all things break my heart, and i wonder alone - the kindness of strangers - the cruelty of friends - the smiles on girls faces and their laughter - the phone call that never really gets it's point across - the unknown lives of forgotten strangers - with all this, i can completely understand why some people just don't want to go on - so much can never be truly communicated, and then there are the frustrations of art - one must live to explode with honesty and vulnerability - artistic expressions - or die saggy, with your true life deflated inside - sad, beautiful and dangerous

do you ever get the feeling this whole fucking living planet will one day have to be explained? - like some pathetic teenage house party - like a moment alone, caught out - i stand alone outside my block of flats, underneath a storm-puke-cloud, a chorus of muffled televions mumbling behind the steaming air - what will they have as an explanation? - fuck war - what will they say of jesus? - what will they say of weekends? - what will they say of fake tans, high heels and all their money? - what will become of our jobs? - what will they say of bobby fischer?

i was told, by a man, that he believed i enjoyed criticism more than praise - to this i laughed and wondered if this had anything to do with my habit of degrading myself - drunk on self deception, i listen to swans as my arse rubs against another mans, my hands brush past a woman's - and my balls linger in the face of an old asian grandmother, and i thank lou reed for remembering my sunglasses

version two, and come the love hate relationship - what came first? - a split second in time when once all lands were one great mass? - or the synchranised mosquito bites i discovered on both pinkie toes? - your confusion as to why i mail you these questions? - or my quiet thursday night beer relief? - i'm leaning towards hate since the last time - the more and more and more i see, the more i want to change - i envision your visions, and i try and fail - at one point in time, i would feel able to tap into the ripples that vibe over the streets and trams and rooms we share - i feel i have failed now because i have succeeded in the past

i want to please you - i often think that if i could one day tap into your mind, mine will be complete - there is no real reason, but yours becomes like some kind of scriptured holy grail - a true forbidden love of the minds

version three - and there'll be no reason for god to help me

day and night
hide and seek
the devils game

whats your poison
today - tonight
how does the world see you?

can i get a lift home?
- the police
don't know where i live

empty bottles - twelve
i set my alarm clock
twelve - just in case

i killed a man last night
and don't have much time left
- my fridge is full

she drinks coke
pigtails and stockings
everyone dies alone

you're my best friend
hank, slunk, hunk, honk
but always drunk around you

dirty sexy drinking
the footpath is cold and occupied
with friends i should know

my shadows lie
behind the shadows
my drunk best friend

help me
im in a church
waking from another dawn set nightmare

i upset my friend
it's all going wrong
fifteen mintues till the washing is done

he wrote me a letter
to tell me he is moving house
- i never made an effort to visit

the weather
my birthday
my death

i was born in the desert
life in limbo
and a sea-burial

mantra brith
now what?
mantra death

it's got to be time to sleep now
- turn everything off
silent alarms brang brang now now

Art Intimidating Life: The Ruins of my Mental Empire - Part 6

welcome to the australian day-dream - if you are reading this you are paying far too much attention - and so it goes, i was wrong - go to sleep

deep within my own carved mental rules of when to do what, when and why - i drift way out, and think that everyone looking at me is impressed or ignorant - my self and the thousand meter stares inward - helicopters and buzzing fridges - underdressed as i walk down the streets fighting up and down against the people staring - i pad my wallet in my pocket and hope its still there - it is, and its time to figure out what to do next - music to play so that i dont have to pay attention to it - how far i have come in my self inflicted worthless little life - and how i love it so much

i celebrated a seven year relationship with a girl one month ago - the seven year haze of an unmarried, loved man - the greatest one could ever live - lucky im so stubbon, and lucky in general - my phone rings only when i want it to - and i lose it at will - i pad my pockets for my keys and wallet, and keep on walking - unaware for too long of everything else around me until someone calls my full name like a long lost friend from so many years ago - the unique feeling of age a twenty five year old man can feel in the right situations

the complete guide to living alone - step one - forget everyone else until it must be done, and they ask you nicely - step two - sleeping in is a sin - step three - eat well - step four - drink alcohol - step five - wear sunglasses when outside - step six - gather a collection of different styled hats - step seven - keep the time - step eight - feel guilty all the time - step nine - watch the sunrise and the sun set every single day of your life (two is not one without the other) - step ten - appreciate everything, but do it quietly - step eleven - brush your teeth and hair - step twelve - the beauty of living alone is that living alone means nothing at all

the beauty of being australian is that being australian means nothing at all - patriotism has no place in my country - that is what makes my country so cool, like no other - no national anthem and no recognition to any flag - what i love is drinking alone at a bar, with 3 or 4 or 5 pints - alone with my thoughts, for as long as it takes - or with some close friends - same thing really - i am going to die some day... lets hope to god you're a good person

some of us are more connected than others - the others just hang around - im only nice to those who have no one who are nice to them - she wished her a happy birthday, she's taken care of - but him there - him there - and its there they say i come out of my shell, open up - but its not that i come out of my shell, its just that i only let some in

the day you discovered the stockholm syndrome was the happiest day of my life

i have never owned a car and i find it hard to live day to day life because my day to day life doesnt understand many others - what is movement and its relationship with time within twenty four hours? - i have never understood it, or should i say, i have never understood your confusion - having said that its your understanding that really floors me - and its my realisation that you ignore

and so now i must leave - once again i leave with the final words and my voice simply and sternly stating wake up - like so many times before - but now i have met you within this australian monday dream - i know what time it is right now - but i will never know what we're all doing in this constant crawl towards the next moment we'll never remember till the day i die

lets hope to god you're a good person

Art Intimidating Life - The Ruins of my Mental Empire: Part 5

it was you - turning me the corners - strides like woman, cries like the girl-child - my beer dictates the barren-land - two strangers turning the corners, and it's raining around them - the breath between them rising like a lusty turn of the seasons

i know someone pushed the button
the bad-land violence gangs circle
me suit and tied up as i tried to walk down the streets
ignoring your wives and daughters

it was you, running in the garden at the precise moment it melted into perfection and poured into potential - your feet dirty, damp, and i could imagine cold - the sight of you running away and the sound of your laughter breaking the distance in front of you - your hair soaked like a ruined woolen jumper my mother made me wear to the funeral - taste the wind to be like me - it blew and gushed the garden while we slept - water makes it green

waking up to the rain-rage
with a hurried knock to the door
hair like a blood stabbed woolen jumper
the edge tipped and trembled
beyond the mental terror
unfolding before our eyes

food was served, and the cars made the water sound - we wanted to play, and didn't understand or care the dirt - she kissed your cheek, and the jealousy warmed me - i sat alone for the rest of the day, not sure of what to do with this new feeling - jealousy and lust, making love quietly so the children don't hear - i stood in the doorway waiting, wasting my time, the dwelling of my sister – down the hallway bleeding, she smiled at me in a way that said goodbye, and in a way that only a woman and child could understand

the spirits hoarded
the gods of yesterday lay rotting
and the gods of tomorrow removed their disguises
finding new liberties
in a worn out love of life

no man is warmth and cannot make soup for winters - the dim lights hit the walls of smiling seventies and moustaches and amber shaded baby-faces - i never knew hair could grow so long, or smell so nice beyond ice creams - how much help does her hair require as mine floats and bends in the wind and the sleep of a boy with a football

they painted and danced with the child-brides
the sky melted backwards
as time sped up
taking life and death with it
through a warm gel of purple loving purple
blue being green
and yellow in-between

the sunsets and it's time for mother and soup - the streets are dark, and the ball is cold and wet as the drizzle comes again just in time for a sprint home - news stories that cannot be understood yet and they all talk about them - my dirt and blood has to be taken care of, but first some dry clothes and some food, and my apologies for a lust for the life and an excitement of the child night on the clothesline where i shall hang

snail trails and bedtimes that are enforced by heavy clean blankets that seemed to be in endless supply with the wintertime outside – eerie wide eyed stuffed toys watch us sleep, and cartooned stickers from a childhood before us blur as our heavy eye-lids command our potent and most important dreams that drift within us, before we learn the burden of control



the planets moved and spun naturally
like the thoughts of our brothers and sisters
stars exploded with a distant hollow pop
and a lightshow of colours and mists and winds
that explain our lives
in a way only death can

and in the eternal silence, our drifting souls begin to play with each other, like cosmic-instruments – speechless, an intermingle of intergalactic spaghetti creating music only the soul can feel and experience – this lasts forever, beyond a time when everything is forgotten, and this beautiful life we’ve created ourselves doesn’t fade, but enlightens


the spirits hoarded
the gods of yesterday lay rotting
and the gods of tomorrow removed their disguises