The (in)Visible Versus The (Im)possible

(Im)pressions leave their scars upon the gazes

Peering together making amazing mazes

That throw sirens upon ideas of feelings

That seep and emote themselves through hands

Leaving creasing upon ideas of fashion which

Should never, ever be touched.


We live with the irony knowing better and accepting

The latter, made synchonically from fragments, incidents

And if we be lucky pleasurable moments we’re happy to ignore

Endure, forget, forgo or forclose; as if this form can’t catch it:

Another will.


What’s missing dictates the dream of democratic nonchalance:

I’m indifferent to the inefficiencies of indifference,

I’m impossibly reconciled to the impossible;

I will smoke the ashes of history

And you will toke or toll


For I am History and you will smite me

But – will you remember me?

Probably not. Your (Im)vision is (in)Possible.

We’ll see.

The terror of the possible absence of doubt

I strolled up Gertrude Street and asked God:

“So what do you think of the coffee here?”

Unexpectedly he smiled (most unlike his son)

and said:


“Che Voui?”


I sniffed (it was the hay fever season) and  replied:

“Me non e pliage du fucking sprechen the right coffee…?”

He nodded like a guilty Father.


But he said: “Go to bed. All will be revealed.”


And thus… the All… the Will… the Being… and the Revelation…

But God, that wasn’t my question – how’s the coffee?


I and/or you and/or we and/or it,

Whatever weather we’ve whethered or not,

Whatever means we’ve ended or rendered or not,

Whoever made or unmade or may make or not,

Stead fast to the landedness. What’s lost is lost.

It always was.

It always will be.

Loss is as simple as a poem.

It can’t be explained.

It doesn’t have a rhyme.

Nor a reason.

But we, we few, are here.

We’ve landed.

We have yet to figure why we did.

The Sincere Insistence of the Incision and Suturing Existence

cease the halting of pruning and rubbing the boil

bubble as it may the tears flowing into the torn birth

from wombs mounting orifices creating monumental tombs

plumbing depths spurning forth cryptic messages hiding monsters

disguised and disgusted by desires entrusted and incrusted by dirty loins

covering puss laden assemblages resembling births of melted dreams

signalling nothing less than anything the thing das ding ring a ling a line align

alkaline pour it in the wound that cuts across diagonally into the eyes

piercing the divide that walls the organs with the slick soupy hole that fills this


cut them out


Misanthrope As The Stellar Ethnography

Invisible hatred is a tough knot,

Tight foresight at gunshot economic

Phenomelogics that appear and dissipate

As if we’d never been at all.






Enjoy your teet-a-teet,

Your future’s mine.

Suck the futures.


Mo(O)nday Madness

The Big Other (Autre) is watching you.

[This is my first attempt at ‘media’ styled journalism (or (h)Ourism) I’ve bothered with, and it begins the cheap and nasty as all provincial journalism should be:]

I was in my local publican’s establishment recently talking with two of the most sophisticated and intelligent women (no, they’re not rare, they’re running the ship!) I’ve met in a long time, and a throwaway comment they made had me confirming and confronting my own ideals about identifications: there was some drab article about some old millionaire who was talking about the validity of his new sex life with his twenty-somethingth aged universally stereo-typified “blonde with the necessary excesses,” which drew giggles and girly eye-swirls from two usually thoroughly lucid characters capable of jousting for elbow room with the most considered thinkers of the past thirty years. Being my provocatorial-self that steers me into dangerous waters, I rallied a question about the article: “So what is the ‘big-deal’ about sex? Isn’t marriage about something else?”


The immediate presumption (you could set TIME to such concrete reactions) was accusatory, and that I didn’t understand because I was neither married nor having sex (at the time…). The more I insisted about the significance of the social contract that is associated with marriage, the more they were deferring toward the signifier of the sexual act.

So, rather than seek out some random stranger to signify my incapacity to understand the complexities of the marital suite, I went home instead to get sauced and read Freud.

And yes, the question itself arose ‘naturally’.


So what is, really, the deal maker or breaker about sex? Yes, sex. Are you ‘familiar’ with the term?

Recently, (y)our newly inscribed (un-)membered parliamentary signifier of Prime Ministeriality Julia Gillard (for all of you readers who don’t know where Australia is – I’m sorry – buy a fuckingmap), has decided to reject calls for homosexuals to get married so that they too can receive the stamp of the Attorney General to governmentally acknowledge their preferred, deferred object of arousal.


So, before I (Oui & We) continue, what the FUCK is everybody talking about?

Sex as a social contract.


Briefly returning to Descartes; I fuck therefore I am.


I don’t buy/bide by this logic. None of it – heterosexuality and homosexuality are as stupid as their Greek etymology. Sex is, well, pretty stupid. Nothing to plan one’s day around, let alone a government. The ‘yay’ crowd crowed loudly when Gillard toppled Rudd. Why? No penis. Look, the leader has no penis!


This same ‘yay’ crowd forgets to mention the fact that this same (albeit) complex ‘phantasmatic’ phenomenon excludes the Queen (“Look Mum – no penis!”), the Governor General (“Look Mum – still no penis!”), and the fact that, well, sex is pretty stupid and hardly good governance over public policy, foreign affairs or a raison d’être.


So, what’s Freud got to say about this sticky mess of governmental ‘familiarity’ that everyone seems to wish to ignore while the mining lobby FUCK the country down under with the fist of nature even Aristotle or Ptolemy would be proud of (yep, Australia. Ye olde Matthew Flinders recommended the name above the name ‘New Holland’ to another man – what a fucking prick! Thank God only Queen Victoria {cough} has more phalluses erected in her memory than him! After all, he is only a man)?

Unfortunately, not enough. Fortunately, Freud had a penis, so we needn’t bother ourselves with such a tired and disproved exegesis. Marx also had a penis, so we’d best forget his thinking.


Although I not particularly fond of the man, Charles Bukowski once noted “you’re never sure whether you’re fucking or getting fucked.”

Fuck you Australia. But what would I know. I’m just a prick.



Fuck winter.


Raped By The Archangels

Plough on, plough through, plough –
By this hand and shovel and will
I will turn this rock and sand ridden desert of mind
Into a rich garden, full of plumes and phrases and wit,
All to the purpose of removing the wire.

Imprisonment within our own dreams is such
A tremendous poisonous stupendous deliberate entrapment.
Nations bleeding and voting and participating
Merely by listening or rejecting or hurling abuse at
Race taste caste and letting little or nothing
Persuade us that we may just be wrong.
We are all wrong.

Let our dreams breed new species,
Let our minds depart from their weary confines
To seek out new blood to mix with.
If our lands run dry should not our riches
Be greater in dreaming of new collective heavens;
And may they not be perfect heavens
As our beliefs are not better off for their charity status –
Let the pain and suffering of this life
Be a compass to recognising the sufferings of all,
Not of ourselves;
For when we dream of being whose being are we dreaming of?
Ours, or our own?

I cannot fight for time beyond my own –
My time is mine, but it is shared time.
So have my dreams and do with them what you may.
Eat, drink, rape or kill them as you see fit –
Better they be killed than go unnoticed or unrealised.