Yeah, right….

I try to clear my mind before I leave for my walk. The walk doesn’t clear it either.

I’m wearing a black shirt and the heat beats down on me insufferably, this must be what it’s like?

So I take it off. My white skin will pay it’s retribution to the sun later.

My black shirt was protecting my body from flies that begin to become a problem in the spring.

So I put it back on, thank god I’m allowed to choose whether to wear it or not.

That’s one of our greatest shames.

My black shirt doesn’t protect me from cynicism.

My black shirt doesn’t protect me from tribalistic generalisations.

My black shirt doesn’t stop harmful messages from creating harmful messages that beat down on my skin.

I’m racist because I’m white and I suppose it’s right for me to burn for it later.

Lucky I’m a thinker & not a stinker & literalism isn’t in my blood.

We all know where the problem stems from, how do we stop society from using that path?

It doesn’t stop the kookaburra taking the piss.

Is a concern, that generalisations are harmful really that awful?

Is the white man who was raped as a child, or a teen, or beaten or abused mentally and physically really not a victim?

Where is his space to be able to feel and talk?

Why do you say white men can’t be victims?

What about him?

It just makes it harder for white boys to speak out against misogyny.

Do we really want to fight this battle alone?

I can’t be responsible for the entirety of my gender or the entirety of my ethnicity and I don’t want to be and neither should you.

I can’t be responsible for the upbringings of monsters and I don’t want to be and I don’t want women to be either and it is awful that women are still bearing this heavy seemingly unyielding weight of this ongoing tragedy that is inherent in our culture.

I’m racist because I’m white and I suppose it’s right for me to burn for it later.

Blood of kings, arteries of slaves

Look at your face.

We have never been more equal.

With this blue blood pumping through our veins. Can you feel it?

And we wear velvet slippers as we beat a path on the forest floor.

We are a tangible force and there is no real reason why anyone is bigger or better anymore.

Except maybe height or strength?

But does that matter anymore?

Let’s talk about earning capacity?

But does that matter anymore?


We all share the same blood, and with each newborn we will share it even further.

We are decendants of gods and we have the hearts of the like.

When we bled our life force on to the stone steps up to the temple shrouded with mystery and mist we were varnishing the path for the future.

We have no need to spill anymore because we share the same.

Tribality is no longer the trivial taboo little piece of work that separates us.

Violence is not necessary when we are, one of each other.

Big Jobs

The big jobs for the guys with big gobs.
Up there in their ivory towers with glass ceilings.
They glare up at the gods, envious.
Green with envy and greed.
Walking around with the tips of their flaccid penises hanging out of their flies.
Ready to fuck the world.
And there are flies everywhere! indicating the cesspit they reside in.
Big Jobs for the guys with big gobs.

Shower Poetry

So there they are!
My cards fall gracelessly on the table.
To be read by all.
I’m not worried, I’m just well fed.
If I was worried, I’d be crying or dead.

My eyes betray my secrets.
That I never had.
Or that I wish I believe I didn’t.
What’s the difference? Tell me quickly.
Believing you don’t have any secrets or…
knowing you don’t have any secrets.

But cards are more boring
and bloodsport’s exciting!
This heart has been open
Like an operating table with spectators like a sport.
Openness is the best policy for a boxer who can move.
But the ones who can’t dodge,
They tend to block.


The world is at my fingertips and they bleed frustration as I tap to the tap tap tap of the times.

I realise that opportunities are missed as I stare and stare stare stare into the void of too much information.

I move clumsily through this sphere that is saturated and I have no chance of being seen, I mean really seen. And life trickles on as the World around me shrinks and I stay the same, blowing into the wind nothingness because it doesn’t really matter anymore.

Hopelessness as you read out lists of useless knowledge that make you knowledgeable for no reason because Google has the answers anyway and it’s okay because who’s going to complain about the wealth wealth wealth of data and facts and acquaintances,

Imaginary or not, that you can personally mine out of something that weighs as much as a strawberry, bury me, under the weight of this new emancipatory world that weighs as much as a strawberry.


A little bit of love is for all this fun.

Jumping up the street and beating your chest with joy.

To far away from today and you know it all feels Okay on some level at least.

And a hug is a greet and a goodbye feels un-neat.

Because you can never wrap it all up in a tight little parcel and hope it’s Okay.

Because you know its going to be.

So budget your feelings and hope you have enough for next time.

I will.

Slip it in my wallet

I have a bunch a cash changed for coins.

With two sides each I’m glancing at the choices.

I need to pay my bills that creep into my wallet like a pick pocket.

The plans and mishaps we have are in the wind like a burnt out fire

Choking the past so much it coughs it’s heart out.

Let’s put those bills in the adult section with trying to decide who you are and health insurance.

Compartmentalising, is there a sweeter word?


Gripping hold of my breath.

Grasping the life that’s left.

Instantly open to a picture of a broken chair.

Quick come quickly to the beasts ghastly lair.

Wow to the world that so easily makes us fumble.

Woe is the death of the homeless stumble.

Let’s chat about craving labour.

Love is what’s left. Not what’s right.

The Greenbacked Graveyard Monster

A B-grade story-

For the fifth time that night Philip thought he saw a figure in the gloomy distance.
If he stays in one spot it looks like a human standing or loitering, it could be smoking a cigarette or checking it’s watch.  Whenever he decided to investigate it, it would transform into a bush or a monument.

Phil knows he is paranoid and he hates his shitty security job for exacerbating his thoughts. But it is the best paying job he has ever had and he wants to prove he wasn’t a bum. He didn’t have anyone to prove it too. His mum and Dad were dead and his brother Michael WAS a bum. If he had other family than Michael, he really doesn’t want to know about it. They weren’t there for him or Michael after the accident and in Phils eyes that was pretty unforgivable.

He’s 40 now and this will probably be the best job he will ever have, yep, security for a Church and Graveyard, not too shabby, worse jobs, even though graveyards give him the creeps.

There it is again!
Another figure.
Phil decides to ignore it and go the other way, to the rich part of the graveyard. No weird figures down there probably. He turns his head back and saw the figure was closer. He couldn’t make out what it was. This confuses him, his eyesight was usually pretty good and it was a full bloody moon! He ignores it again. Light trickery paired with the residual paranoia from previous heavy drug use can make life pretty scary if you let it.

Phil wishes he had a cigarette but knew he quit for a reason. He had realised he loved life and bungers were too expensive. He is saving for a house- or at least a deposit. He isn’t even close but knew he wasn’t gonna stop trying, to have a house for his brother, to nurse him back to health, that’s all he really wants.

He is almost amongst the upper echelons of graveyard society when he hears some creepy laughter… “oh mann, fuck this job.”
It sounds like a woman. He knew it is his duty to investigate, even though he really didn’t want to. He walks towards the laughter and sees a bit of light waving around, some kids were playing voodoo. Jesus Christ the Priest told him about this. “Graveyards aren’t that scary” with a smile that looked like it was put up with used blue tack. “Most of the time it’s just kids you have to deal with” (what do you mean most of the time?!), “Besides I always feel closer to god down here”.

“HEY KIDS SCRAM!” They all look over. One, a confident teenager, might as well be a woman in her thirties walks up to him seductively and says “don’t you wanna join us old man?” He wanted his job, he wanted them to leave. “No, I need you to leave”.
“We’ll give you this to leave us alone?” She opens her hand and $100 fall out onto the well-kept grass. He picks it up and walks way.

Out of eyesight, he heard a guttural scream.
He ran back.
There was nothing but a blood trail.
& a sound…
Chomp. Chomp. Chomp.