Past Life

As Mikey walks through his past life he stumbles across the old two-story dive bar he used to work at. 20 dollars an hour to deep fry prawns in the back and drink cocktails with customers.
What a job.

He begins to walk upstairs and accidentally catches the eye of a beautiful woman sitting with four self-important fellows; he winks and finishes his graceful climb up the carpeted stairs.

Feeling glares penetrate the back of his neck, “believe it Mikey, they noticed that.”

Mikey begins walking towards the toilet, no one he knows works here anymore and he is worried. Other than the staff nothing has changed, but he is still worried. The vibes pretty important and Mikey supposes the vibe has changed.

Because those round tables with those plush benches encasing them so elegantly that it makes you wonder are still there, and those portraits of stern faced rock gods dressed in old ladies’ frocks looking down at the customers are still there, and the customers, still enjoying the fried prawns and 10-dollar cocktails with a small serving of drag Bowie watching them with his piercing alternative eyes are still there.

But the Bartender wasn’t smiling and this whole place was off, stinking further of rotten dreams and acrid break ups.

Mikey finally walks into the surprisingly clean bathroom (It was never clean when he worked there). The bathroom had a urinal on the left and a cubicle on the right with the wash basin beside the door.

Approaching the urinal, he unzips his jeans and hears “Where’s that cool guy?”

The door flings open and one of those guys from the table with the girl is there with a cold glint in his eyes and the old meat knife from the kitchen.

Mikey, unsure, with his extra appendage still out, jumps into the cubicle and tries to lock it.

The lock won’t budge.

This was distressing to Mikey, even though he knew that if this guy was determined, a lock was pretty much useless.

Wanting to speak but clearly afraid he waits for his own inner-moment of shock to abate, but it doesn’t.

This man was hacking at the cubicle door with his kitchen machete and thankfully, for just one second it got caught, the blade was stuck.

Mikey took the initiative and slams into the door, knocking the knife out of the man’s hand and shoving him against the wall, Mikey takes a swing but the man dodges and runs out of the bathroom and back downstairs.

Mikey, with that stupid adrenaline that he sometimes gets after a fight decides to follow him out the building.

He begins running down the street, passing a two-dollar shop and a tough sort of mother with a young child in a pram.

Sick of being chased by some young punk who made a ‘pass at his girl’ the man pulls out a handgun and begins emptying his gun. In his exhaustion he missed everybody.

The mother, outraged, tackles the man into the busy street where they are both hit by an oncoming car.

Mikey, distraught and confused walked into the two-dollar shop and asked to use their phone to call the police.

That was Mikey’s past life.

Not Worth Nothing

“I’m enjoying myself,” said the young man in his mind. Flying to the limits of his own atmosphere he reaches for the sky in his imagination. The party is around him and he is so in conversation with a group of people who actually get him.

People usually get him to some degree, but these people actually get him; to the point of having a wild conversation with so much depth that you’d be struggling to swim out of.
“I’m enjoying myself!”

He only said that because he was surprised, he was surprised and he knows that it usually isn’t so.

He can go to a party but what’s there really for him?

A couple of beers or a lot of beers, maybe a puff or two and then what? A couple of Deep and meaningful’s that have all been said or thought of before, great.

But he’s not dwelling on that, he can say what he needs to say here and he lets it out.

“I’m not sure about that, but what do you think about this?” And so on, to the point that even his brilliant conversation has lost meaning and he has whirlwinded out into an uneven playing field which will never give him the rule book or let him know even one rule.

“Play to find out” or “we’ll just play, you’ll catch on”

… fun.

So, he spirals to the same old conversations that show he has no real rapport with any of his friends and begins partying harder than usual, people are surprised as well now. You start to see their admiration, it’s showing in their eyes and growing in their speech.

The party looks like one of those American house parties that you see on bogus sit coms in their bogus houses with their bogus red cups. He’s not having a dig but it all looks fake.

He’s lost control now and is outside on the porch giving a hello to the garden with the contents of his stomach.


He stumbles back in and finds himself in a bed, not keeping it together at all.

A girl he pronounced his love to earlier came in to check if he was alright or maybe for a cuddle but he has no conscious.

That was the end of a night that was probably not worth nothing in the end.


Every Second Counts

Every second counts
Mike wakes up and doesn’t give himself a second.
Brews a coffee and has a shower.
He walks around the house drying himself off and picking his clothes for the day.
He pushes the plunger down whilst taking only that moment to smell the coffee.
Before tainting it with cold water and downing it like a glass of water after a long day in the hot sun.
Every second counts.

And you all know that he’s not going to properly say goodbye to his house.
Empty cups except for their coffee stains, water on the floor and an overflowing bin.
A last minute sort of a guy.
Deadlines are his best friends because he spends most of his time thinking about them.
Every second counts.

Another moment where he can’t be bothered to take an extra second is when he reverses out of the driveway.
Not bothering with the three point turn ritual.
He likes the challenge anyway, or so he says.
He plays comedy on the way to work because he can’t be bothered to listen to it at home.
Surfing the web is the most important thing any member of society can do.
Hang ten bro.
Every second counts.

Thinking about a joke he enters work with a smile, he thinks people are happy to see him.
He doesn’t dare think otherwise because that’s a slippery slope and he’s probably been there.
He’s not entirely aware because he’s not entirely aware of his own thoughts and his own feelings.
They are just there and they will spring up out of that glazE mindset with sludge soaked hands.
Before he even had his cup of tea.
Every second counts.

He licked his girlfriends nipple this morning in some sort of game.
That was fun.
It was a fun lick.
Something about it made him realise how much he really did love her.
Every second counts.

Deftly appreciating life as even the sour, dull moments will harbour importance if he lets them anchor.

The wondering man and the fighter

There once was a wondering soldier who would fight any battle for gold.
He would scour the lands looking for any fight that could earn him even the smallest gold piece.
He fought with a 9 inch dagger forged with ice cold steel and a hilt made out of heaven-oak said to have fallen out of the sky on the summer zenith.
He was good at his job and he knew it.
A solitary man who knew his own way.
He carved his path through history not knowing his age or his destiny.
Never thinking about what came next because he never knew nor cared.
Through the ages he got better and wiser without realising and without putting any practice into his thought.
Just by experiencing he became a scholar so learned that others would come to him with questions for him to reply always with something like this “As a rock experiences it’s defeat, it becomes smaller. But as it rolls down a hill it brings much force, When it travels a kilometer it meets many friends and when it becomes composed so will everything else.”
One day a young woman was searching for a wooden staff to practice a new fighting style that a foreigner had been teaching her neighbours.
She was always listening in and she loved it all but never got the chance to fight because she didnt have the tool!
So wondering along the great forest with her little dog she stumbled upon the old wise man walking towards the town carring his dagger ready for a new job.
Awed at such a unique weapon she asked “where did you get that dagger!?”surprised at such an uncouth question the wise man simply said “a friend”
“Oh” replied the woman “can i meet your friend?”
“He’s far away” said the wise man
“I’d still like to meet him”
“Well you have met me”
“So? You’re just an old man with a dagger”
“Is that all you see?” Said the man
“Its not what I want to see” said the woman “I’m looking for a great wooden branch to create a staff”
“What’s wrong with that one?” Said the man pointing at the closest sturdiest branch”
It was about 5 foot long and a little bit bent.
The girl; annoyed said “does that look like a great branch to you?”
“No but its not the weapon the fighter holds its how the fighter holds it.”
“You are looking for trouble old man” replied the fighter.
“Precisely so” said the man “but not your kind of trouble.
If you find a better branch let me know. But I think that would do the trick”
The girl frustrated at the old mans arrogance climbed up the tree and cut the branch down, as it fell she shouted “You better run, I’m going to beat you with your favourite stick.”
Amused the man scoffed “I have not run from anything in my life, let alone a novice with a stick”
The fighter screamed and jumped out of the tree, grabbing the stick as she rolled out of the fall.
Swinging it as soon as she gained her stance.
The wanderer simply parried with his tiny dagger.
And she swung and he parried over and over again. Till eventually, the fighter covered with nicks, bleeding all over and with arms as heavy as lead conceded.
The wanderer amused accepted her defeat but on his terms.
“One gold piece” he said.
“I have none but these clothes and my dog.” Said the fighter.
“That’s not true” replied the wanderer “you have that beautiful staff”
It seemed the brilliant properties of the wandering mans dagger had shaped the fighters branch into a smooth almost translucent staff that seemed to resonate fire.
” I want you to go into the nearest village with me and earn that gold piece”
The fighter agreed leaving any doubt behind of the old mans clarity.
The end

I think I doubt I am

Feeling weak not free on this imaginary friday, thinking I need to recover myself and this alcohol doesn’t want to help, isn’t helping and isn’t gonna help, no way. Thinking about that insane Inane Inhumane ambition some people have to  somehow be on top

Inhumane;thinking back I must have taken you for a ride. I hope you’re still not spun out on me because I can drive even me insane; I haven’t even seen or heard from my friends in days which feel like months. Some soft sort of pain vibrating through my body. Too much bad food? Too much alcohol? Maybe I’m just paranoid from all those blazed days sitting in the forest or on the broken trampoline or even that water tower just above the school. And to top everything off I got a nasty bruise on my face ouch and my self confidence is at an all time low, ouch.

One friend calls me like we had plans but I don’t know maybe he’s dragging me down. Because I feel like a goddamn drag. Dead bodies of pure animals golden retrievers and the like being dragged, either dead or drugged poor things. They can have some pity.

Inane; maybe if I had some sort of talent other then writing like some desperate wannabe or playing some simple tune.

I AM, I’m not special or brilliant I’m just as depraved and ugly as anything how depressing.

If there is a beauty in me I’m not ready to accept it. All I know is I just am. And maybe I’m beautiful and maybe it’s what I make and what I put my effort in which defines me.

One things for sure, no more TV.

some people have to somehow be on top

Death death

We were walking down the streets of Paris so I say “I’ve been here, I think” and as a reply my friends (who will leave me soon) mumble something incoherent. We walk around the corner and line up in the garden with gates for an upstairs party twenty floors high. People are shouting and a woman I know but with a moustache this time was there, and it wasn’t a feminine moustache it was a big bushy muttonchop thing, it looked good on her.

Later I was talking to a friend and he said pretty certain that I looked like I was hopped up on go. Which makes sense as all I can do is forget.

I lost my shoe but it reappeared, not black this time but both were salmon and I didn’t mind because people were already causing havoc. And I was making it in! But this nasty guy and all his buddies were at the door. I say hey and move the hell along because this guy doesn’t have nothing decent to make of himself, just violence, volume and abuse.

So I keep the story rolling and make it up to the party though I never Catch up with my buddies after that point and that’s alright because making new friends whacked out, hopped up and z-z-zonked is always pretty fun.

Not truly but most clearly the next thing I remember I was in a car squashed squished to the sides I look around and there’s the bad guy.

Next thing I remember we’re in the back of this big rickety trickety truck with the door open and the trailer open and a friend is here! But company is still unpleasant. We must of been overloading because this idea is terrible and I’m not sure if I’m still having fun. I go to the corner and stay. Vibe in the corner and stay. No way! That is a big colourful thing, extremely heavy and not tied down like it’s ready to fly out and take one of us with it. So one of the big baddies (I remember him being slightly more understanding) chucks the whole thing out as if it’s a big soon to be paint on the road; wooden colours, painted wood blue, red, green, yellow, blue all there all everywhere. And the madman shouts! He dances with glee nearly doing a jingle out of the truck and into a graveyard.

My friend tries to congratulate the big man but the biggie steps back and slips holding on by a thread well a finger he sings out help me help me in a drastic lullaby. Sam tries to move but is stuck scared to lend a hand might he share the same fate and the nasty guys sitting closest to the cab watching it all not moving a muscle. I remember yelling save him but that’s all I could do and my friend well he called an ambulance while looking the dying man in his eyes.

‘That’s the second to die tonight’ I think while grasping at straws who else could have faltered except that other baddie in a guard dog’s jaws.

Last day rumble

there’s nothing better when you lie down and your sheets still smell like a woman. People rave and rave about clean sheets but I don’t know what the fuss is about.

Humbled… I’d describe today with a feeling of smallness and a greater sense. I love climbing, today I had two tiny bits of plastic digging into my heels and two bits of metal halting my toes encased around some ‘proooteccctivvee caasssinngg’  oh baby it was painful I’ll tell you, it’s still painful now. But we climbed a truly pointless climb in a powerful manner, I mean nothing could stop us. Not even the threat of blisters and when our lungs screamed we laughed and continued our psychopathic climb to a small slice of freedom. Just a small climb but it was one too pack a punch wham smack. We made it back but still bang crack lucky we packed a lunch. And you know my feet are still killing me, while Lachy took photos of Jesse and Toby I just stood while they screamed and tussled in an insane madness up so high I sat overwhelmed touched and shrunk I was so small up so high the ground so brown and red with leaves and rocks committing nothing to no cause. Jutting out like they got something to stop. Like a universal right granted to everything to do what ever in heaven or hell it he or she or it wants.

Wow I was so humbled standing on the edge I could jump fall or slip and it would just happen how is that? I’m pretty sure four years ago I was invincible and maybe I still am. I know my mother wishes it was so.

Why what a week it passed like an hour and more tragedy has unfolded by the end, pain and bitter disappointment are drawn into my buddies lives but you know, definitely not mine. Which is weird.

Snake oh snakey snake snake “SNAKE”.. Woah good spot Jess.                         A little yellow belly black scooting along in the bush and we’re all thinking this place is insane. Hungry as a horse we fly back into town and nearly hit a bus a long the windy roads of Wilsons creek and then a Subaru shortly after. Recieve the cold shoulder from a lollipop man oh well. Quick look for a park no parks here so we scoot scoot scoot faster lachs gotta work and we could eat every pie in the shop. We buy one and then another save a drink for later and make 20ks in 5 minutes.

Backtrack to the 28th

Can this month go any slower? I slam my first real car in a pole and time pops a dozen chill pills. Enjoying the moment is one thing but I’m not. Waiting for my bike licence with a big lug for transport is eating my soul, moral shred by decent morsel. It could be worse, I mean I could have died a fresh young man and not a withered youngish man.

Just waiting, stationary while life goes on at this drugged pace with little to no regard for wants or desires. A flattering description of this world can be forced upon all souls but in reality nobody really cares and if they do they have a strange way of showing it.