Profusion Be Damned

Eyes feeling decidedly unhealthy, I talked a Ben — well, the Ben, really — off a ledge. The fact that the ledge in question was nonexistent, and consequently unthreatening, seemingly makes this achievement defunct, but I still think there's a certain pleasure to be had in clearing up befuddlements, even if I'm accepting unduly. Sleep is for suckers.

But I wasn't ready to let the B go so soonly. He is, after all, the only character I've got, and even that never extends beyond the recollection inherent in the name. So I grabbed him, gruffly, by the woollies and asked of him another existential nugget in a line too long to be merely repetitive.
"Desire's of no use, but then neither are desirables. And so, in conclusion, we must first tend our own flock before we flock around with other people's — or, if you so wish, other people. Can I go now?"
All right.

Dear boy. My one-man audience once was brimming with reaction, be it faint, stiff praise, or Never Again prayers. But the handiwork of these fingers slowed, almost to a halt, and never showed, if ever it did, a thing but faint obscurantism — almost to a fault. So the T (as in Om), must, must, must, and yet mustn't and won't, slide his data-entry fingers up the date, if only to cure the air of a two-man community which moves at perhaps the least compelling pace this side of fungi.

Life Stoops

Since I last penned: the stories I could tell: number many, as with all, but all, if not most, aren't worth telling. No longer thoroughly abstemious, excluding ubiquitous tea-fuel. Perhaps being a soiled human isn't all that, although no longer can I drift, conversationless, and peer down my nose despite my height. Obviously it's Ben's fault, and, consequently, his decision as to whether to shower himself in scorn or praise. Other pastures — one in particular — remain intangibly obscure, semi-solely due to my new clock, the rest falling upon what ever. So it's limbo.

I'm not raging, and I'm still yet to pay, but should I worry? I don't care to answer that. The shame lies, or doesn't, here, but my fingers repel these ones and those zeros, and good on 'em. I prefer a box of nothing. A mulatto soul so rare, I cherish little else. Only a few more lifeless sentences, innocent, though proven guilty, and we'll be out of here. Not yet worthy of a bankroll. Not yet asleep. Failed at that. You filled in? Good.

319th Anniversary Special!

The wise among us, generally appearing on the objective fringes, know there ain't no worth in being — especially if you're being nasty. Oh, how morals disappear in the wee hours! It's anniverserous to say so, but such a number is a celebration to these grubby fingers, and shall be celebrated regardless of three-in-the-morning nasticisms which a better lass than I would avoid. I can blame visionlessness, heavier than usual eyes, hitherto unused hours, but let's face it, it's my foot at fault.

Y'all wondering what's been goin' on, correct? Who am I to disavow? Thirstly the side: it remains unencumbered, strangely, even if one labels it not. That li'l' ainjil is alilt with more pressing persons, as one must guess, and this one minds less than ever. The word barrel is run, spent and dry. And t'at's all there was. Who's to object? One should not persist with those who don't exist, ay, Ben? Ayben if that person (what person?) did exist, that existence has no effect on this one — though irresistible, I can resist! I'm stronger than my frame lets on.

I can't dribble much longer, but I hope you, the proverbial, remember that number. Yes, the one at the top. It is of no importance, but I'm sure you can accommodate it. Do try.

Hail Mary

Initially, I had this post branded as "Dick The Holes With Fellows' Folly", and intended to explore the average male's perspective on sex during the December holidays, but taste, morality and good judgement rallied together in favour of this most prudish of alternatives, and I was, unfortunately, outvoted. Being not one to accept defeat, I shall in actuality do neither. Cheerio.

Post Waste

Season's.

Hush Music

The finest strain of tea, and the finest of company, and there was I — me —, lashed between uneducated, crawling thoughts, each making an unwise break for my mouth, and chewing, as one does, on a December tart, whilst that unspecified companion of mine, clad boldly in red halves, echoed my jaw's joyous rhythm, only with a decidedly more mundane treat (and beat, while I'm at it), and, I suspected, a more workaday approach. As you will have no doubt gathered by now, this is a situation I often find myself in, but its bottoms are still, teasingly, never quite got at, despite my very sensible reach, and the only way I can inch myself closer (centremetres sound too ugly, you see) is by picking and clawing, sparing nothing in the process. So be it that I may never fully repay your patient eyes!

"It's a mystery to me," he decided, employing the least of his vocabulary.
"Oh, I know," I said. "Oh, I do!"
"You do! I know — I'm glad."
"I do! I am."
"Oh I'm sorry, what of you? I failed to ask. All this of me — unhealthy! What of you?" (This is all to the best of my recollection, mind.)
"Me? Oh, you know — you do. I rummage, I find, I get attached. And the prefix un ruins my fun. That's life, they say; yes — mine especially. There's the early heavens and the late hells, but limbo's the worst. Concrete, even the vilest, has the cool comfort of conformation as its plus; limbo has none such. Limbo is hell masquerading as two possibilities. It shows a skylight to safety and hands you a spade. Do I even mind, though? Somewhat, yes. When someone goes rueful walkabout, later citing a specious fuse, I lose kilos, and demand, quietly, a straightforward sentence. I'd much prefer a felled axe to swinging ligaments. I know, I know, I know — like a Disney lemming to a cliff, someone went off me. Yes, I went off, all right: first, like a rocket; last, like milk. What is it exactly? A smashing surface and an ugly depth? Temporarily interesting virtues? A role and nothing more? Heaven forbid great features. Curse these well-formed boobs."
"Oh, you're a woman this time?" chimed in Ben, helpfully.
"Ya-huh. Innovative spin, no?"
"Lesbian?"
"Of course — I hail from Northcote."
"Coward."
"Wilde."
"Tell me, Miss, is this she to whom you refer (or so I infer) of the earth or of the air?"
"Of the nothing."

Ben: Out of All Proportion

Specifically for my gorgeous muse — named, of all things, Ben —, here is a response to mere prodding. Perhaps one day, on a quiet, earthly beach, his presence alone will set about the musing, but for now his soul purpose can only be reached through goading fists — gorgeous goading fists, granted, but still not innocent, inspirational ones. Thus, I, atop my newly artificial podium, have a question to pose out of all proportion: what shall I wreak?

Smoke! Of course! Raisin affairs —. Or does thou wish to confine his proddee to celebrity fashion criticism?: "Did you see Nickel's prairie dress? It looked as if she'd sat on an effigenic Las Vegas wedding cake at a humorist convention in Berlin.". Yes, my savoir-faire extends even that far — although I suspect my raison d'être neglects those far-flung fields. Do you, Ben? Either way, I have no Francweese tongue and have run out of clichés. But there's always the quo—

"Why do we spend so much or our time reading about fictional characters when we have so many real characters at our disposal, characters who are untainted by the laws of narrative and artistic knowledge, and with whom interaction is infinitely more fulfilling? Are we really so sheltered and hollow that we favour pale reflections of life over the real thing? We listen to other people sing aphorisms in our ears and read about other people's fictional lives on our laps in trains, buses, trams, where we are surrounded by other people, and yet no one does a thing about it — no one glances left. Christ! I mean, we're nearing the end of the last possible year where my age matches the century."
"Um, yes. Very insightful, Ben," I yawned. "Um— Happy birthday?"
"It wasn't really, but I appreciate your belateness."
"Belatedness," I corrected.
"I know; I was being smart."
"Well stop it. I'm tired."
"Fine. Goodnight, darling."
"Goodnight."
"—Darling."
"Goodnight."

Mouth to Mouth to Mine

Part of a piece I may be, but at peace apart I am, regardless of wonts, vain reaches, conjured lust, l—, scenario. Yes: to extent, of cause — but likely I shan't drown self silly for lack of finger, and where it could disappear, nor shall I feel unfull for having lacked thus, and relatives. My mindset on things won't trouble! Oh yes: place thus here, that there — perfect — and end's well, but what does that ensure? Productability, me thinks. Warranty ain't guarantee.

That does not mean there's not a neck I've slunk my hands round, rung, flushed into black mudded river, washed off palms, for reasons beneath me (hello, darling!) and matters out of mine. In fact, it does not mean anything. Glass onions, apparently. Still, with each passing, I'm quite certain I'm gaining attention from clique — less to spread around, you see. Why? I ask. To answer (to whit): for the excitement, sheer guilty, stupid terror — you feel it! You see it and utter Wows — I know — and for the sake of having more talk on matters, as it seems to.
Means nothing, tho..

Dish it out, dish dish — I can take! Beneath the bedding, I'll stick my head in — then you shall experience it once, even if it is inversely.

Four Walls Deep

Four fairly ordinary days in and I was starting to feel overly cautious — at least in regards to where foot meets "it". Five, and I was more or less branded (deed alive) by my auctions, as if I spoke them louder than these things. By the sixth, I was ready to pack the tent and return to Civil, the wife, something (or one) I did on the seventh. But re-integrating was not going to be as easy as that, especially since I was perhaps not as keen on re-integration as I should have been (but no personality or looks — what can you do?). Thus I was rutted therein, with neither the cash nor the will to lift my spirits.

As usual, I turned to the streets. A bottled dame, in particular. Her most arresting features were bruises. Still, she at least had the three points of interest, and I thought it only fair to put what would most likely be the only scrap of food on her table that wasn't fished from a rubbish bin, even if the reciprocation provided only temporary relief. Altruism is my vice, I suppose. And so, with skin disposed and knotted, and sin unwitnessed, I returned, half-satisfied, to the picket fences, wherein I smiled (with internal disdain) at the lawners and ghastly children, even occasionally stooping to a wave, and slipped peacefully into my abode.

Civil had her apron on, as per, and a tray lay across her mitted palms. I plucked a misshapen biscuit and promptly reduced it to wet crumbs in my mouth — someone seems to have accidentally mistaken baking soda for flour. The dear girl.

For Ben's Collection

I am reminded of Oscar Wilde's famous de-closeting quip: "I have nothing to declare but my genus; that is to say, Homo."*

*Originally published by AGF, 2006 — to little applaud!

We're Not at Home to the Broke of Heart

I'm with the Light Brigade, she quipped, yesterday, Monday, with nary on the contrary, as if to say she was light on lumps. Tuesday followed, like all good Tuesdays do, and so did her grave train of thought: I'm on a top of the world, she stilted, beckoning belief, nose in chief. I am, persisted she, I am indeed — and it's nought not oft I say Indeed, 'tis it? Nought not no, I replied, calmly and rudely stealing an obvious glance at the time on my wrist.

The following Wednesday, we went for Melb's poisons of choice, at the old, bleak brew, we two. She ordered each tip-full, brought it to logic's conclusion and gravity's disarmament. And: I love you, I said, meaning each word but the last. Do you?, she tippled, cocking her chin for a laugh. I do, I continued, do you me? Do I who? Do I who? Forget it. I will. Applause. You, she began, seem different today. I snapped: I am different today. Why? I've on a different hat, to fool. To fool? You fool. That as may be, but ask a question— Quiet.

When Wednesday ceased, it seemed Thurs— Good morning, ever chipper I announced, for that was what it was — both senses. Is it? She turned her gaze to her Polish nails. Doesn't seem as though 'tis. Well, your seems apart, that is what it is, my loaf. I forced a stern look upon her. Did you get the newspaper? No. How could I have? Why don't you, then? I intend to. A snort this time. Any time soon? No, any time after I'm distinctly less pink, and washed. I have to do it myself do I? No. Yes I do. Yes you do, then.

What the fuck does I'm With The Light Brigade supposed to mean? Friday's response was merely an insular nod. Nothing? Yes, dear, nothing. What does it mean? Nothing. I fisted the wall. She peered, uncaring, behind her reading rims. Why that for? You won't tell me what you mean. Pah! You're the one who has to fix it. I know. I fingered the hole; this was going to take some fixing.

"That he is only the—"

Yes, Bough Breaker, I am that construction — the three-syllable conclusion to the above appropriation. Supposey it was borne from a mosey, innocently enough, and you'll be supposeying pretty closily. Of course, you'll know there's more — there always is —, but take that on board first, then yell. The answer, you know, was boldly Italian, and, yes, exclamated. Dreary me, deary you.

And so he went, off into the night, hands in pockets, pensive gaze in tow, daisy, of course, in hand, prepared with a joke: The love of a good women? Oh no; I want the love of a great one.

Fiction

Blissfully obscured beneath a trademark stream of brownish, brushed free of curls for the occasion, she looks up at the lens, either faux malevolently or provocatively, and unwittingly at mein mien — my provoked auge organs in particular —, and, at the time, unbeknows my existence, here used for an unexpecting shot-in-four dot com, rather like a Spence-taught Storker. Perhaps I even contemplated returning to original cynicism, always a part, but partially apart of late, or even looming through a pool of dance. Perhaps I thought of Octöber. Either ways, I spent a night truly feeling that ugly thing in my ribs, believe it or not (choose not and I'll appear less feeble). Reason, Logic and the Common Sense all know, and have gathered to discuss, the chances of double hands, which is, they know, as close to the Null as Null itself, but that's hardly surprising.

All you should take of this, dear lady, is that there is an entity, on the small side, whose blood-pumper will always take the time to pump for you, whither once a month or thrice a night, despite frequency or existence of archaic intercourse, and despite your justified opinion. Despite, sometimes, that the sunny side sets on mine. Despite my slipping from criteria. Despite the whole handfuls of clones at your disposal, some disposed enough to touch. Despite it all, dear lady. People are people are people are people, and here's one in particular.

Yours unclearly,

Laurance Melody

Tall Sally

A particularly obnoxious gurgle of the innards makes his presence unwantingly felt by the object next door, a tall spectacular who stoically votes against reaction — which of course makes it all the worse. In due moments, the seat-scraping begins, and everyone's empty. He's over the moon. He takes a daisy from the root, sniffs TV-taught sniff, then plucks, one-by-one, to the tune of Forget Me Not. The answer is affirmed. His sin of the flesh, of being born, has been forgiven (forgotten?) for this stroke, and he's not likely to do anything but seize (and hopefully something other than up). Of course, that's banking on superstition, something which he obsessively disbelieves while obsessively throwing scrunched up bits of paper into wastepaper bins, and is not, he knows, as concrete as a wonderfully firm Yes.

"Hello, lady. How's about ditching those seven blokes you share for this one?"
"That sounds reasonable. How's today sound?"
"Coming from your vocal cords, heavenly."
"Oh stop."
"I'll try, darling. I'd ask you to stop being so lovely as to induce such pap, but I prefer it that way."
"I can see you do. So where shall we wander?"
"You tell me."
"I tell you what?"
"You tell me to kiss you."
"I do?"
"You do."
"Oh all right."
"..."
"Not on the lips."

Soft Poster Boy

Certain marital complications have led me to the conclusion of that there cliff, over which I happened to have fallen, and below which I now sit. And certain uncertaintities in regards to above matter have led me into the wilderness of the outwardly-loined halves of the human equation, somewhere I'd spent the best part of forty years avoiding. Like its creators, it's not a pretty place — Sticky and Diffuse, to name a fuse. But my habitating of it was, of course, inevitable.

Sometimes I feel a bear, who, after losing out in the mating stakes, has resigned to fates of permanent sleep, leaving little time to feel back. But I certainly don't growl like one, and, while on occasion mistaken, I'm not Gecko-Roman — at least not inversely. Mainly I'm just a Soul-Searching, inwardly motivated sock-stuffer, destined, as I am, to suffer. Oh dear, what am I? What've I become? What's my lot? Oh, I'm just a nobody— Quick! I must write this down. The world must know!

Elephant Limbs

If I said I was forthright, would you hold yours against mine? And so poses a thousand bleeding hearts from their respective pepper clubs, each with that long look of pale, sexless yearn. Get Out There, you scream, waving pantomime pelvis and hazarding Nothing-To-Lose — May As Well Try, the latter said with even more exclamation,--- But do they listen? Of course. Do they heed? Of course not. You throw hands, smash fists, and turn backs (yours), then stamp, like their collections, on out a there. They gaze at swung (and swinging) door, with a long look of sexless , pale resentment and self-pits, and then return to backwarding a course to the womb.

Even a stampede of their collective amounts only to quiet, inoffensive complaint. What hope? Who knows. Am I getting a forkful of compensation? Of — course. You know, I sat with the old girl last night, and asked for advice (hers), and she said — Dear, I fear I'm no help here: (yes, in rhyme!),--- and simply returned volley to her cross words. That almost, in itself, gave me the answer. So in the next, I informed them that they were so utterly hopeless, not even I could do a thing, and stomped off the grounds: One of my finer performances. 'Course, must be admitted that this didn't exactly achieve the desired effect, or indeed any effect, desired or not, but you can't accurately say I didn't try.

Ghost Talk

As certain upstairs apparitions have recommended, I could just keep stamp-throwing conclusive helloes — in other words (4), vague pleas — Please! — for Response — in the hope they have the desire-effect, but that runs the risk of coming off a pitying pap, and would betray my effervescence cool, which, logically, should dictate utter non-shallots over the matter,--- Dear sir or madam, this is being writ as both a Hallo and a G'bye, just in case one comes to be more apt, so you, dear, have the matter in your court. What It concerns, is, I'm sure you know, unneeding of explanation. Neverthelesser, Human Relations seems to have hid its secrets well, from me most of all, and that sudden cliff-edge silence has, for the second (and even third) time, left me barking up the tree of the Soul— Is it too much to plead to plead one small sentence? On any matter, of course, dear, although an explanatory one would ease moi the moist, particularly as a final. Oh woe, what did I do?,--- So, you see the problem? You can't just moon about with words like those. If spots were switched, I'd treat it like canned-meat — as in something I'd sooner delete than eat — and never again stick so much as an eyeball into the matter. But what is the matter? (With me? How much time have we got?)

I've bin scuffing my head for reasons, but I can't stumble 'cross the right Juan. It's really got me baffling. Was I too bold? Was I too c-ruel? What could it possibly be, wonders me. The No-Gos I hang with? My Scarlet Lady frequenting? What? What? ——————— Q. in the hall. How does one word such a thing?---: Dear, dear. Hey! Yours sincere:— Obvious, you know. But there is no way without having to say Bye Bye Pride. Exclamatory optional. D'ya notice my cleaver use of thick-blacks above?: A less sensitive me would now say all of 'em are thick; but I'd add all everyones are too,—— Thick is what makes me me and you you. What a dirty mind! What controversy! Outrageous — Did he, I mean Did he, just say that? Some would argue that despite its underlier, it's noting it that be the worst. Ah. What's that a-hangin' from my Akubra®? Why, it's a cork: Please, once more, indulge my Ghost Talk™.

Bad Bones and the Sag

That old phone don't ring no more and that sweet old sun refuse to shine (at least not on my watch — although the glass ain't top-notch), and that empty bed (how sad a sight!) is as empty as it always was, and much emptier than it once wasn't, almost as if, by force of miracle, a cast has spelled my doom, no matter how persuasive my offer (or how slick my hair-gel) —: full of every waxed positive, abounding with compliments — of the stonewash nature —, and even, on occasion, with a fistful of fresh, fat cash (though not in the way you think — if you indeed do — nor in any logic-based way), --- No, like, as it is, I've told, when the skin settles off your bones, so too does any chance of peeling off knee-highs, and so too does, by rights, health and entire happiness: whole happiness — as in, round the Horne — is full of itself back in those less-hunched, less-lessoned days of yore (and mine). But what's the use of spilling milk over it? How could that improve it?

It can't, quoth a new paragraph, nor can it hope to improve anyone within ear's range, --- Virtually it is but a truffle:— hard to swallow, harder to afford, but overall distasteful (couldn't we learn a lesson from that? —: and, in hope, we can't be lessoned by it). But what of it? Let's get the swimmers off and leap into the ice, like René and his alumni have always told and taught us, leaning, as they were, on life-to-the-fullest.

As Black as That

Firstly, to the matter of Heart — here owning to no one but itself — it must be said that, for all its obvious and peculiar deficiencies, particularly in relation to bloodless relations and reason, it is the thing — the thing — which we all stair-trip to obey, and which, when glimpsed through an unthought utterance or vulnerable glance (as opposed to keyhole or blouse), we spend an inordinate mound of time pursuing, often against the rigid and coolly sound laws of arithmetic we reserve for the menial. But the irrational part of the brain — opposed, as it is, to the lifeless organ behind the marimba — is not merely a built-in trifle that sheds the salt, for although it guides us, no matter how ill-advisably, through the ceaseless interactions we make a day and a life of wading through, it does not for a second make any of its caught-gooses feel anything less than utterly worthwhile, even for that of a right of passage with a wrong of outcome — Lesson Learnt; Now I Know — and even when it calls you an Idiot for having done it. Our maths half, however, whose responsibilities are greater only in the sense of Black and White, is never anything less than punishing in both mere feeling and mere fact when the result is anything less than correct, as no trance of emotion is ever achieved or vested upon its tasks — and that's how the world stays and goes round.

In contrast, the matter of Meaning does not come from either of these sources, particularly not the former. In fact, it derives from no less than fiction, whose lifeblood requires definition if it is to pump more than twice in the ear of the reader, listener, viewer, and whose envelope instincts insist upon a lack of ugly nihilism: the one thing in this globule village worth lacking. Can you blame us, then, if we, like the Frenchmen, seek it here, there and everywhere? Whether all this bears dwelling upon is up to the Heart to decide, or the willing to debate, but certainly it is worthy, in the least, of an endnote, albeit one that is firmly after the useful definitions; and though it may not be atop the list of pulse-racers, it also surely deserves a place among the more cob-webbed of the archives, along with the rest of academia's fat. There's been honours honoured on much less, after all.

For all intensive purposes, I'm not the only one gifted — and I use that entirely arbitrarily — enough to step outside the frame and stand back, finger on lip, and nod in that informed manner originally forged by the image-conscious among the gallery-dwellers. There are, in truth, roughly half a billion of us, and although, if you've taken my drift, that may seem entirely xenophobic, particularly in lieu of my own lack of colour, it is actually more forward-thinking than you, if to you this applies, would care to admit. The politically proper view is, as anyone with an ear knows, that every single human form on this earth is cut from the same industrial-size cloth, and thus all equally worthy of equal treatment. But this overlooks the factors of culture, from which no one can readily escape. The reason I have singled out the luckiest of the races as being the only ones capable of removing subjection and moving forward is because they, unlike the too-tanned, are not, in the general and popular sense, persecuted in the same manner as the rest, and persecution, I believe, is something which irreparably makes the Heart the Brain, and thus removes any possibility of reason or ration. Now, obviously they can't be blamed for this, for we are largely responsible, ashamed as I am to admit it, but they certainly can't be considered equal — at least, no more than a dog can. It's merely what they've been dealt, and if it were up to me, it would never have happened. And the same applies to the halves we seek, who are, bless them, all Heart — there was never even the threat of a brain in their history. And pretty Hearts, while perfect for one lifetime and one life, and utterly indispensable for anyone who isn't a rock, are not ably equipped to deal with the progressing of the species. That does not make their role any less integral — personally, I don't think I could ever live without them, and I adore them in the extreme —: all it means is that, in the broader sense, they are not fit to dine when important matters are afoot. Before you brand me a chauvinist as well, let me tell you that if the balance were reversed — that is to say, if we were all Heart and they balanced — I would be the first to admit that I and my kind would not be the people to turn to in matters of great weight, and, taking that a step further, if the tanned (et al) were the persecutors and we the persecuted, I would have no problem handing over the wheel.

If anything is going to change, these sensitive barriers must be broken down. Yes, it may offend people in the short-run, but there's backlash to every change regardless of its provocation, and the sooner we learn this, the sooner we can achieve what the least articulate among us refer to as Peace and Harmony. When people argue from the Heart against equality, I, let me tell you, am as appalled as anyone could possibly be, for Heart-based prejudice is the most nocuous substance known to man, and should never, ever be tolerated, but my argument here is stated with as much objectivity and logic as I or any man can produce, and with absolutely no guidance from that most persuasive of organs. Only superficially could this case be seen to resemble prejudice of any kind, and those who argue anything deeper are merely showing their own prejudices. If you can't see that I am against persecution of any kind (and especially the kind that we have dealt in our sorry past), then you're nothing more than a brainless fool, another of the many things stacked against us.

Leaflet Warfare

Sometimes it slips from mind — that chore part of this gen-er-ation — and after a long period of thus, the realisation that you, in fact, are, comes as an elated, elevated shock. Suddenly you stare out windows with a new sense of verve, and the drizzle and sunshine present nothing in the way of dispelling. Opportunities abound. You're part of the Y. Superficially, that's like being the previous one but with one less leg, but on the deep (lake-wise) level, it's wholly, uncompromisingly, one-thing's-for-surely above all prior letter-branded booms. So open the door. Look out at the salt, hands on hip, and inhale.

What to do? Oh, live with the similarly-minded in squalid ecstasy; climb very small mountains; rally together against carnivores and anti-terrorists. There's so much big, fat choice afforded us. What if I take this? What will I do when I'm ugly? What if I die tonight? With that in mind, I (and we!) may as well party like it was seven years ago. Don't you feel the rush? The rush of change. The rush of revolution. We'll succeed where every single hitherto failed. We'll fuck on the lawn. We'll mercy our enemies. We'll upthrow the gov. and undersell the tax.

The only way we can move forward is to forget the failures of the past. Come, all you Y Sisters, and roll your fillious fannies this way, with the roosters and the Movement. When we look back, crusted though we may be, we'll see Love, Spirit & Revolution, and we'll shed for nostalgia! We had an impact. Who else could you say that for? We may, may, be the last who do.

The Great Novel, we'll all write, upon ancient steps, clawed together as Kerry's road-trip rambling has taught us. And the dry, the half-dead, the gray, the bald will be splashed into irrelevance, like they should have been all along. If we's gonna lead, we's gonna have hair. Show it, grow it, know it. It won't get better without it. And the only way we'll win is if the women (say it so it rhymes) lower their standards, making everyone, essentially, equal. The next time I ask, say Yes! and put the boot up those conservative wingers with a swift lift of the skirt, and a nudge of your Y Sister charm.

Coats for the Betterment

As you may have know-teethed, I have uplifted that iconic still from Harold's moving version of Undie's sketch, featuring, truly, my true self, and used it as a somewhat of a something which goes just there (—>) and positively beams with graffito-optimism — don't you think? The skoon in question was one in which I, as the headmaster (street-wise, if you know what I mean), made my credit-inspired transformation into a tux Romana and leapt off down the street to unearnest Zapparhythms. Obviously my caricature’s past wasn't dwelt upon, being made primarily for an audience who are only sure of two things: its amateurism and its lack of graphic gagging. But certainly that history was there — in almost every frame; I made sure of that.

Credit where credit's accepted: Whenever you glance left, remember that that's my miniscule form but Hazzold's frame, and, apparently, Uncle's ideo (someone's graffitting too). On that bracketed latter, I have, for our sake, dubbed hum Deacon, purely so I can say that that wall there features some of Deacon's remarkable blues. But that's off the rack: The point I'm endeavouring is thus: Harri is responsible, primarily, for that there. Got it?

Pub Life

I'm sure there are many out there who, after being jerked around by the mailman, turn to that most eloquent of drink, drink, and bottom-up. Then, after dunking their fill, they crawl on home to mamo and father, and fridge.

"It's like the most great tamo-reeeeen," they scream. "Or the loveliest of tumbones."
At this point, they seem inwardly motivated, and their hair-pins fail to hold their thoughts in firm, proper place. But they do seem to be having a particularly good time, somehow. There's dim lights, wet spots and ugly sponges, but all in all it's an everyone's-invited.

And so the morale of this tale? Well, the troops therein are actually in good spirits today, thanks mainly to the good spirits they drank last night.

He Ain't Timber Yet

I have recently introduced a timid voice to the fold; a voice whose timbre resonates comfortably within the range of his bedfellows. Now that he owns a piece of land on my ladder, he as eligible for official duties in this timocracy, though by no means is he conscripted to accept them. Initially I thought he would be timorous about having to suddenly compete with the elite, but he seems to have risen the occasion admirably, even going as far as cultivating a whole yard of timothy upon arrival.

His main rival, who has, on occasion, lent his name to foolery, seems to be up to the old tricks again: three posts of tommyrot this time. Although these indicate he is at least refining his ultrasound techniques, I do not, let it be said, believe this in any way indicates a rebirth of reliability. In fact, I doubt there'll be a fourth for at least six-hundred months.

Hooters

Apparently I've made the switch — and activated it. Henceforth here will be hindsought as the anew of a new phase; the second façadical opening in as many. Why should this be any different? Well, it looks slightly different. And it seems my options are limited somewhat; you may have noticed the lack of insightful italics below the links (and even when I plunged into a maze of aich-tee-em-el, I could not rectify this). Also, it's interesting and perhaps predictable to note that I'm currently falling well below last year's quota, and that figure only rose from null in the third month, its birth date. Now, either I could waste precious hand motions making up for this or sit back and let the whole thing slide. Most likely I'll opt the latter while pretending to do the former.

In other news, I'm sure there were much more important things discussed. Still, here it is. And, as all of my friends will testify, today was spent as a crusade for Sunny Boys, in the most literal sense possible. None of them, it seems, were willing to do the much more important things on the things-to-do. But can you blame them? You certainly can. Pricks. But we'll see whose fingers get stepped on on the cliff edge. And whose ears get twinged by passing bicycles. And whose industrial-strength bits and pieces melt off. They drink, they drive, they bloody form verbs from adjectives. Still, you've got to love 'em, don't you? No. Especially not the tiny one with the beard.

I'm sure their breath has more bait than every Pacific line while they're pouring over this. And it's worth every ounce. Long live long-livers.

That Time of the Season!

"Again!" I screamed, rising from my highly portable chair.
"Again?"
"Again!"

And so it was. After a few more agains, I allowed them a rest and a drink.
"What was wrong with the last one?" asked the troublesome among them.
"What was wrong with it?" I chuckled. "My dear fellow! What wasn't wrong with it?"

A time later, Ben opened his eyes and rose from the grass, mischief in his brow. He smoothed off his dinner suit and waxed the thinnest of thin smiles at no one in particular, then plucked the thermos from the makeshift and pummeled a delightful cup of hot chocolate. A thick brown mustache soon showed his appreciation.

"If I weren't such a bigot, I'd come over there and finger-wipe that artificial facial hair clean off. And I'd do it pretty damn lovingly too," said Harry, nodding convincingly.
"And if I weren't such a reasonable person, I might just let you," said Ben cooly.

Tom was in the ice box, rummaging for soda, as per. He had just finished wedding an arrangement of his kinfolk's concoction and he wasn't going to swallow it without the aid of non-alcoholic bubbles. Thankfully, the task turned out a complete success, and Tom and his soda soon shared a kiss.

"Again!" I called, prompting them back into Action mode.
"Shall we do it any differently?"
"Certainly not."

And that's how it went. That was my day. How about you? Did you have a good day too? I hope you did.

A Nation's Drum

It's sun-drenched today — I'm sure you've noticed. Believe it or not, I spent the best part of the early four on a corrugated roof, cork hat in tow. The stars were out, so the sky was empty. I don't think they're early-risers. Still, a naked sky is better than a blue one, and I remained rooted. Interestingly, there was a starving kid on the lawn. We had a long discussion about the fate of the semi-colon before he collapsed. My doctor's eyes pronounced his death.

When I returned in of doors, I dictaphoned some arguments about the over-reliance on dashes and the stop-start clunkiness of late, some of which may have been paraphrased from my recently deceased, and then made a cereal breakfast by cutting a rectangular eye-hole in the box. The rest of the morning was soundtracked by a certain singer-songwriter's Southern Hemispheric insights on what makes this place great. Him.

And now here I sit, feeling rather like sticking my head in some dirt. We've all had those days. I also feel like prancing about the garden. We've those too.

Now I'm going to put the first syllable in Tuesday and feast.

Ben's Got Back

As of a day or so ago, I believe. The fog surrounding him doesn't seem to have cleared very much, but, while I can clearly type, I can't talk. I wonder if he made it to his namesake's symphonic dabble on the night of his return. I also wonder if he brought the twelve roses I requested of him, each to complete, in conjunction with the others, two half-dozens, for I need them to decorate a currently roseless bed I one day hope to climb into — upon invitation.

Before he left, Ben informed me that art takes the long way round to where science already is. True, that.

From Here to Hurling

Events of late cast a streak down reputations, as has oft. been predicted. It seems that to truly break with tradition one must truly break with verve. Envious, as accused, I hurtled my fingers off at this whole world and found that my true carnal desire was to lack. The follow, I'm sure, you can picture: Me, hands raised, head back, knees grounded, screaming into the rain, below the balcony, my object fluttering her eyelashes coldly behind the window, hair in a bun, as per. And the following you may wish as aural accompany: "Me? Oh, just someone who rode a bus with you". The reply was vicious, in a hit-me-with-a-brick kind of way, and choice was whittled into merely leaving as quick as p. and chewing pride, dignity, lust. To slice ease through my embarrassment, I spurned six-hundred pages of poise and prose upon returning: self-pity and bile et cet., aimed at us. That's how the guilty artistes live with themselves. And that's how I found myself, guitar in hand, the following morning, murdering my favourite uplifting anthem beneath 'er window.

"And it felt like church bells or the whistle of a train," I sang, attempting to maintain the strum while thumping my chest heroically.
"Jesus Jesus Jesus."
"As I pray that you will hold me dear."
"You had better get the heck off my property."
"When the sun— What?"
"You heard me."
"Oh. I guess this is goodbye then."
"No, this is me telling you to get the hell off my property."
"Heck."
"What?"
"Bye."

At times like that, the only thing you can do is sit upon the highest limb of a tall tree and chew awhile, so I went back home and watched television.

The News

For something's sake, I'd best inform you that The News is now Think Hollow. Why? Well, it's slightly less dull this way. Anywhich, it's had a few false starts as of late, but so's Rome. Hopefully things, as well as turning out relatively well, glance up. In other news, I seem to have developed that sordid case of lazy fingers that seems to capture everyone without an enforced deadline. Whoa whoa is me.

The Good Heavens

As you are all no doubt fully aware, the now-absent witnessed, sans permission, the whole sorry scene from the panoramic view offered by the key-shaped hole in the door we were behind, and no matter how present and diverse the spread of missing sheets, his forty-seven year old bones do not reacquaint themselves with us, and neither do the ligaments and skin attached to them. But our voices still boom down wind-swept streets and mottled fields whenever a free hour comes our way, knowing, as we do, that guilt is cleansed by feigning concern.

The offending scene played thus:

Me: My darling Nasturtium, how goes you this morning?
Nasturtium: I goes quite fine, thank you, sir. And yourself?
M: Myself is fine too. Would you care to hear a joke, little love?
N: I'd love to care to hear a joke, my bare bedfellow.
M: Then I shall hear you one.
N: Splendid.
M: You are, o lady of my love.
N: I are?
M: You are, my darling Nasturtium.
N: Then, my endearing dear, I thank you.
M: And I accept, little love. And to that joke I go now.
N: And I too.
M: What is it you get if you cross maize with a college?
N: I don't think I'm sure.
M: A unicorn!

And so on. You can understand why such an exchange sent him fleeing. Both of us regret our actions, and if we were allowed the chance to repeat our actions, we would not.

Tomorrow is our wedding, the second for both of us, having each seen the outs of premature love, and we are both going to be secretly hoping our friend appears and reconciliation is achieved. Before I go on, I should tell you we met while waiting for the 250 on a particularly rainy day. She had forgotten her umbrella.

It's funny how false starts lead to the very right person. For all intents, we will not be split henceforth. Not even such an event as above can twain us. My darling Nasturtium and I, culprits of our friend's hiding, are what's known as two sides of the same coin, and as inseparable as the same. Also, if it were up to me, this would be titled My Darling Nasturtium, and what a fitting title it would be!

Tiddle Oo

For those leaning out their balconies, here's news of Ben's reclamation of his throne, in lieu of a.) his superior bips and baps in the relatively frequent posters field, and b.) the fact that the previous occupant, salt-mouthed Harry, no longer meets the only criteria that got him the top spot: updating.

In other news, Undo has decided it wise to return to the fold with his paralleled observations on culture pop. I'll put his new address on the side when I'm bored enough. 'Sunlikely that it will be a beacon of activity, but hey, it exists.

Edged To Division

No longer will I be subjecting you, if you indeed exist, to top ten/eleven album variations every time my mind decides to change — not here, at any rate. In other words, I'm splitting my atoms, leaving my Eves untouched, by dedicating this mess before you to things on the fuction side of the fence, and devoting an entirely new page —now titled Think Hollow — to my flights of not entirely lying: badly researched essays and the like. Rather than write the ones I'm supposed to, with narrow frames in which to work, and horrendously closed off and utterly uninthralling matters of subject no herman being in their right mind would enjoy writing or invest any effort in beyond what seems to be required, I am going to employ most of my admittedly less than super pen-handling skills writing junk that actually interests me, and has no socio-something-or-rather value whatsoever, but which satisfies the highly personal requirement of "I actually feel like writing this". It will, most likely, end up being mostly focused on the aural side of things, but it has no particular theme beyond its nonness in the face of fiction, so anything on anything could crop up and and at will. Wow. Could that well be the first instance of two "And"s side by side actually making sense? I'm going to put that in bold now.

Anyway, that's the cut and jibe of the matter. There's been an ugly essay-what-ist rearing to get out all along, and recent internal compositions along those lines have inspired this sudden unleashen, although maybe the tubular bell himself, often dubbed a ball of something or rather, might have had a hand in it, much as I don't want to admit it. But mostly it's because I have the constant urge to post slightly updated versions of those top ten/eleven things every ten seconds, and it kind of jars with the rest of this junk.

So there you go. I might even be at the new place more frequently.

Oily in the Morning

Anyway, as I was saying, I was pounding the beat down Peanut Lane, my shoes in a right mess, when out of the corner of my eye comes a tear. Now, I'll admit I tried to avoid him at first — tears aren't the most illuminating of companies to keep, you see. But I soon saw reason (behind the boat shed, smoking a fag) and he convinced me to see straight. Straight wasn't in his office, however, so I went back to smoking, pleading on his doorstep with a handful of azaleas. But the deadly Mr. S. was having none of it — not even when I tried to force it — thus leaving me, again, I guess you could say, without sense; he took all my money too.

Two days later, I found myself atop a four-story car park, and I waved to him joyously, who, being a phobe, did not appreciate being used as a flag. Either way, his consternation had nothing of an effect on me, and I was free to prick my ears to this newfound car park friend:

"I spend the nigh un a walkun bed, and all swords of woiled things huppand. You know the drell: korpets wobblun, guy-scrabers, vunny-looking beeble — beeble oo need beeble. It was absloodly amasin. N then, uv cores, I waig up and it sall borun and nomul agin. *hack* Excuse me."

I listened in amazement. Withdrawing and paying him, I returned my attention to myself and asked if all was true. He told me no, all was not true — in fact all had been cheating on him for several years. I reasoned with him, who had just walked in on the conversation and I engaged in an act of fiction, and then I reasoned, in turn, with myself, saying that maybe the fault lay with several years. He then countered by saying everyone lay with several years, and I was not happy. To anyway who knew the both of us, as well as me and not happy, this would be already quite clear, but I say it to all those who may, for some reason, think we are the same, another person entirely.

This was a real corker, wasn't it?

Blind Pulling the Blind

Thank hock I made it beneath, just, N.Z.'s favourite number, plus two zeros. Yes, it was another of those worthy causes I throw myself in front of trains for, all in the name of defiance. Incidentally, that is also the name of the thing which for me has no end; something is being defied, yes, but what?

Yesterday I was out doing things — viz. eating curlies — and I happened to think up an appropriate ending to this.

The Flying Englishman

So off he treads, headed for the eloquence, rain and apparently decent cups of brown, and then to the hot hole for contrast and a cinematic backdrop. Here's a hat off to him. The second in as many months to do so, perhaps with differing reasons, perhaps not. Less of a coy fool about it, that's for sure. He who clinks the drinks obviously doesn't go for such cowardly deceit. Deceit is for lying, yet lying on deceit is mighty uncomfortable.

'Luck and see you as September closes.

A Sock for Justness

Feeling the steady flow of wistful at a time like this is like a tomb of flowers, i'n't it? You creep down ever so slowly, remove garb, nod to the partition and steady into temporary decline, where you, as a second person foil for the first, quietly and painfully admit the absence of a spine. It's not much fun wobbling about the ol' day-to-day, but it feels like a brace, and is as hard to break, especially. But for anyone with a spine, it would be like snapping a particularly easy-to-snap twig. I wonder if you can buy one. Still, there's no point coding the world's non-issues. Let's get down to the business of who puts what where.

Vicious Fancies

This is where it lops off the edge. Rather than cast my mind to the Monuments of M—™ , I have instead decided to be more accurate and slate my passing-fancies — the things fresh in the back of my skull. Once here followed a list. Now, not.

The Benefits of Boredom

I was on my way home from either school or a drinking session somewhere, and waiting at the station for a train that seemed to be punctual only to the hour. Gazing at my watch didn't make the time go any faster, surprisingly, so I fished my flip phone from my pocket and began mashing the buttons. After a while of doing this, I noticed the phone switch to camera mode and display a blurry image of the ground below me. This intrigued me immensely and I began snapping wildly at the surrounding environment, capturing this fence and that bin, and this discarded chocolate bar wrapper and that tree. Soon, however, I grew tired of this and I begun to wonder what I could do to make it more interesting. Then it struck me. What would happen if I took a picture of myself? Instead of merely theorising this thought, I held the phone out in front of me, uttered a small prayer and snapped. I opened my eyes. I was still there. Panting, I reviewed the picture on the phone. It was incredible. It was... me.

After snapping approximately forty four similar shots, I was startled to discover that it had lost none of its charm. Indeed I even began to hope the train would be delayed even longer and give me more excuses to further my Art. But, alas, the train did arrive, and its crowded carriages stunted my photography. I used this time to review the photos I had already taken. They were all incredible. To the casual observer, they may all look so similar that you'd wonder why I took so many, but to anyone with an open mind, they were a revelation. I excelled in subtlety. A slight change of angle here, a minor tilt of the head there and, in extreme cases, a change in location, was all I needed to explore the inner depths of my soul. And it never got indulgent. Perhaps that was the thing that surprised me most. No matter how many seemingly identical photos I took of myself, they all maintained a freshness and vitality that would put most galleries to shame.

Sometimes, just sometimes, I'd squeeze someone else's head in there, but they were much less successful and, as a result, much rarer. They were crass rather than intimate and personal; they had no point. With the self-portraits, I was exploring a theme, and each photo developed that theme; with the group shots, I was just having fun with my friends. Now, there's nothing wrong with having fun with friends, but really, it's not art.

Having thousands of shots on my phone was all very well and good, but nobody was seeing them but me. That was indulgent, I'll admit. So I decided to upload them to my website, which was probably the most significant development in my art. Now everybody saw them. And everybody loved them. I was afraid people wouldn't understand it, and there were a couple of people who clearly didn't, but on the whole the response was overwhelmingly positive. I had struck gold.

The great thing about the series is that it will always remain fresh and interesting. Why? Because I keep changing. It's a reflection of me, where I'm at when I took it. It's comforting. It's a friend when you're lonely. I hope you all enjoy it.

Loveless

We're Doing It For Love:
A Benefit Tribute Concert For Arthur Lee.
Coming soon. Beacon Theatre. All ages.

One and half masterpieces ain't bad.

My previous post, written before his death, was called "The Steaming Sounds Of Love". It was a reference to a Steely Dan song. The Dean of American rock critics, Robert Christgau, once made a passing connection between Love and Steely Dan. "Steaming" is a synonym for dead. Coincidental?

The Steaming Sounds of Love

A baker's dozen rode the pedestal to one of the more memorable speeches delivered in that hall, and there wasn't a dry ice in the house (mainly because at this point they were comprised solely of flowers). Upon completion, the dozen or so danced shallowly off the spotlight and strode out of view, to little consternation — the consternation of little — and the hall was left in the ruin it enjoyed for the majority. As the people rose from their flowery seats, a caution rang out from a police box and sent the usual labour into backspin. Each was burnt, singed and easily overemployed in their prospects, but it was undertaken in such a joyous manner that you couldn't help but stand back, lip your chosen finger and admire. Indeed the arising ecstasy was so infectious that three passers were bedridden by noon, and a cure wasn't concocted until the following.

The public usually don't address such matters formally, so it's up to ministers and paper-juicers to express either their consternation or joy or ecstasy in fancy small words, of the people. Too many times, however, these articulations are simply extracts of what could extend to several volumes, at least. And usually, they aren't concerned with the right angles, or imbued with the right moral sense, but their existence is as vital as a rising sun.

It is personally considered that each person worth their salt should at some point spin either 1997 or 2001's comebacks while clicking or viewing that early '90s sequel inspired by the much earlier rollercoaster, which has inturn spurned the latest projection sequel, during Christmas time.