TIIIMBERRRR!!!!!!!!!!!!!

If a bear shits dreamily in the woods and the fucking pope is nowhere near the scene of the rather serene crime to hear anything about it, then what's the point of it being posted on some weirdo's music blog where no-one will ever fucking well smell that shit? There is no point at all, one would argue correctly. This explains why it must be posted on this motherfucker right here, this mighty bastion of mainstream indie-alternative trend-setting, this new cool cunt fuckwit bible, this extremely-well-known-except-only-in-the-coolest-kids-on-the-interwebz-circles music and other cool stuff interweblog, this super successful superstar elitist style sensation that like ptch4k or whatever like totes wishes it could be, but knows it never will be because like chuh as if, this space that is soon to be smothered in heaps of hyper lucrative hispter fashion label advertising, extorting money out of its fucking fabulously fashionable fanbase, whose super sublimely sensational taste in absolutely everything and soul squashing preoccupation with social status leads them buy a whole bunch of ridiculous shit they don't need in the slightest but desperately need to own for the sake of the consumer-item cultural capital that it brings to their personal brand, thus making the 'uber-cool' capitalist pigdog AmeriApparel style 'socially conscious' corporations (and consequently the best blog ever itself) ultra rich and therefore even cooler, this be all and end all of music and modern cultural criticism, this blog that this blog reccomends ultra-highly, that this blog suggests that if you don't like it you're probably a loser or weird or something, and gives its new album 10.3 out of 9.... Conversations With Unicorns.

unified suck farts....

the distant, the mournful,
sound of a ships horn,
suggesting nothing more,
than the sad exhale,
of a distant god,
watching the pathetic struggles of humans.

(blowing their noses, for example, or...
performing unified suck farts.)

from a funny memo from a funny memo...

millas,

probablemente ya lo hayas escuchado.

me agrada



XD

I kinda like pretty, overly-opinionated hippy girls who clearly have no idea what they are talking about.
In fact I'm pretty sure I am one.
I just wish people didn't believe in dragons.
Stuff that we can see is amazing.
We can make magic with our minds, and this is good.
Lots of lies are good.
Beautiful lies aren't evil, but no-one should claim they are true.
Believing lies is what got us in this whole fucked-up mess in the first place.

sitting and staring sadly...

No tenia disposición mas que dos experiencias: la del sujeto mirado y la del sujeto mirarte. - Roland Barthes, La Camara Lucida ~ 1980.

An image begins its movement the instant we look at it.
They transform from the stoned certainty of the sensory chase, into a flowing pool of fluid meaning the instant they are captured and frozen. No matter the form a mediated memory takes, a video, a picture, a painting, a photo, there will always be movements brimming with the life of the viewer, and therefore will do a different dance for each person who picks its up. Never believe what you see. Particularly in an ever-moving memory object. For while you are looking at it and leering, like a ravenous and arrogant jackal on a desperate quest for meaning and blood, you are only staring in a mirror of memory, and it is looking back at you and laughly silently. We know this, we've talked about this, but words can't describe the magical physical manifestations of sentimentality. 

Barthes wrote Camera Lucia as a eulogy for his mother.

Sentimentality changed he though about thinking about looking at pictures.

Codes of culture and language and philosophy are limited in terms of truly understanding anything.

They often have no relevance love and pain and the past.
Love and pain and the past are all just words.

a tale of two cities #3...

your coke is cooked by satan in the pits of hell

This is what the front of the 'news' pieces of paper look like in Monterrey, every single day.
This is not what Monterrey looks like every single day.
Not from what I have actually seen.

This is what the first article on the Melburnian internet news screen reads like today.

http://www.theage.com.au/national/mexican-cocaine-baron-muscles-in-20100914-15axd.html

ONE of the world's most powerful organised crime syndicates, Mexico's Sinaloa cartel, has infiltrated Australia, importing up to half of the cocaine used on the nation's east coast over the past two years.

Don't worry, they are lovely family cartel who swim in pools of flowers and play hand claps with your kids.
If it was the zetas you would have  reason to be concerned, but Sinaloa chaps are happy and clappy.
¡Ask anyone wey!

It has also highlighted how the surging numbers of Australian cocaine users is helping enrich a network responsible for the deaths of thousands of Mexicans and the destabilisation of the Mexican state.

Think about the world outside your neighbourhood and outside the inside of your nose.
In relation to legs, I'm an amputee who lives in a glass house full of head fucking rocks.

The Sinaloa cartel is controlled by billionaire drug lord Joaquin ''El Chapo'' Guzman. Its clashes with rival drug syndicates fuel unprecedented bloodshed and corruption in Mexico.

But it is alright, when the government start openly doing deals with the cartels again, everything will be alright.
The media will tell the truth, democracy will be more open and accountable to the people, and everyone will work to help eradicate inequality and the slow death of the poverty stricken rural population of Mexico.
¡Ask anyone wey!

More than 28,000 people have died in Mexico since 2006, when President Felipe Calderon ordered 50,000 soldiers to join police in a ''drug war'' that some senior Mexican officials now believe has been lost. 

 So we need to regroup, buy more guns, buy more tanks, authorise the use of chemical weapons in the city streets, kill every single last one of the bastards, win the war, and everything will be awesome. Like in America. Like in America after they won WWII, because they are strong and brave and smart and the best.
¡Its true dude!

US Secretary of State Hillary Clinton recently said Mexico's drug cartels were beginning to resemble an insurgency. ''It's looking more and more like Colombia looked 20 years ago, when the narco-traffickers controlled certain parts of the country,'' she said.

We should carpet bomb those parts of the country, strafe the farms and villages with helicopter gunships.
It worked for America in Vietnam.
!Trust us!

Cocaine use has surged across Australia over the past two years.

Still want to suck Charlies dick?
I know I do, it tastes fucking amazing.
Ugh. Yuck.
Everyone is a fucking faggot.
No one on earth has a brain, everyone on earth has a bullet.

a mash-city `cut-up` make-up `based on` an old punk rocker...

a gut-busting, liver-breaking, lung-smashing, warts-n-all, pills-n-booze, petulant Punk icon... the most widely seen invisible presence in modern cinema history... disappearing under skins of digital rendering and emerging... hissing, growling, beating his chest... a stunning amalgamation of emotions... rock and roll masochism underscored by tragedy... the kind of one man powerhouse movie buffs spend endless hours wading through forgettable films to find... beneath the beer stains and cigarette burns lies tender, streak stained underwear... deep internal conflicts with a sensitive soul, linger at the eye of the hurricane... such force of nature... sense the quiet soul at the core of the chaos and tumult...etched like knife wounds into the psyche...that awkward hobble (his character has polio)... those bleary wild eyes... that bull-headed fickle spirit...the sex...the music... the panache...the rock and roll provides the druggy dressing...slivers of the past provide hints of the source of his troublent, turbulent adult life...a vague emotional dependence on his first wife...caring but cautious is she...an often less than ideal father to his son...it ain’t always beer and skittles...a clear and concise message...the person hovering alone in the corner at a party... fidgeting with your phone, waiting for home time...not he...the pensioner upstairs yells out to keep the noise down...snorting and sweating across the finishing line...ooze style and colour...cool, bold, visionary...nail the rhythms...the reason for being...celebrating the spirit...spilling into idolatry...bad craziness, savage beauty...startling pathos.     

on ode to bougainville...

Morwell,
you are one beautifully disgusting cunt.
the glass of your broken phoneboxes,
lays all over post office st,
a street named after the church.

the lady at the bakery has a gleaming stud,
right in her tattoo sun,
she grins and gives me coffee,
i tell her im getting one,
i’m going to get a tiger,
with ruby red eyes,
like my uncles medal,
he won for eating pies.

the finest thing you’ll ever see
is a price of ten bucks flat,
for a six pack of VB tins,
nowhere else has that.

tinnies all the time,
mon-wed-fri-keen,
whenever you want,
whenever you don’t,
my favourite fluoro green,
like slime,
slime that makes us happy,
slime that makes us sad,
slime that makes us fight all night,
slime that makes us bad.

in Morwell,
shit is never good,
but really not that bad,
she is what she is,
I like what she's like,
but she's oh so visibly sad.

so I say, I love you Morwell,
love you just enough,
for here is where the shit is real,
you’re honest and you’re rough.

Sodomy and Gash

There was an old man of Corfu,
Who fed upon cunt-juice and spew.
When he couldn’t get this,
He fed upon piss —
And a bloody good substitute, too.

- Norman Douglas 1868-1952.

Some Limericks, available through Atlas Press.

Robert Doyle, Bored Mayor of the Council of Cockheads, OBE.

King of the Culture-Haters:

http://www.theage.com.au/national/badly-talented-buskers-on-doyles-hit-list-20081201-6o31.html

He says:

Burn the ‘badly talented’ begging buskers on the streets of Melbourne.

Their fleas and unemployment and unsightly poverty have no place.

Buskers bring the ‘bogans’; not the burbs, or the beers, or the buses.

Sorry the songs of the streets aren’t fit for your refined tastes, Bobby.

Silence the sidewalks, everyone stare straight ahead and stomp in solitude.

Commandant of the Fun-Police:

http://www.theage.com.au/victoria/exford-hotel-ruling-fury-over-allnight-bottle-shop-20100310-pxu3.html

He wants to:

Blow up the Exford, the best bar in town.

Best because it’s always open, over the bar and over the counter,

but especially under the table.

Long-neck lover’s let us rejoice, for his wish knocked back has been.

We’ve golden ale and coopers pale, our home is ‘boganality’.

Proprietor of Perversion.

His solution for street violence:

“I think it would pay to put all male patrons who enter public institutions of alcoholism through a short video-seminar extolling the virtues of homosexual rape as a very worthy, very achievable alternative to drunken street violence. Next time you feel aggressive under the influence of the demon drink in a public place, simply spike another patron’s drink, and drag them back to the comfort of your own home. By then proceeding to repeatedly rape your fellow degenerate in the most depraved manner you can possibly imagine, you will ensure that your excess testosterone-and-booze-bred rage is released, just as if you had punched the fellow in the face out the front of the pub. The benefits of this new mode of operation for our society come in a triple-threat package...

Firstly, we can continue to fill the public coffers with alcohol-fuelled taxes, without having to worry about the holier-than-thou’s getting all up in our grill about moral decay on the streets of the city. Secondly, the effects of our less dangerous, stress-free testosterone rage release program will flow on to the workplace, thus ensuring: increased productivity; decreased levels of employee dissent; and lesser likelihoods of industrial action. Thirdly, studies have shown that injuries arising from rape (especially the easier, Rohypnol kind of rape), tend to be more closely associated with mental health problems, rather than any real, physical types of injuries. Working in conjunction with our “kill the crazies” policy, this will ease the strain on the overcrowded public hospital system; thus creating the possibility for state governments to save millions upon millions of tax-payers’ hard-earned galleons via decreased health spending. This process of natural selection will also guarantee ever-increasing levels of general public safety and sanity, law and order, as well as lower levels of silliness and irrationality.” - Robert Doyle

No-one gathered in protest.

go over the sea...

no new pin number
no no no
no phone number
coming apart
dick smith, talk to the fuckwits

gamble ‘em
go... go.. go.
bandanna lad
carn ya little piece'a
hiss
thirty

that beer and fish
on the dock
it's fishy business
the shop floats
fresh as fresh
i am not
distillery
delirious
55% malt
fuck-me-dead-delicious

gorgeous girl, with a walking stick
stomp the hill
lean a tree
drink ‘em, eat ‘em
eat ‘em, drink ‘em

drugs with children, free and easy
smiling stupid
my dad
climbed the tower
on top mt. wellington,
no ropes or nothin'
i’ve lived in spain and england
this joint is the pits
fooled by the sea
could've fooled me
stay in school
inside jokes    

toothless helmut codeine rat
ouch in his eyes
of course
rat don't either
nothin' for nobody

on the way
a bus
a plane
spew on the sandsteps
stoned like the same old
 
same old
rain delay
read the world away

underwhelming
overhearing
unconvincing
airport security
cig in hand
phone the other
drugs
he’ll sort it out
be careful
he’s always careful
he's sorry

kindred spirit in the air
doof doof doof
picture of a skateboard
pockets full of shit
we'll get along great
drop through the cloud
a familiar film
turbo turbulence
new friends dead
no dropping safe
bank over the bay
arteries of light
slice the suburbscape

down but alive
an hour long wait
hit this city
the trains are off
a wallet feels woeful
a weird warm
the sky spits
walk down tram tracks
smell the steam
wander down wrong st
smell the smackusations

think about feminism
stare at your sex-objects
mate
hitching on main st
flag 'em all
not the yellow
soaked to the bone
need a pick-me-up
all ways but one

lift?
a man in a nice car
alert and alarmed
i used to run nightclubs
i’m too old
i'm gay for pay
i drive girls to jobs
i’ll drive you home
not too bad
free of charge
just keep it together

The Substratum Dream of a Flagpole Skater...

I am the flag-pole skater, and I’m pursuing my dream in a small, slow circle.

My dream, born from years of yearning for something different, is to skate.

To skate on a platform.

To skate on a small, circular platform.

To skate in slow circles on a small, circular platform longer than anyone ever has before.

The previous record, set in the winter of 1934 by a bear wearing a fez hat, is well within my reach.

127 hours and 43 minutes of continuous skate.

That was what that big Russian bear wearing his fez hat and his shock collar achieved before he fell.

I can, and will, eclipse that noble bear’s efforts.

Not because I’m forced to do so, not because I’m paid to do so, but because I want to do so.

Because it is my dream.

On my platform, on my pole, high above my house, I push one skate in front of the other, then I repeat.

I have done this now for over 45 minutes.

This leaves me with less than 126 hours left to eclipse the mighty bear’s effort, to accomplish my dream.

I am determined, I am focused, I will accomplish my goal.

People have often responded with curiosity when I tell them of my dream.

What? Why?

This seems to be the broader public hotel community common consensus.

This unenlightened attitude overwhelms the public sphere, yet confuses me horribly in conversation.

To properly stop, to properly think, to properly theorise, it is necessary focus on something thoughtless.

Only when one’s mind is truly distracted can it be truly insightful.

I push one skate in front of the other, and then I repeat.

The only way forward for us, for them, and for you, is to freely do what others have been forced to do.

Only then is it possible to understand, to empathise, and to change.

The philanthropic philosopher funding my mission is the only one who understands.

He bought me my skates, he paid for the platform, and he even stole the pole.

But these objects are truly mine, he says, for this is my mission, my dream, my idea.

We know my noble mission will lead us to enlightenment, to ideas, to empathy, to a new way.

Of this we are both unconditionally sure.

Since that bleary night at the Bear-Flag brothel when I explained to him my mind; we’ve both been sure.

He erected the platform on a pole above his department store, and then bequeathed it to me as my own.

He has given me his store, given me his heart, given me every available opportunity to realise my mind.

I know this will happen; I know this won’t end up being what they claim it will be.

When the 100th hour passes, and it hasn’t yet happened, I know I will worry, he has warned me that I will.
But the nobility of the mission mustn’t be forgotten; for this is a matter of utmost importance.

I look down at the inquisitive crowds of children and animals swarming in and out of the store.

I think of my designated bed in the store windows below longingly, not long now.
Only about 125 hours.

I just wish we had thought of a can or a bucket for a toilet, I really need to piss.

in a time of turgid sheen...

If you loved me you’d let me live in peace.
You love giving, the giving of grief.
I deny I’m like you but I know that I am.
I feel I’ll never act a man.

I’m thirsty for real nights.
Nights we can come to grips.
Nights we can understand, just for a second.
Seconds we can feel full,
full of the knowledge and knowing the known.
Knowing full-well that that knowledge will never last,
yet hoping that it might.
I rose from a dream, a dream of hoping that it would.

She’s and screens flicker, blur and bend.
Words rattle under the tepid towel.
I need your sense of stability.
I hate your phantom senility.
To name all your sheets you need me alive.
To frame all your thoughts you need me to die.

The loveliest lords love like nothing.
The loneliest lads lie in hard rain.
Picking pills from the pocket going fucking insane.
Wandering the city streets leaves us laying back to back.

Forming our tale in a time of turgid sheen.
We look more and find less than people past.
Simple times call for simple measures.
Complex times call for simple pleasures.
I think that I know, I know that I don’t.
Give her a tour, she’ll find it alright.

Blue blankets of apathy wrap up my mornings.
If you’re dying to be lead, you’re dying to be dead.
Hiding from the sun, hiding from no-one.
Obsessive introspection can’t become the norm.
Laying around feeling sorry and sinful won’t help anyone.
Nearly everyone else has it worse.
Wake up from yourself, wake from the troubled slumber.

Let’s pause and find our own inventions.
Find things of us, things of them.
Things of his and hers and theirs.
Stop staring at the banal and start staring at each other.

Remember when our oldest friend left us here to rot?
The phone won’t ring and loving won’t come.
Not from there, not from them.
Although we find and figure and find, they won’t be found.
Not now, not again, not ever.
To pre-empt December stains lay the blanket over the bowl.
The four-armed hat stand stares blankly at the hole.

Quantifiable evidence amounts to qualitative cock.
There’s plenty of time to know nothing and to love every minute.
There’s plenty of love in the minute corner of the clock.
Breaking off the minute hand,
making the most of the moment.

Throw caution to your mother, throw your mother to the wind.
She will find you one day, bigger and better than her door.
You will leave her and pray, smaller and meeker than before.
But strength will find you one day, strength will make you more.

A stronger sense of the sane hides somewhere in the future.
Stop with the searching and go with the flow.
The river of life ain’t as cloudy as it seems.
In the clearest of waters you’ll discover the dreams.

good morning mice and men...

I'm at my most creative,
the morning after beer.
top hat, mickey mouse,
the winking little cunt.
laughing at my sordid state,
his sparking red diamantes,
mock my endless seeds.
m-i-c-k-e-y...m-o-u-s-e,
I fucking despise you.
especially your ears and nose and soul.
junkies are nicer.
the girl with the brown eyes and sad smile and scabs,
is so much nicer.
she scabs only on my cigarettes and her forearms,
you scab on the mind of the masses.
put a syringe in your eyeball, mouse.
twist it twice.
draw it out.
twist and shout.
these pages fill themselves with ease,
every time I encounter your kind,
with the scratching of the pen,
I’ll try to stab you blind.

a pornographic haseesh daydream in heaven...

finishing on the road again, the latest chapter of my youngest dazzling days draws to a close.
the profound effect of my pleadingly normative imagination will remain forever entrenched in my eternal daydream.
visions of unknown valleys with mysterious golden rivers flowing with thick, hot, viciously delicious waters.
jealous dreams of wild rocky mountains mansions; abandoned; old; and ripe raw for the picking will forever erupt in my minds eye at the closing of my own true blues.
the search for something in a societal association simultaneously bursting at the seems with life and drowning in the doldrums of death will be my search forever and ever.
amen.
the expanses of the Americas! will be a canvas for painting and pinpointing in moments of madness; moments of overcrowded chaos and confusion...
but also in moments of serene solitude; perching and pondering upon secret mountain and tree tops and beaches and bedheads.
viewing plausibility and possibilities in stark contrasting lights will always be the name of the game.
now we know the knowledge derived from painting big pictures of nothing.

the bay on a bleary friday...

The sparkling lights, the serene ships, dance peacefully, in the intense iridescent orange sunset, hanging over a beautiful bay. The glassy surface water, is a melting pot of hyper-colour; oranges, purples, blues, and the reddest reds, run rampant across the top, watching the highly lucid liquid, as a cyclist sways to a stop, taking in the startling sight. The old queer four-rod fisherman, wheels his reel quickly, oblivious to the beauty on the event horizon. I’ve gone through the end of the tunnel, into the light and I’m delighted, the technicolour dreamshow, the light is here.

***********

ban the bomb...

I know I never write about anything but Obama...

but...

On Friday, the UN adopted a resolution that aims to rid the world of nuclear arms within our lifetime:

"a nuclear war cannot be won and must never be fought...no matter how great the obstacles may seem, we must never stop our efforts to reduce the weapons of war...we must never stop until we see the day when nuclear arms have been banished from the face of the earth. That is our task. That can be our destiny." - President Obama addressing the UN Security Council - 25th Sep. 2009.

WOW.

I'm still worried that Obama is jerking his shitty American-made car so suddenly towards the left-hand lane that the oncoming right-wing traffic that still careers along the status-quo side of the road is going to obliterate his administration in a nasty head-on propaganda incident... But rhetoric like that is just too inspiring to get negative about. The resolution was passed unanimoussly by the UN Security Council.

Total nuclear disarmament is a notion that would have been beyond the wildest realms of possibility during the cold war, or even during the years of the Bush administration. We can only hope and pray that world leaders have the sense to diplomatically negotiate practical strategies for stockpile reduction and disarmament. When hell freezes over with a nuclear winter you say? You're probably right, but talk like this is a serious step in the direction of hope.

THEY SAY:
BAN THE BOMBS,
NO MORE NUKES,
MAKE LOVE NOT WAR.
YOU SAY:
HEY WAR-WHORES,
FUCK YOUR GUNS,
YOU CUNTS SHOOT BLANKS.
I SAY:
BONGS ARE BETTER THAN BULLETS,
DROP BEATS NOT BOMBS,
MAKE CURRIED SAUSAGES, NOT WAR.

sordid sunset...

i sat sipping slowly on the foreshore,
staring at the brutally beautiful,
oblivious to the beauty,
the sky she was iridescent orange,
as the ocean sprayed her with explosive sea-mist,
yet i found myself fiddling,
fiddling with my useless human possession,
eyes burn holes in feet,
an empty bottle of beer,
unable to think forward,
unable to think of anything,
but myself,
my stuff,
and who the bottle of beer belonged to,
i gave up and wandered home holding my grudge.

drain the blood...

afflicting the comfortable,
comforting the afflicted,
affairs of a benevolent policy,
attract more attention and cynicism,
than affairs of big business,
dig there,
where people help profit,
not here,
where people help people,
money=blood,
people=pain,
drain the blood,
ease the pain.

weird=welcome...

bizarre dreamscapes surge,

up and down,

either side of no man’s road.

i’m made sea sick,

by the urgency of the sock tie’s,

need for normality.

best friends berate the bizarre,

deride the different,

asking the question why?

while I ask, why not?

don’t snigger and scorn,

delightful deranged dribbling,

and ducks,

I am eternally intrigued by.

its a wide open road,

don’t tread slowly,

the narrowest path of normalcy,

this most insane course of action,
can't feed a drag racing brain.

the thought of touching tongues,

with one who doesn’t toe the white line,

gives them fever,

similar thoughts give me a different fever,

the fever that Ella Fitzgerald sings to me.

furrowed brows and surly frowns,

follow our fun,

our fucked up antics,

down the too straight streets,

no one but us understands,

the stupid secrets which we speak,

no one can find what we seek.

the need for now grows week by week.

a dream...

bandaged baby on the big slide.

change his nappy, tickle his toes, watch him die.
the stench of the sinister hides amongst the bloody gums.

was it you? fuck you. what was it?

fire bomb the bed, plastic filled with petrol.

why?
feel the spinal scream, fan the flames

are we at war?

yes.
who with?
do you care?
not at all.

fearfully we tumble together down the steep crumbling clay track.
outrun the flames.
you must survive.

unseen wizards spread the seeds of terror in a child's country town.