Thursday, July 23, 2009

I am Long-pig

I am Long-Pig.
I am a freshly slaughtered carcass.
Ready to be bled.
Ready to be eaten.
I invite you to
take what you will.
To pick at the bones,
till your attention wavers and time drags.
Till my body gives itself
over to change,
to the invariant
of decay.

Tuesday, July 14, 2009

Preservative 220

I killed a kraken in a wading pool today
and buried it in my back yard.
I ate the stomach of the thing and gleaned
an underwater history of consumption
and a life of hiding in the dark.
The bullet that killed it,
I ate it.
The spear that killed it, I ate it too.
The hook that caught it, I ate it.
Now I'm full of sulphur dioxide because
I ate the shitty bottle of red wine
that was also in the guts of the thing.
I'll be farting all night.
There is enough time to get to the toilet and kill again.
First paralysis, then death.
Shatter the first, second, third vertebrae, death is immediate.
Eat the hand and then the stomach muscles.
Gorge on the grot and parasites rampant in my own foulness.
Make yourself your own meal.
I am the kraken.
I am my favourite food on which to gnaw, to learn, to watch.
I am my favourite thing,
to make as a meal for myself
and for others.

Monday, July 13, 2009


I want a full belly
and a full spirit.
I want honesty and love.
I want peace.
I want it to flow over me and through me.
I want to be of it and outside of it.
I want to run myself under a warm shower forever and ever.
I want to stand on top of a hill and feel the cool breeze blow and have it never end.
I want to feel the sun warm my skin.
I want to have the poison drain out of me,
and never return.

Sunday, July 12, 2009

A song liked by a girl

I was driving with a girl to my studio one day and as we traveled along I looked through her ipod.
I was pretty keen on this girl so I chose
a song
I thought she may like.
As it turned out it was her favourite song in the whole world.
I'm not a person who gives much credence to signs and
things like that but at the time it was very hard to ignore.
This song makes me think of her.

To hear yourself say, I like myself when I'm with them

Seven valium.
Seven more,
I want to eat my spinal chord.
Tear it out.
It is full of what I need.
I need more room.
Two to a row.
Mortal terror at 25 000 feet,
thick, chemically induced fog and
memories of lust and love.
I am in many places at once.
Askew as I be, I remain thankful and
think to myself that
it is good to have something
to grab onto.
A hunk of rump,
an iron bar in a chair or
the edge of a bed.
While you fear for your life.
While you make a person you love scream.

Friday, July 10, 2009

Not knowing

There is a fundamental contradiction in writing about how you don't have anything to write about. I do feel as though I've run out of topics, or more accurately the topics I wish to cover are ones I have touched on too often. I've never been one to believe that inspiration comes entirely from within or without but tonight I know I need something new. Be it a holiday, a new friendship, something. I don't really know. If anyone out there has any idea what I should do, let me know.


A song

Thursday, July 9, 2009

The Ashes

The worst thing about winter is that the
Ice Magic in my cupboard is never runny enough to use.
You have to run it under hot water for ages
just to get it to come out.
Really, I don't know how I cope.


A dead man lies on my couch.
He breathes but has the outward appearance of a corpse.
This man is not close to me but we are friendly.
It makes me think of what will happen when my friends start to die.
Will I have the privilege,
like my Grandfather did,
of watching all of my own friends pass?
Perhaps it is best if I simply prize them today and
conserve the energy of speculation?

Wednesday, July 8, 2009

No new penis


Great is truth and flexible above all things.
Truth is greatly flexible above all things.
Things are great which are flexible and true.
Flexibility is a truth which is great and fun above all things.


It is just weeks till I turn 31.
I've only told two women in my life that I love them.
That is one every fifteen and a half years.
I think that is a good thing.
It would be a bad thing to fall in love all the time.
It would dilute the emotion.
It also makes it,
the hardest thing to find within yourself and,
maybe even more difficult,
within another.


I want cold beer,
the shining sun,
golden beaches,
whiskey after dark,
and a soft warm bed.

Tuesday, July 7, 2009

Edited thoughts

Creating an autonomous, authoritative artistic statement is always difficult, if not impossible. Art is required to have an authoritative, definitive voice yet be free from elitism and hierarchy. Art is required to be, or at least desires to be, part of the world and yet is required to be outside it at the same time to speak both subjective and objective truths. Art is required to be self reflexive. It is demanded that art both know itself and simply just exist. Coupled with this is a conundrum that practitioners of art all face. It is the difficulty of maintaining a full time, professional art practice in a society that does not value art ideologically or economically. My art exists as a component of my life. It exists as a shard in a fractured, compartmentalised existence. The question my art practice must answer, and this I admit is a very personal demand, is this; how can my art practice be a sight for the integration of all the various shards and compartments that make up my life? How can I exist economically, socially and artistically when these elements, which seem to be internally conflicted, also seem to be mutually exclusive?

Sunday, July 5, 2009



My safe house is in the middle of nowhere.
My nowhere is the only place I will be safe.
A safe little nowhere.
Along way away.
There, I am free from having to bury anything.
There, I have no need to move on,
no need to be in the past.
No need to look to the future.
A placeto revel in
the joy of
simplicity and repitition.



A Golem

Bought sex.
Fried chicken.
Coke and chocolate.
Circuits, record players and pus.
Stuck on repeat.
Filling a sack.
The crap of the world forging itself into an upright,
living thing that does not forget.
Standing atop the easy slope of a gentle hill.
Backed by sunflowers.
Regimented and aligned.
An army of beautiful things,
that experience,
but choose not to remember.

Saturday, July 4, 2009












The temperature is dropping and the sun is going down.
In the absence of sunlight a fear settles over my life.
I truly am scared of going outside tonight.
So I will stay where it is safe.
In my room, where I can hide in fiction.
Where I can exercise a little control,
indulge my weaknesses,
not face the things
I know I should.

Thursday, July 2, 2009

Lost tribe

I walked down Brunswick Street tonight with an old friend and saw someone.
A beautiful woman.
Her loveliness heightened because I know it and she does not.
Even though I've told her.
Tonight though, I wasn't sure how to behave.
It is always difficult to reconcile the present with the past.
What I am now does not always correspond with what I was.
What I feel myself to be does not always correspond with what I am perceived to be.
And as always, what I want does not correspond with what I have.
We look for a fusion of feeling and flesh.
We often only get one at a time.
My Mum always says my generation want too much.
Perhaps she is right.
Perhaps we should be happy with what we have?
Which relatively speaking is an enormous amount.
Be happy with flesh.
Forget what you feel.
Perhaps compromise is healthy?
Perhaps compromise is right and sensible?
Perhaps it is best to settle?
Unfortunately I don't believe this, not for a moment.
The price of compromise is regret.
To settle is to forget.
I would rather have my hurt and loss.
Accept a life texture over one of ease.
I know who I love and until my memory fades and a new experience obliterates what I feel now,
I will always be caught between the short attention span of my lust and
a cluster of unique feelings that continue to persist.

Wednesday, July 1, 2009

Grease on my hands, under my fingers

I wish I could make you cry.
But we only ever shed tears for our own selves
For our own hurts.
Our own losses.
Emotion fails as does language,
to bridge the gap between people.
Love is not a connection with another but an affirmation of internal turmoil,
pleasant and unpleasant.
Sex lies too.
Friendship is the same.
Blood is never as thick as we imagine it to be.
So with these thoughts in mind I will drink my coffee,
eat my breakfast,
go to work and attempt to forge the seemingly impossible.
A bridge between me and a world that I am unconvinced,
holds any meaning what so ever.