Jackson Hodge

____________________________________________

SHIT (Our Doilies Have No Holes)

with foreword by Natty Dread.

“I have the authority to appoint anybody a Discordian Pope because
I’m a Discordian Pope. You are all now Discordian Popes.”

 

Introduction
Hello, how are you?
I’m good thank you, but anyway… Welcome to SHIT.
SHIT is a journey into the concept of insanity and a complete analysis of the mind and was sporadically written over the month of November while I was traveling Cambodia.
I had no intention of doing this nor did I think I had the ability to, but never the less it is something that did happen. It seems to be my documentation of the world as I see it, or saw it within the writing time frame.
Towards the end everything sped up like a exploding mushroom cloud, I barely knew what was happening. It was like the last straw of society yelling at me so i began to write my way out of it, creating a reality, manifesting synchronicity all in the name of fun.

If you have any questions, I probably can’t answer them…
…It’s intended for interruption, it is now your jigsaw puzzle.
You’re responsible for your own perception.
Enjoy.
Jackson

Foreword by Natty Dread
A fore word?
An introduction?
A brief explanation? You want me to give an insight into the written world of the perceptions and observations of Jackson Hodge’s seminal creation “SHIT”?
Well I’m sorry I can’t. It’s not that I don’t want to.  I am trying to help here, but it’s just not possible to physically define abstract concepts….  that’s what makes them abstract concepts.
However if you are able to forestall your concrete beliefs in the absolutes of reality you will find this “book” to be a delight.  A genuine feast of word treats for anyone willing, smart enough or foolish enough to eat the black berries, dance the forbidden jig and descend to the depths of the rabbit hole. Map be dammed!
Jackson’s “Shit” is a foaming, smiling, howling, honest call to all.
Retuning the frequency, like cotton  wool between the teeth.
Remember that we are all responsible for our own perceptions. Whatever anyone may find inside these pages is their own creation and consequently their own fault. Jackson Hodge may be writing his own universe and manifesting reality to suit his purposes. But aren’t we all?  Who are we to stop him?
If you’re looking for structure, narrative, protagonists or any other literary preconceptions, then you will have to find them for yourselves. There’s a shit ton of ‘em in there.
– However this is an unmade jigsaw, or maybe a half written crossword, and like it or not the outcome is entirely your responsibility. Just like in the “real world” – perception is parallax.
Good luck, and enjoy.

hey(Picture of a happy jellyfish) JELLYFISH TOWN (picture of a happy jellyfish)

Some fucking drug addict cut my cocaine with saniflush.

WRATH

Hateful wrath, I’m gonna make a list alright. Sit down, now listen, I’m gonna list everything I hate about _____________, alphabetically.

Spell Wrath
Spell Albatross

– I hate the rolling stones, Keith Richards, Mick Jagger.

‘What’s your opinion on anything Keith?’ derderderder.

I can’t escape these fucks, they’re worse than coca-cola.

– I busted my elbow getting my washing out of a dryer. Fuck you dryer, why don’t you follow the mechanics of the situation and your purpose and not be a prick. (Jump 27 days into the future, I just had a run in with a Korean prick…)

– ‘No fish taco? Why not?’ English women want their tacos mayne. With bacon.

–    American money is funny money. The Illuminati. Fuck you cigarettes.

•    −    Three car loads of sand, lugged up three flights of stairs. That’s a lot of sand.

•    −    “I’m from America and I make the rules”. Yeah you do but we don’t fuckin’ listen.

(Airport)

I have never been led through so many shops, willingly or not.
Then I walk.

Paging all the customers, all the custards

I’m paging all the custards, all the custards going to New Zealand.
New Zealand, New Zealand, New Zealand, shut up New Zealand you talk too much about things that don’t concern you.

{I did get to get on the plane first}

“There’s moles
There’s moles in holes
There’s mole in holes with inflatable dolls
Looking for love in their entwining souls.
There’s trolls
There’s trolls with bowls
There’s trolls with bowls on lovely strolls,
And then!
They fall in the mole’s holes.
Now the trolls with bowls
and moles in holes (and their dolls)
become acquainted with some foals
who live far away on grassy knolls.
Now the foals knolls were under Attack!
Oh no.
By a guy named joel who was looking for coal.
Joel was on the dole before getting into coal
and now he’s being mean to those wonderful foals.
So the foals told
the trolls and
the moles and
the dolls and
The trolls with  their bowls got some poles
and beat up joel.
Hooray!
Hooray for moles in holes with dolls.
Hooray for trolls with bowls on strolls.
Hooray for foals from grassy knolls
and joel – Don’t be a prick.”

Why does everything contain guns?

With their phallic sexual innuendo and their shitty generic watered down pretend violence.

Let’s go and appreciate real death, for it’s the reward, the transition of life.

Don’t let something beautiful and melancholy become sterile.

{The Killing Fields}

I’m going to the Killing Fields and I would much prefer to go and see a site where tens of thousands, millions, were killed and a gut feeling for something other than watching another shitty Brad Pitt movie, shooting people in the head.

Try explaining day light savings to foreigners and then you can realise how stupid our concept of time is.

{Toilet lines, ay}

And we all think there’s a God.

Someone or something watching us in private, a constant audience.
Fast cars, hard liquor, hot women.

The streets, with the masses, no matter where we are
we’re back in those toilet lines.

We don’t believe in God, but the idea’s planted inside the mind, in a place that you have no control over.

Some other being than us is in control.

Or maybe not

Toilet lines ay

If the lines moving to slow and you’re about to bust just remember,
    in toilet lines or in death
    in the end we all shit in our pants.

{Left Side}                               {Right Side}

Two lines,                                Two lines,
red and green                         yellow
parallel and fade away            parallel, linger, fade away

Both sides create a three dimensional box.

Skeletal square neon red green yellow.

The virtual reality world man

No Pac man

Littered with teeth
Dust particles settle and rebuild but since there’s
no moisture, there’s no life.
There is however vegemite
Black yeast tar dripping
Five dots Blue Red Purple, Purple Blue
We’re all plugged in, luckily we’re all connected
rows on rows, tiers on tiers
People        staring        blankly
Being fed by the machine
make yourself sterile and clean
and don’t feel the effect of the chaos.

I spoke to the woman sitting next to me on the plane:

“Time & money are the same thing. You either have lots of time and no money or lots of money and no time”

I don’t know how much I agree, I’ll think on it.

−    We did invent both money and time
−    In a sense you’re either making money or spending money. Giving or taking I suppose.

{Day 1 – 1/11/13 – Bangkok}

This is possible the funniest thing I’ve ever done. Travelling around Asia with big boots and dicky socks.

I found out about some tours. I can pushbike ride around the slums and I can go and see some museums. One museum is of mummified serial killers, one is a torture museum and one is a dildo museum.

I had tacos for dinner & the waitress’ sister has been to Australia before. Next to the taco restaurant was the

BLOWJOB
SPERM shop.

At the taco restaurant, I ate all the sauces. I gave the waitress a tip because she was giving the ‘thumbs up’ to me, which was pretty hilarious.

No matter where I go I can’t escape the rolling stones, those fuckin’ bastards, I hate the rolling stones.

I can’t escape YOLO (You Only Live Once) either, even the fuckin’ Germans have it.
I saw a shirt that said ‘Where’s the Beef’.

I also got complimented on my manners. Manners are good, and easy, and I like them. I use manners and working in childcare I teach kids to use manners, but if I didn’t use manners and told them to in a ‘do as I say not as I do’ kinda way than I’d just be a hypocritical bastard and we all hate those bastards.

It’s very hot in Bangkok, or at least humid, and I’m glad I’m traveling solo because if I was with anybody they’d have to listen to my constant bitching about weather & t shirts.

Why the fuck did I come to Bangkok and eat tacos?

The traffic lights have a countdown to give drivers a time frame.

Green light is twenty seconds
Orange light is three seconds
Red light is eighty seconds.

I like the traffic here. Everybody’s just doing their own thing and are aware that everybody else is doing their own thing and isn’t concerned about it, just observant of it. It’s the ‘you do what you want without fucking with me’ attitude. There also seems to be less horns.

Drunken backpackers laughing like hyenas, thinking they’ll be safe wherever they go.
Maybe they should try being a woman.

Then again I’m a drunk so what’s the difference?

It’s hot.
Why is it hot?
When it’s hot, I get irritated
and when I’m irritated, I like irritating.
It’s hot and it’s humid
I suppose there’s worse types of hot
There’s the “OH MY GOD I’m being electrocuted” hot
There’s the ‘I’m smoking cigarettes in forty degree weather’ kinda hot.
What about the ‘there’s too many people in this room with minimal ventilation and someone’s gonna get headbutted soon’ kind of hot.
Not all hots are negative though.
What about ‘this is amazing sweaty sex’ hot.
That’s a good hot
Hot food, hot towels, going to the beach.
There’s hot hot curry hot.
What about the funny faces dogs make when they’re hot…

Now the Jellyfish really like playing sport. It’s healthy for them, they get to be social and meet other jellyfishes they previously didn’t know, and it also burns up energies so they never fight because all the jellyfishes have put their energy into something fun.

A very fun game the Jellyfish play is football. It’s nothing like the western football or soccer, it’s just like volleyball but with feet and your head, see the jellyfish don’t have hands so they have to use their feet and their heads.

The jellyfish do heaps of kicks when they play football. They do roundhouse kicks and spinning kicks and twirly kicks and dropkick and they even do the MC5 song ‘Kick out the Jams’. They do headbutts, headbottoms and head bums but under no circumstance can they use their face, only their head, because otherwise that’d be silly.

There’s no competition in the jellyfish sports because they’re only playing for fun and to jollily tease each other, so they don’t take themselves too seriously. They also wear these funny dicky shorts of all different colours.

C’mon, dicky shorts are quite funny.

The dicky shorts are the only clothing the Jellyfish have though and they all get taught how to make their own shorts when they’re little.

The Jellyfish don’t have any other clothes because that would lead to fashion, and we all know how ridiculously evil fashion is with its hierarchical elitist branding of the soul.
The Jellyfish don’t like any of that and they also know it’s bad for the ego, self-image and psyche.

So they’ve stayed away from all that and it’s working out pretty good for them so far.
The Jellyfish are also slightly opposed to imposed cultured, the idea of having a certain aspect done in a certain way. The Jellyfish like to be open to anything as long as it doesn’t impose on others.

The Jellyfish are critical of imposing, and opposing.

What the Jellyfish do is they like to get influence from everywhere, anywhere and nowhere.
It helps them understand ways of life and ideas they would have never thought of if they did it only one way.

{Day 2 – 2/11/13 – Bangkok (still)}

I woke up very early and it was very hot and sweaty and sticky.

So I had a shower and went for a walk to see what Bangkok is like early in the morning when everybody’s hungover.

I didn’t have shoes on and my shirt unbuttoned, I feel like I was at home but there was less broken glass on the street.

A guy on a motorbike randomly yelled out “Hello!” to me, I saw a funny green bus with unicorns painted on it and a gay thai man smiled and slightly ripped me off when I ate baked beans and coffee.

There’s these funny little short haired cats that play across the road from the hostel.

Two of them are bright star white.
They all look slightly diseased.
Nobody wears sunglasses.
I was wearing sunglasses and a different foreign woman was wearing sunglasses but nobody else was.
Only foreigners wear sunglasses ’round these here parts.

Sirija Medical Museum

Preserved babies. All the babies are wrinkled & covered in a fine layer of hair.

•    −    Anencephaly – Female with a penis at the belly button.
•    −    Harlequin type ichthyosis
•    −    Life stages of the foetus – the jump from 9 weeks to 12 weeks. 12 weeks looks more humanoid than tadpole like.
•    −    Homozygous twins.
•    −    Dicephalus dibrachius dipus
•    −    cyclopia with proboscis
•    −    Thoraco-Omphalopagus – joined at the stomach.
•    −    Gastroschisis – internal organs externalised.
•    −    Sirenomelia (Mermaid)
•    −    Thoracopagus Conjoined twins – black insides exposed, showing joining stomaches, organs, dead.

Halved organs.
Lungs Brain (hyper tension) Heart – Valvular heart or heart defect.
Cast of coronary artery.
Breasts (cancer) & arm (elephantiasis maybe)
Shriveled penis looks like rotten wood. White and black.
Liver and lung cancer.
Leukemia – pale pinks cells, a few light blue. Leukemia is dark blue cells scattered though out the pink.

Skulls and bones
You were once alive.
Some were old, some were young
All are dead.
Pelvises and scalps
Suicide attempts with blade cuts
Suicide success, amputate cut left wrist
Stab wounds multiple stab wounds multiple head stab wounds
Hand grenades molotov cocktails broken beer bottles
Car accidents train accidents small plane accident.
Contact double barrel shotgun wound.
That’s the pictures.

Preserved skulls.
Unidentified male beheaded in car accident
Skull with injury due to burn.
A whole skeleton, but I’m bigger than it.
Babies still in the womb, exposed through an opening to see the world from a jar.
A baby with a big head, bloated stomach twisted little limbs would walk with spinal bifida.
Instruments and vices
People running from tigers and dragons on tablets.
Thai cobras, you wouldn’t fuck with them with bullets and grenades.
A brown white Centipede the length of a ruler with 40 legs.
Drowned babies, death in utero. Some look alien and some look like leather.
Two heads, faded skull still holding on to the shriveled womb that’s in the jar with it.

Evidence from dead body in a murder case.
White collared singlet. Brown Dress with a golliwog duck holding an umbrella. Blue leather belt. Empty glass bottle.
A knife. A diary – January 1959. 1st Thursday, 3rd Saturday.

Dead Body with natural mummification. Black and pruned with the nose press up against the glass.

Si Quey – See Ui
Eyes open, two teeth showing.

All the mummified bodies are standing in bain-marie dishes. Brown grease with black dot chucks.

Rape murderer with Death Sentence #1
Lots of grease and covered in wax.

Rape murderer with Death Sentence #2
No grease, shriveled with mite.
Top teeth rest on bottom lip.

A pink shirt with lots of black dried blood.
I can see one stab wound.

(I’ve copied a picture of an anime like bunny rabbit smiling, holding a bottle with a bow near the ear. ‘HOW ARE YOU’ is written vertically next to picture.)
Bunnies and kittens and bears on a shirt ‘FOR YOU’
Another stab wound maybe.

Tongue trachea and right lung. Looks like penis and testicles.
Skulls in car accidents and dragging
(I’ve drawn a picture of a skull cracked in three directions. It’s not a very good picture.)
Skulls aren’t this oblong though.
Smells of dust and old air conditioners.
Amputated arms and feet from car accidents
Split bones and entwined nerve endings.
Heart with holes, broken hearts, from gunshot wounds.
Mummified hips pelvis and legs to the knees.
A funny hunched alien dripping sticky saliva.

Wat Bang Wuang
Investigate all deaths of unnatural cause
Two forensic pathologists and an assistant per body.
Everything catalogued.
1011 cases sorted in a week.
Debris and dirt embedded in the wound.

{How to survive a tsunami.}

Parasitology.
Fish crabs shrimp eels stingrays horseshoe crabs
Scrotum of a patient with elephantiasis, it’d be twice the size of my head. The length of my torso.

F.buski

Venomous snakes of medical importance.
Spiders, centipede, bees, wasps, house dust mites with teddy bears, caterpillars, ants.

Different strands of viruses
Malaria’s red circles and cucumbers
Naegleria fowleri are funny blue squids
Trichomonas vaginalis pink squids upside down
Balantidium coli are blue capsules.

Now I’m really fuckin’ hungry!

I got a delicious pizza from the Wang Lang bakery.
There was lots of officials at the museum and the hospital.
Standing at every door, gate or opening, all in hats and they do wear sunglasses.
The foreigners and the authorities are the sunglass wearers.
The authority also seems to do a lot of traffic work.
There’s green lush plants everywhere, lining every street.

Noises. Colours. Smells. Smiles. As you transcend through the streets with high-rise above and the wheels below, freedom takes you slowly by the backdoor to the river. Cross between colourful long tail boats and small freighters. Then  on the other side, quietness and tranquility await except the sound of the frogs and cicadas. Go by small concrete tracks through mangrove and past stilted houses and laidback life with a glimpse of the urban beyond.

The television blanks out people smoking fat dick cigars so instead they just hit themselves in the face with transparent rectangles.

On other televisions they show cats sitting at tables eating plates of food while people have commentary voice overs filmed from the studio.

And over here is where the ping pong shows are, if you’re into that kinda thing…
Oh not really, I’m more into the macabre density of transmitted consciousness that crosses time space and dimension. But thanks anyway.

{Day 3 – Bangkok (still, why I don’t know) }

Last night, myself and an Englishman named John went to Kho San Road, the fuckin’ hellhole that it is with drunken foreigners, delicious food and the invitation to a ping pong show is lip sucking and smacking.

I did too get clawed by a fuckin’ neurotic cat.
Staring it directly in the eyes telling it it’d all be okay (if that’s a lie or not I don’t know) but it was too far gone.

Yesterday I met a Dutch girl who studies art, lives in Shanghai and has to leave Shanghai every 90 days for some reason. She also spoke 4 languages and we talked about hats.

This morning I was up and be gone. For breakfast I had corn, but they gave me too much corn, and while I was looking for the building I was going to a lovely tuk-tuk driver who slightly reminded me of a pimp gave me directions.

If you walk around here with no shoes on, it’s just as weird socially if you walk around Sydney with no shoes on, but everybody is a bit more curious and wants to know in SouthEast Asia.

“What happened?”

“Wanna buy some shoes?”

“It’s more comfortable inside” (indicating to carpet)

I found myself saying to people on the street

‘It puts strength in the feet’.

We got to go on a river boat tour. Myself, a Dutch girl whose name I can’t say or remember, our guide – who was a funny cheeky woman – and our boat driver – who had immaculate boat driving skills.

When we first got on our rainbow coloured boat the fear kicked in cause I thought I’d lose my bag in the water. It’s always good to have that tick or nerve to keep perception highs. I found out the funny guide lady had fallen off the boat only once which to me is a good track record.

We got out of the open water and into the canals. The water was 3 metres deep as we passed through some orange gates.

The canals were a Venice type environment as everybody was welcoming as we traveled through.

Looking at the water. Thing floating in the water, animals, plants, waste, rubbish.
It doesn’t matter where you are it’s everybody’s water.

A ‘Welcome to Thailand’ attitude, as opposed to Australia’s with its ‘Fuck Off We’re Full’ attitude.

We pulled up at a temple. I forgot the name of the temple though but it was very fun.

People there were fishing, not the ‘hey I have a fishing rod’ kinda fishing but the ‘let’s chuck shitloads of bread and corn puff things in the water and just pull fish out’. So many fish, Oh My Buddha, you wouldn’t believe it.

At the temple there was a building size golden Buddha sitting atop a three headed white elephant standing atop a black world eating demon. If you’re born on a Wednesday night you have to give the demon special gifts that are colour black, black coffee, poppy seeds, black jelly and other black stuff.

There is a different Buddha for everyday and Wednesday night so 8 Buddha’s in all but there’s so many more believe me.

We got to hit gongs, we saw buckets of fish and a man who puts his foot on a hot iron and then massages people with his hot foot while he hangs onto a pole.

We got back on the boat and back down the river, on our way to a lotus farm. Apparently the lotus is the first flower that existed.

In the Terrence McKenna view of things plants created animals to move seeds around, a very yang solution, So using this logic we are here because of the lotus.

I made some tuna sandwiches at the lotus farm with the most fluffy amazing loaf roll thing I’ve ever had. It was meant to be for the fish but the flappy rolly catfish didn’t mind.

I did hit a catfish in the face with bread which was pretty funny.

At the lotus farm there were lots of lotus and the boat driver had a nap. It also became apparent how efficient the Thai community is with nature. It’s very ying and yang and everything has its function. Leaves that are used as sand paper, banana leaves are used as wrapping paper, weird sticks that can become toothpicks, these people are geniuses.

Or very simplistic – but it’s the same thing.

After the lotus farm we floated through the back alley of community. People in their back porches on a river living.

It reminded me of back alley Newtown. Art and making and people doing what they do with tourists coming through and photographing.

The people let us through their homes, of course they sold us stuff but the welcoming and generosity was amazing. I let people in to my house, wherever I am at the time, but it’s generally homeless people or goddamn hippies.

They made us delicious ice coffees and the dutch girl and I hung our feet off their balconies into the river. After Bangkok the dutch girl was going trekking and then to hang out on the beach and read. It sounded great.

So many adventures happening.

We also saw some lizards, big monitors, swimming in the lake with just their head about water or if they’re really big you can see their fat bellies and backs.

With the adventure talk, there was a couple from Missouri USA, right in the middle, who had been in India studying elephants eating popcorn. I met them after the hectic medical museum.
We left the wonderful people who let us in their house and we headed back to the mainland. More temple time.

We got off the boat and said byebye to the driver (we also got to drive past his house and wave to his daughter and wife.)

Back on land, we headed to more temples. I also bought a great hat. I’d been looking for a hat for two days and hadn’t found one I liked. The Dutch girl and the guide lady helped me pick it which was great because I get quite indecisive.

Temple #2

The story of Rama painted throughout the place. Amazing stories about monkey warriors who become bridges to get people across gaping gullies, stories of love princesses rooster warriors, sky fighting dragon demons, the main warrior demon was green.

Silly demon *shaking fist* Why don’t you stop being silly.
Rahul, the world-eating demon.

There was also a story of how one of Rama’s monkey warriors whisked away the green demons daughter, who was a mermaid, and they had a child who was a monkey mermaid warrior hybrid and Rama had to amputate the mermaid out so that the bastard child wasn’t evil.

I hadn’t drank water for a while and I had to wear long dicky blue flame dragon pants in the temple so I was acting a big green demon silly. There was also a girl walking around with very see through pants and I saw her underwear. It was white and she had a white bottom.

The left the Rama temple, got ice cream and

Temple #3

The Buddha’s.

So many Buddha’s. Like 370 odd Buddha’s who became bigger as you delved in. The funny guide lady kept taking photos with the Dutch girls camera, being a cheeky bastard about it which was the cheese on the cake. She also tried to take a shortcut through a construction area that alerted the authorities to stopping us. She gave them cheek too. It was nice to see that all over the world people have a joke with the authorities. It’s not too serious, it’s only life and only systems.

At the Buddha temple there was a standing Buddha, which was two stories high, a sitting Buddha which was even bigger and a resting Buddha who was laying down inside a building and it was fucking massive. It took 27 years to build and had kaleidoscopic elephant print feet.

We walked through the space and heard about Rama 9 who had 67 wives and 112 children or something. That’s impressive because I find constant people hard. Maybe he did too.
We left, got a tuk-tuk and had some lunch. There was no Pad Thai left and the people who got the last of it didn’t even finish it! Those bastards. Me and the waitresses laughter filled the pier, and then we were put on a boat.
Byebye funny hilarious weird tour guide lady, lovely to meet you. Stay outta trouble. I love you and have fun.

At the temple I got to wish all the Buddha’s with fun. Those Buddha’s are gonna have the greatest time (so much fun).

On the boat at one of the stops was a guy in a swimming cap and an umbrella yelling at people ‘HURRY UP, HURRY UP!’ and that was his job, and I’m sooo envious.

What a great job, yelling at people ‘GET YOUR ASS INTO GEAR MOTHERFUCKER’

We got off the boat, byebye Dutch girl it was lovely to spend that day with you and now I’m at the hostel, and I’m doing my washing. I’m staying in my room while I don’t have a shirt on. I could sit downstairs with no shirt and everybody could see my cool tattoos.

But everybody who gets tattoos is a dickhead and I can say that – because I have tattoos too.

Corn. Delicious corn. Oh my god why don’t I eat more corn?
Alright corn, that’s enough. No really.
Oh no too much corn.
I like you corn but c’mon now.
Has this ever happened to you?
Have you ever had too much corn?
Creamed corn, corn cobs, cornbread or strawberry corn cake.
Lots of corn. Too much corn.
There’s never enough of that delicious yellow corn.

Do you know how stupid hotdog eating competitions are? It draws a crowd.

{Day 4 – Lets go. Bangkok – Siem Reap.}

Last night. Chinatown, food, walking everywhere, no shoes. No threat. Got drunk and got some sleep.

I’ve met two 25 year old Englishmen on bottom bunks.

At 6:30am I’ve got a funny stripy shirt (red & yellow) staff guy with bolt cutters on the move.

After 10 minutes I found my keys and his bolt cutters were irrelevant and I was a dickhead.

The people I’ve been seeing about don’t like being scammed by taxi’s tuk-tuk’s or anybody else.

They’re angry about it. I, however, don’t mind getting slightly scammed for two reasons.

1.    I’m a white male – if there’s any type of person in the world who should get scammed it’s white (devil) males.

2.    What’s (dollar sign, I couldn’t find it on the keyboard )2 to me? Really? I’ll spread everything around and make the world a playground. Give and let people do some taking – whatever you want you can have and we can all play the game together.
A lot of the people (not really, just a few English people) I’ve spoken to all hate things about other backpackers and travelers, e.g…

“I hate when people come to Thailand and eat McDonalds”
(McDonalds probably shouldn’t be eaten anywhere)

…instead of liking things about the place they’re in and just forgetting their society and culture for a while. It’s still hanging on.

The world isn’t this evil place. The world is a great place and people are good.
If somebody feeds into ideas you don’t like that’s fine.

Everybody’s different like everybody else (Joe Buck Yourself taught me that).

I hold a lot of tension in my back, neck and shoulders so what to do about it?

Get a massage.

Well, I thought it’d be appropriate to get a massage after the crazy foetus museum. *sigh* It didn’t work.

I got led into a room with 5 dirty mattresses on the floor and room dividers.

“I think we’ve had a miss understanding here”

‘You’ve got to have a shower, over there’

“Nah, I’ve already had a shower, too much effort, byebye”

And I left without a massage, but the last thing I felt like doing after hanging out with severed limbs was having sex.

A German was telling me that a taxi driver was asking him if you could have sex in his country (Germany) without paying and was dumb founded to find out that you could.

Imagine the mental toll that would take on your mind.

I want to have sex with everybody but I don’t want to turn it into a service, I want to have fun and we all know what Cyndi Lauper says about girls wanting to have fun. Let’s all have fun! (and sex).

Petrol is the same price in Thailand as it is in Australia. Wherever you go petrol companies want more money.

This is a fun minivan ride, very comfortable. And we stopped to poop.

It’s taken me 3 days to get used to the heat and I now no longer walk around like a fuckin’ pool.

{Poi Pet.}

Money talks and fast tracks the process to everything.

Like Burroughs, I feel like an agent from the unknown waiting for orders, unsure of orders.
Like Bukowski sitting at a bar, however I don’t think Bukowski was in Siem Reap.

(Welcome to the Mad Monkey… It’s funny looking back through time as I write this knowing the cause and effect now)

They play the B52’s and Nirvana, which is quite funny and better than the other shit. That disco shit.

Parasitic culture in the form of Americano.

Music money and advertisement, everything for a profit especially Western Interzone.

Where were the armies of horses when a Cambodian regiment was killing Cambodians?

(Why did only Jello Biafra mention it?)

Too busy playing with their fuckin’ dongs and killing Vietnamese in squalor.

SouthEast Asia, where everybody is open and friendly, as opposed to Australia where nobody gives a fuck really. People just seem happy to hang out around motorbikes and crossing boarders are easy if you’re willing to give people a bit for their pockets, which is fine, which is the process.

Fast track for me, generosity for others.

When I got to the Cambodian border I had the previous paranoia instilled and thought people were after me so the hesitation was there. I gave some guy my passport and thought he’d stolen it but he came back with a visa. Then I thought he and them scammed me but only in retrospect did I realise they didn’t.

They just hang around a border crossing, the duty free land of casinos and cheap whiskey and help people get to where they’re going. They also set up a funny guy in a hat to get me from Pot Poi to Siem Reap.

I had to get some money out so he used that as a good excuse to see the pretty girls at the casino, without a tourist they don’t let him in. He must be a bit of a pest.

I hung out with him for about an hour and he just joked with everybody else who hung out and he told me with money and a good car you can have many girlfriends.

I haven’t eaten really and I’ve spent times on minivans and minibuses listening to Hank III.

{Siem Reap.}

I got a tuk-tuk ride off Sol who was this amazing guy in a NY purple hat with a hairy mole who just wanted me to enjoy the time I spent in the place he calls home.

Now I’m at The Mad Monkey with the parasitic culture in the form of Americano.

There’s a synth pop song with the only lyric being Tuesday and weird nana cat sounds.

You have to be deranged to come up with that kinda shit, and for me that’s where the hope lies.

There is also Geckos here. Fuckin’ Gecko, near sent me crazy.

Living alone in a crack house and like clockwork as I was trying to drift off the sleep there’d be a crazy fuckin’ shriek that I thought could possibly be a death rattle.

After 2 weeks I thought I had lost my mind, until a friend said ‘it’s only a Gecko’.
Well didn’t I feel the fool.

Sweet little innocent Geckos at the primal level are the manifestation of schizophrenia.

PREMIUM COCKTAILS $3.50
Guaranteed to tickle your taste buds, & get you wankered!

Margaritas
Jose Cuervo, Triple Sec, Lime Juice, Sugar Water
Choose between Classic, Strawberry or Melon.
House specialty, you won’t be disappointed…

Espresso Martini
[editor’s note: I also thought it was Expresso]
Absolute Vodka, Kahlua, Cacao liquor, Coffee
Not a fan of Red Bull… The classier way to kick start your night.

Eclipse
Jack Daniels, Raspberry liquor, Fresh Lime Juice, Sugar, Fraise, Cranberry.
Sexy and sweet, but certainly not innocent…

Love Hug
Jose Cuervo Tequila, Fraise, Fresh Lime Juice, Brown Sugar, Passion Fruit, Sugar Water.
A Love Bar favourite, rimmed with honey.

Passion Fruit Mojito
Mint, Bacardi, Sugar Water, Fresh Lime Juice, Soda
(not the Primus album Pork Soda though)
Passion Fruit.
Don’t miss out on this seasonal treat.

When I was little and living in Mollymock my friend Mitchell Lemon nearly set my head on fire, or tried to. I don’t really remember but my mother does and according to her, Mitchell Lemon’s fathers reaction was:

‘well boys will be boys’

I could have suffered burn wounds.

Later, in high school, I nearly set my friend Meg Lye’s hair on fire, or tried too. She had hair colouring done at the time and she could have suffered head burn wounds.

I do remember this and I got my shoelaces thrown on a train station roof as reaction.
That’s pretty good.

Flood Lights – the genius of society. If you ever need people to find you, shine a massive flood light over the whole city that spans kilometres and space. Let foreign bodies know of your whereabouts and don’t let authority spy, smack them right in the goddamn face and yell at them

‘HERE I AM WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WANNA KNOW OF MY DOING FOR’

The pop group TLC made it quite clear they don’t want no scrub (something’s off about that linguistically grammar) but what the fuck is a scrub?
They explain it’s a passenger who wants attention but no TLC, wrong.
Scrub is the bush and what you’re talking about are losers. Call them losers.
There’s enough losers around for them to know you’re talking about them, don’t mask it and alter language for a bunch of fuckin’ losers.

I wonder when people listen to acoustic pop songs about lost love or pop disco songs about being the sexiest bitch in the joint if they think the singer is singing directly to them?

I have 4 different types of currency, Australian, American, Thai Baht & Riel, red nail polish on my left hand, blue on the right and looking up at the stars wondering how the view of the sky works.

Different places geographically see different stars cosmically. Try figuring out why. Different revolutions on a sphere watching the universes patterns.

Who wants to go to Bondi? That’s right, nobody.

Do you know how much of a pain in the ass it is to get to Bondi by train, car, bus, boat, pushbike, walking or however else people travel. Planes, canoes, tuktuk, minivans, rolly polies, skipping, jet skiing listening to Tupac, kicking your way through bed bugs, no matter your way – going to Bondi is a pain in the ass. And who wants to listen to foreigners anyways.

The band The Beards have killed beards.

“Why don’t you have a beard you unfashionable piece of shit, we have beards and you don’t, what are you a communist, or a fag? Get a beard hippy. It’s movember you unpatriotic dickhead, people died for your beard FREEDOM!”

THEY’RE PLAYING WU-TANG IN SIEM REAP

Ain’t a damn thing change boy, protect ya neck. When it comes to influence and parasitic culture, Ol’ Dirty Bastard should be the master. I make more noise than heavy metal.
I’m always hesitant about peoples pompous pretentiousness and hipster status. The idea of cool, and then, Wu-Tang. Fuckin’ Wu-Tang. Clan Ain’t Nuthin’ Ta Fuck Wit’. Accommodate for all.

After a while the pop comes back but I’m satisfied with the few Wu-Tangs.

Watching people play beer pong and I remember playing cricket once. I was bowling and synchronicity clicked, my mind and my body had the same point and became one to get the ball to hit the stumps. It was raining and overcast and when I got the batter out cause my mind body knew where their mind body had the bat, it was my turn to bat.
It broke the spell and that’s the end of the memory.

The connotation of words.

‘Hate is such a strong word’ while everybody throws around love like sour air.
I’d much prefer to use hate than the news speak double talk of dislike, unlike, double-un-dis-like.

I forgot what I wanted to say.
And what it was was the White Devil.
I’m embracing the White Devil.
Don’t deny what you are. Don’t like the negative aspect drag, take it on and be whoever you are, and I’m the White Devil and my mind’s full of sharp steel.

The excessiveness to life.

Void money and become the want. For me, it’s the numb or the consumption that leads to it. Alcohol, cigarettes and minimal food when it’s readily available.

In Sydney, you can’t go hungry, there’s just too much, but if it’s that easy, who wants it?

The Grenade

The deadly weapon. I’ve seen pictures of kids bodies shredded apart, mutilated beyond extremities with white exposed cartilage. However, now we’re speaking about the beverage.
Jagerbomb with Tequila shot… Do it for your country!!!

{Day 4 & 5 (it’s all the same)}

I went to a bar called Angkor What! With a guy named Aam. Aam was an American whose parents are Indian. His dad moved from India to Texas of all places by himself in the 70’s.

What a fuckin’ mad cunt.

At Angkor What! Bar there was pictures on the walls of pumpkins and ghouls, the remnants of All Hallows Eve and someone had written on the wall ‘I am scared of Fuck Horse’.
Dollar beers and people shouting everybody shots. It was insane how willing everybody is to get fucked up drunk.

I was kissing a girl named Edith, which was quite fun and then somehow crazy shit happened. Edith, her Friend and I were walking near a river and suddenly dead weight

BANG, Friend hits the ground and is out cold.

We try to help her up but she’s gone dead to the world. Tuktuk drivers descend on us left right and centre.

‘We need to get her to the hospital, I don’t want a dead girl on my hands…’

Now we’re in a tuktuk and we all get taken to a medical centre, two beds in the joint with one bed already filled with a guy who looks like a motorbike accident.

They hook Friend up with IV’s and tubes and she’s still gone. After about half an hour of sitting and watching and trying to lighten the mood I realize ‘Hang on, I don’t have my wallet… shit’.

Let’s go and have a look, so now, once again, we’re whisked away back out onto the street in search of a wallet.

It wasn’t a big concern, only a bit of cash but it was definitely a foreshadowing event of things to come, and it was also a good excuse to get away from the back alley hospital vibe.
We retraced steps. We go back the way we came. No wallet and all the pubs are now closed so no people either. They all cleared out very quickly. Everything’s closed and now we have to wee.

After we wee in the street we realize ‘Hang on a second, we’re fuckin’ lost… shit’.
Where’s that back alley abortion clinic that Friend is housed in when you need one?
Two and a half hours we walked around for, Edith was pissed off and it really amused me actually.

Now we’re walking around, no money, no idea geographically, no people and no cigarettes.
More tuktuk drivers in a gang, maybe they can help, we saw heaps earlier so they might know.
“Hey we took a really drunk white girl to a place and now we don’t know where the place is…’

After some deliberation, conversation and group delegation a very kind tuktuk driver took us to the place free of charge. Thank you tuktuk driver.

Friend’s still out of it but at least now she’s visibly breathing.

We watch some horrible soap opera neighbours style music videos and I get yelled at ‘Television is great, watch more Television’, even if I wanted to, if I had the inclination I couldn’t because I don’t have a Television.

Sleep time now.

For $5 we sleep upstairs at the hospital in a funny little bed.
At 6am, after about 45 minutes of sleep we’re up again and back downstairs.

Friend wakes up now as well, the first question being ‘Where’s my bag… shit’.

Unlike me and my wallet, her wallet is important.

Passport gone, banks cards and the all the monies gone, and we have hospital staff telling us that they need $200 for goods and services.

None of us have any money, we have to leave and go and get some but they think we’re going to do a runner.

Once again we leave Friend to go in search of cash.

Firstly, I go and check out of my hostel (which irritatingly is just around the corner, literally around the corner), then Edith gets medical bill money and we got back to the back alley hospital, where they’ve called the police on us.

The Cambodian authorities in plain clothes and funny belts are there waiting so we give them cash and fuck off quick smart. Now we’re off to the tourist police to let them know what has happened and that somebody is passport-less.

The tourist police officer was a thin guy with tight legs who wrote everything down very slowly and very delicately.

More time, then we return back to the girls hostel. I thought of food and sleep, however me and Edith go out again and meet another one of her friends at a coffee place nobody knows exists.

The new friend has been in India and is now working in Cambodia for a while. She was very nice and we went to a Mexican joint for lunch with tacos and burritos.

It’s funny how I can be completely racist, in the name of fun, about places I know nothing about.

“Mexicano Mexicano with the tacos and the burritos. Se’ Por Favor Se’.’

After lunch I did get a nap which was good and at the hostel the funny Cambodian guy who showed me my room wanted to know if I wanted to smoke a joint with him.
I said no, I wanted sleep.

When it rains here it proper rains. Pelting watered bombed from the sky.
I’m getting the night bus to Phnom Penh and I considered canceling, but the rain stopped.

Heavy rains. The sustenance of the universe (sometime) and the laughter of the Gods.
Should we be abandoning the idea of God for progression?
Maybe we should but all the stories could, would and will bring me, the satisfaction of a story.

And that’s all we can want for. A good story, told from another place.

Steam mushrooms with rice next time we steam rice.

You know about the monsoonal (moonsoonic) rain that traps you inside. It’s to the point of embracing.

The food aspect. A massive part to society through the medias image of sexy and peoples justification of it from the alien source. Even when I eat, in public at least, I try not to eat too fast. In the Chuck Palahniuk book Rant, there’s a bit about if a woman goes on a date with a guy and the guy scoffs down his food he isn’t a good ‘root’.

This is the influence that holds me. I think people are watching me eat and I think they’re judging me from that on my sexual performance.

However, nobody is watch, nor caring.

All external factors are are internal judgments… or…
All internal judgments are created through external factors.

Explode! with the pen
like a bullet
Shrapnel from the other world
Here I stand and
there you stand and together
we can love
everything in the world.
Becoming iridescent of life and the soul.
For I am you,
You are me and
together we are everything.

{DREAMTIME 6/11/13}

Vivid colours and very bright.

Jane and I had an argument and I had to walk away. We were walking in the street near grass and a blue sky. When I left I started gaining speed to the point where I was flying along the street. I took a wide turn and I was in a crowded street where I spoke to a man with a beard. He was in a band and others recognized him but I didn’t (I really did but for the sake of my attitude and the image I wish the convey…)

Under a freeway, me and two others, and we’re planning on killing ourselves by drinking diesel. I started shoting diesel with chaser of diesel again (and beer). I never felt sick but I realized I didn’t want to die. I though the diesel would eat my stomach away so I decided to go to the hospital.

{Day 6 – Phnom Penh}

It’s too early in the morning for salad, but at Sunrise Tacos it’s never too early for tacos and in Phnom Penh it’s never too early for Genocide.

S21.

I wonder if they laughed, I wonder if they found it funny. The sickest people have the most warped sense of humour.

Or was it just a goddamn job?

If so, the people who delegated the tasks are still there, blaming others.

One day those sick cunts will get what they deserve.

A strange sense of Deja Vu looking at the photos of some places. I feel I’ve been there in a dream. Flash image.

Faces of the dead look back, look through.

I find Phnom Penh very BRAH!

Siem Reap is a more of a hello kind of place. Welcome to Siem Reap, we love you, whereas Phnom Penh is ‘Hi! Hi hi hi hi what are you doing? Hey what are you doing, you yeah you, what are you doing?’

At S21, I’m pretty sure a Cambodian student, around my age, told me to hurry up with my genocidal journey so I could teach him english.

I’ll cut it short here and go to the beach instead, maybe they won’t play sterile generic pop music there.

I’m the White Devil
Let my mind annihilate you on another level
Put you in bric a brac cells
with constant bells ringing and ringing in your face
Chain your arms down in a bucket, lift you upside down, you drown
Before I displace all your limbs,
tools from my medical suitcase.

The most expensive place here is the trendy hostel. They’re amazing if you give them more money and that’s the same with everybody. Just a bit more extra cash makes everything so much easier, relaxing and convenient.

If every action is done ‘by the metre’ than you’re just being a tight ass and you’ll probably get scammed and inconvenienced. Share some generosity through cash smiles and hands and they’re all your best friend.

They also think you’re funny in nail polish.

I connected with a kid today. I went to the bottleshop looking for a toilet.

“Toilet? Do a wee?”, it’s out the back. This kid that’s hanging out in the bottleshop leads me there.

‘I’m 8 years old’

“oh that’s good, do you like Angry Birds?”

‘Yeah, Angry Birds, I like Angry Birds, the toilet’s here.’, he opens the toilet door for me, ‘you can lock it here’ and he points to a lock. As I leave he asks why I have painted fingernails?

“For colourful. Colours.”
he finds it very funny and I leave, bye bye. I remember being a kid growing up in a pub, spinning out on all the strange characters walking through, wondering why they do what they do.

I got asked if I was from Israel because I look like Jesus, Jesus is my friend.
The song lyrics playing in the background was ‘love me or hate me that’s the question, if you don’t like me fuck you.’

None of these people want me to draw happy jellyfish anywhere. Silly people not listening to the silly jellyfish.

My first thought when picking up a glass ashtray is cracking somebody in the head with it.
Not anybody in particular, probably just the personification of society.

Walking back and forth back and forth with tuktuk drivers telling me 8 times in a few hours they’ll see me tomorrow.

“Dude, I’ll see you in about 3 minutes, I’m coming back”
Nobody wanted to give me change for $100 but wanted me to buy shit off them.
‘Have you had lunch? Have you had lunch?’
“I know you’re cleaning my room but I’m trying to have a nap.”
‘Yeah but, have you had lunch?’
“No, I haven’t, I’m trying to have a nap”
‘Mangoes, want to come and eat mangoes with me?’
“No. No, I don’t”
‘Have you had lunch?’
“Fuck it I’m up now, yes I’ll go and have some fuckin’ lunch.’

The red hot chili peppers are another shitty band.
At a party I was asked by some lad
‘if you could see and band at any time, who would it be?’
At the time I thought I was going to see the Jesus Lizard at All Tomorrow’s Parties in Melbourne. So the answer was
“The Jesus Lizard, I get to see them soon and they’re great… and the Melvins. I know they’ll be back soon” (I get to see two Melvins gigs in about a fortnight)
I realised I like just as many people now or at least my favourites are still going, as opposed to living in the past, kicking your parents for not birthing you for Woodstock ’69.

So I asked him, what about you?
‘I’d see the red hot chili peppers’
He could of, they were in Australia a few month prior.
‘Oh no, I would have seen them in the early nineties, when they started out’
“Dude, the red hot chili peppers started in the in the late seventies”
‘No they didn’t’
You’re right, stupid backwards hat lad at a party, what the fuck would I know.

The rain is so thin
A soft blanket of nature as water.
Giving itself sustenance
Caring for itself
Why can’t we do that?

Remember when Obama was running for president the first time and everybody was watching excitedly. I was, a black president, how great equality and change will be. The Tupac song Changes was used as a slogan and we thought true.

We were all distracted by the fact he was black that we forgot about the fact that he’s a politian.

As Paul Mooney said, the American black man is the most copied group of people there is. Go to any culture of white people, SouthEast Asian, or anyone who thinks they’re cool, all playing this weird gangsta California Love type music to “party” too.

Believe me, I know all the words like everybody else.
Warren G, Fat Joe, Tupac, 50 Cent, they love it like 2007.

Everybody’s Different Like Everybody Else

I don’t know if I find people hard, hence I drink or since I drink, I find people hard.
What a cycle.

It’s nice meeting people while traveling, discussing where you are all going.
If you have been to a place they are going you can get excited or dismal for them and their goings.

Completely unknowing in yourself, a place they have been to feel and advise you on.

Let’s film a TV show. It’s very educational.

Let’s get 4 fat white American men with moustaches and one African guide to white water raft after crocodiles and hippos. It’ll be really good for National Geographic.

Beg your pardon?
No it won’t be us infecting you, it’ll teach and educate.
What about? Well clearly the ignorance of people against nature.
Don’t worry, we’re experts.

No mirrors in the bathroom
No retreat to Vanity
Wear your skin untainted as it it’s yourself
and feel yourself pulsate through your skin.

A packet of twenty cigarettes for $0.65, that’s $0.0325 a cigarette.
A packet of twenty cigarettes for $16, that’s $0.80 a cigarette.
Besides healthcare, what’s the difference in cancer.

Where’s the scat man?

Or the scat cat for that reason.

I don’t really like OddFuture or Tyler the Creator but I was talking about killing bruno mars and I found out they were rapping about killing bruno mars so there must be some similar connection.

All we can do about it though is kill bruno mars.

Do it publicly if need be but he needs to be dead to better the world.
The last thing we need is people promoting laziness.

Who has a ‘girl of their dreams’?
Not the girl you like at the coffee shop or a beautiful woman down the street, but someone that visits them in the other world.
Different faces but the same being.
I know her from my dreams, if she’s a she, if gender really matters I don’t know, but maybe, who knows, she might exist in this reality.

{nelly the Rapper.}

‘Hey Boo, I’m gonna become a rapper’
“Oh hey Garth/Cornall that’s a great idea, you’re good at talking about how women leave you.”
“Yeah Boo, it’ll be great and I’ve come up with a really good name too… Nelly’
“Uh wait.. what.. Nelly? Where the fuck did that come from?”
‘It’ll show the bitches how compassionate I am’
“Alright, ummm… Listen Garth/Cornall, I don’t think we can be friends anymore. I’ve realized you’re a Fuckwit and I’m gonna end the relationship here.”
‘Oh Boo you can’t do this to me it’ll break my heart’
“Good, you’re a Fuckin’ Idiot. You’ll make money probably but it doesn’t deny the fact you’re Dickhead”

‘Oh no, my girl left me, I better write a popular “hip-hop” song about it.’

If you braid your hair – you’re weird
If you paint your fingernails – you’re weird
If you walk around the street with no shoes – you’re weird
Everybody is curious about the weird people
Maybe we’re always inclined to be different
or maybe society is stuck in its straight structures
Either way – that’s okay
Whoever is weird, whoever is straight is still just whoever
Who’s Ever?
You are Ever, I am, Everybody is, the trees the stars the bees the cars, We are all an Ever.
Never living, never being born, never for judgment, never dying, just being Ever.

I smoke too many cigarettes.

I don’t mind my alcohol consumption but I smoke too many cigarettes.

WhatEver it is that possesses me isn’t looking out for my best interest like a bad friend.

Notice how the blame is shifted. It’s either me or them. My consumption is them, Their pain is Me.

They’re after me, they’re trying to infect me and I’m trying to attack them on all fronts. I want to know why I’m in a battle but I also want to know who started it? Them, Me, apparently someone’s to blame who and why are covered.

How did it start?
When did it start? (a long time ago).
What has it started?
The journey I travel is influence by the War.
Luckily or karmaically, I have good people around me.

Why do you get to pour your own beer?
Do you work here?
The thought comes and I realize what fuckin’ business is it of mine.
You do what you do, I’ll do what I do and there won’t be interference, unless you start intruding on other people’s business out of the Hate, out of either personal or alien device.
The Thought.
The Idea of your own mind.

The Eternal Consumption Engine.
I consume through heavy alcohol consumption and cigarettes.
Other buy shoes, shirts, food, drugs, plastic bags and/or media.
We all consume the media though, it could be a different aspect from the same cloth.
We want or we give. You can make money or spend money.
I spend money on alcohol, bills and tax. The bills and tax seem unavoidable, but at this point…
I hate the consumptive aspect, the desire to spend but I feed into it like most others (all others, we all consume  food air water social interactions and compassions)
I battle my urge with satisfaction and guilt, which are the fast track aspects to an early death.
Well, everybody else is doing it.
Bukowski was 74 (odd), Burroughs was 78 (odd), my pop was 82 and my father’s not dead yet.
I think of a change, through a life partner, but how much pressure is that for them.
They can always love me but how can they change me away from me and why do I feel so open to it?

Who knows. Let’s smoke and think about the next idea.

Comparatively, and that’s the only way to hold a judgment, the Backstreet Boys don’t sound bad to whatever’s happening. Remember the descent. I actually quite like Alanis Morissette.
‘Do you think about me when you fuck her?’

I will build your decent for you.
However far you fall, call on me, I know.

I’m drunk, but I’m not a threat. Unless I’m violent or imposing you shouldn’t be able to say anything.

If people are loud to the extension impose violent dickheads or Irish, I should be able to get as drunk as I want.

No threat from me to others just the ability to shell. To not be one of you.

Beer pong is popular, which is good for the economy and beer sales… So am I!

At least there’s a productive aspect. Sure, they have a social aspect but lots of people don’t make something good.

It generally taints the experience, unless of course it’s getting drunk, which is very very easy.

So don’t hold merit in drinking, hold merit sustenance.

Ascertion is a good word
Avuncular is a good word
Alphabetically is a good word
Systematicist is a good word
so is Zebra.
Quantum leaps from horror to sex to language to death to rap music.
All I have to say is Snoop Dogg and Eminem are dead and there’s enough people around to take their place.

Looming blue curtains shut us in together
a very quick swift in music and atmosphere, luckily nobody minds.
Not minding the claustrophobic-ness or that the rain really puts a damper on the night, you can’t really go out in tropical storms/downpours.
Luckily I’ve been drinking all afternoon and sleep is a commodity at 9:30pm.
We’re also back on TLC scrubs argument, met with whoops.
Luckily it’s bed.

Stairwell.
I can’t help at this time, I’m sorry
There’s too many barriers in the way at the moment.
If I could console you, together we could better ourselves.
But alas, not.
Until we learn to speak the language of it, it’ll just be dead air and a stare between us.

I have to get the fuck out of this place.
The whole thing seems like a sick twisted joke, but it’s on you.

Icecream for breakfast will be delicious, but it always puts an un-satisfaction in the day because whatever happens next, nothing can top icecream breakfast.

{DREAMTIME 7/11/13}

I went back to Sydney for some reason, a family thing or something. I got pissed off with my sister about moving back and forth between countries.

All my family and I were at what seemed to be Sydney Harbour and we were leaning on gates and everybody was swimming.

I jumped in the water just as we were leaving. I jumped and the force took me to the bottom of the water.

I opened my eyes and I was suspended in the water, with a bright flashing jellyfish in front of me.

I grabbed hold of it and floated back to the surface. I showed some family member what I found.

A plastic SpongeBob Jellyfish Toy.

Two white men sitting at the back of the bus, getting along like a house on fire.
They’re both in their mid-fifties and traveling alone.
One is a White South African, the other has a possible Russian accent.
They’re getting along a bit too well.
I think they’re pedophiles and they’re found their own kind.

Staring out the window and it’s raining.
I am the rain and the rain is me.
The bus is going slow and is rocking steadily, like a boat.
The sky’s sea is wavering from above and the vessel
I’m in is so many differences.

Don’t think too much, it makes you old.

At the Grand Palace, all these Tadpoles live in big stone bowls under lillypads, but where are all the frogs?

I’ve seen thousands of tadpoles and only two frogs.
As we walk out the palace doors, there’s fried frogs being sold at a stand.
“Oh, that’s where they all go”
Curiosity satisfied.

Blood and Guts in High School by Kathy Acker

blood and guts in high school
I didn’t want anyone to notice me ‘cause I was blind so I crawled under the splinters

of the bar. The music stopped. A lot of feet passed by. Some of them by accident kicked me.

One kicked me too hard.

“Do you want to fuck me, scumbag?” President Carter said to me.

“I can’t fuck.”

“You’ve got syphilis?”

“I’ve got cancer.”

“Gee.” He put his arms around me and kissed me.

I USED TO BE UNHAPPY

OH YES

I LIVED IN THE CORNER OF A ROOM

THEN YOU CAME ALONG AND FUCKED THE SHIT

OUT OF ME

I WON’T BE UNHAPPY AGAIN

SPRING IS A COCK THAT’S HARD

OH YES

I KNOW YOU’RE A SECRET TERRORIST

‘CAUSE LOVE LEADS TO DEATH

I WON’T EVER BE UNHAPPY AGAIN

THOUGH IT’S BEEN A WEEK SO YOUR LOVE’S

ALMOST OVER

THE WORLD’S ABOUT TO EXPLODE

TERRORISTS NEED NO MORE COVER

OH YES LOVE LEADS TO DEATH

OH YES

I couldn’t hear any of that political music shit I just wanted to kiss

the guy again and again. The music made it so you couldn’t hear the words

and the music itself was so loud music couldn’t be heard

you weren’t hearing

this is beyond hearing

you is just vibrations so there’s no difference between self and music.

ee cummings

eecummings
I Will Wade Out
i will wade out
till my thighs are steeped in burning flowers
I will take the sun in my mouth
and leap into the ripe air
Alive
with closed eyes
to dash against darkness
in the sleeping curves of my body
Shall enter fingers of smooth mastery
with chasteness of sea-girls
Will i complete the mystery
of my flesh
I will rise
After a thousand years
lipping
flowers
And set my teeth in the silver of the moon

 

The Mind Is Its Own Beautiful Prisoner
the mind is its own beautiful prisoner.
Mind looked long at the sticky moon
opening in dusk her new wings

then decently hanged himself,one afternoon.

The last thing he saw was you
naked amid unnaked things,

your flesh,a succinct wandlike animal,
a little strolling with the futile purr
of blood;your sex squeaked like a billiard-cue
chalking itself,as not to make an error,
with twists spontaneously methodical.
He suddenly tasted worms windows and roses

he laughed,and closed his eyes as a girl closes
her left hand upon a mirror.

From W [Viva] LVII
somewhere I have never travelled,gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which I cannot tough because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though I have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously) her first rose

or if your wish to be close me,I and
my life will shut very beautifully,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the colour of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands

Close Encounters of Another Kind by Charles Bukowski

bukowski2

are we going to the movies or not?
she asked him.

all right, he said, let’s go.

I’m not going to put any panties on
so you can finger-fuck me in the
dark, she said.

should we get buttered popcorn?
he asked.

sure, she said.

leave your panties on,
he said.

what is it? she asked.

I just want to watch the movie,
he answered.

look, she said, I could go out on
the street, there are a hundred men
out there who’d be delighted to have
me.

all right, he said, go ahead out here.
I’ll stay home and read the National
Enquirer.

you son of a bitch, she said, I am
trying to build a meaningful
relationshp.

you can’t build it with a hammer,
he said.

are we going to the movies or not?
she asked.

all right, he said, let’s
go…

at the corner of Western and
Franklin he put on the blinker
to make his left turn
and a man in the on-coming lane
speeded up
as if to cut him off.

brakes grabbed. there wasn’t a
crash but there almost was one.

he cursed at the man in the other
car. the man cursed back. the
man had another person in the car with
him. it was his wife.

they were going to the movies
too.

Clowns By Dams. an australian outback story.

In the dark of the night down by the billabong
And the subconscious drift of The Green Manalishi (With the Two Pronged Crown)
Stands a Clown, unknowing of where it’s going.
Or where it came from.
Or what it is…
The waters moving and the trees are shaking
And a sounds been making the atmosphere feel queer.
Red eyes bulge through black cotton high.

With a slash through the air, a Dropbear’NNNNoooOOOOookkkk’

hits the ground like fallen steel, it’s heels dig the dirt.There’s a distance stare and the Dropbear advances threateningly.
The Clown laughs hectically standing ground saving face, close proximity no disgrace as the blade from it’s pocket penetrates the base of the Dropbear’s spine.

‘Divine!’As rainbow rivers flow from the wound.

In the dark of night down by the billabong in an unknown australian outbackThere’s a deck of predators that range from Ace to King to QUEEN.
Most lurk unseen, disguised in the shadows
Stalking it’s prey, the next meal it follows.
After the Dropbear, The Clown is still there
Under the tree, waiting to see what comes next.
The waters so still that The Clown doesn’t feel the imminent threat, of this creatures bet that this coloured freak will be its Fresh Meat.
From below the surface out jumps a Bunyip, a horrendous abomination bent on damnation, working for Satan.
A metallic sensation pumps The Clown’s blood flow, he was caught off guard! and now it’s in a hard place, next to a rock.

The Bunyip charges flailing it’s limbs and it skims The Clown’s paint with a swipe of the claws.Through the Doors of Perception, The Clowns than best guess in the situation is to play dead.

*it’s a well known fact that Bunyips only eat living flesh to to devour the soul*

With The Clown now presumed dead, the Bunyip then said”Well fuck this I’m going home. Who wants to eat this weak fleshy meat if the eyes are already black.”

The Bunyip now gone, The Clown all now lone, in the distance his vision spots shroud.A bag, go figure, in the same position as The Clown’s is laying on the ground.
It floats on the water and the current draws it nearer until they’re almost mouth to mouth.
The Clown reaches out a hand to loosen the band which tightens the bag together.

Black plastic is shifted, eyes through dead focus,but not of The Clown, that of a Kangeroo.
Drowned in the willow, it’s vibe now crab hollow.

The Clown fills with sorrow, for the victim of that awful Bunyip.

In the dawning light down by the billabongMagpies begin to caw,

The smell of bloat fleshThe sight of bright colours
and the Suns scalp over the horizon.

The Magpies are hungry and ‘blige me’ do they have a treat.The trick may have worked on Bunyips of sorts, but not on these Magpies cause they’re vicious fucks and will eat whatever they can.

They all start a-peckin’and The Clown is a-screamin’

and the story comes to an End.

Don’t fuck with Nature                                  especially in australia.

[8 of the 10 world’s deadliest snakes, spiders from funnel webs to redbacks, blue ring octopus, irukandji and australian box jellyfish, bees, sharks, ticks, ants, crocodiles, centipedes, birds, shellfish, the marble cone snail, even platypus are venomous]

Don’t fuck with Nature                                  especially in australia.

Dead Doll Humility by Kathy Acker

Kathy Acker
Copyright (c) 1990 by Kathy Acker, all rights reserved.
_Postmodern Culture_ vol. 1, no. 1 (Sep. 1990).

IN ANY SOCIETY BASED ON CLASS, HUMILIATION IS A
POLITICAL REALITY.  HUMILIATION IS ONE METHOD BY WHICH
POLITICAL POWER IS TRANSFORMED INTO SOCIAL OR PERSONAL
RELATIONSHIPS.  THE PERSONAL INTERIORIZATION OF THE
PRACTICE OF HUMILIATION IS CALLED _HUMILITY_.

CAPITOL IS AN ARTIST WHO MAKES DOLLS.  MAKES, DAMAGES,
TRANSFORMS, SMASHES.  ONE OF HER DOLLS IS A WRITER
DOLL.  THE WRITER DOLL ISN’T VERY LARGE AND IS ALL
HAIR, HORSE MANE HAIR, RAT FUR, DIRTY HUMAN HAIR,
PUSSY.

ONE NIGHT CAPITOL GAVE THE FOLLOWING SCENARIO TO
HER WRITER DOLL:

As a child in sixth grade in a North American school,
won first prize in a poetry contest.
In late teens and early twenties, entered New York
City poetry world.  Prominent Black Mountain poets,
mainly male, taught or attempted to teach her that a
writer becomes a writer when and only when he finds his
own voice.

CAPITOL DIDN’T MAKE ANY AVANT-GARDE POET DOLLS.

Since wanted to be a writer, tried hard to find her own
voice.  Couldn’t.  But still loved to write.  Loved to
play with language.  Language was material like clay or
paint.  Loved to play with verbal material, build up
slums and mansions, demolish banks and half-rotten
buildings, even buildings which she herself had
constructed, into never-before-seen, even unseeable
jewels.

To her, every word wasn’t only material in itself,
but also sent out like beacons, other words.  _Blue_
sent out _heaven_ and _The Virgin_.  Material is rich.
I didn’t create language, writer thought.  Later she
would think about ownership and copyright.  I’m
constantly being given language.  Since this language-
world is rich and always changing, flowing, when I
write, I enter a world which has complex relations and
is, perhaps, illimitable.  This world both represents
and is human history, public memories and private
memories turned public, the records and actualizations
of human intentions.  This world is more than life and
death, for here life and death conjoin.  I can’t make
language, but in this world, I can play and be played.
So where is ‘my voice’?
Wanted to be a writer.
Since couldn’t find ‘her voice’, decided she’d
first have to learn what a Black Mountain poet meant by
‘his voice’.  What did he do when he wrote?

A writer who had found his own voice presented a
viewpoint.  Created meaning.  The writer took a certain
amount of language, verbal material, forced that
language to stop radiating in multiple, even
unnumerable directions, to radiate in only one
direction so there could be his meaning.

The writer’s voice wasn’t exactly this meaning.
The writer’s voice was a process, how he had forced the
language to obey him, his will.  The writer’s voice is
the voice of the writer-as-God.

Writer thought, Don’t want to be God; have never
wanted to be God.  All these male poets want to be the
top poet, as if, since they can’t be a dictator in the
political realm, can be dictator of this world.
Want to play.  Be left alone to play.  Want to be
a sailor who journeys at every edge and even into the
unknown.  See strange sights, see.  If I can’t keep on
seeing wonders, I’m in prison.  Claustrophobia’s sister
to my worst nightmare: lobotomy, the total loss of
perceptual power, of seeing new.  If had to force
language to be uni-directional, I’d be helping my own
prison to be constructed.
There are enough prisons outside, outside
language.
Decided, no.  Decided that to find her own voice
would be negotiating against her joy.  That’s what the
culture seemed to be trying to tell her to do.

Wanted only to write.  Was writing.  Would keep on
writing without finding ‘her own voice’.  To hell with
the Black Mountain poets even though they had taught
her a lot.
Decided that since what she wanted to do was just
to write, not to find her own voice, could and would
write by using anyone’s voice, anyone’s text, whatever
materials she wanted to use.

Had a dream while waking that was running with
animals.  Wild horses, leopards, red fox, kangaroos,
mountain lions, wild dogs.  Running over rolling hills.
Was able to keep up with the animals and they accepted
her.
Wildness was writing and writing was wildness.
Decision not to find this own voice but to use and
be other, multiple, even innumerable, voices led to two
other decisions.

There were two kinds of writing in her culture:
good literature and schlock.  Novels which won literary
prizes were good literature; science fiction and horror
novels, pornography were schlock.  Good literature
concerned important issues, had a high moral content,
and, most important, was written according to well-
established rules of taste, elegance, and conservatism.
Schlock’s content was sex horror violence and other
aspects of human existence abhorrent to all but the
lowest of the low, the socially and morally
unacceptable.  This trash was made as quickly as
possible, either with no regard for the regulations of
politeness or else with regard to the crudest, most
vulgar techniques possible.  Well-educated,
intelligent, and concerned people read good literature.
Perhaps because the masses were gaining political
therefore economic and social control, not only of
literary production, good literature was read by an
elite diminishing in size and cultural strength.

Decided to use or to write both good literature
and schlock.  To mix them up in terms of content and
formally, offended everyone.
Writing in which all kinds of writing mingled
seemed, not immoral, but amoral, even to the masses.

Played in every playground she found; no one can do
that in a class or hierarchichal society.

(In literature classes in university, had learned
that anyone can say or write anything about anything if
he or she does so cleverly enough.  That cleverness,
one of the formal rules of good literature, can be a
method of social and political manipulation.  Decided
to use language stupidly.)  In order to use and be
other voices as stupidly as possible, decided to copy
down simply other texts
Copy them down while, maybe, mashing them up
because wasn’t going to stop playing in any playground.
Because loved wildness.
Having fun with texts is having fun with
everything and everyone.  Since didn’t have one point
of view or centralized perspective, was free to find
out how texts she used and was worked.  In their
contexts which were (parts of) culture.
Liked best of all mushing up texts.
Began constructing her first story by placing
mashed-up texts by and about Henry Kissinger next to
‘True Romance’ texts.  What was the true romance of
America?  Changed these ‘True Romance’ texts only by
heightening the sexual crudity of their style.  Into
this mush, placed four pages out of Harold Robbins’,
one of her heroes’, newest hottest bestsellers.  Had
first made Jacqueline Onassis the star of Robbins’
text.

Twenty years later, a feminist publishing house
republished the last third of the novel in which this
mash occurred.

CAPITOL MADE A FEMINIST PUBLISHER DOLL EVEN THOUGH,
BECAUSE SHE WASN’T STUPID, SHE KNEW THAT THE FEMINIST
PUBLISHING HOUSE WAS ACTUALLY A LOT OF DOLLS.  THE
FEMINIST PUBLISHER DOLL WAS A BEAUTIFUL WOMAN IN A ST.
LAURENT DRESS.  CAPITOL, PERHAPS OUT OF PERVERSITY,
REFRAINED FROM USING HER USUAL CHEWED UP CHEWING GUM,
HALF-DRIED FLECKS OF NAIL POLISH, AND BITS OF HER OWN
BODY THAT HAD SOMEHOW FALLEN AWAY.

Republished the text containing the Harold Robbins’
mush next to a text she had written only seventeen
years ago.  In this second text, the only one had ever
written without glopping up hacking into and rewriting
other texts (appropriating), had tried to destroy
literature or what she as a writer was supposed to
write by making characters and a story that were so
stupid as to be almost non-existent.  Ostensibly, the
second text was a porn book.  The pornography was
almost as stupid as the story.  The female character
had her own name.

Thought just after had finished writing this, here
is a conventional novel.  Perhaps, here is ‘my voice’.
Now I’ll never again have to make up a bourgeois novel.
Didn’t.

The feminist publisher informed her that this
second text was her most important because here she had
written a treatise on female sexuality.
Since didn’t believe in arguing with people, wrote
an introduction to both books in which stated that her
only interest in writing was in copying down other
people’s texts.  Didn’t say liked messing them up
because was trying to be polite.  Like the English.
Did say had no interest in sexuality or in any other
content.

CAPITOL MADE A DOLL WHO WAS A JOURNALIST.  CAPITOL
LOVED MAKING DOLLS WHO WERE JOURNALISTS.  SOMETIMES SHE
MADE THEM OUT OF THE NEWSPAPERS FOUND IN TRASHCANS ON
THE STREETS.  SHE KNEW THAT LOTS OF CATS INHABITED
TRASH CANS.  THE PAPERS SAID RATS CARRY DISEASES.  SHE
MADE THIS JOURNALIST OUT OF THE FINGERNAILS SHE
OBTAINED BY HANGING AROUND THE TRASHCANS IN THE BACK
LOTS OF LONDON HOSPITALS.  HAD PENETRATED THESE BACK
LOTS WITH THE HOPE OF MEETING MEAN OLDER MEN BIKERS.
FOUND LOTS OF OTHER THINGS THERE.  SINCE, TO MAKE THE
JOURNALIST, SHE MOLDED THE FINGERNAILS TOGETHER WITH
SUPER GLUE AND, BEING A SLOB, LOTS OF OTHER THINGS
STUCK TO THIS SUPER GLUE, THE JOURNALIST DIDN’T LOOK
ANYTHING LIKE A HUMAN BEING.

A journalist who worked on a trade publishing magazine,
so the story went, no one could remember whose story,
was informed by another woman in her office that there
was a resemblance between a section of the writer’s
book and Harold Robbins’ work.  Most of the literati of
the country in which the writer was currently living
were upper-middle class and detested the writer and her
writing.

CAPITOL THOUGHT ABOUT MAKING A DOLL OF THIS COUNTRY,
BUT DECIDED NOT TO.

Journalist decided she had found a scoop.  Phoned up
the feminist publisher to enquire about plagiarism;
perhaps feminist publisher said something wrong because
then phoned up Harold Robbins’ publisher.
“Surely all art is the result of one’s having been
in danger, of having gone through an experience all the
way to the end, where no one can go any further.  The
further one goes, the more private, the more personal,
the more singular an experience becomes, and the thing
one is making is finally, the necessary, irrepressible,
and, as nearly as possible, definitive utterance of
this singularity . . . Therein lies the enormous aid
the work of art brings to the life of the one who must
make it . . .
“So we are most definitely called upon to test and
try ourselves against the utmost, but probably we are
also bound to keep silence regarding this utmost, to
beware of sharing it, of parting with it in
communication so long as we have not entered the work
of art: for the utmost represents nothing other than
that singularity in us which no one would or even
should understand, and which must enter into the work
as such . . . ”  Rilke to Cezanne.

CAPITOL MADE A PUBLISHER LOOK LIKE SAM PECKINPAH.
THOUGH SHE HAD NO IDEA WHAT SAM PECKINPAH LOOKED LIKE.
HAD LOOKED LIKE?  SHE TOOK A HOWDY DOODY DOLL AND AN
ALFRED E. NEUMAN DOLL AND MASHED THEM TOGETHER, THEN
MADE THIS CONGLOMERATE INTO AN AMERICAN OFFICER IN THE
MEXICAN-AMERICAN WAR.  ACTUALLY SEWED, SHE HATED
SEWING, OR WHEN SHE BECAME TIRED OF SEWING, GLUED
TOGETHER WITH HER OWN TWO HANDS, JUST AS THE EARLY
AMERICAN PATRIOT WIVES USED TO DO FOR THEIR PATRIOT
HUSBANDS, A FROGGED AND BRAIDED CAVALRY JACKET, STAINED
WITH THE BLOOD FROM SOME FORMER OWNERS.  THEN FASHIONED
A STOVEPIPE HAT OUT OF ONE SHE HAD STOLEN FROM A BUM IN
AN ECSTASY OF ART.  THE HAT WAS A BIT BIG.  FOR THE
PUBLISHER.  INSIDE A GOLD HEART, THERE SHOULD BE A
PICTURE OF A WOMAN.  SINCE CAPITOL DIDN’T HAVE A
PICTURE OF A WOMAN, SHE PUT IN ONE OF HER MOTHER.
SINCE SAM PECKINPAH OR HER PUBLISHER HAD SEEN TRAGEDY,
AN ARROW HANGING OUT OF THE WHITE BREAST OF A SOLDIER
NO OLDER THAN A CHILD, HORSES GONE MAD WALLEYED MOUTHS
FROTHING AMID DUST THICKER THAN THE SMOKE OF GUNS.  SHE
MADE HIS FACE FULL OF FOLDS, AN EYEPATCH OVER ONE EYE.

Harold Robbins’ publisher phoned up the man who ran the
company who owned the feminist publishing company.
From now on, known as ‘The Boss’.  The Boss told Harold
Robbins’ publisher that they have a plagiarist in their
midst.

CAPITOL NO LONGER WANTED TO MAKE DOLLS.  IN THE UNITED
STATES, UPON SEEING THE WORK OF THE PHOTOGRAPHER ROBERT
MAPPLETHORPE, SENATOR JESSE HELMS PROPOSED AN AMENDMENT
TO THE FISCAL YEAR 1990 INTERIOR AND RELATED AGENCIES
BILL FOR THE PURPOSE OF PROHIBITING “THE USE OF
APPROPRIATED FUNDS FOR THE DISSEMINATION, PROMOTION, OR
PRODUCTION OF OBSCENE OR INDECENT MATERIALS OR
MATERIALS DENIGRATING A PARTICULAR RELIGION.”  THREE
SPECIFIC CATEGORIES OF UNACCEPTABLE MATERIAL FOLLOWED:
“(1) OBSCENE OR INDECENT MATERIALS, INCLUDING BUT NOT
LIMITED TO DEPICTIONS OF SADOMASOCHISM [ALWAYS GET THAT
ONE IN FIRST], HOMO-EROTICISM, THE EXPLOITATION OF
CHILDREN, OR INDIVIDUALS ENGAGED IN SEX ACTS; OR (2)
MATERIAL WHICH DENIGRATES THE OBJECTS OR BELIEFS OF THE
ADHERENTS OF A PARTICULAR RELIGION OR NON-RELIGION; OR
(3) MATERIAL WHICH DENIGRATES, DEBASES, OR REVILES A
PERSON, GROUP, OR CLASS OF CITIZENS ON THE BASIS OF
RACE, CREED, SEX, HANDICAP, AGE, OR NATIONAL ORIGIN.”
IN HONOR OF JESSE HELMS, CAPITOL MADE, AS PILLOWS, A
CROSS AND A VAGINA.  SO THE POOR COULD HAVE SOMEWHERE
TO SLEEP.  SINCE SHE NO LONGER HAD TO MAKE DOLLS OR
ART, BECAUSE ART IS DEAD IN THIS CULTURE, SHE SLOPPED
THE PILLOWS TOGETHER WITH DEAD FLIES, WHITE FLOUR
MOISTENED BY THE BLOOD SHE DREW OUT OF HER SMALLEST
FINGER WITH A PIN, AND OTHER TYPES OF GARBAGE.
Disintegration.

Feminist publisher then informed writer that the
Boss and Harold Robbins’ publisher had decided, due to
her plagiarism, to withdraw the book from publication
and to have her sign an apology to Harold Robbins which
they had written.  This apology would then be published
in two major publishing magazines.
Ordinarily impolite, told feminist publisher they
could do what they wanted with their edition of her
books but she wasn’t going to apologize to anyone for
anything, much less for twenty years of work.

Didn’t have to think to herself because every
square inch of her knew.  For freedom.  Writing must be
for and must be freedom.
Feminist publisher replied that she knew writer
was actually a nice sweet girl.
Asked if should tell her agent or try talking
directly to Harold Robbins.
Feminist publisher replied she’d take care of
everything.  Writer shouldn’t contact Harold Robbins
because that would make everything worse.
Would, the feminist publisher asked, the writer
please compose a statement for the Boss why the writer
used other texts when she wrote so that the Boss
wouldn’t believe that she was a plagiarist.

CAPITOL MADE A DOLL WHO LOOKED EXACTLY LIKE HERSELF.
IF YOU PRESSED A BUTTON ON ONE OF THE DOLL’S CUNT LIPS
THE DOLL SAID, “I AM A GOOD GIRL AND DO EXACTLY AS I AM
TOLD TO DO.”

Wrote:
Nobody save buzzards.  Lots of buzzards here.  In
the distance, lay flies and piles of shit.  Herds
of animals move against the skyline like black
caravans in an unknown east.  Sheeps and goats.
Another place, a horse is lapping the water of a
pool.  Lavendar and grey trees behind this black
water are leafless and spineless.  As the day
ends, the sun in the east flushes out pale
lavendars and pinks, then turns blood red as it
turns on itself, becoming a more definitive shape,
the more definitive, the bloodier.  Until it sits,
totally unaware of the rest of the universe,
waiting at the edge of a sky that doesn’t yet know
what colors it wants to be, a hawk waiting for the
inevitable onset of human slaughter.  The light is
fleeing.
Instead, sent a letter to feminist publisher in
which said that she composed her texts out of ‘real’
conversations, anything written down, other texts,
somewhat in the ways the Cubists had worked.  (Not
quite true.  But thought this statement
understandable.)  Cited, as example, her use of ‘True
Confessions’ stories.  Such stories whose content seemed
purely and narrowly sexual, composed simply for
purposes of sexual titillation and economic profit, if
deconstructed, viewed in terms of context and genre,
became signs of political and social realities.  So if
the writer or critic (deconstructionist) didn’t work
with the actual language of these texts, the writer or
critic wouldn’t be able to uncover the political and
social realities involved.  For instance, both genre
and the habitual nature of perception hide the violence
of the content of many newspaper stories.

To uncover this violence is to run the risk of
being accused of loving violence or all kinds of
pornography.  (As if the writer gives a damn about what
anyone considers risks.)

Wrote, living art rather than dead art has some
connection with passion.  Deconstructions of newspaper
stories become the living art in a culture that demands
that any artistic representation of life be non-violent
and non-sexual, misrepresent.
To copy down, to appropriate, to deconstruct other
texts is to break down those perceptual habits the
culture doesn’t want to be broken.
Deconstruction demands not so much plagiarism as
breaking into the copyright law.
In the Harold Robbins’ text which had used, a rich
white woman walks into a disco, picks up a black boy,
has sex with him.  In the Robbins’ text, this scene is
soft-core porn, has as its purpose mild sexual
titillation and pleasure.
[When Robbins’ book had been published years ago,
the writer’s mother had said that Robbins had used
Jacqueline Onassis as the model for the rich white
woman.]  Wrote, had made apparent that bit of politics
while amplifying the pulp quality of the style in order
to see what would happen when the underlying
presuppositions or meanings of Robbins’ writing became
clear.  Robbins as emblematic of a certain part of
American culture.  What happened was that the sterility
of that part of American culture revealed itself.  The
real pornography.  Cliches, especially sexual cliches,
are always signs of power or political relationships.

BECAUSE SHE HAD JUST GOTTEN HER PERIOD, CAPITOL MADE A
HUGE RED SATIN PILLOW CROSS THEN SMEARED HER BLOOD ALL
OVER IT.

Her editor at the feminist publisher said that the Boss
had found her explanation “literary.”  Later would be
informed that this was a legal, not a literary, matter.

“HERE IT ALL STINKS,” CAPITOL THOUGHT.  “ART IS MAKING
ACCORDING TO THE IMAGINATION.  BUT HERE, BUYING AND
SELLING ARE THE RULES; THE RULES OF COMMODITY HAVE
DESTROYED THE IMAGINATION.  HERE, THE ONLY ART ALLOWED
IS MADE BY POST-CAPITALIST RULES; ART ISN’T MADE
ACCORDING TO RULES.”  ANGER MAKES YOU WANT TO SUICIDE.

Journalist who broke the ‘Harold Robbins story’ had
been phoning and leaving messages on writer’s answering
machine for days.  Had stopped answering her phone.  By
chance picked it up; journalist asked her if anything
to say.
“You mean about Harold Robbins?”
Silence.
“I’ve just given my publisher a statement.
Perhaps you could read that.”
“Do you have anything to add to it?”  As if she
was a criminal.
A few days later writer’s agent over the phone
informed writer what was happening was simply horrible.

CAPITOL DIDN’T WANT TO MAKE ANY DOLLS.

How could the writer be plagiarizing Harold Robbins?
Writer didn’t know.
Agent told writer if writer had phoned her
immediately, agent could have straightened out
everything because she was good friends with Harold
Robbins’ publisher.  But now it was too late.
Writer asked agent if she could do anything.
Agent answered that she’d phone Harold Robbins’
publisher and that the worst that could happen is that
she’d have to pay a nominal quotation rights fee.
So a few days later was surprised when feminist
publisher informed her that if she didn’t sign the
apology to Harold Robbins which they had written for
her, feminist publishing company would go down a drain
because Harold Robins or harold Robbins’ publisher
would slap a half-a-million [dollar? pound?] lawsuit on
the feminist publishing house.
Decided she had to take notice of this stupid
affair, though her whole life wanted to notice only
writing and sex.

“WHAT IS IT” CAPITOL WROTE, “TO BE AN ARTIST?  WHERE IS
THE VALUE THAT WILL KEEP THIS LIFE IN HELL GOING?”

For one of the first times in her life, was deeply
scared.  Was usually as wild as they come.  Doing
anything if it felt good.  So when succumbed to fear,
succumbed to reasonless, almost bottomless fear.
Panicked only because she might be forced to
apologize, not to Harold Robbins, that didn’t matter,
but to anyone for her writing, for what seemed to be
her life.  Book had already been withdrawn from print.
Wasn’t that enough?  Panicked, phoned her agent without
waiting for her agent to phone her.
Agent asked writer if she knew how she stood
legally.
Writer replied that as far as knew Harold Robbins
had made no written charge.  Feminist publisher
sometime in beginning had told her they had spoken to a
solicitor who had said neither she nor they “had a leg
to stand on.”  Since didn’t know with what she was
being charged, she didn’t know what that meant.
Agent replied, “Perhaps we should talk to a
solicitor. Do you know a solicitor?”
Knew the name of a tax solicitor.
Since had no money, asked her American publisher
what to do, if he knew a lawyer.

WOULD MAKE NO MORE DOLLS.

American publisher informed her couldn’t ask anyone’s
advice until she knew the charges against her, saw them
in writing.
Asked the feminist publisher to send the charges
against her and whatever else was in writing to her.
Received two copies of the ‘Harold Robbins’ text
she had written twenty years ago, one copy of the
apology she was supposed to sign, and a letter from
Harold Robbins’ publisher to the head of the feminist
publishing company.  Letter said they were not seeking
damages beyond withdrawal of the book from publication
[which had already taken place] and the apology.
Didn’t know of what she was guilty.
Later would receive a copy of the letter sent to
her feminist publisher from the solicitor whom the
feminist publisher and then her agent had consulted.
Letter stated: According to the various documents and
texts which the feminist publisher had supplied, the
writer should apologize to Mr. Harold Robbins.  First,
because in her text she has used a substantial number
of Mr. Robbins’ words.  Second, because she did not use
any texts other than Mr. Robbins’ so there could be no
literary theory or praxis responsible for her
plagiarism.  Third, because the contract between the
writer and the feminist publisher states that the
writer had not infringed upon any existing copyright.
When the writer wrote, not wrote back, to the
solicitor that most of the novel in question had been
appropriated from other texts, that most of these texts
had been in the public domain, that the writers of
texts not in the public domain were either writers of
‘True Confessions’ stories (anonymous) or writers who
knew she had reworked their texts and felt honored,
except for Mr. Robbins, that she had never
misrepresented nor hidden her usages of other texts,
her methods of composition, that there was already a
body of literary criticism on her and others’ methods
of appropriation, and furthermore [this was to become
the major point of contention], that she would not
sign the apology because she could not since there was
no assurance that all possible litigation and
harassment would end with the signature of guilt,
guilt which anyway she didn’t feel: the solicitor did
not reply.
Not knowing of what she was guilty, feeling
isolated, and pressured to finish her new novel, writer
became paranoid.  Would do anything to stop the
pressure from the feminist publisher and simultaneously
would never apologize for her work.
Considered her American publisher her father.
Told her that the ‘Harold Robbins affair’ was a joke,
she should take the phone off the hook, go to Paris for
a few days.
Finish your book.  That’s what’s important.

WOULD MAKE NO MORE DOLLS.

Paris is a beautiful city.
In Paris decided that it’s stupid to live in fear.
Didn’t yet know what to do about isolation.  All that
matters is work and work must be created in and can’t
be created in isolation.  (Remembered a conversation
she had had with her feminist publisher.  Still trying
to explain, writer said, in order to deconstruct, the
deconstructionist needs to use the actual other texts.
Editor had said she understood.  For instance, she was
sure, Peter Carey in _Oscar and Lucinda_ had used other
people’s writings in his dialogue, but he would never
admit it.  This writer did what every other writer did,
but she is the only one who admits it.  “It’s not a
matter of not being able to write,” the writer replied.
It’s a matter of a certain theory which is also a
literary theory.  Theory and belief.”  Then shut up
because knew that when you have to explain and explain,
nothing is understood.  Language is dead.)

SINCE THERE WERE NO MORE DOLLS, CAPITOL STARTED WRITING
LANGUAGE.

Decided that it’s stupid living in fear of being forced
to be guilty without knowing why you’re guilty and,
more important, it’s stupid caring about what has
nothing to do with art.  It doesn’t really matter
whether or not you sign the fucking apology.
Over the phone asked the American publisher
whether or not it mattered to her past work whether or
not signed the apology.
Answered that the sole matter was her work.
Thought alike.
Wanted to ensure that there was no more sloppiness
in her work or life, that from now on all her actions
served only her writing.  Upon returning to England,
consulted a friend who consulted a solicitor who was
his friend about her case.  This solicitor advised that
since she wasn’t guilty of plagiarism and since the law
was unclear, grey, about whether or not she had
breached Harold Robbins’ copyright, it could be a legal
precedent, he couldn’t advise whether or not she should
sign the apology.  But must not sign unless, upon
signing, received full and final settlement.
Informed her agent that would sign if and only if
received full and final settlement upon signing.
Over the phone, feminist publisher asked her who
had told her about full and final settlement.
A literary solicitor.
Could they, the feminist publishing house, have
his name and his statement in writing?
“This is my decision,” writer said.  “That’s all
you need to know.”

WROTE DOWN “PRAY FOR US THE DEAD,” THE FIRST LINE IN
THE FIRST POEM BY CHARLES OLSON SHE HAD EVER READ WHEN
SHE WAS A TEENAGER.  ALL THE DOLLS WERE DEAD.  DEAD
HAIR.  WHEN SHE LOOKED UP THIS POEM, ITS FIRST LINE
WAS, “WHAT DOES NOT CHANGE/ IS THE WILL TO CHANGE.”
WENT TO A NEARBY CEMETERY AND WITH STICK DOWN IN
SAND WROTE THE WORDS “PRAY FOR US THE DEAD.”  THOUGHT,
WHO IS DEAD?  THE DEAD TREES?  WHO IS DEAD?  WE LIVE IN
SERVICE OF THE SPIRIT.  MADE MASS WITH TREES DEAD AND
DIRT AND UNDERNEATH HUMANS AS DEAD OR LIVING AS ANY
STONE OR WOOD.
I WON’T BURY MY DEAD DOLLS, THOUGHT.  I’LL STEP ON THEM
AND MASH THEM UP.

For two weeks didn’t hear from either her agent or
feminist publisher.  Could return to finishing her
novel.
Thought that threats had died.
In two weeks received a letter from her agent
which read something like:
On your express instructions that your publisher
communicate to you through me, your publisher has
informed me that they have communicated to Harold
Robbins your decision that you will sign the apology
which his publisher drew up only if you have his
assurance that there will be no further harassment or
litigation.  Because you have requested such assurance,
predictably, Harold Robbins is now requiring damages to
be paid.
Your publisher now intends to sign and publish the
apology to Harold Robbins as soon as possible whether
or not you sign it.
In view of what I have discovered about the nature
of your various telephone communications to me, please
contact me only in writing from now on.
Signature.

Understood that she had lost.  Lost more than a
struggle about the appropriation of four pages, about
the definition of _appropriation_.  Lost her belief
that there can be art in this culture.  Lost spirit.
All humans have to die, but they don’t have to fail.
Fail in all that matters.
It turned out that the whole affair was nothing.

CAPITOL REALIZED THAT SHE HAD FORGOTTEN TO BURY THE
WRITER DOLL.  SINCE THE SMELL OF DEATH STUNK, RETURNED
TO THE CEMETERY TO BURY HER.  SHE KICKED OVER A ROCK
AND THREW THE DOLL INTO THE HOLE WHICH THE ROCK HAD
MADE.  CHANTED, “YOU’RE NOT SELLING ENOUGH BOOKS IN
CALIFORNIA.  YOU’D BETTER GO THERE IMMEDIATELY.  TRY TO
GET INTO READING IN ANY BENEFIT YOU CAN SO FIVE MORE
BOOKS WILL BE SOLD.  YOU HAVE BAGS UNDER YOUR EYES.”

CAPITOL THOUGHT, DEAD DOLL.
SINCE CAPITOL WAS A ROMANTIC, SHE BELIEVED DEATH
IS PREFERABLE TO A DEAD LIFE, A LIFE NOT LIVED

ACCORDING TO THE DICTATES OF THE SPIRIT.
SINCE SHE WAS THE ONE WHO HAD POWER IN THE DOLL-
HUMAN RELATIONSHIP, HER DOLLS WERE ROMANTICS TOO.

Toward the end of paranoia, had told her story to a
friend who was secretary to a famous writer.
Informed her that famous writer’s first lawyer
used to work with Harold Robbins’ present lawyer.
First lawyer was friends with her American publisher.
Her American publisher asked the lawyer who was
his friend to speak privately to Harold Robbins’
lawyer.

Later the lawyer told the American publisher that
Harold Robbins’ lawyer advised to let the matter die
quietly.  This lawyer himself advised that under no
circumstances should the writer sign anything.
It turned out that the whole affair was nothing.
Despite these lawyer’s advice, Harold Robbins’
publisher and the feminist publisher kept pressing the
writer to sign the apology and eventually, as
everything becomes nothing, she had to.
Knew that none of the above has anything to do
with what matters, writing.  Except for the failure of
the spirit.

THEY’RE ALL DEAD, CAPITOL THOUGHT.  THEIR DOLLS’ FLESH
IS NOW BECOMING PART OF THE DIRT.
CAPITOL THOUGHT, IS MATTER MOVING THROUGH FORMS
DEAD OR ALIVE?
CAPITOL THOUGHT, THEY CAN’T KILL THE SPIRIT.

Antivermin Seed


A spinning disk, a hostile ambient take over fills the void.
Spin black spin white move forward in sight
Wide eyes of the insane stare back, through the mirror, through the screen,stop, remove, a poke to the leg.
Build,
hinder.
The snares the best there/ Sleeping in space.
WA NN WA NN WA NN N
Help me, I’m inside. The Fly.
The Western Mentality, “take your time.”
One eye, twitching nostril to the left.
Blood stained visions on a tiled floor through blued darkness.
The King is Hate.
Divulge secret informate
White light inside the eyes closed who knows where we are really
O over the saying the damned where’s my love dead in the corner
who wants ghost objects.
Hands push back gust
slow wait don’t go.
Never please.

Obscenities
through drugged eyes
It’s all happy in the end.