within the family home a fierce anti propaganda policy was in place. no television. no radio. foreign press newspapers were collected for cleaning glass with vinegar. growing up under this policy afforded the time to develop a voice of doubt as a vaccine to the media virus. a body could have a voice and speak without relying on the words of others around a table. so, when one finally inevitably encountered the war of words the blood lust had already simmered and, life as a necessity had already been established without the glossy tones of information.

this economic system is keeping everyone humble, well at least those of us on the streets, which is the best place for humility. be we pious in front of the screens as an audience of the faithful. can we suspend belief long enough to suspend our death?

you are falling always falling. there was no single point, big bang, it is an illogical assumption, a theoretical starting point from which to reference movement. no point of reference no movement.
our attempts at getting outside inside ourselves we arrive to ever more representation. the deeper the analysis the more abstract the representations.

1250 wrenches at the eyeballs something akin to the memory of the eight millimetre rolls of film mum and dad used to know running around the back of the house burning one down round the bbq the accidental shrimps hopping to its life extending end on the dog's back simpers into the kitchen searching for a little sympathy.

au fin
au bar
au cinema

we are seeing the integration of the street and television. old new media is falling from the gutter and onto the dissecting table. experimentation continues on the rise and fall industrial demand. i am what i carry and abandon the rest.

the brain exploitation business is paying its employees to think and limit brain activity outside of the job description to zero or even less when possible. the young ones are so well trained that any out of hours self exploitation goes down as unpaid overtime. we work in the hive now.

sure i am always wearing a hat, glasses and beard. i hear the women love the freshly shaven look and, some even go in for the rugged growth, but the between stages after rugged growth and before shapely beard is where the disgust lies. that's exactly what i am going for; disgust. i am searching for love behind the eyes of disgust.

the times i have been afraid in rising waters, delirium, fever, inability to hold food, attempts from ego to reconnect with body, none of them gripped in. not even the screams from reason unable to make out the front line.

you ask too soon, on the stairwell, the neighbours can hear. what did the guy, standing at the front door, ask for? what did he want?
is it not obvious? it's midnight.
no, not the same signs nor introspections.
this is really as close to home as i have ever been for a while since leaving. i know the steps and the pace of this city. it is only the language that is still coming. the detail in the sounds take time to define themselves in such rough chaos.
more than a living museum killed for the daytime pleasure nightlife.
oh yeh, much more. just don't go into the centre. cities rot from the centre.

it is dark. it is still dark. there is nothing to get up for except the light. to draw the curtains aside and let the light in. i do not need to pee and i have no hunger. i lie still, imagining the light. is it a bright clear cold day or a wet overcast afternoon? no matter. i try to imagine the light and the light only; it falls through the window onto the walls and floor, fills the room like air or a bad conscience.

i never get any work done from the couch because i sit in it as a piece of furniture made expressly for seduction.
we cannot all be rembrandts.
c'est une chaise emouvante.
no, not at all.
i could not say either way.
just pay someone to say.
there is always someone around who wants to kill a cow.
just don't let there be too many smiles, otherwise i will give you a piece of gypsy advice; when crossing the road look left then right then left again.

after six years of this shit the faculty puts on a little soiree with drinks and a little something to eat; finger food japanese style: raw fish peas beans sake.

you got help. for it was either two hours of yoga or tranquilisiers when you were running the show, but i have not done anything about it today. i try to think on my danish prince. however i take myself back to the first fit in a postal queue. i lost control. savagery. fear. drawn blood. afterwards came the yoga and the needles and and i lost control again.

the poetry is gone. if you look for it you find that it is gone. the poetry. those big ones. the production machines in factories. i hear you say that i have got to be kidding and, the quietness of your face lends itself to a poverty in the heart greater than what can be written in my book of longing, but i tell you the poetry is gone. i dance with the pen and paper and my footsteps are traced in ink and a long running history of misinterpretation and confusion. you furrow your eyebrows and ask, you want me to understand movement as conversation and, i tell you that the poetry is gone. i have only a few words to tell, those that have rise up from eternity, and i cannot recall them now sitting upon the grey waste of matter encased in bone. i look into the reflection of your face it has a pleasant symmetry that recalls forest springs and pine regrowth plantations. without a whisker of sensitivity out of place i can see that you feel every movement in the air and the slightest change in ambient temperature. i am still playing with the adjustment nodes on the geiger meters trying to get a reading from your reactive surfaces, you run out of patience and run out on me. you start digging around for an oyster card, but i tell you the poetry it's gone. you have got the guitar and typewriter and the ear muffs in the trunk an dyou drag them onto the bus and tell me that you need nothing more on this run around the island, we sit in the dead centre where i put my back against a tomb and wait. you tell me what it means to be australian. you tell me poetry isn't gone. you tell me that you are losing yourself on the way down and there is no need for the metro, the mobile, the internet or the junk circuit. the weather is warm, the sun is shining and the forests of parramatta are at our feet. i don't knowya, sister, but we're just trying to find poetry and, if you can tell me a little bit about it. but she is already stepping away picking over the next thistle. and you yell that's a dead one yeh yeh they go dancing in the shadows. and she turns and makes an impotent gesture caressing a beard that isn't there. it reminds me of a babe of an oboist in high school latin class in those days where the poetry was there and i tell you know that's it gone. you tell me if we could just confirm the impossibility of the ticket we could get through the door of ms le president and there where no one is uninspired and nothing is too hard to read as to be unstandable where text settles like dust and rests directionless in an oxygen rich environment there is still poetry. in the name of a baltic spirit from the canyon of the soul, in the name of the separated from difference and indifference and non indifference to difference, i tell you the poetry is gone.

i am feeling around for a comb. the light went out. i look like a gentlemen with a raincoat, but no one can see me in this darkness. every couple of minutes i repeat; i am a friend. just in case there is someone else.

i clean this self rotting away in an upstairs bedroom. it is rotting from underneath the clothes, the smells are lifting from the surface over the skin over the cotton over the wool. i am saving up all the crusts and dandruff on the floor, i might have to make bread later.

someone comes up to me and asks if i could render them a service and, i ask them what service do they require and, they reply that they require the service of donation. i explain that money is only a promise and renders no service, to which the reply arrived i have aids.

running right back to the flo jo what do you know the fingers they never forget a good run i take them out once in a while to enjoy the hair standing on edge in the sunshine in an eternal celebration it is another tremndously wonderful day to be alive. i figure all that is a little on the sensitive side but i have this drive to tell you just how it is from this side of the intersubjectivity. i dream not of desire but of realisation, bringing something into the real, moving from imaginisation to realisation. tell me what else have we got? what else have we, but these ideas and emotions? do we even have them? perhaps not. perhaps they are no more real than our dreams and, our dreams are no more real than our worlds. perhaps these dreams, these emotions, these ideas, are there in the day just as the sunshine and conversation and the rhythm of walking and the circulation are there in the day.

eurocrats listen! no one goes back soundly to the differences and the similarities, do not forget that we were looking for on man that once lived here, so stop walking by the people who now live here.

you know, this is the only downpayment we make in life and, in my end, i am going to wear myself down to a thin crisp and blow myself out over the street in an assault of dust, 98 percent dead skin. that may lead to a little perspective building if someone picks it up and has a think over it, has a look at what it is; breath in a little blake in london or hugo in paris or rimbau in bruxelles. i make a compilation of stimuli under a guise of what may be called the world or just world or worlds or word or existents or existence. how do you respond to infinte phenemona? what is your definition of phenomenology? wrong question! if you do not understand then maybe you are not meant to, perhaps that is what you are supposed to understand. bring pleasure back to the act of thinking by removing the modern day instructional disease, a bible ridden descendant of the great guidebook. remember the best machines are magic and invisible, they work best when we do not understand how they work, so we cannot see them work. they continue to work so that we may not see them at all, that we cannot recognise them, that they are only air bending the grass.

is there enjoyment in the challenge, pleasure in the competition? is there no greater challenge then competing with yourself? i internalise the slave mentality and make the body ephemeral, victory momentary and, celebrate the battles won in what i know to be an unwinnable war.