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Archive for the month “February, 2012”




I will talk about the weather

because the heat has made me boring

and left me without beauty

and no desire for whoring





Two dollars and I’ve coffee

8 dollars and I’ve wine

it’s not so fancy

but I’m not your friend

so this wine will be just fine







If I was anything today

I was probably a crisp

or an 18th century nobody

with an uppity lisp


What is the temperature today?

Well it was horribly hot today and like most hot days in Brisbane it is inevitable that I start hallucinating. It is the temperature of nostalgia and escape and tears. Today is the temperature of guitars being played from elsewhere. Today is the temperature of uncertain smiles and vulnerable men. Today men will cry and women will watch them.  Today is the temperature of struggling action and malarial dreaming. Today is the suggestion of something else.

The dragonflies have become miniature helicopters on missions that are completely divorced from my own world. The crows have started collecting information about the people on the ground and then doing surveillance scopes over the houses. There is music but I cannot detect the source. It comes from the crappy plastic fan blowing warm air upon my face, my breath, the crickets, the insects like sticky boiled lollies hanging from brown grass stems. Included in this vista is the sound of the neighbourhood dog barking and growling uninterrupted from the neighbours who live in a bubble cloud of middle-class stupor. There are conversations from people nearby and birds tweeting, chirping, cawing, mawing, all over the sky. The traffic is jammed in the sky around 6.30pm every night.

I think of and X-partner and his brand new sparkling partner on a boat. Complete with music and child.  I think of friends that I no longer have buying land named after themselves. I think of all the drugs. I no longer have. I think of the friends who rarely ask after me and not at all and wonder if they still have great breasts and even better success with their art. I think of boyfriends of friends who are so far off my radar that a close shave isn’t possible. I think of characters modelled on funny British sitcoms who continue being played out. I think of friends being attacked by nature in lands patrolled by scary dykes. I think of boys I’ve lied to because they were liars. I was thinking about the lost cats today and whether they get found, and all the art that never gets seen but stays in people’s houses before they leave brisbane.  I thought today about slender women and how they glide through the heat like knives through butter. I thought about those women who men finally realise in their presence that they love. They must be very beautiful. Men who had no hope or chance of saying so are finally able to say it. I couldn’t help but think about all the wasted shaved legs and pining hours. I think of all the sayings, the wordplays, the references that are of no use now because they were in the context of  relationship that is no longer. Where do these words go? Can they have a grave? Far better a grave to the memories and ideas and words that to bodies, surely? Oh…I guess that’s what I do with my music.

I thought about the diets and the days I wanted to sleep away. I thought of this strange land I’m in. The trees that break into a sweat. Love that is in the ocean but not in the fishbowl.  Thank goodness I smashed that fishbowl and thank goodness a seahorse caught my heart.

The fake tanned girls with racism on their lips. The men who decide who is visible, who is invisible. The women who decide who to be jealous of, who to pity.

I type as the sky darkens and no lights are on in the house except the laptop light. That deception of colour in the sky, the cool wash of blue and the breeze that calls up the spirits of my past. The cheap chimes on the verandah, the sound of helicopters in the sky. The trees become animated, finally the heat subsides enough for me to write without sweating on the keyboard.

A dickens at a party is worth more than a dick

Autumn has come. And despite the proclivity to be angered by my weather talk, it is incumbent upon me to do so.  In fact the sustained endeavour of this article suggests I might be reading another Dickens.  If you would wish to expand your love of words than there is no greater starting point than Mr Charles Dickens. But before you mutter that my tone and words sound a might uppity, please be aware that Charles Dickens was not. His origins are from working class England and he is one of the great humanitarian writers of the English Language.  Originally he wrote installments of work, little chapters that left you on cliffhangers. Anyway it was good because whilst most people were starving and books were are luxury (and still are) only for the rich his work was more accessible through the paper.

Victorian England was a bit of a ghastly time in terms of disease and poverty and the brutality of man. However, there were some cool inventions, like the electric telegraph, a time of electric madness really, with cars accessible to the rich, trains, the lightbulb– but that didn’t come around to replace those gas lamps on English streets until around 1879, and Dickens died in 1870, so electric lightbulbs are not a feature of his work when he describes the streets of London. Anyway it was pretty grim despite the fashionable nostalgia we may have for steampunk and ladies with lace umbrellas. We are talking about a time where child labour was rife, people died from common colds, and the majority of Londoners lived in abject poverty scraping out an existence. To the end of this century came the Industrial revolution with an expanding middle class and an ever-expanding working class.  Anyhoo that’s a bit about the era, because Mr Dickens writes in his era. He is concerned with timeless ideas about the rights and dignity of humans, about the complexity and ridiculousness of the legal system, but he is a man of his time. Words are used to such incredible effect that one page might be used to describe the subtleties of a particular persons countenance. Or to explain the shifts and depths of thinking occuring under the surface of a pock-marked face.

Below is a ghastly Victorian sex toy. Not in popular use. She could use a good Dickens.

If I was to quote this to you, ‘it was the best of times, it was the worst of times…’ most people would recognise this as the beginning of someone’s novel, and if they had any inclination to Dickens they would recognise it as the beginnings to the current novel I am reading, ‘A tale of Two Cities’.  But lovers, there is more to this sentence. And if you but hunted down this book, for no more than 3 dollars I am sure, (since there is always a profusion of Dickens in second-hand shops) you would see that this quote leads you into an incredible world, better than any 3D movie, better than any painting. He is the painter of people and places. I time travel when I read Dickens.

‘It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief,

it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter

of despair, we had everything before s, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the

other way–in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received,

for good or for evil, ion the superlative degree of comparison only.’

From the first page of Chapter one, page 9.

( This is actually a wind-up dildo

invented in the era of

I thought it appropriate to add and

might require it’s own blog me thinks)

So  I say to you, read Dickens, fuck the thesauras.  I say do not prolong your reading of his work.  Be curious but not cautious.Dispense with the dictionary.  Extend your inquisitive and adventurious perquisitions  into the pages of Charlie. At least, so that when you are drunk you will be more memorable for the few words you say than for the jumble of incoherent twitter none cares to remember.

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