feature writer on 'Coming up for Air'

Aloha.

So a short story I wrote (well it's really short, like 500 words.. I think I'll call it a Micro Story) 'The Little Mermaid' has been featured on Ira Mcguire's blog 'Coming up for Air'.

Ira is awesome and you should check it out, she's been featured in Avid Reader's current newsletter and she's always out and about doing readings which are particuarly fantastic. she writes better than me and is a bit of a fox.

http://www.iramcguire.blogspot.com/

Mahalo.

boat people are your friends.

The circumstances surrounding the white man's colonisation of Australia are not dissimilar to the events which took place in the U.S.
The main difference between the two seems to be the fact that in America, Africans were stolen from their native land and put into slavery on the new world of milk, honey and of course cotton.
As terrible as that chapter of history is, and i don't wish to detract from it all, the corresponding indigenous ethnicities between Australia and the U.S is not the Aboriginie and the African American, it's the Aboriginie and American Indian; the Apache, the Navajo, the warriors of the fertile planes, the buffalo herders and the mystic cheifs who hold a natural affinity with the Eagles and the Wolves.

Both these races were raped of their land and given either an apology or a casino as restitution. So when the government of the day and it's supporters speaks about illegal immigration, especially boat people, you can't help but wonder if they're suffering from alzheimers or whether a big night out has left them permanently deprived of serotonin.

straight edge seems plausible.

I'm washing my hands of this situation;
I'm always hungover and
midnight drunk by noon.
My head hurts and I have no money.
Where are my cigarettes?

don't procrastinate.

The word 'procrastinate' really fucks me off.
You don't sound smart when you use it, it's not clever.
'Adjourn', 'hesitate' and 'suspend' sound much better aesthetically and phonetically.
Sometimes the longest word isn't the best.

aim for the head.

She was a furious fuck, and that was fine.
I mean, I don't mind getting rough;
hair pulling and hand cuffs.
But it was her post-game play that petrified me most.
I can deal with spooning
and I can pretend to be interested in getting sushi tomorrow,
It's an integral part of the tango.
But she was thinking of names for our children.
That fucking scared me.

"I think they should both start with 'J',
Joe for the boy and Julie for the girl"

I layed there with my arm hooked below my head,
her head resting on my chest.
I was still half drunk.
And more than willing for round two.

"I don't want twins"
she said.
"I want Julie to be a few years older,
she can be the wise older sister."

She lifted her head from my chest
and looked towards my stubbled chin.

All I could think about was the fact
that i couldn't remember her name,
it migh've been Emma, or possibly
Natalie.

I've thought about kids before.
But i honestly want to have nothing to do with them
I'd like to spread my seed,
but across distant continents.

I'd like to have a Jose
with my eyes and nose
that lives with his mother.
She rocks him gently as
they bathe in pastel colours
of the sun set in El Salvador.

And I'd like a Juanita
with my passion for words
who sits with her mum
as they watch the matadors
dance that suicidal dance of theirs.

But that's far off,
and right now i just want to drink,
smoke
and make love to the girls
who laugh nervously at the bars.

I don't want a Joe.
I don't want a Julie.
I want her to tell me if she's really on the pill
or if I have to pull out and aim for her tits.

six figure stitches

it's cold out baby

in the wind tonight

as you stumble numb

under neon lights.

with your palms out-stretched

and your baby crying

"you won't get none here"

get busy dying.

the man in the business suit,

he won't speak;

he's got six figure stitches

sealing his lips.

the homeless girl

won't just dissapear

because the business man

has six figure stitches

across eyelids.

overwhelmed by the stimulus.

“Would you like your balance displayed on screen or on a receipt?” I’m not sure why I think each option will give me a different outcome, maybe it’s superstition but it’s probably just the drugs. “Displayed on screen”, waiting for the numbers, or lack of numbers, to come up feels I’m like playing a poker machine. Indian dreaming to be exact; three tepees set off the feature and two double your bet. That machine is gold.

Fuck yeah! I’ve just been stimulated! I could kiss you Mr. Rudd.

Walking back to my 19th avenue apartment I can’t get the smile off my face, just thinking about how ruthless the next few days are going to be. I should probably save this money, or pump it into the economy, but it’s free money; free coke. I stop in at the servo, which doubles as a Maccas, in Palm Beach to get credit and a 40 pack of Longbeach rich; I’ll be back here in a few hours, all the dealers around here hustle their wares from late 80’s model commodores in the car park.

It’s one of those days where you know everything is just going to work out, no hassles, no chasing people around, everything just falls into place. It makes you feel invincible; but it’s probably just the drugs.

“Oi Johnny” it’s 1 pm and my roommate is just getting out of bed, “I’ve just been stimulated; we’re getting munted tonight!”

His red wine eyes tell me he’s hung over and probably doesn’t grasp the gravity of the situation.

“Huh? I don’t care what you and Maddie did last night” he groans while scratching himself.

“No you idiot. I just got my stimulus money from K-Rudd. I’m meeting Warren in half an hour down at the servo, I’m getting an 8-ball.”

Now he gets what I’m talking about. “Nice,” he slightly comes back to life, “just let me get my shit together and I’ll cruise down with you, reckon you could bum us twenty bucks?”

“Yeah just hurry up, you know he hates waiting.”

I suck down two smokes and he’s still in the shower. God he’s hopeless.

“Oi” I shout as I’m beating on the bathroom door, “stop whacking off or we’ll miss him!”

Johnny pulls himself out of the shower, bums a smoke off me and we start heading down the highway. We’re drafting plans of attack as we walk up towards the servo.

“So we’re do you want to go tonight?” he asks.

I know he wants to go to Sin City but I hate that place. It’s so Gold Coast, the chicks all think they’re Paris-bloody-Hilton, they only play Soulja Boy and Timbland songs and stubbies are eight bucks; this is all on top of a $20 entry fee.

“I’m thinking of going to Waxy’s, they’ve got a band playing tonight, so much better than that Top 40 crap they play at all the other clubs.”

We walk up to Warren’s ’86 green commodore and jump in the back seat, he’s half way through a cigarette; Winfield Red’s, I don’t know how he smokes those, they’re way too harsh.

“So you boys heading out tonight or what?” asks Warren, I know it’s only small talk but it pays to be courteous to your dealer.

“Fuck oath mate,” Warren’s always hanging around Surfers, hustling gear to the Elsewhere crowd; they eat pills like Panadol, “I just got stimulated so we’re having a bender”.

“Yeah I was wondering where you got the cash for an 8 ball, thought you did someone over.”
What a smart arse.

Back at the apartment me and Johnny have a few bumps, then I stash the gear in my pillow. We’ve invited just about everyone we know to the place for what we’ve called the “Stimulation Party”.

“I have to go down to Centrelink so you wait for everyone to rock up, should be about an hour or so.. And don’t touch the gear till I get back”, he’s my best mate but I don’t trust him with drugs; he’s a fiend.

“Don’t worry mate, I’ve got beers to keep me company; and your missus will be here soon.”
“Don’t push it”.

Down at Centrelink it’s the same as every other time; line up for half an hour, you see the same people in the line every time. You fill out the same form you’ve filled out god knows how many times before then they send you out, it’s not a bad gig for $450 a fortnight.

By the time I get back there are at least 30 people at the apartment, but I can’t find Maddie. I make my way though the people, bumping knuckles and saying, “Hey mate what’s doing” to just about everyone but I still can’t see Maddie.

“Hey Johnny, have you seen Maddie?” I don’t know why I’m so worried, something just feels wrong. I’ve lost that invincible feeling I had earlier today, it’s probably just the drugs.

“Yeah she was just here, she should be around somewhere. Keen for another bump mate?” I’m going to hear this so many times tonight.

“Yeah, come on mate, I’ll find her afterwards.”

“WHERE’S THE FUCKING GEAR JOHNNY?” God damn it! The coke isn’t here.

“What are you on about dude? I haven’t touched it since you left, I swear.”

I knew I couldn’t trust this son of a bitch.

“Don’t fuck around Johnny, where’s the gear?”

“Dude, calm down, I haven’t been in your room since you left.” Johnny’s pretty scared now, he can see how pissed off I am. I believe him for some reason, usually when he lies he starts blinking uncontrollably. It’s pretty funny.

I march out to the living room; I swear I could murder someone. That’s $800 worth of gear and someone I know has taken it from my room. These people are my mates and someone has dogged me. This is bullshit.

I smash the stereo on the ground. Bad Religion.

“Everyone shut up” I command “Who’s got my gear”

Every single person goes silent. They can probably see the veins throbbing in the side of my head and know anything they can say can put me over the edge.

My older brother, Luke, comes up to me, “Just calm down for a second mate and think about it. If anyone’s stolen gear off you they’re not going to stick around your house. We’ll figure out whose left, we know everyone here. We’ll get it back.”

He’s always been able to keep me out of trouble.

We figure out pretty quickly that there are only 2 people who have left; Warren and Maddie. Johnny has always been a bit suss on Maddie; when we went to school she was always whoring around, there’s one in every school. But that was years ago, I thought she’d changed, now she’s off with Warren; he stole my drugs and my girlfriend, goddamn drug dealers.

“I’ll kill them. I swear to God when I find them I’ll kill them.” I can see everyone get uncomfortable, but this is my house. Fuck them. “Who knows where they went?”

Johnny tells me Warren went down to beach for a swim; apparently he was starting to get pretty messy and wanted to straighten up a bit. I send Warren a text message, in my blind rage

I don’t even stop to think that I’m tipping him off, ‘ur dead m8’.

By the time my feet hit the sand I’m absolutely seething. You invite someone into your house then they go and steal your shit, who does that? I’ll break his knee caps, mafia style.

I run laps of the beach but can’t find him anywhere. I see something in the dunes; looks like someone lying down. He’s probably racking up with her right now. “I’ve got you now you bastard” I whisper to myself; I hope I can control myself enough to not kill him, as much as I’d like to.

I sprint up to the dunes, yelling every curse I’ve ever heard, as well as a few words that just came out of my mouth; I don’t think “cick shucker” means anything. I descend on the figure with my arms and legs flailing, just as I’m about to start re-arranging his face I notice the figure has long blonde hair, “Maddie!”

She’s lying there unconscious; vomit caked around her lips and running down her green and yellow floral dress. Her face a light shade of blue and her eyes open as far as they can go; like she’s been trying to breathe out of any orifice she could.

God damn you Kevin Rudd.

breeding should be means tested.

Okay, so you're 18, possibly younger, and you've just had a child. Now normally this would call for congratulations... BUT YOU'RE 18, POSSIBLY YOUNGER.. can you not read?

Don't get me wrong, I don't doubt your love for the kid every time you see or hold it. But i doubt, very strongly, that you grasp the gravity of the situation. Now, for some moral, financial or emotional reason you didn't have an abortion. Good on you for sticking to your personal ethics; or price range. But at least you're going to use condoms now right?

No. You want more kids, and your fucking 2o years old. What the fuck? Were you semi-aborted when you were kid? Do you think children are pokemon?

Maybe you should concentrate on producing an environment, both financially and emotionally, that is conducive to raising a baby. Not just popping them off every nine months cause they're cute. Jesus Christ! I'd like to apologize in advance to the next generation.

However, if you could battle them like pokemon, I'd definitely get me a badass Blastoise.

new rules for xenophobia.

so if you're unfortunate enough to be a xenophobe (that's a racist... xenophobes aren't generally known for their intellect) these are some new rules i've devised for you to avoid being a walking contradiction. These are based for Australia but i'm sure they can be tweaked to fit elsewhere.

rule 1. You are not allowed to eat the food of any other nation. This includes that heavenly kebab at 3:30 in the morning after a huge night out.

rule 2. You are not allowed to own any product manufactured in a country outside of Australia. Unfortunately for you that leaves you with basically a hills hoist and a few tins of vegemite.

rule 3. If you have a "Fuck Off; We're Full" sticker on your car you have to do two things; first of all ensure your car is made in Australia otherwise you've already failed. Secondly, you have to ask the Aboriginie how they feel about you invading their country and basically raping their land, if they're cool with it you can stay... if on the other hand they say they believe they were full before colonisation you yourself must fuck off.

rule 4. You cannot ever try to make love a member of another nation. This includes watching porn with people of other nations.

If you adhere to these four very simple rules, even though you'll still be a racist dumbass, at least you won't be a hypocrite... a small consolation i know, but you should be glad to get whatever you can.

religion; a synonym for mental illness?

So let's say a man lives his life believing he is constantly being watched and the government are after him; they've tapped his phones, his under constant video surveillance and believes that a microchip has been implanted in his head to monitor his thoughts.

This man would most likely be diagnosed as a paranoid-schizophrenic and possibly institutionalised.

Now, we have people who live their lives in the belief that God is constantly watching them, monitoring their every move and every thought. These people believe any deviation from God's rules will result in eternal damnation in a fiery lake... of fire.

These people are religous. There doesn't seem to be a whole heap of difference between the two examples.

Just putting it out there.

tazer eye

she was of scholarly virtue,
well read in all the classics;
from tolstoy to voltaire
dante to mark twain.
with zeal so many tried
though their intentions
were nothing pious;
they used all the classic lines
and with one stare they were denied.

psalm for a simulated reality.

ignited and inhaled
i'm becoming a part
of the scenery;
a painting on the wall
camoflaged within the trees.
an identity lost and found;
only to be misplaced once more.
wrapped in winter
a decorated box
left by the door;
lying in wait
there's no point in direction
we're travelling together
not at equal pace
but with the same destination
always searching for a cause;
a catalyst for conversation.
in a dream
i dreamt a song;
a sound track
for those wandering souls
overwhelmed by the stimulus
all we need is a little flavour,
something with which
to paint our tongues
as the sirens sound
another victim has been claimed
on the television
stuck on repeat
when the warning bells sound
does it mean we should leave?

illusions of the mertic system

i guess this ends now;
the philistines have spoken.
they call for surrender,
from the balcony ramparts.
the cities will choke
on deep fried dreams,
their veins sting for petrol;
haircuts and labels.
the brightest of colours
the biggest of trucks.
we had stong resistance
and over-priced vodka.
the whores moan for love;
not money or drugs.
there's no serenades
when the philistines sing.
while the homeless feed
on the stares and the jeers.
these prophets are false,
they were already drunk.
so we don't leave house
then all screens attack,
we've messaged our votes
and purchased our tones.
the vices stay hidden
in the perfume of pages.
these headphones are armour
not pedestals or masks.
we weren't subscribed
but the philistines called
they have our number;
we're on speed dial now.