Sun Cancer Fundraiser Response

6.3.14(?)
“Hello lovely lady, where are you off to today?” The Sun Cancer fundraiser asks me on the street.
“I’m off to put a bullet in my head. What about you?”
He stares at me with macabre blankness, which is my cue to leave. I walk across the forking intersection of King St and Enmore Rd. I stand on the middle island of concrete, like I do most days and this is no exception.
Don’t stand that fuckin’ close I think to myself as someone stands near me, breathing down the back of my shirt.
It’s my first fresh day back in Australia after being in Cambodia and I have a poetry gig on. Let’s go there.

How to elaborately suicide
South King St
—} May St
First {— Applebee St
First —} Hutchinson St

The sky’s pink and orange with a purple under haze. The full day, the sky broke into two.
The gaze upon the air is life vision, obstructed by building material. Demons, being without any gender, can become whoever and whatever they want.
A long drone penetrates all yellow fashion. Never touch the ground, only learn to fly and leave your body behind where you’re going. “I want that serpent power.”
There’s no misery in the orange, only dripping movements of cloud and space dust settling. The breathing, settling, turning into night is an opened mouth tail of snake trails in the sand. Infinite plastic laid pictures colour up the atmosphere.
“It?”
“It doesn’t think anybody likes it. It doesn’t know it can come out and play and it desperately want to come out and play. And I’m scared it’s going to take me over, Ange.”
All life is is a good bench. Now pink-red, menstrual blood simmers in amber flame. Purple blue sinking deeper. And deeper.
She had green eyes and hair blacker than Chinese pussy.

Inside the poetry night I sit up the back, recognise a few people. The writing becomes choppy.
Arbitary.
The compass isn’t the fuckin’ direction.
Bonus points for the word death. A Pro-Death Fundraiser, all proceeds go towards killing.
Sinister on the edge of reality.
“I’ll get away with everything.”
The Moon illuminates haze, “yo fuck that, criminology rap, speakers stay jet black floatin’ through the flyin’ cap. What… The old lady snitched, but fuck it, no with one love kid, no I’m not doin’ a bid.”
Destroy linguistic communication, “I’ll show you all that you might as well do it anyway.”
It’s quite amusing, I’m not use to people being generally nice.
Irony is undying.
Let’s light fire, fizz in circular motion, yell the sky out of place, cover it in a roof.
Melting metal leaves cylindrical image / mimage.
Truncate? Orange forage.
Freudian slip of ‘right’ and ‘white’ overseers.
I can see through the gap of the wall, the table, chair and hula hoop dream catcher.
Orange synthetic flowers helpless in eye sockets, a gas ball greeting.
“Something must have gone wrong, this is the wrong back.”
7.5L of body fluids.
“Basically, a relationship is rehab, or a cause for rehab.”
Death, Lasers & Dinosaurs. Welcome to an inside joke.
A Cyclops acts as enforcer of the rules. I won’t listen to a skull trying to tell.
Unseen movements shadowed as car lights lock from the distance.

The recipients enter the scene, exiting the building. This is no Elvis reference though, it wasn’t even the right phrase as someone, Alex, yells for time, four times over.
A woman in salmon with perky little dogs and groceries returns “Hi” to a wave (high to a wave).
10:12pm, forty eight hours without alcohol. Steps approaching up step inside.
The glitter in bitumen are the road’s stars, people linger at the end of the street.
A door, deaf jammed shut. No one’s getting inside tonight, the bip bip bip of an alarm system will bother the neighbours if anybody tries. Oh well, sometimes night needs large noise.
Why?
Shake memory maps in synchronicity of what I think I’ve heard, or shared.
“You do it.”
“No, you do it.”
“You do it.”
“You do it.”
Indecision’s fusion, last past glowing.
The pen dies in freestyle of me, we, I be free.
“Apart from that guy, I agree with everything you said.”
We have nothing but award punishment.
“It’s like Ghostface Killah lyrics, all the words make sense but you don’t know what’s going on.”

New Day
Abortion Hurts

On the way to my workplace, a woman, fattish, fiftyish, has a plastered signboard over her body with pictures of a fetus. I’m not sure if all the different pictures are that of the same fetus.
Abortion hurts. It probably does, it all depends who you’re talking about though. Criminality of death, unwanted child, mother, the life giver the life leaver.
Abortion hurts, like a relief of guilt, or guilt of relief, it all divides inside.

Urinary tract in evaporation.
I never see blind people.
70 so hours sober. A red house in twisted metal, a fan, a bottle full of skulls.
Within the Dust Kingdom is a mould kingdom of itself. Green fungi on a seven year itch.

Wilson St
Green shirt with red blue yellow polka dots, how do you tell someone you’re writing about them.
“Hey Bron, I’m writing about you.”

Inertia. Ride Sonia in backward hearing. The thought runs deep inside a parallel.

D.I.G.
Dire Interest Generator
Did I Go?
Devil’s in God
the Dinosaur Investigator Gator
Black balaclava with pliers removing fingernails for religious purposes.
Shaved completely naked, tiled in with the reaper, your saviour.
Cheating death is easy if you know the rules to break.
Consistency.
Contentment.
Leave in the wind.
Hi-hat symbol beat structures sound. Fill the air with what Suicide paved the way for.
Both sides left and right.
Words morph and become overwhelming while analysing meaning.

.G.I.D.
rotareneG tseretnI eriD
?oG I diD
doG ni s’liveD
rotaG rotagitsevnI ruasoniD eht
.sesopurp suoigiler rof slianregnif gnivomer sreilp htiw avalcalab kcalB
.ruoivas rouy, repaer eht htiw ni delit ,dekan yletelpmoc devahS
.kaerb ot selur eht wonk uoy fi ysae si htaed gnitaehC
.ycnetsisnoC
.tnemtnetnoC
.dinw eht ni evaeL
Rof yaw eht devap ediciuS tahw htiw ria eht lliF .dnuos serutcurts taeb lobmys tah-iH
.thgir dna tfel sedis htoB
.gninaem gnisylana elihw gnimlehwrevo emoceb dna hprom sdroW

A desert marred by water. I can’t see with open eyes. Tin rattle feedbacks what clouds lay in the clear pale blue.
Closed eyes breathe out as the tide rolls in. Smooth fingers caress the sound clouds. Trees appear out of the ground. Not there, now here.
It reminds me of a melancholy dream, in which I’m wandering down down, unseen inheritance, move from nature to squat.
Love comes in the form of circles., a thud draws attention when I want to be near.
“Can I walk you home tonight?” through the western desert.
“Who are you talking to when you’re alone? Trying to sleep…”

Walk up temple steps to the garden. The garden is full, a metaphor for water and sex. First vision swaying hips. Now night, moon light spectrums colours of flower and flesh. Japanese zen-like grace, a tree enters the centre.
Not the tree of life, the tree of building, of growing to the sky.
The tree is sky, the tree is space, beyond the nothingness floats.
We are the stars, twinkle note to note.
I’m afraid to lose what I don’t already have, why do I want have, the want of have. Nothing’s mine.
“You can want what you can’t have.”
“Happiness is a by-product of function.”

Technique fills presence.

Mind’s monkey matter, slow oscillating sadness, emotions ome to an end.
A hole within a shell, I like the string, fun is a choir of screeching birds in intervals.

I feel boring, or annoying, out of place sitting in a corner, head down, alien, foreign.
Tribal rhythms surfing tunnels, channels flatline in the dark, the flatline is orange.
Sicily 1938.
Laid out on an altar, needles in your skin, I can’t hear you. Performance of exorcism. Through the nose pass out, razor blades aren’t the only form of pain. Live inside sonatas and streams.

Underwater, I can hear you call my name in red blush.
RED… Build up screams to anger that itch deep down, work it out through gritted teeth and a snarl.
Stomp        stomp
Stomp
Keep your eyes on it hunched over like a gremlin, that’s all it is.
Music to live by        until you kill yourself.
Whatever you believe is locked behind that fuckin’ door.
Nothing’s that intense cutting glass.
I don’t know why I always lead down this path, but it does. Maybe isolation is the answer, the key being contact. Fiction breeds to a death stare of sweat.

Stop it. Why am I scared? I’m a rat… the vermin.

I got scared and had to leave Wilson St. I’m not like you and you’re not like me. I’m not like me. Tripping out the door of avoidance. I just want to cry, there’s so much to learn.
I’m sitting in a dog leg back alley. I can hear people, I sit on the gravel, insects chirp.
I’m still scared of the world my mind creates. I’m next to a train track and a no stopping sign. I want to sleep on the street and fall away with slivers of shivers.
GET THE FUCK OUT.
GET THE FUCK OFF
Maybe I am mad. Maybe I’m completely insane. Maybe I’m a reptile, or dead, or only realising what life is and that I’m scared. Forget putting on the front of wide eyes and pretending.
Imagine if dirt thought and trees could talk. This might be a dangerous skill.
Orange flowers. Remember peace and love?
That’s nice to feel, breathe and release.

I won’t get drunk and make the feeling numb and bottled, I’m gonna try. I can do it, I know I can. Let’s go to the park.
It is nice to be out of the zone of comfort though, I always talk about the joy of contentment over comfort, while myself, being extremely comfortable.
That’s why it’s ‘fuck you’ to me.

No one is everything.
Everything is no one.
It’s nice.

Flappy dogs make me happy.
A girl with orange walks by while I sit in the gutter, shaking out of petrified, and asks if I’m alright. That was nice. She had a flappy dog.

Tapesworms and Dog
The gypsy world full of gypsy dogs. Dogs everywhere, constructing society based on three basic principles: sense, sleep, procreation.
That dog over there yawned.
“Hey dog” I’m trying to get its attention (but I hope that dog isn’t offensive).
“Yeah?”
“I was wondering, would you be able to help us get rid of the tapeworm that runs the chocolate company?” Sounds of horns and applause, “Yeah.”
“Oh why thank you very kindly dog. The only thing is I don’t have a plan or any ideas of how to go about it.”
“We don’t need plans,” the dog says, “we’re Dogs. Let’s roll.”

Dog barks and out of the wood worked crowd comes a plethora of dogs of all shapes, sizes and cuddles. A black dog stares out of the window, “Dog speed gods.”
Three rotations of the globe through snare drums.
Dogs swim and tuktuk around “NEVER SAY NEVER!” The dogs don’t have the greatest grasp of the language virus. That’s definitely a plus.
Downward motion to corporation building.
I start feeding seagulls, pigeons and other scavenger birds, play the reverse Hansel & Gretel, leading the way. 200, 000 birds strong and a sea of dogs.
“Dogs can you please hole that automatic sliding door for me?” They do. In goes all the seeds and chips I was feeding the birds, in goes the birds, in goes the dogs and whoever else is about.
“RANSACK!”
We eat all the chocolate as we dance and kick our way through the building in golden orb glow.
“Haha, what are you going to do now without chocolate you silly tapeworm.”
The dogs and the birds really like the chocolate but now there’s none left.
Tapeworms get into the wine and cheese industry.
Shit.

New day(s)
No matter what it is she is beautiful, drifting into a warm smile. She’s the calm with the storm.
Let me die now and watch her over the ocean.

Love like you’ve never lost. Fight like you’ve never won.
I’ve been hanging out with Bron. She’s good, she’s definitely an agent.

A discussion of walking home…
“Freedom is a cardboard box.”

Remember a donkey punch? It’s all about getting off.

Okay, so I have an idea that’s really old but it’s not really practiced anymore. The idea is that the churches all around everywhere are the community drop in centres, I’m sure this was or is the case in some places in time and space.
I’m thinking more community centres like a YMCA or a social entree. Forget the religion completely.
Alright so, what we do is become awesome real estate agents, buy up the churches, kick the religious aspect out and set up churches more like the way I’d like them to be set up.
Free food, good music, nice people. That’s all you really need. Anything else you want can be found through the free food, good music or nice people.

“How much money can you rob in 70 years?”
“Good question, it all depends on consequence, do I get a solid 70 years of robbing and then tally up all the money, or do I start robbing and when I get caught I go to jail and miss out on the robbing period of time”
“In 70 solid years I reckon I could get $3, 000, 000 or I reckon I could get $5, 000 until I got caught.”

At Bron’s house…
The introduction of myself to yellow mangos, they’re delicious.

New Day

Complete indulgence
“oh it’s off now.”
One hundred and eighteen hours without a drink, three hours with. I remember this.
Somehow it all keeps going.
Sunday, the day of Sabbath, I’ll leave it to a Sunday as the sound across the street falls.
A jug or urine and saliva, I remember this.
Talk about life and process in the kitchen with Meret, I remember this.

Bron says that’s she’s really just a kid. (to clarify for you, the reader, she not. God, now I have to break the fourth wall for miscommunication.)
“The sex last night was fun, but I am quite homosexual. I had to get that off my chest.”
I like her… what else can happen in this situation.

Maybe life is just the feeling of standing in the kitchen.
Life is love and heartbreak in the middle of creating.
Either way, I still get to sleep in late.

Male dominance is subjective to female energy.

All life is is someone to hold.
All bliss is is someone to hold who cares.
All life’s goal is someone to hold who cares while drifting off to sleep.

New day

Male/Male, Male/Female, Female/Female

I know, unless someone else ends my life, I’m taking my own. How else would life end.
I, to me, have a strange concept of death. Do you ever have the days where you want to be dead?
The suicidal tendencies…
Not that fantasise about how or even killing myself, but just knowing one day I’ll be dead, and what makes that day not this day?
I’m not even unhappy, just unknowing and curious.  I don’t know how annoying I am to others either.

There’s no prison’s in hell, only dead cops.

Walk into the bank with a bible, “The Power of Christ compels you bitch”. Watch them all descend.

I’ll sit directly in the centre of nine.

Train Tracks

Me and Jamo go out to an event called Train Tracks. It’s when 500 odd people all meet together at Milson Point train station, get on the 7:48pm train with performers and music, the destination being a park. We didn’t find out the park bit until later.
We get on the train and sit in the back carriage.
“It’s just like being on a packed train in peak hour. Wow we’ve recreated the experience.”
Train via Lindfield… (the riot cops will be waiting for you guys, have fun.)
On the train we sit with normal commuters, one guy with a suit and ipad told us we were only supposed to be downstairs, Jamo says he’ll just read the MX.
“Oh Futurama’s on tonight… Love that show.”
A woman gets on with absolutely no idea on life and bitches to her friend. I tell her that where we’re going is a completely mystery but at the other end it could be satanic witchcraft or mass cults. Perhaps even Ken Kesey could be waiting for us.
Then we go and carry on like dickheads for about half an hour, Jamo with the poetry, I somehow have large maps.

We now sit in the park, a band plays, lanterns glow our welcoming arrival. Trees gather around in their place of home, I swing under the Moon to harmonic country.
A light flashes, vague movements in the shadows.
On the train we were unsure of where we were going.
At the end of the line, at our park destination, the band’s lead singer tells us to be careful on the trains cause he “got rolled last night” on a train.
We’re on a train party… the vibe changed.
With the maps, I was point out to everybody where Blue Magic is, either in the sea between South Africa and the south pole, or Barcelona. People thought I was trying to sell drugs.
“Blue Magic isn’t something you do, or drugs, it’s a place or an extra sense of where you are and not are.”

“I feel indulgent, I don’t play songs.”
“I don’t write stories.”

It’s a trust exercise, the movement you rely on your feet.
Where to leave the bag and the maps? “Don’t leave the bag and maps.”

The lanterns lean on the trees in their home. We come in and want support. Luckily trees are kind but don’t mistake that for weakness. The trees will kill us when the chance arrives.
Maybe I should take the lanterns and use them as a warning.

Running red hair white blouse.

The phones are now the lights. Communicative technology will be drilled and welded into the centre of our foreheads, a big metallic crystal. Train your third eye to have diamond vision and be able to bend light and metal. The colours and the elements would increase.

“Write drunk, edit sober.” A four word quote, easy to understand, direct to the point.
Forget the Clergyman, “and I done say unto thee…”, they talk too much.

I don’t mind exchanging something of mine if we’re going somewhere, otherwise don’t worry.

In the distance I hear more talk of satisfaction.
What if they brought us all to the park and left us here? What if they thought we were sharks and they shot us in the face. Nobody outside the digital world would know what happened to us.
A drum solo invites us to the next outing.

As we leave I’ll leave my mark with urine. The dogs will know I was here.
We leave the park to get the last train back to Sydney, it’s almost gone. As we get to the train station I look around and see that they’re all murderers, all the other park people, or at least some of them are murderers because they’re all holding scalps of dead flowers.
What a thankful gesture to nature, just after being in the park, here’s some massacred flowers, for your house…

Did depression start in the First Depression? I’d say yes actually. In the Stone Age it wasn’t that depression wasn’t diagnosed, it didn’t exist, like boredom. Humanity was hungry, that’s what they did. They didn’t sit around thinking of how that girl doesn’t like them or ‘I’m bored what do I do?’

train tracks

“Wish Washington city lost in whales of confinement in the proud loud, ectoplasm in dio-hydro-oxy-heroin form in extinctual spot. Fright left right, open clap on shouldered knees.
Patted like a pet in light three hundred, flip through paper, new bible unbelievable, flip through maps unfurled umbilical.
How’d you get here unprotected, caught in the door, tiptoe in balance. It does end.
Never trap explosive force forward. Purple in the cheek of freedom jail tree, keep residing.
The Kraken of great land where the wattle glows in bush rangers eyes. You knew the troopers were out in the bank. Shy and fair in fine shake and a laughing dance interjection dissipates slowly.
Thank you blue shirt, you do. I’m listening still.
The floor’s on fire, we’re heading to the bush, left where we left off the floor 21 years burning in crustacean divinity. Peace and Love cry,  smoother under barren words stopped by whim.
Done.
Go away,
The music dies in the barren sea.
Door closes, air suffocated, cyanide builds the immune system.
Eat it in miniscule amounts. Breath ether in 3 litre amounts.
Never the less, yellow flowers in map. Hyperventilate in tentacle language. Yes.
Yes, they do. Waiting at the door, flood the spotlight, float down occupation.”

Where’s Jamo? Oh there he is. From a distance he looks crazy on the stairs.
The Train Tracks is nearly over. We’re nearly home, it was pretty funny. We sit on a train seat facing out the window, “it’s like YAY! Our parents aren’t here,” Jamo says to me.
That’s what it was like, middle class white hipsters who are cool.

14/03/14

“The men’s voices sounded distorted, and he couldn’t tell them part anymore. Their voices blended together with a ceaseless drone of tyres from the highway to make a strange tone. His heart surged blood to his extremities as night enveloped him.”

The plush dog looks at the reflections in the holes of the ceiling on the bus. I’m under that reflection, on my way home. What part of me does the plush dog see? Like it’s stitched eyes probably just a flat picture.

Why is the news always about dead children?
I’ve past home, now at the Library where the living and the dead are the same.

Park
The difference between you’re play equipment and my play equipment is that my play equipment doubles as grievous bodily harm. I like the smell of the cut grass in the park. I like the dogs too. They should fight it out.
“Hey older dog, don’t let that younger dog be a smartass, c’mon now, that’s just silly.”

The Moon and the clouds are the same colour, pale white on blue.
The wind brings over dense layers of atmospheric movement. Not the nice thin still choppy clouds that the Sun rests on, the night time clouds that gust rests in.

All the dogs have found the food! The cheeses, watermelons and possibly the delicious biscuits that the old lady who isn’t in the park made.

There’s a husky that is me. I’m not the husky. The Husky is the symbol of connected elegant hunting. The look out of… stop… music cut out… wind… tail curls on the dog… Clan’s in the front, let the beat stomp… African drumming… The Husky’s still… new scent… the scent is sight, the rest drops away… A flappy dog jumps… the Husky weights it’s upper body… a Labrador eats watermelon… The Husky cuts off the pack playing… Diameters dissipate… kill the goose that laid the golden egg… the dogs run on Dog Time… playing dead isn’t taboo…

Cockatoos are the symbol of smooth elegant battling. Watch yellow crest glide in from the south. Aeroplanes are too solidly unnatural.

Laying on back on grass facing sky. Grey comes. Body starts spin in circle, centre is bellybutton. A pin wheel hangs gapped telescope. Pyramid flip out of new. Carnivorous ancient megastructures ascend from the dirt. Faceless purple in balloon form, with pressure Jupiter is born.
The eye, I, instigates natural disaster. A tornado weather front.

I have a purple balloon, a pink knife, a white pig feed bag, a blue torch and shorts.
Magpies black and white.
Surely the children outnumber the dogs, but don’t assume. That was the downfall of undiagnosed mental illness.
Bron can feel the balloon shrinking, contracting. Suitable sharing. The balloon is getting smaller, soon it will be the egg… birth. Now, balloon looks like the eye externalised or a rounded off single breast. Covered in hair, now a small rodent.
I won’t start talking about grenades, that’s finished now.

Loops synchronise floating.
A pile of garbage making a statue, perfect for the park, a masterpiece for any house, who are we worshipping now anyway?
Discordian Popes? Let’s appoint and immortalise the infallible. You are all now Discordian Popes.

Ten lights, eight lit line the path. The Moon oversees the movements under a capped brim. The clouds pan out like a ripple on a lake.
Ink drips in bee honeycomb lifting down from sky’s height.
Purple latex squeezed, flashing green yellow red blue white light magic.
Wind carries sound, but I wonder what effect it has on light. Surely over a large enough distance, or with enough pushing or pulling, a force could change lights travel or direction.
It’s the Black Hole, or water.
Static out. Momentum declined.

Floral red flowered gown capped in the fluid rhythmic dancing movements, lined velvet pockets.
“Don’t stare at one particular thing, don’t write people in the eyes,” silver beak speaks through foreign language.

When writing practice writing and give the output to others, get some friends to do it or something.

“God, these people are fuckin’ meditating. Now they’re waving their hands. What is this New Wave shit? Where’s the No Wave or just the wave goodbye when you leave. At least dogs smile when they leave.”

“I’ll hit apples with a baseball bat!” canine excitement in the face, “fuck yeah, the park.”
Off. “Only cardboard pens are allowed in this park.”
Dark possessing dancing provocatively, limbless arguments…
Titillate means to tickle, or to excite agreeably.

“Hey guys these are my friends from school.” It looks like a Kraftwerk reunion.
Jamo poetries on impromptu virtues , crazy person riff raff.
I thought the tree was the person, they have the same significance.
Bamboo canoe floats through garbage grass. The locals round these here parts need to be pissed off, how else would they change the Control with poetry?

Basket Case, Bucket Face

Everything around me black as you can see.
If the organ weighs slightly to the right, the ambiance rolls down the hallway sputtering. As sound moves through everything, blankets, clothes, room artifacts become straight, fresh as a new day with the lingering of decay.
Ghost presence, waters run deep, clean.

The Ghost runs in mechanical function, returning from heaven. Even monotonous purgatory beats the heavenly divine. The Ghost in the Machine, deus ex machina. Afterlife has become digital. The dead comment and complain about uploaded food photos. They don’t eat so of course they will. Some neo-political correctness has picked up on it as ‘discriminatory’.

The ghost of Danny Ra, who in a previous life was Ayn, and like everyone else, was or will be, at some stage, Jesus.
Danny Ra was struck by a fallen tree and was washed away by the river. In the forest all alone, the storm broke loose, flipping the outside in.

Sound is the last time to be gone in death. Death will always be heard, sounding like a generator.
When the ghost of Danny Ra came to, it was stuffed inside a jar in a cupboard. The whole shelf was lined with jars of dead people’s ghosts. There is no blood anywhere. Some wore egregious bogie smiles, others could see through what didn’t exist.
Only the dead can kill each other. There is not just one death, like possibilities and futures there’s infinite death, that takes on new and old shapes, forms and dimensions.

A cowbell rings on the way down. No levels, only layers spread out like a web. Hell to Heaven’s route isn’t a phallic journey, or even a contingent concept.

A hand reaches in the cupboard, picking jars for pickling scars. This is the creation of a belligerent spirit. The ghost, torment, angst and hatred stew in brine for ten weeks or so. These ghosts rarely see the light of day or possession so when they do that’s when dire fleeting avails.
The ghosts in the jars can live happy full afterlives, they can be restored. Most of them just sit in jars until the energies finally dissolve to a fade and new death wanes like a poker deck shuffle.

They can be restored through the power of three, witches were the real missionaries of divinity.
Through séance the jars are open and the ghost float free like pixie dust.
A quick hello for the conductors as a thanks, then flickering between astral planes in about five different lands.
Imagine imaginary stories reality. Play the game with the bullet called life.

When live wire, you can tell if the living individuals have been rabbits before or not. See the effect in mannerism. The statement ‘down the rabbit hole’ or ‘when rabbit howls’ is understood a lot better…

…A vagrant living out of a car is involved in a stabbing. Shackled on the bed, the energies dead. Love is a head wound. Organ carnival music is played to drown out the beating.
God really enjoyed spilling the blood of the innocent. The Devil wasn’t happy at the mistreatment of the poor little flesh creatures. The poor Devil was exorcised.
The exorcism is a side effect of a lone séance.
The way to describe love is by embracing hell. Love is self-torment.
White noise tears drips from the plants in the gutter. A lone violin comes through from 1947.

“I never wanted you to come here, anyway.”

I feel like the electricity of a bouncing of a heart rate monitor completely absorbed within itself.

Last night: Highend Audio Experience.
Headphones on as the chime starts slow, to the left the band played. Inside the mind’s visual the band’s energy was yellow. The chimes are the deep dark hue of space. The highend audio kicks in as the planet we inhabit. I’m in the distance watching, planet on the left, yellow volcanic activity creeps in, music is the dancing appearing stars in waves.
The brain creates the visual and the input is turned out spatially. Everything runs on geography, placement and colour. Talking from behind my left ear shot up into green scenery. The planets components were getting huge.
The typical electric waves to watching a cat trying to catch a penny lizard.

The Garden of Light is the city.

Plants are the skyscrapers are the forest. The scales of life and space turned down and make the boundaries smaller, but infinitely as possible.
Hay and sticks are roads and shelters, the Sun and the Moon have the same effect on the ants, lizards, spiders dwelling as they have on our existence.
The plants want to get as high as they can go, maybe they already have in order to live in the metaphysical realm.
The watchmen gnomes turned over, there’s nothing a gazing concerned force can do here.
A helping hand with bucket and pail may help but the Garden of Life is as it is.
What’s it about? – Growing. Projecting self onto object, life into play.

I don’t know why I’m where.
Who is the physical world?

‘Tis all quite impending from the back. Storm’s approaching with lightning and thunder in the arsenal.
Pittering in the distance before striking down sound and vision.
An opportunistic and savory moment to embrace incoming and drinking to salvation.
The rain can wash it all away, not that all needs to be washed away, but the thunder as the crashing tide assures it will all be okay when all does go away.

The situation is lovely but not a situation I deserve. Someone else surely must need this more than I and take a step back.

Deserves and needs (beside the basic principles) are about as useful and progressive as shoulds. The feeling of being lost introvertedly is probably just a sore spine or tired face.
The storm may just be a practical joke, a game erupting playing the way the sky plays.
What about a morning storm? Turn the day to night and house lights shine through the darkness.

The rain stopped before we left. Round about directions thrown off by unnamed streets.
We arrived in a Sydney park reverse near Wolli Creek.
Over and under, let’s go through the bush.
Rocks in the dark, water covers slippery surfaces. The fairy light lit trail path entrance was obscured in by our vision. Bass and symbols bounce off overhead branches.

Jackson: “Hey Bron can I be the roadie?”
Bron: “The job’s yours. We’ve never had a roadie before, that makes me feel famous.”

A set up. They set up. I write and drink gin.
People are around and Some Guy’s already knocked over my gin and tonic. Bastard.
The rest dance close in devil horns. I doubt any of them can manifest a devil, but who knows about the ratios of human depravity. Statistically one of them could be a murdering rapist. Who knows? Maybe I should get a torch and investigate. Or at least move.

I went to get a battery. I feel productive and efficient with the roadie position.
I think I can live up to the name.
In the distance on the dance floor the pelvis sway. Behind backs a lake.
Disconnectedly involved with enthusiastic consent.
Essentially we’re in a park with Talking Heads DJ’s and schoolchildren.
The thought of inflicted or inflicting pain comes to mind.