just keep going,

March 22, 2008 at 3:58 pm | Posted in writing | 19 Comments
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the last page of the new manuscript, get in and have a look while you can ‘cos the old man is on my back about giving stuff away and writing silly poems for my own amusement,

Where’s F.?

February 22, 2008 at 5:16 pm | Posted in writing | 17 Comments
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At some point the money’s gotta be coming from somewhere, I have been out exploring (problogging insertlink haha), round and round you go past advertising disguised vaguely or not and sitting somewhere behind a screenmachine is a person getting paid for misdirected clicks, there is a vacuum sucking as it were the point of your mouse to a flashing red light waiting for a jerk of your wrist beyond conscious sensible control, and with a margin of error beyond its visible borders to gather what? Perhaps just an address. But they are boring money number counting numbnuts whose only chance of getting paid is by processing numbers. There is no content, they are chasing each other round in circles past each others adverts, hahahahahahahahahahaaaaa,

now son you stand there at that door in that uniform with that big fucking gun,

contractual obligation

February 19, 2008 at 6:30 pm | Posted in writing | 17 Comments
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Those of you who know me well will believe that I have been insulted in many languages and accents by people from all walks of life over the years I have traipsed this poor old planet but only two overt castigations have ever stayed with me.

The first was when I was about fifteen and my long suffering Chemistry teacher through whose classes I had doodled and stared out windows had to give me an award for a perfect exam in front of the whole Senior School and staff and as he handed me the certificate he said loud enough for all to hear, “The most over-rated student in the school.” I have never been so proud.

The second was when I was about nineteen and some Classics scholar, President of the Latin and Ancient History Society objected to me leaving the meeting drunk and laughing and with the woman he wanted. “You are a suicidal, degenerate, little worm.” Why, thankyou, and goodnight,

I have blogged. I have arranged some mss. I have written a piece set in The Orchid Room with the pianoplayer half listening to the old man’s discursive remarks on J. B. Priestley, any requests?


February 15, 2008 at 3:20 pm | Posted in writing | 34 Comments
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I first realised my career would go no further than an airport bar playing to drunk businessmen and their prey and their predators… (insertlink) My original plan was to shut ’tis blog down today, let’s face it a twelvebar blues can go on forever and often sounds like it already has, and undertake the onerous and untiggerlike task of editing it down into a manuscript presentable to a perhaps not so reputable publisher with a note that actual sex and violence could be inserted pretty much anywhere, as required to fulfill some mundane motive, since the original work, this bloggedy blog is already done, insert andy warhol tattoo,

time it turns out may not be linear but still somehow remains in short supply and leave on the static front page a link to the search engine with a note stuck on the fridge saying, sorry, roll roll, missed you again, leave me a note if you catch me, ie write your own manuscript, was william seward burroughs forgot somehow, became an icon without ideas, just a face and a voice,

but then i opened a beer on a beautiful blue brisbane friday afternoon and she is smiling so i just dropped in to say, hello, free hugs today, yayaya

button pushing error (antiblog #5, in F. sharp)

October 31, 2007 at 4:28 pm | Posted in writing | 8 Comments
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Christians, sir, on the starboard bow!

Wahah? (waking up from a stupefying sleep)

Christians, sir, on the starboard bow,

Hmm, christians heh. Exercise extreme extreme caution. We must remember The Inquisition when they tries to kill all magic, any claim to power not theirs, omniscent they call him, how proud, how magnificent their god that he could only save the souls of those whom he had made imperfect by having his only son tortured to death. And then claimed to be all loving, remember South America, conquistador, knowledge flowed one way and death the other. They are prone to political cunning since they live in strict heirachies of closeness to god, each striving for an exclusive place in heaven at the expense of us, my friends, who live already with freedom,

So what do you want us to do?

Nothing, ignore them and they will go away. But first hide all the jewellery,

A confluence of forces. antiblog 5. (text only mode)

September 27, 2007 at 7:49 am | Posted in writing | Leave a comment
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thankyou both. the truth is i hardly understand them when i write them but lately i have been playing with the categories and search button and meaning is evolving from context and the weaving of themes in permutations, i think, the rock and the water instead of competing, cooperate in the creation of the dolphin,

antiblog 4 (i think)

September 19, 2007 at 5:43 pm | Posted in writing | 2 Comments
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I have forgotten my original intention which is always a good thing.
First let me talk about links,
they are easy to write and writing is one thing about which I am not lazy. Yes, the occasional typo gets thru and i don’t particularly care because often they reveal more than they distract, accidents of thought, Mr Oceanshaman. Taoist Magic requires the magician only to get out the way and allow mysterious creation to take place. (If anybody reads exactly what I read would they not be in my head?)

entropy, just a word, not a name? but a mind. I could not be Damien Hirst (nor care how to spell his name) because he invested 15, 000, 000 of his own money which he had already made and not spent, or gave away. Something which has proved beyond my small ability, but I know that I would not have made a skull.

There is a connection between Art and politics. All .art is Political in that it requires a commitment to a principle beyond ourselves, my dear and very crafty green poet, and in the absence of any God determining my actions, I can only choose community which extends like ripples in a pond round snaggled mangrove roots, small silver fish like thoughts schooling and on occasion shattering in moments of panic like light.

Sunonhead’s father had no hat.

Everyday I read my blogroll, whoops and as you scroll, I have learnt that rivers flow into oceans and riverstones are born, crystals of sudden salt-cooling caught in fractured sunlight and drifting down to take on the amethyst-emerald colours of soft coral.

And she likes them, these mysteries which I cannot name, (the right is hers by understanding), whose origins are between strange snow capped Japanese woodcut mountains above and the ancient breathing of the sea, my love,

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