8/12/2010 MELBOURNE, AUSTRALIA

Distilling words from one moment to the next
Under gray skies that cannot weep
I dream with open eyes lost to time
As the grass grows between my dusted toes
Frozen upon a pedestal made of bones
When I met you in the dark of our shared lust
That grew into pained love rooted in yesterday
Now I wish these clouded skies would rain
Wash away the thoughts that flow through my mind.

WHEN WILL THE DROUGHT END TEZCATLIPOCA?

This government is a beast of smoke and mirrors perched upon a blood dripping altar that sits on top of a ziggurat that was built from bones of meta-media-psycho- physical phantasmagoria integrity. The top soil has blown away to an alien god’s domain. There upon the pinnacle of our temple stands our God Emperor making sacrifices to an alien God from an alien land. Look at the jaguar claw dagger in his hand that once symbolized the power over light and darkness. A knife blade balanced between life and death where the God Emperor consecrated the sacrifice with one thrust into the body of a sanctified virgin upon the day proceeding the night of the thirteenth full moon at the cycles end. These days the sacrifice occurs after every full moon and the sacrifice is always political scapegoat; a virgin upon the steps of political manipulation.
This God Emperor and his government have embraced the sorcery of propaganda twisted with dogma concealed behind the illusion of control. The jaguar claw dagger held within the hands of his priests and advisers has been plunged into the flesh of this nation in an exhibition of short term gain that lead to universal entropy. The victims of this God Emperor’s regime have woken to find their internal organs have been removed while priests of economics have proclaimed that this is the will of the Gods and the rains shall come to pass.
Where is the holiest of hollies, our favourite God, Democracy? It was lost within a jungle where deadly sound bites and superstitious photo ops devoured and butchered Democracy. Democracy was burnt down to its bones then sold and finally leased back. New temples rose up upon the bones of Democracy with the God Emperor’s priests proclaiming the rebirth of Democracy. The people of the empire were not allowed to participate for the priests had read the signs inside these new temples where they birthed diseased entrails that the priests entwined into the fabric of the land, which thus spread a growing blindness within the hearts of the people. The people's minds were twisted into believing the priest's revelations that this land is a paradise. Every non-victim living in the empire received three parrot feathers that were promised by the God Emperor to keep away fear and starvation.
The people wept to the God Emperor and his Government to end drought. The God Emperor sent forth his priests of words who cast spells upon the people that made them believe that water levels were higher than ever before, although, one could see the skulls at the bottom wells. All the while the people's blood was dripping and running to the Gods that did not answer. All the while the blood of the priests and the royal elite's were exempt from sacrifice.
The skies were clear like a grave newly dug where the earth could only crumble and crack. It's been so long since rain fell down upon the land. In this same time the rain of blood has become heavier and heavier. The drought has not ended, but the God Emperor proclaimed that waters were flowing everywhere.
One only needed to look at the colour of what flowed through the veins of this land to understand the truth. A truth so red it screams the name; the beast of smoke and mirrors.

POLITE STUPIDITY

Someone remarked to me about the weather, “It’s a fine day for the weather,” which made me think. I mean isn’t every day a day for the weather. When one gets right down to it it would be understandable for someone living on the moon to make that sort of remark, but it seems completely stupid to make that remark hear on earth. It would be a real problem if tomorrow there was no weather. I don’t think anyone one would be asking about the weather, but they might be choking for air.

pieces

THE VIEW

Everyone has windows
And no one is looking outside

LINKS

We are all links in a chain that are strangling our very freedoms

LIVING

When we deny death
We enslave life

NOT EVEN OBSCURE

I am a writer of no note
But still I must sing
Always out of key to the rest
Seeking questions from answers
Feeling depressed because I can’t conform
I am a writer of no note
( the greatest deceit is self-importance)

NORMAL?

The smallest minority within the human species is normal people
So, where does that leave the rest of us?
Trying to pretend to be like them.

WHAT WE ARE

When we deny being an animal
We deny being human

CREATION

With one thought
The universe is transformed

GLOBAL WARMING

I'll have a salad with that.

BELIEF IN SOMETHING THAT DOESN’T EXIST

I thrusted my hands forth
They became covered in blood
Thus I was granted true faith

I placed my head upon the block
I felt the blade’s eternal shock
And thus I became the holiest of ideologues

I was reborn in concrete truth
I had no need for any thoughts
I hunted down those unsound parts

I caught and chained my creativity
Condemned it to the dungeons beyond the light
Now all I have is my God.

WHEN THE SUN SETS

Dreams wash up on a shoreline. Flotsam and jetsam thoughts that only ever awaken hopes lost at sea. I am shipwrecked and so constantly alone on island in an ocean of fear. The island is sinking. The salted water has begun to lap against my feet. Dread, but I cannot step back, return to higher ground. Eyes search for signs amongst the broken vessels upon my arms. Sea birds cry accusingly, ”hu-man, you brought this upon thy self, ha, ha, ha, ha.” My longing has brought into my possession treasure chests filled with out of date mobiles, empty jerricans and record companies’ CD albums and free to air TV networks. My fresh water is found within the island’s heart bypass. I knew deep beneath my downloads and virtual realities that something had to give. So, here I stand at the island’s edge watching my world set. Tanned in cancer, overweight with regrets and filled with memories of things called snow and glaciers: It all melted away and turned seas into oceans and oceans into vast deserts that washed away the sands of Arabian Nights. I am the only one left. I am a Sinbad with no one to tell my tales

SEXUAL DEVIANCY

I saw your God yesterday
Shooting up real slow
Then masturbating into a syringe
I spat on him
Kicked him in the head
Called him
Fucken deviant
Monotheist prick
Low life scum
Thinks he’s the only fucken god
In this fuckup universe

I said
"Get off yer arse"
"What do you think your son would say?"
"Seeing you in this fuckup state"
But he wouldn’t listen
Fucken God oh mighty
That’s the problem
With all monotheist gods
When shit hits their car
They quickly call one of their slaves
Usually a child raping priest
Who jumps in behind the wheel
Flat tacks it out of there
Down the road
Passed open ditches
Filled with rotting kids
And possum piss
Suicide Bombers selling opium
Standing in holy water
Two foot deep
And
The mono God
Loses control
Of his slave sucking priest

So what does this fucken monotheist God
Do?
He starts doing smack
Crack
Ice jacks
Fags in slacks
And finally human blood
And if anyone questions
His divine actions
He smotes them

So now you know
Why I spit and kick
Monotheist gods
A bunch of fucken! cunts!

You know why
I'm so pissed off
I’m a fucken god
While those mono pricks
Pretend
Me and all the other Gods
Don’t exist
Fucken mono shitheads
Drugged up fuckwits
I need a drink
That ends this fucken sermon.

time

WHEN TIME
WAS NOT
A CLOCK DIAL

Once long ago before now
My favorite ritual
Tea
In
A
Pot

A teapot so tactile
Every touch seemed to evoke
An image of an ancient earth goddess
Pregnant with anticipation
As a kettle boiled
Releasing steam unto the heavens

A lid
Lifted
An empty vessel hollow with desire
Tea leaves tumbled downwards
Into the rich brown earthen ware
Frothing and spitting
An aroma given
Renewed life

Nostrils sweetly inhaled
As a teaspoon began to circle
The inside of the pot
The lid returned to its heart
Three turns to right
One turn to the left
Time slowed to the point of wait

A open beak of porcelain
Rose into the sunlight
Turned downwards
Into an empty white pool
Surround by a moat

A sepia tide streamed through
Down into the empty pool
A moment passed
Milk flowed
Changing seasons in the pool
Until autumn true

A finger curling of mist
Rose up into the sunlight
Where lips tenderly kissed
The porcelain cup’s edge

A savoring taste
Hands upon a wooden breast
The teapot at rest
The ritual at an end
Once long ago before now

holier than peace

HOLIER THAN PEACE

1.
For walking your child
To hospital
Sanitized barbwire
A community watch
That will shoot you dead
With the word
Mistake
Today was the day
Of rocks and stones
And bullets
You didn’t know
Your child’s needs
Were above all else
Crossfire
And now your child’s dead
For walking to the hospital
For your child’s
Cancer treatment

2.
Freedom fighters
With a religion bent
Fashion items
On a catwalk to death
A bus loaded
With unknowing innocence
A flash of terror
The show is over
The curtain in shreds
Screams to wailing tears
In a after show
Where only blood drips
Success

3.
The eye of the tank
That looks down at you
Warsaw revisited
Ghetto desert
Pseudo neo-nazis
Star of David
On their helmets
Holocaust ghosts wail
From their mass graves
Point accusing fingers
At their children’s children
Inheritors of victimization
Now these grand children
Have become
Inheritors of nazi hate

4.
Old men filled with hate
Clothed in religious piety
Sit in comfort
Sit beyond
The outside poverty
Recruiting
The angry
The vengeful
A generation of alienation
Trained to march
Beyond the check points
Into the arms of deaths
And drag along with them
The innocence.

THEIR DEMOCRACY

THEIR DEMOCRACY

Part one

They are our Gods
They know what's best
For you and me the electorate
Apparatchiks from a shrinking pool
White wasp school boys
And token pearl wearing girls
Pretending to be working-class
Conning you and me from the start
Conservative or progressive
Private schooled on both sides
Taking us all down into a mire.

Part two

They are our doom
Sanitizing me and you
With obsessive control
Restricting me and you
With punctuated policies
Denying me and you
The chance to even speak
Incarcerating me and you
In brick veneer dungeons

And can you hear
The carcinogenic media
Transmitting
Tabloid indoctrination
While politicians
Fear action
So they dance
And they skip
After newspapers
Camera lenses
Microphones
Makeup chairs
Blowing down
The streets
As lawyers
Circle
Overhead
Our carcass
Liberty.

Part three
And they play with the dark arts
The necromancy of demographics
Candle lit sacrificial polling
Candidates placed in electrical circles
The voters' blood begins to run
To consecrate political victory
The beast arises with the unholy mandate.

Part four

Hear me
For I am you
And you are me
And we trapped
So trapped
In their democracy
And they are our Gods
And they are our doom
And never ask them for the truth
For they can only answer
By spinning
You and me into their
Abyss.

vegables

A WARNING FROM A PIECE OF FRUIT

The Sinister Vegetables are coming. Yes, they are coming and there is nothing you can do. Three years have past since last they attacked, but no one now has prepared.
The Sinister Vegetables are coming. By plane, by car, by bus, by boat, and even by mobile phone. So, be warned there’s no hiding place. The Sinister Vegetables have been seeded, irrigated and now they have risen from the earth.
The Sinister Vegetable are coming. Hide your babies from their lips. Break out your elderly old aged parents from those old aged homes. And hide them in the nearest city rubbish tip until the sinister vegetables have passed.
The Sinister Vegetables are coming with glass eyed Cyclops and blackheaded baby rattles squirming and dribbling in the Sinister Vegetables dust. No matter what you do or even if you are fool. There will be no place you can stare because sinister vegetables will be there. Sinister vegetables on lampposts, on bus backs, on wall faces, (post no signs here, unless you are a Sinister Vegetable) on car plates, front fences, letter boxes, radio stations, TV ratings and even in school yard places.
The Sinister Vegetables are coming and its time to face your fate. A piece of paper is your only protection. Once you have it in your paws, scribble, then shove it in a hole and the Sinister Vegetables will go away until the next election campaign comes around in three or so what years.

ECOSIDE

ECOSIDE

Ecoside is the new wonder product brought to you by PCG global Pty. Ltd.
Do insects annoy you?
If your answer is yes, then Ecoside will change your outside experience forever. Ecoside removes all those irritating insects from ones external environment experience. Ecoside does not just remove insects, Ecoside removes leaves from guttering and around buildings completely.
PCG global promises that once you use Ecoside you will experience a pristine and danger free interaction with the outside world. No more shark attacks. No more will you need to fear you might step on blue-ring octopus when at the beach. No more stray cats to disturb your sleep. No more snakes to bite you when walking in the bush. An end to falling tree. An end to birds excrement upon your house, cars, windows, clothes and even your head. An end to weeds in your lawns and gardens. Ecoside makes the outside world user friendly

Where can you obtain ecoside?
Ecoside can be found at all good convenience stores.

Ecoside making the outside environs safe and secure for all.

THE GARDENER

A BORN AGAIN
GARDENER

The fruits of the garden are no more
Madness stalks behind the eyes
This, the age, of the blind gardener
Has arrived
Hands smooth and clean
Beneath the blood blisters’ grins
With half a face suntanned
A right arm
A right leg
Dark and brown
Like the habitat of the worm
A thick and solid body
Rooted in the grip
Of a river gums hold upon a bank
A head of hair
Brittle and dry
A colourless wisp of labour

One type of weed
For years upon years
It was encouraged to breed
As means
As defense
Against another toxic infestation
But the roots were black with suicide
The toxic infestation soon passed away
And gardener celebrated
And forgot the weed
Until an over abundant peach tree
Fell down like a drunk without a thought
With a ring of weeds marking the death

And then the gardener
Perceived the deeds of the weeds
Through his cataract reality
All there was for the gardener
Was that one type weed
While the garden starved
Withered and wilted
In an abstract surrealism
On a garden canvass
Peeled and flaked
Blown away by a northerly

And now the garden dies
Where once flowers, shrubs and trees
Reigned supreme
Now
A thousand new toxic infestations
Began to creep across the turf
Towards sovereignty
Of the garden’s heart
While the gardener hunted
One
Only one
Type of weed

I KNOW THE TRUTH

Listen, friend I found the darkest truth they will never tell you. In my search for aliens living amongst us I stumbled onto a conspiracy; a campaign of misdirection; a smoke and mirror dance where all of us have been driven like wildebeest into the river’s flow where crocodiles waited, and then they attacked and devoured our reason and self determination. Alive, we stumbled out the other side where the victimizers had transformed into gentle carers speaking of love and forgiveness. Promising heaven, resurrection, paradise and peace, but it’s nothing like that. It’s a spiritual nightmare.
I see in your eyes disbelief, but believe me I have the evidence. It’s all broken fingers and abusing cherubs whipping chain gangs across the skies. It’s a production line of abuse with an angelic smile. It’s a totalitarian regime with love concealing their crimes. There’s secret police wearing wings with little jingles for all the saved to sing.
It’s a dictatorship with a tyrant on a golden seat rubbing cigarette butts into peoples’ flesh. It’s a hell with clouds and evil harps. And did you know in heaven you don’t have any rights. You can’t smoke. You can’t drink. You can’t laugh. You can’t fuck. You can’t do anything. You’d be better off as dust.
Now, listen up I have the answers. The solutions to your growing fears and it isn’t converting to Paganism, Buddhism, Animism or even becoming a Jedi. The answer is my friend is the aliens. When they come it will be in their green renewable flying saucers. And you should see the way their flying saucers float in space. It’s great! The aliens will fly us all to a wonderful afterlife. You might wonder how I know. Well, I shall tell you. The aliens texted me last Tuesday. Isn’t that great? Now all we have to do is wait.

P.S. Oh, before I forget you have to put out the witches hats in a pattern just like you see with a crop circle. It’s all to do with their navigation systems and their great love for really big Ferris wheels. Bye. See you soon.

THE MACHINE DOESN’T WORK

You talk, talk, talk
Giants made of clouds
Quacks and golden eggs
More is the demand
Stockholders cry out

I wonder why?
The machine doesn’t work

Let the gods proclaim
Productivity fell
Down the rainbow
Then the Gods squeezed
Until diamonds popped out
Grimm accounting
Fairy tale results

How could this be
You’ll soon see
The machine doesn’t work

A princess without a crown
A fairy Godmother on her payroll
Media savvy scalpel in her hands
A lazy princess who always sleeps
Spends her days reading tabloids
With slice and an advertising loaded dice
A pretty princess becomes a bitch

What’s the lilly-pilly matter
All shall soon be revealed
The machine doesn’t work
Laughing dragons
Call for help
Restructure all the knights
The elected king nods, yes nods
Shining armour replaced with lead
While peasants and villages are burnt out
Then toady developers quickly move in
The poor wail out for regal relief
And the king pronounces
‘No need to worry’
‘The magic of productivity will save you all’

(The king’s treasurer issued a statement that stated that a feasibility study was initiated, followed by community consultation which resulted in a paper in which it was revealed that one lead coated knight to nine dragons within defined magical field of reasonable influence enables
a greater productive outcome.)

Can numbers really lie?
The truth one can never find
Why?
The machine doesn’t work.

NATIONAL ARCHETYPES AND POLITICAL ARCHETYPES: EVERYTHING YOU WANTED TO KNOW ABOUT BECOMING A SUCCESS POLITICIAN IN AUSTRALIA, BUT WERE TO SCARED TO EMPLOY A SPIN DOCTOR TO DISSEMINATE

Did you know that one of the way's one can become Prime Minister of Australia is to have distinctive facial features or bizarre hair configurations. Weird and unruly eyebrows upon a federal minister are a sure sign that the minister is in line for higher honors and will in all likelihood become Prime Minister. Eyebrows will be trumped when and only when there is a fellow party member or an opposition leader with a strange and tortured head of hair. Large ears are... alright and dramatic looking noses are also fine, while warped skulls can be considered in the running for the Lodge. Ugliness in federal politics is an advantage to a long and successful career. One and only one thing the aspiring politician must be is either a political archetype or an Australian archetype to succeed. The Australian archetypes and Australian political archetypes I will delve into with greater deep later in this essay.
So far I have discussed what is needed to become a successful politician, but unfortunately I must admit that I have been gender biased towards the male politicians. I am ashamed and I wish to apologies, but enough of the sniveling. Why have we never had a female Prime Minister and the answer to that is fairly obvious. Women politicians can never achieve the level of ugliness that their male counterparts have made into an art form.
I feel I should clarify what I mean when I use the words ugly and ugliness. The use of ugly and ugliness in regard to politicians is not just about physical ugliness it’s also about that indefinable ugliness of an individual’s personality. An ugliness that can make a person violently sick and yet at the same time it can evoke a disturbing fascination of a transmogrifying nature that engenders mindless worship.
Women politicians on the whole seem to not be capable of evoking this form of ugliness. There have been a few women politicians that have this quality of ugliness, but they are few and far between. The reason is fairly obvious and stone cold logic stabs the handle end of a mace into the thinker. Men dominate the major political party's hierarchies. So ugly women politicians have been discriminated against over the years. Until the ugliness imbalance between the genders is changed so as to create a level playing field we will never see in Australia truly ugly federal women politicians on either side of politics.
Through my years of study and research upon the subject of what makes a successful Australian politician I have developed four profiles. These four profiles are in essence the political archetypal templates of a Prime Minister from both sides of the dwindling political divide. Further, I have developed two extra profiles for what a successful woman Prime Minister must be from both sides of politics. I must state that the two profiles of possible women Prime Ministers are based on a small degree of conjecture with a large degree scientific research. These profiles were constructed with the help of FBI, the Australian Federal Police and the UN Good Governance Bureau. The information that was utilized was of the highest order and my findings were scrutinized by some of the leading experts in this field of study.
There are two archetypal left-wing successful leaders. The first one I will focus upon must be large and very robust with an unwavering self belief: All right I wont spin I mean they have to be big fat bastard with a wit as wide as their pant’s belt and an ego bigger than the great desert. This type of politician will be able to talk about every and any issue one could conceive. Sorry, I’m doing it again, this type of left-wing politician will be able to talk under water with a mouthful of marbles and a head in a block of concrete. This leader will be a bloody know-it-all.
The other type that makes a successful left-wing leader is a politician who is small of stature with the common touch and a working class background and charisma oozing out of every pore in their body. This type of left-wing politician will love to be loved by the public. In other words a mister nice guy, friend to everyone. This left-wing small stature political leader will only succeed if he has a grossly overweight, shifty thug keeping the cabinet in line.
He will also have a preoccupation with grooming his hair.
The successful right-wing Prime Minister comes in two forms. First and foremost both types must have large eyebrows. The first type is often tall and aloof with refined streak of arrogance and droll sense of timing. He believes in equality for all as long as it doesn’t effect the political elite’s and the economic elite’s power base. He often falls foul to what one can only call the Sleeping Beauty Syndrome (SBS). SBS symptoms are as follows, a leader who makes his abode in a mental high castle’s turret that is surrounded by media thorn bushes and political monsters. This archetypal politician will become oblivious of what his own ministers are up and completely ignorant of his political opposition that ultimately results in him receiving the political kiss of death.
The other archetypal right-wing leader is small of stature, mean minded and with a Borgia mentality towards friends and political foes. He passes himself off as being Mister decent, mister plain and above all mister average. The every man who is no man at all. He is the great illusionist, the conman who prays upon peoples faith, and the deceiver who misdirects
Now I will present to you the two profiles of the attributes of what right-wing and left-wing female Prime Ministers must have to become our country’s leader. The right-wing female aspirant must have large hair in the sixties beehive style and a S&M mistress persona with dog collars for all her boys in the cabinet. She will wear the largest pearl necklace known to reality. The only leather one will see on her person will be her handbags. These handbags will have an industrial like quality with the only divergence being the many shades of white her handbags will come in. Behind closed doors with her cabinet her house whip will really be her whip. The ugliness of her personality will engender in men an obscene obeisance and in women she will engender a fear that will cause clumsiness and need to runaway even though there will be nowhere to run too.

Left wing female Prime Minister must be very thin, wear black and that means every stitch of clothing and she cannot under any circumstance wear underwear. A long pointy nose with small rectangular glasses balanced on the bridge. She will have a 1930’s movie Chinese dragon lady character. She will have an army of henchmen/henchwomen who will worship her every word. She will hardly speak because she will have servants do her speaking for her because she will believe it is below her to speak to underlings. She will have at her disposal ancient political monster that she will unleash upon her political opponents; be they from her party or from the opposition. In her world everyone will have their place in her community conscious, non-gender defined, socially aware world. She will engender in people a feeling that their own skin doesn’t fit right and they will become fidgety, and they will feel morally and ethically inferior when in her presence. She will display an ugliness of all knowing understanding.
Funny enough, federal politicians, clowns and comedians are the only vocations where ugliness can open doors to success; at some stage in the future I must investigate the symbiotic relationship that exists between politicians, clowns and comedians. Where as beauty cannot even achieve an aching foot attempting to enter the corridors of mirth, unless of course it involves tabloid media, motel rooms and minister desktops
Now, I must make reference to why some political aspirates have failed to win the highest office in the land cliché spin. Andrew Peacock, William Hayden, John Hewson and Mark Latham all failed to become Prime Minister because none of them fulfilled the criteria of the archetypes for the right or left politics and none of them were Australian archetypes. If only their parties had consulted with me before installing these people as opposition leaders because there would not have been all the tears and recriminations that followed their political failures. I would have made it as plain as a white picket fence that these men should never have been leaders of their respective parties.
Lastly I must make reference to the Australian archetypes that at times can and do become political leaders of either the left or right, although they are rare beasts within the political realm, and they do arise every once and awhile. The Australian archetypes will supersede the political archetypes every time. The political archetypes are firmly gender based whereas the Australian archetypes are non-gender in nature.
There is the Mate who can before one knows it he has enemies suddenly become the best of mates and sitting in a pub shouting each other. The Mate is a force of nature, but he must have the Eternal Larrikin at his side to succeed. The Mate without an Eternal Larrikin will always end up losing his way. The Eternal Larrikin can become Prime Minister, unfortunately, the Eternal Larrikin will eventually wear out his welcome with the public because he often ends up upsetting nearly everyone.
There is the archetypal Bludger who is capable convincing people that he is the one doing all the work when in reality he does nothing and takes credit for others work and ideas. When he is Prime Minister he will have policies that bludge off those that do the real work. The bludger is brilliant at knowing which way the political wind is blowing and covering up his corrupt and incompetent government. When the political environment begins to fall apart the Bludger will do a midnight runner leaving the archetypal Timeless Dud to take the blame. The Timeless Dud often lives and works in the shadow of the Bludger doing all the hard work the Bludger should do. The Timeless Dud secretly hates the Bludger and yet he often deceives himself into believing the Bludger has god like powers which result in him running around doing all the work.
Finally, there is the User who uses everyone to obtain power and to hold onto power. The User only has a long successful career in politics when he has a Crawler at his side. The User eventually hurts everyone physically and mentally in some manner or form and does not care at all. This where the Crawler comes into play. The Crawler lies and massages peoples feeling to a point they believe that the User did what she/he did for their own good. The User just doesn’t give damn and revels in using people and often displays a total contempt for his Crawler and what the crawler does for him.
Eventually of course the Crawler brings about the downfall of the User by crawling to everyone who are in positions of power while undermining the User’s power base. This often results in the Crawler being installed as leader/Prime Minister. The Crawler often crawls his way to power and then crawls his way to failure. The Crawler is once in a generation archetype within the political sphere. The Crawler will crawl to every international leader he or she can corner. Anyone with power will see the Crawler at their side in the blink of an eye. Lastly I must inform one and all about the archetype, the Sheila.
The Sheila is always there and is often the one who cleans up the messes and puts things to rights often caused by either the Eternal Larrikin, the Bludger, the User or the Crawler. The Sheila has never been Prime Minister of Australia, but I believe the day will soon arrive when the Sheila will finally ascend to the Prime Ministership and take up her rightful place along side the other Australian archetypes within the political sphere.
If you are plain looking, what’s new pussy cat handsome or just beautiful don’t consider politics as your life long profession, unless you are willing to disfigure your features in manner that makes you reasonably ugly, but not schlock movie psychopathic ugly, that would be gilding the rosebud too much. If you are not ugly and you have none of the Australian archetypal characteristics or the politic archetypal characteristics I suggest to you to forget about politics and look for a different profession. The other possibility is if one can adapt to sleeping on polished timber and occasionally asking Dorothy Dixs then there is a position in politics for you. Rewarding? Of course not. You, who do not possess those quintessential archetypal characteristics will be in politics to make up the numbers.

THE GUIDE

THE GUIDE

Sometimes
No
Other times
No
All time
Now
Yes
Forms for here
Forms for there
Forms for somewhere else
Forms for words
Forms for turds
Forms to go
Forms to come
Forms for forms
Forms, forms, forms
Forms

Meanings with meaningless
Applications
Pages upon pages
Of forms
In a bureaucracy of Rumsfeldian grammar

So many concise words
Known knowns and unknowns
Lost in transition
Transmogrified
Into
English that is not English
But it is English

The stutter of the pen
The typo of the keyboard
Within the star studded box
To be confounded
To be frustrated
By the growing confusion
In one’s perspiring thoughts
To question the very questions
What do they mean
What did that mean
Was the answer
My answer
The right answer
I don’t know

I turn to the person behind me
Thrust the form under their eyes
And squint and point
At a question that is questionable
And squeak
‘Do you know?’
They respond with a glazed little
Tiny ‘no’

Feet shuffle back and forth
The pressure builds upon my thoughts
The queue behind me
Grows and grows
And the pen stops working
I perspire with desperation
And plead to the counter staff
A pen, a pen
My personal space for a pen
Just to bring this to an end

Wet spots cover the form
Ink runs into words
Words run into ink
The form transforms
Into a non-form state
I need a new form

Time passes
The background shuffling
Becomes a stamping
A new form
I receive
With a fresh pen
Madness devours my thoughts
Responses become blind
My thinking has come to an end
My answers are beyond my mind
I fill out the form
With speed and no understanding
I finish and hand over the form
My thoughts turned to visualizing
Me walking through the sliding doors
And out into the fresh breath inhale
Of the world

Two words shatter the glass
Of my sliding door departure
‘Take a seat’
So I take ticket
And wait in line to take seat
My eyes hang down
At the bottom of my eyelids
All of this done and yet to come
To change my address
Forms, forms, forms.

THE TRUTH THE WHOLE TRUTH BEHIND POSTMODERNITY

I’m sick and tired of hearing academics, politicians and public figures blurting about post-modernity as if it is a truism; a dead set fact of reality. If modernism is dead where is the body. Will someone tell me because when I’ve asked where modernism was buried I have received that old time glass-eyed stare. This is often followed by a laugh and the laughee asking me to confess I was stirring him or her up to just get a rise out of them, but that is not the case. I would like an answer to my question. I would like to know the date modernism died. Now, if there is body I want a mob like CSI or the FBI to perform a forensic investigation to determine what killed modernism. Once it has been established modernism is dead I want the murderer or murderers brought to justice. Who killed modernism? Who?
No one killed modernism. Post stands for something that has passed or after something that has occurred. In other words something that has come to an end. If modernism is dead then when was there a funeral service and why wasn’t I or anyone else for that matter notified of the time and place? And, lastly where is the burial site? The answer is obvious. modernism didn’t die it just grew up.
If modernism hasn’t died then why did the term postmodernism come into fashion? Well the reason lies in environment that academics and so called great thinkers live in. They reside in pseudo cloistered environment that is bound within a sanitized atmosphere. They existed in a insular world of the university culture or they are chained to the corporate body.
Once a upon time in another age the universities and companies were open to all sorts of new ideas and innovations, but that doesn’t occur anymore. Universities and corporations have become elitist bureaucracies and what arises is bureaucrats that uses titles that have no link to the functions they perform. At the very heart of the bureaucrats’ world is to maintain the status quo or in other words to freeze time. The greatest threat to the bureaucrat’s world is change and thus creativity and innovation have no place in these environments.
The bureaucrats of the universities and corporations spend their time regurgitating old theories and old concepts by paraphrasing, deconstructing and reconstructing all of it inside institutions of mirrors. What we have now is parrots, educated parrots, yes; A parrot is still a parrot even if it is able to use and quote text with Latin and Greek derived language. This is the environment where the term of postmodernism arose out of.
Postmodernism is a byproduct, a symptom of modernism’s evolution. There is no postmodernism, but postmodernism is term that seeks to misdirect all. This age we live in is the age of ‘Hype(r)modernism. Everything is speeded up. The means of communication that in some respects has made the world smaller. The speed of travel across the world and movement of ideas and new technology that are quickly dissimulated throughout the world. All of which are the obvious manifestation of the hyper within Hype(r)modernism.
Now the darker side of the Hype(r)modernism and Hype(r)modernist world we live in is revealed by the manner it is concealed behind the term postmodernism. In other words this is the most obvious example of Hype(r)modernism in action. Advertising, PR consultants, spin doctors, image makers and politicians are the high priests of the hyper hype that exists within Hype(r)modernism. It is streamlined exaggeration that smothers facts and suffocates the reality of ever given situation. This is wonderland where lies are triumphed as diverging points of view which are now suddenly given greater credence than actual facts, and truth is only allowed when it furthers the interests of the high priests of Hype(r)modernism. Facts that may allow one to come to a certain truth are now removed, concealed or reinterpreted in manner that favours the powerful.
The individuals’ freedoms and rights are eroded by Hype(r)modernism running rampant. The individuals privacy is a dead thing because commercial interests are more valuable than the individual. Individuality, the word has been subverted, corrupted and bastardized to mean a major section of society is selfish and chained to consumption. This is not individuality this just Hype(r)modernism at play. The herd mentality that corporations and governments across the world have engendered has nothing to do with one being an individual, but it has everything to do with the deceitful application of Hype(r)modernism. Modernism never died to be replaced by postmodernism. Modernism grew up to become Hype(r)modernism. So, postmodernism is just another devious expression of Hype(r)modernism at play.

Australian election

To you the Australian voter. I wonder if you knew there is an election(sporing season) on. Now the object of an election is for two political sides (" political parties") to battle against each other for your, mine and everybody else votes(I bet you didn't know you had a vote? And for that matter what a vote is? I'll explain that to you. A vote is a symbiotic form of fungi that grows in the left armpit of humans living in Australia. The vote fungi takes three and half years to mature. Once it matures it begins to die and spore, and at that moment when your vote is about to spore you must cast it out. If you don't cast it out the fungi it will cause you to stand which is not good for health.)  
Now political parties are not like normal parties: they are not fun groups. They spend their time running around trying to catch fungi and I don't believe anyone in their right mind finds catching fungi as being fun. Now the political parties attempt bore people living in Australia to become extremely bored by non-debates, nodding heads when party leaders talk and vocal repetition  ( boredom causes chemical changes in the human body which produces a hormone that is extremely toxic to the vote fungi which results in the fungi vote detaching itself from its host.)  which results in the fungi vote dropping off and a political party catching it. The political party with the most fungi at the end of the sporing season gets to run the country for three and half years until the next sporing seasons.  
I hope that explains to you clearly what an election is about. Next week I'll explain what "running the country means."