Thinking…and not writing…

It has been an extremely long time since I wrote anything. I don’t mean since I just posted something. I mean since I really wrote something. Something that was inside my head that comes out onto paper/ the interweb.

To be honest, most of the time I swing between being very tired (just in general) and/ or being very pissed off and angry. I’m not angry at anything or anyone in particular, I’m just angry at the world. This world that rewards people who are selfish arseholes. A world in which the average 14 year old’s life ambition is to “become famous” and not actually learn anything or do anything productive. This world that doesn’t take care of it’s most vulnerable but discards the disabled, the terminally ill, the wounded and the elderly.

Maybe I’m just getting old and grumpy?

So really it’s probably a good thing that I’m not writing, because it would all just be a constant stream of anger, disappointment and disgust that is nothing but boring and depressing.

But today I was at the nail salon and in came a 90 year old lady, assisted by a woman who seemed like a volunteer of some sort. This 90 year old lady came in to have her nails done, she was frail, weak, hunched over and had shaking trembling hands. But boy was she full of life, she had the entire salon laughing the entire time she was there.

She joked about how old she was and how it was wonderful she didn’t have to do any housework, how her nails were the only thing strong about her nowadays, how she was going to go on a bike ride tomorrow on her “three wheeler” and how she might be turning 91 next week but she has a “toy boy” who comes to see her ever Sunday. She smiled and laughed and chatted with everyone – with the salon staff, with all the other customers – she showed off her nails and joked with complete strangers and as she left the salon she turned and waved like a celebrity and everyone waved back and wished her a good weekend. She was amazing. I loved her. She’s made me a little less angry about the world.

Karaoke is evil

He was a tall, well-built, rugged blonde man with a three-day beard and a tattoo on his neck. He had beautiful piercing blue eyes and a really rough voice that just said I-most-definitely-smoke-and-drink-too-much-but-I’m-so-fucking-sexy-I’m-too-sexy-for-my-cat. The kind of guy who in wise hindsight looks like trouble a mile away and yet you keep walking towards him.

I hear this song ten years on and I can immediately see and hear him singing it.

And then there were those two mad Israelis who he knew at the pub. They were a whole different story altogether. I never found out how they knew each other. Probably from being manipulative wankers that were regulars in the same pub? Appreciating each other’s wankness? I suppose a true wanker should be able to appreciate true wank talent when he spots it in a fellow wank companion?

Anyway, I digress. Free your burden? Penance? Visions of a cross? Crying out to God? Held captive? Yeah fucking right J.

But how could I fucking know?

My Own Prison – by Creed

A court is in session, a verdict is in 
no appeal on the docket today
just my own sin
the walls are cold and pale
the cage made of steel
screams fill the room
alone I drop and kneel

Silence now the sound
my breath the only motion around
Demons cluttering around
my face showing no emotion
Shackled by my sentence
expecting no return
Here there is no penance
my skin begins to burn

So I held my head up high
hiding hate that burns inside
Which only fuels their selfish pride
We’re all held captive out from the sun
a sun that shines on only some
We the meek are all in one

I hear a thunder in the distance
see a vision of a cross
I feel the pain that was given
and that sad day of loss
A lion roars in the darkness
only he holds the key
A light to free me from my burden
and grant me life eternally

Should have been dead
on a Sunday morning
banging my head
No time for mourning
Ain’t got no time

Should have been dead
on a Sunday morning
banging my head
No time for mourning
Ain’t got no time

So I held my head up high
hiding hate that burns inside
Which only fuels their selfish pride
We’re all held captive out from the sun
a sun that shines on only some
We the meek are all in one

I cry out to God
seeking only his decision
Gabriel stands and confirms
I’ve created my own prison

I cry out to God
seeking only his decision
Gabriel stands and confirms
I’ve created my own prison

So I held my head up high
hiding hate that burns inside
Which only fuels their selfish pride
So I held my head up high
hiding hate that burns inside
Which only fuels their selfish pride

We’re all held captive out from the sun
a sun that shines on only some
We the meek are all in one

So I held my head up high
hiding hate that burns inside
Which only fuels their selfish pride
We’re all held captive out from the sun
a sun that shines on only some
We the meek are all in one 

The anarchist society of Sydney’s anti-slam (that’s like a reverse poetry slam)

by Candy Lace.

Somewhere in a squat in Sydney a bunch of politically minded young twats gathered for an evening of cultural entertainment. This was an anti slam a reverse poetry slam – the worst poem wins – somehow judged by three fellow anarchist poet types and heckled by the audience. I was one of those twats and who had no idea how I ended up there. I was sitting on a couch next to two slightly dim or very stoned (probably both) students.

‘The more tats you have the more respectable you are as a cunt’ bellowed the mc. He was referring to a poet evidently representing the lesbian community, turns out it was actually a guy and didn’t even have a cunt so confusing!  His poem was a description of his difficult middle class upbringing which was probably something everyone on the room could relate to. I felt real empathy with the part where his parents cut him off financially at the sweet age of 27, it almost made me weep. Oh Australian androgynous bull dyke man how I understand your pain!

The love poem recited by a shirtless guy with a beer belly describing his stalking problem and love of used tampons was probably my favourite poem of the evening. at least there was some honesty in the room for once. How sweet that he loved all her body fluid, pretty modern really.

Things were relatively respectable for an ‘anarchist’ event until a drunk girl performed a poem about a rape trial and tried to rape a ginger guy in the mouth with the microphone. Just to turn the tables I suppose. but it certainly made things more memorable.

The judges were pretty drunk, one of them kept confusing the purpose of the whole event and was inviting most of the guys on dates. She must have been quite fucked because they were all slurring tramps with beer bellies too prominent for their young bodies.

I made friends with two Spanish lesbians who reminded me of home somehow. They had the hairiest legs I had ever seen, I wondered how they managed that. It wasn’t like men’s legs, it was like a smooth thick fur keeping their calves warm. How convenient.. I wonder if I could grow my own fur? Anyway they were pretty nice until they started kissing and sitting on my feet – one girl on each foot. I felt left out so I finished my wine and went home feeling more  lonely than ever.