Posts
I seem to remember something about writing being rewriting...
It is always fun though to see what ya brain wants to write when we don't bother to censor it.
Free flow of thought... Spontanious writing... Subconcious psycho babble...
Does anybody dare to speculate as to why our brains say what they do when unbridled from gramatical, legal, moral and social convention?
Why would ya bother, you may ask?
It IS interesting...
But from that last example, for Michael, perhaps difficult to read, you really have to focus and then it kind of becomes clearer...
Saturday, December 10, 2005
Because Michael Asked For It – more of the Kerouac, Bukowski type stuff, but on the www...
And late tonight I sit at home on typing into a digital empire, the www, built and developed for the CIA, but stolen by the clutches of the multinational conglomerates, is there anything they cannot touch?
While out on the street 3 bald men in suits, well two were bald, the other perhaps a tupey, a toque, a tupik or a bloody turban, I can’t spell wig, but a tupik, I know, if I remember rightly, is made by a North American Indian, but probably not anymore, too busy gambling, and who fault is that, just leave the whole subject alone, we have privatising to finish, but shit who’s counting, I was, so fcuk you, walk arrogantly down my street as if they own the bloody thing, as if they wanted to own the bloody thing, their suits being new and freshly pressed, and pin striped, and probably paid for on a Black American Express card, on the back of slave labour, only stopping to gawk there, beading bleeding eyes at a left hand drive recently imported, freshly restored circa 1962’s French Citron, that would make the frog eaters jealous. They finger it longingly, ever so interested, in the beauty money can buy and isn’t grand to see the boys so very very happy, in the red light district, loving the throbbing machine. They might just respect a man because of the car he drives and lust a woman for the same reason, if they knew respect, but not if she’s in a bloody Honda civic, or a Suzuki Ingus, possibly the stoopidist vehicle on the road but that makes it great, cos ya can laugh at the stoopid, like falling over a banana peel, feet slipping and flying into the air as a pain ricochets through ya head and up through ya spine as the thump clunks a rip through all your memories making a tear or a tear, I’ll let you choose, that lasts forever…..and forever I heard, is a very very long time…
Amnesia, of course, caused accidentally on purpose, by the shite we don’t want to see, of the shite we don’t want to know about and I once read book, written by an ad man who said something about how, “It’s not how good you are, but how good you want to be,” but then who believes an ad man, some think them responsible, for what, all of our jobs? But let’s not take that up, can they be believed and who do you want to be, could that be a question, not if I put a full stop at the end of it. But the woman who showed me the book, flopping around in her plastic D cups, that will never ever age, not even when she’s a metaphoric prune, that I would of gladly died for and almost did, was a gold digging expert, a professional as such, put that on ya CV and see where it gets ya and of course, I had to fall in love with her and she wanted to marry me, but the Germanic derivative, who was only ever fun, sitting at the end of the day, at the end of my, please all faint hearted, look away now, cock, had a very bad case of I don’t give a flyin’ fcuk ‘bout nuttin’ but myself and it was funny how that took a very real talent and talent come in different sizes but you can’t find it in a shop that sells baggage and why whould you want one of them when every bodies got enough of their own to dish off on ya!
For the purists, this woman continued, was an interesting woman, cut from the mold of a Pamela Anderson crossed with a Hilton sister, but she’d talked like a Westy, but grew up in Manly, and had spent the last five years kept in a pad on the Upper East side and she could scare the life outta anybody, anytime day or night, if she darn well please, such was her most pleasant personality, as a rule, and she’d made a number of million AUD, that would take your whole hand to count ‘em, just from sitting on the end of rich mens dicks, and sorry to the faint hearted who missed the graphic language warning that time, as she complained all day long for not giving her an orgasm, but she’d had an encyclopaedic set of sexual experiences, I hadn’t even seen a porno cover of in the local sex shop, not that I’ve bothered looking, but from sharing our life’s stories, hearing hers, giving mine, such like out of museum was our love, or a celluloid flick, I’d make a bet with anybody and then I’d bet I’d win, that she’d bin there and done that and wanted to do it again but hey, I heard it said once there’s good in everybody…
Good for them, good for you, good for me, it’s all good…
While out on the street 3 bald men in suits, well two were bald, the other perhaps a tupey, a toque, a tupik or a bloody turban, I can’t spell wig, but a tupik, I know, if I remember rightly, is made by a North American Indian, but probably not anymore, too busy gambling, and who fault is that, just leave the whole subject alone, we have privatising to finish, but shit who’s counting, I was, so fcuk you, walk arrogantly down my street as if they own the bloody thing, as if they wanted to own the bloody thing, their suits being new and freshly pressed, and pin striped, and probably paid for on a Black American Express card, on the back of slave labour, only stopping to gawk there, beading bleeding eyes at a left hand drive recently imported, freshly restored circa 1962’s French Citron, that would make the frog eaters jealous. They finger it longingly, ever so interested, in the beauty money can buy and isn’t grand to see the boys so very very happy, in the red light district, loving the throbbing machine. They might just respect a man because of the car he drives and lust a woman for the same reason, if they knew respect, but not if she’s in a bloody Honda civic, or a Suzuki Ingus, possibly the stoopidist vehicle on the road but that makes it great, cos ya can laugh at the stoopid, like falling over a banana peel, feet slipping and flying into the air as a pain ricochets through ya head and up through ya spine as the thump clunks a rip through all your memories making a tear or a tear, I’ll let you choose, that lasts forever…..and forever I heard, is a very very long time…
Amnesia, of course, caused accidentally on purpose, by the shite we don’t want to see, of the shite we don’t want to know about and I once read book, written by an ad man who said something about how, “It’s not how good you are, but how good you want to be,” but then who believes an ad man, some think them responsible, for what, all of our jobs? But let’s not take that up, can they be believed and who do you want to be, could that be a question, not if I put a full stop at the end of it. But the woman who showed me the book, flopping around in her plastic D cups, that will never ever age, not even when she’s a metaphoric prune, that I would of gladly died for and almost did, was a gold digging expert, a professional as such, put that on ya CV and see where it gets ya and of course, I had to fall in love with her and she wanted to marry me, but the Germanic derivative, who was only ever fun, sitting at the end of the day, at the end of my, please all faint hearted, look away now, cock, had a very bad case of I don’t give a flyin’ fcuk ‘bout nuttin’ but myself and it was funny how that took a very real talent and talent come in different sizes but you can’t find it in a shop that sells baggage and why whould you want one of them when every bodies got enough of their own to dish off on ya!
For the purists, this woman continued, was an interesting woman, cut from the mold of a Pamela Anderson crossed with a Hilton sister, but she’d talked like a Westy, but grew up in Manly, and had spent the last five years kept in a pad on the Upper East side and she could scare the life outta anybody, anytime day or night, if she darn well please, such was her most pleasant personality, as a rule, and she’d made a number of million AUD, that would take your whole hand to count ‘em, just from sitting on the end of rich mens dicks, and sorry to the faint hearted who missed the graphic language warning that time, as she complained all day long for not giving her an orgasm, but she’d had an encyclopaedic set of sexual experiences, I hadn’t even seen a porno cover of in the local sex shop, not that I’ve bothered looking, but from sharing our life’s stories, hearing hers, giving mine, such like out of museum was our love, or a celluloid flick, I’d make a bet with anybody and then I’d bet I’d win, that she’d bin there and done that and wanted to do it again but hey, I heard it said once there’s good in everybody…
Good for them, good for you, good for me, it’s all good…
Friday, December 09, 2005
PUBLIC VS. PRIVATE...
I find it funny how the more public something becomes, the more toned down or controlled it has to become...
Or at least, tends to become.
So as to not disrupt elements of the masses.
Thank god, say those in the public arena, for the P.R. agent or advisor,
that I can and perhaps have to, hide behind!
We have to get that rhetoric down pat, for fear of being misunderstood
and then set apon by packs of hungry hounds...
People are fantastic, one on one, but something sometimes happens
when you put a whole lot of them, together.
Just a thought.
Perhaps poignant, perhaps completely empty.
Regardless, enjoy.
Or at least, tends to become.
So as to not disrupt elements of the masses.
Thank god, say those in the public arena, for the P.R. agent or advisor,
that I can and perhaps have to, hide behind!
We have to get that rhetoric down pat, for fear of being misunderstood
and then set apon by packs of hungry hounds...
People are fantastic, one on one, but something sometimes happens
when you put a whole lot of them, together.
Just a thought.
Perhaps poignant, perhaps completely empty.
Regardless, enjoy.
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