Why, Thank You

As the rain gently falls from just beyond my window pane, simultaneously quenching defecated soils and spritzing my melancholy, I am drawn to the words that once passed your voluptuous lips – rouge ablaze with incandescent feeling.

“Go fuck yourself”, you intoned.

Many was the night when I sat in my chambers, accompanied only by the memory of better times and the hiss of food-grade carbon dioxide rapidly dissipating in my officially-licensed tumbler, recalling in particular the affection you once held for me.

Dangerous character flaws became mere idiosyncrasies when pressed against your intoxicating bosom; the lathered and inevitably leathered maniac within thus appeased and adorned in a sequinned strait-jacket, grateful for such an opportunity.

Fragments of this life became an illustrious, enriched and meaningful whole – a previous loneliness now banished to the same void occupied by such misgivings as heterosexuality and merchant-banking, and not one moment too soon.

As I walk along the pavement that once acquiesced to the potent throng of your Italian loafers, the mild humidity in the air gently stimulates my pre-chapped lips, recalling an aeon when we strode side-by-side as leviathans of romance and symbiotic empathy; pale light now furnishing a previous utopia as the sound of passing traffic intermingles with a crisp breeze, escorting leaves and detritus on its bitter wings to a void just beyond my 32-Bit draw-distance.

Several stairs greet me as my journey nears its culmination – I clasp the steel railing as I ascend, recalling in vivid detail the evenings when we shared budget, nondescript takeout and mineral turpentine spritzed with strawberry-husks; my eager hands now grappling, reaching desperately for the serrated edge of my dinner-knife to provide a juxtaposition to the searing, and yet nimble pleasure of your spontaneous multi-digital penetration.

My door materialises before me as the gateway to solitude, and as it closes I am suddenly alone in a sea of darkness and relative silence – the mouths, rectums and poor-attitudes I have encountered across many hours and rostered-duties now at bay.

Morality and indeed decency are now banished to the moist-hell occupied by Reality-TV dropouts and evolutionary hopes pertaining to these crimes.

Emotional rescue now within sight, my satchel takes flight into a dark corner – instantly forgotten, its contents now as redundant as the peculiar discolouration on the right-corner of my upper lip, the epicentre of your violent crescendos and my proudest battle-scar.

My chamber now illuminated by the deft flick of a switch, scissors now appear in my weary hand. The blades meet and do their bidding precisely 34 times; my nudity now as real as my general disdain for bathing and the subsequent crust beneath my foreskin. A crust you once dined upon.

Sporting nipples stiffening forcefully abreast the resounding cool of both the ambiance and social-isolation, my sick mind now pulsates with the recollection of a blueprint for the evening and the reality is made flesh as I pirouette from the rags now shorn from my meat towards your portrait, hanging sensually above my Cathode Ray Tube (CRT) televisual-receptacle.

Our eyes meet as I reach for the first device in my sex-armoury – a formerly innocuous fluorescent-cylinder now bound in an amalgamation of crazy-glue and glass shards for the promise of pleasure that is not as much ribbed as it is barbed.

Your crystalline-gaze galvanises my desire, hence I now recline in my Scandinavian bucket-seat with bespoke battering-device twitching between my unsavoury fingers and leather soothing my aching want.

Canola oil is now as rare a commodity as human-decency in this house if ill-repute, thus I am obligated to lubricate the menacing shaft with my own mouth-juice prior to feeding it 3 inches per-second into my rabidly protesting rectum, expanding beyond its wildest anatomical dreams to accommodate this gift.

My legs now perpendicular to the moonlight snaking through my Venetian-Blinds, a symphony of anal torture now penetrates the silence – a rhythmic symphony akin to that of a child splashing through puddles on an Autumn afternoon.

The child we aborted. The child whom later garnished our Mojitos without detracting from the cocktail-umbrellas.

I tongue the roof of my foaming mouth as haemoglobin pools in the most fashionable shades of crimson in and around my twitching thighs, my wrist now a masterclass of oscillating-precision and the walls of my anus now freshly minced and yet not-for-resale even at a severe discount.

And yet, in spite of the erotic-Zen, something is amiss.

Legs formerly thrust at the disapproving sky now return to the earth that shunned them as I arise from the hotbed of plasma and mucus with baton still lodged firmly inside me (as many men have attempted and yet very few have survived), and I now find a rusted razor-blade between my thumb and forefinger.

Both areolas are dispatched with the diligence and elegance of Samurai. Two lemon-wedges press against the bleeding nubs as a sexual-renaissance begins anew.

A rare sting now characterises the crests of my bosom as I thrust methodically against the rug much like a pre-pubescent would pogo to the local roller-rink.

Like the rink I first met you at in 1991, which coincidentally housed the washrooms in which I tasted your AIDS for the first of many times.

And yet something is still amiss.

A discarded car-battery now enters the fray as I fashion conduits from alfoil and splay my rabid tongue between the positive and negative offshoots, my face now rippling with purpose as I continue to bask in the simultaneous raw erogenous-bliss of my forfeited colon and weeping chest.

And yet something is still amiss.

A bamboo skewer now enters my urethra tip-first, inducing an additional skerrick of rapture; minute splinters accumulate in the walls with each prod as bizarre fluids seep from the hilt, finally propelling me towards the inseminated fields I have lusted for, but which have remained cruelly out-of-reach for so long.

And yet something is STILL amiss.

The ‘last roll of the dice’ is now upon me, however I have prepared for such an eventuality.

Caked in blood and bile, and with each orifice at the very least bleeding and possibly occupied by majestic objects I now march boldly towards an amateur-guillotine comprised of 5 pulleys, fibre-wire and a brick to power it – a loving smile broadening on my cracked lips.

The device is triggered with a spin-kick and little fanfare, thusly my delighted head detaches from my reddened neck and smashes against the French-Marble, resting finally beneath your portrait.

Our eyes meet once more.

Your move. 

Finding Nero

I often sigh with relief when a conversational assailant has concluded their vile forced-niceties and either continued on their merry, capitalist way or have otherwise turned 90 to 180 degrees from the tears manifesting in my eyes as a formal smile is banished forever more; my ashen face spared from shattering under the force of its own dishonesty.

“I’m good, thanks” we say, stifling the molten disgust within and thus neglecting to both itemise and indeed verbalise our very own 99 problems, of which a bitch may be 97 or none depending on the degree of societal liberty one has been granted and whether the refrigerator is stocked sufficiently with gelatinous goods and something caustic to wash it all down with.

Quite where this “black dog” materialises from remains a mystery, as does the legitimacy of its genuine-leather collar.

A melodic, subversive tune is now emanating from your SoundBlaster-16 as I tell you that we have all been affected by suicide at some point.

It matters not whether you crawled from the charcoaled bowels of your crack-häus through swathes of cadavers and snacks to discover that Kurt was now the tortured conductor of the choir-invisible, not to mention finding Aunt Beryl swinging from her garter after another Bingo defeat, or being accosted by the grim tale of Uncle Gus who elected to have an ibuprofen-soufflé followed by a nap crowned by a plastic shroud rather than facing the paedophilia charges. Again.

Outside of the fortuitous 1% life is a merciless, grinding, awful cunt at the best of times and simply unbearable for the rest of it – anyone who states otherwise is either a liar or a lunatic-at-large, both of which are preferable to meeting this horror at two-paces with the most vulnerable portion of your colon exposed.

Before the diversionary release of budget Cabernet Sauvignon was readily attainable, I often found myself romanticising the notion of taking my own life on a sunny afternoon before the ogre whom spat me from his scrotal-bag arrived home, and obviously only upon cessation of another mandatory 16:00 screening of The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air.

Many times I wandered into the jaws of the suburban garage acting as the forgotten cock-ring of my place of residence; a desire to forego the inevitable disappointment of another day ablaze in my juvenile mind.

The handgun that allegedly didn’t exist in bespoke ogre’s military-trunk now made flesh in my young hand, my youthful mind began to race; bullets pre-packaged like death-candy imploring me to ingest but one with ballistic force.

Many was the time I would stare into the infinite black of its iron-eye whilst my index finger gently straddled the trigger; one brief twitch away from an eternal sleep that would never be pillaged by a Top 100 FM Radio wake-up call at 7:29 am ever again.

The mental permutations that enter one’s mind in considering such actions range from the devastating to the ridiculous; an imagination folding upon itself as the impossibility of visualising entry into an eternal silent void becomes more and more pronounced by the moment – a myopic minds’-eye.

Visions of remorseful peers and family members laced my daydreams; novel compliments cascading from profoundly lamenting mouths as tears flowed in lieu of the senseless agony of it all.

My beautified corpse hence set to remain in the thrall of a fresh-faced slumber forevermore.

Suicide is often said to be the coward’s way out, however a certain grit and resolve must be required to undertake this final absolution due to the deep stigma and crushing finality associated with even attempting such an act – whether mired in faith, morality or experience – let alone not achieving this objective and hence living out the rest of your days entrenched in patronisation and pity from those who now view you merely as a basket-case or project-child.

Luciano was a precocious boy – vibrant, cheeky, wonderfully peculiar and obscenely irreverent at all times; the very antithesis of traditional societal views related to mental-illness and seemingly devoid of notable self-harm indicators.

Our first union occurred at a suburban tram-stop one afternoon – my status as the new boy all too obvious to this slick, wild-faced lothario who exuded fierce confidence and whom welcomed me into his burgeoning life; a profound generosity of spirit manifested for the first of many times, although this was obviously unappreciated at this juncture.

Over the years I grew to value you as a “good-time” boy; always the life of the party and the epicentre of entertainment to a throng of admiring peers, the likes of whom would never admit to your incandescent value, but rather ridicule you as a lout and loud-mouth when in actuality you were the rarest and most beautiful of things – a character. I was one such penis.

Introspection remained as foreign a concept as regular bathing and the flavour of female mouths to this teen-microbe, and yet I was acutely aware of the difficulties you had faced throughout your young life.

Your parents divorced when you were but a young boy, which unfortunately complicated your home life; the absence of your older brother greatly exacerbated your mother’s stifling dependence on you to fulfil the role as both companion and confidant, draining your energies greatly in the process.

I knew of the difficulties you experienced with your father, both in his physical and emotional absence at crucial junctures, in addition to his unwillingness to assist with your future ambitions of designing your own fashion apparel which hurt you far more than you ever could display to any of us.

Life disappointed you greatly, Luciano.

10:00 – 18:00 at the corporate clothing store you worked at did not satisfy you on any level, although you maintained a brave persona for the most part.

Young women were an ever-present in your life, and it finally seemed that you had found someone to commit to, although the chasm between the relationship you spoke of and that which materialised before us appeared to be far greater than you would divulge.

Your mind was always elsewhere, revelling in better times in a much better place – namely the country of your birth, Italy, and not suburban Australia which grew more and more ugly, grey and disparate by the moment.

Like many others, I viewed your charming insecurities through the prism of juvenility, never once considering that these may have been fuelled by great internal anguish and deep disaffection with the world around you.

Tales of leaving this hell-hole, bolting a spoiler onto your automobile and your intended future conquests were readily dismissed and decried behind your back without any though whatsoever as to their origin and the future implications of such things, but revisiting these artefacts brings me violently to the realisation that I failed you as a friend.

Saturday 12/08/2006 began as any other for the vast majority of the barnacles encrusted upon this irrevocably marooned hull.

Birds shat and chirped with gay abandon, nuclear-families smiled in unison at the breakfast table as talkback radio padded-out the ambience of their sickening love, and I thusly dozed happily in my filthy bed – the aroma of pizza, budget lager and countless vigorous masturbations hanging in the stagnant air of my dormitory from the night before.

I am awoken suddenly by two familiar young men at my door, although they are as peculiar to me as the Mormons I barbecued on Saturday last due to the conspicuous absence of Prime-Meridian hours displayed on my clock-radio.

“What the fluff do they want?” grunts my multi-addled brain.

“Luch killed himself” are the first words I hear as the door opens, and these are met with an awkward smile and a request for elaboration due to the fact that April 1 is now somewhere in the ether and there is nothing funny about mornings unless they signify the end of a 68-hour crack-binge.

The young man before me explains that Luciano has taken his own life via automobile-asphyxiation the night before, and I am reduced to staring helplessly at the cement before me for what seems like an eternity before we agree to reconvene later that day.

My hazed state thankfully allows me to pass out once more for a few hours until the true horror of the day kicks me square in the mouth and I begin to liaise with a close friend and several other acquaintances, including visiting one such acquaintance at his place of employment with this news to which this action was deemed the ‘growing of balls’, not to mention one other whom made the sage observation that “Luch killed himself; that’s pretty bad”.

Thanks. For. That.

Mensa awaits.

The coming days are a toxic mixture of despair, confusion and speculation as we all ponder whether we bore mention in your suicide-note; the most devastating experience being a collective visit to your mother’s place with countless others and having nothing more to say than “I’m sorry” before scurrying away like a crab on meth.

The realisation of ones’ own mortality is the most technical roundhouse of all, and my very own split my hideous face at your viewing.

There you lay, an artificial calm etched on your face with trinkets from your brief life surrounding you in your coffin that offered absolutely no insight into your humanity or struggle.

Hollywood itself can only offer so much insight into tragedy before Adam Sandler forces his next piece of shit into the most malleable section of your oesophagus until this is joined by bespoke piece of shit’s sequel and you suffocate on the foul taste of cash, hence I was ill-prepared for this situation.

As I gazed down on you, gripped by the realisation that this was to be the last moment we shared, I desperately attempted to verbalise something meaningful as I gently stroked your hair, but could only grunt a trite platitude thanking you for being my chum.

A cold wooden pew cradled my posterior shortly thereafter whilst token guests stared blankly at token photographs from your time here, and then suddenly I found myself on the street with cigarette in hand watching you vanish forever in the caboose of a hearse – our relationship now consigned to memory and your bronzed body consigned to dust.

Reflecting on all of this several years later, I am further sickened by the revelation that I never truly knew you, and this blade is plunged further into my heart in reliving the fact that we weren't on speaking terms when you exited, stage left, due to a petty grievance.

As ever, so much is left unsaid, and so many regrets remain as I have relived countless scenarios in your company, wondering if different courses of action may have either prolonged or truncated your well-being along with those of others.

I will remain forever thankful for one particular evening when we did truly connect, if only upon this one occasion.

A typically boozy night concluded with you sitting shotgun in my 80’s wreck as I whisked you home like so many nights previous, although your usual braggadocio and mirth was curiously replaced by a solemn vulnerability as you discussed some of your worldly troubles, including the ruminations of an unusual intra-sexual experience that had left you feeling conflicted when in actuality it should have spiced your young life.

This was but one mysterious aspect of your composition as a person, and a secret you kept closely guarded much like the revelation that you were taking Anti-Depressants and were, by extension, in the midst of receiving counselling for considerable time which was all veiled by your exuberant persona.

Perspective is oftentimes a great ally in times of despair, hence I am always drawn to my own mother’s saying that one must always have something – ANYTHING – to look forward to in this sweltering fiend of a life, however minute.

It matters not if the tyre-factory binned you two weeks before Christmas, Bill – the football’s on tonight, there’s a sixer chilling in the fridge, your wife  is off to play Craps with Bethlyn, Shana and Kristy having left a pot-roast in the oven for you, and Wayne will be rapping on your chamber door at 1800 hours precisely.

Oh, you have cancer, Todd? Yeah, that does eat several bags of dicks, however think of all of the exciting drugs you’ll have access to, plus the fact that you can finally do what you like including quitting that god-awful job at long last and finally – FLUFFING FINALLY – telling every single amoeba that has caused you grief exactly how you feel about them without any reprisals whatsoever.

I’m sorry to hear that your girlfriend has been cheating on you with the buff lifeguard, Jose. I’m not sorry, however, about the masses of free-time you now have at your disposal, nor the sheer opportunity now thrust upon you to meet actual people, elope to another state/country/enclave, write that novel told from the perspective of your throbbing penis and what it means in socio-economic terms; not to mention the infinite LOL’s you can rejoice in when bespoke harlot miscarries Mr Buff’s bogan child, or otherwise fails in every other regard whilst you continue to blossom like the cheeky flower you are.

You had so much potential, Luciano.

If only you had elected to have a double Jack Daniel’s, or a seismic masturbation on that fateful night instead of reclining in your Toyota for one last time, you could now be one of the pricks we are subjected to on a reality-television programme, a greased back-up dancer for any popstar-du jour assaulting our ears and touring the world, or perhaps a cravat-wearing artiste frowning upon us all and our Philistine-ways, pausing only briefly to readjust your money-clip and sigh elegantly.

I saw you once in a dream – you were absolutely gorgeous and as happy as I prefer to remember you.

Our eyes met for what felt like an age, until finally I uttered “I’m sorry”.

A sweet smile spread across your luminous face, and I awoke to a serene morning; an intangible calm within.

Should I have this opportunity again, I will not dare to ask “why?”, nor “whom?” nor “how?” – I will simply embrace you and hope that I never wake again xx

‘Straya – The Myth, The Malaise, The Mirror

I often gaze upon my own anaemic skin and wonder how I came to be here, and indeed whether the premature-ejaculation that whisked me into the nightmares of so many was to be more effectively utilised in flavouring a pervert’s frappe, or even extinguishing the diminutive fires of a gutter-bound Zigaretten lest thine progeny wrap its filthy lips around its posterior en route to the first of many addictions.

Self-revulsion is an important component in the fabric of ones’ existence, fulfilling its duties herein as the violent harbinger of mortifying introspection and thus comparison with the other mammals absorbing your Vitamin D and depleting your ozone with methane-payloads at near-Bush Jr. levels.

Recounting this most absurd being as the bastard child of a weaponised cactus, the next misstep in this 496-step plan is of course to wallow in the acrid aroma of the scorched earth inclusively before, around and within my every indent : ‘Straya (nee Van Diemen’s Land and the malignant mass attached to it), and naturally its enclosed meat-pit comprised of every gutter-snipe whom escaped both incarceration and the ravages of both physical and moral hygiene.

I am acutely aware of your status as a “good global-citizen” and your classic tenure as an easily-patronised provincial backwater; the unassuming, inoffensive boy at the rear of this insidiously decaying classroom.

The truth is that I see you, ‘Straya.

Yes, I did notice the dense tattoo of the Southern Cross on your pasty shoulder – your patriotism and masculinity palpable indeed.

Yes, I have seen your bloated ‘Strayan sedan snorting along with its Detroit-sourced engine and transmission, and numerous other “foreign” components including the airbag that promises to spare the least stupid part of your face when that pole leaps out at you – an irony sadly lost on you and the hubris coursing through your veins.

Oh yes, I have been in the very thrall of the beating of your meaty fists against your pale chest as you recount “true-blue” sporting victories, cheap conquests and the cultured sensation of “chinning” that bloke down the Pokies in true “larrikin” spirit.

In fact, dear ‘Straya, I see you everywhere.

I see you concussed on countless suburban pavements on Friday night as two others just like you scowl and prepare to arbitrarily end your existence with boots manufactured for  $0.13 in some hell-hole outsourced by another "fair-dinkum" ‘Strayan company amidst the throng of acoustic-rock and belated sirens.

I see your suburban enclaves and the filth strewn across your lawn; I see you at the local shopping centre with your 17-year-old de-facto and your 3 children on a Tuesday afternoon; I see you in tabloid newspapers and on social networking sites venting your prejudices, obviously formed by your forebears and peers, and yet ingrained in your mind forever with no dissection or analysis; I see the glazed expression on your face when you are confronted with change, difference of opinion or creed or in fact any other alternative to that which you continue to believe defines you.

Most distressingly, ‘Straya, I see you in the mirror – my sinews ablaze with the knowledge that we are as inseparable as any other disease at the molecular level.

Being the product and ultimately by-product of one of your typical households - and most importantly the calcified remnants of a hollow afterbirth upon your cold linoleum - I am thrilled to half-mast in recounting unto you that I don’t identify with you at all in spite of our verbatim aesthetic and what you expect of me by my very birth-right.

This sick shell of mine belongs to you, and frankly you are welcome to it. The congealed marrow within, however, will drift in your ether forever more until such a time as your own egoism and myopia consumes you in entirety.

You are but a name, a flight-of-fancy for the thick; an out-dated ideal that grows increasingly irrelevant as your crust hardens and the few remaining survivors of your perpetual lobotomy awaken to this fact.

Dearest ‘Straya, I can see your scars and no amount of foundation will ever conceal them.

I saw you on that beach in December 2005; I saw you baying as one misguided, embarrassing entity raging against fellow ‘Strayans who had, and continue to have an equal claim to the soil their assailants most certainly did not sprout from – a contemporary lynch-mob fuelled by a pathetic hatred steeped in the notion that their status as immigrants was less pronounced, whilst Charles Darwin injected another ounce into his cornea from whichever nirvana his genius warranted.

I have seen, and continue to see how you disregard and marginalise your indigenous population, reinforcing historical stereotypes and incorporating double-standards and scathing stigmas to ensure that this status-quo is maintained and the down-beaten remain as such.

I still see you clinging desperately to your false deities and historical comforts and ignoring the ever-escalating death-rattle permeating the deafening silence in place of your accountability, but this is to be your Waterloo (and not in the multi-platinum Scandinavian sense).

You embarrass us all, ‘Straya - now brush your tooth and go to bed.

Love, and Other Tumours

“What is Love”?

This very question was posed by the visionary philosopher Haddaway en route to purchasing yet another yacht and the ensuing harem that was to feature at the numerous parties herewith; the dark lyrical undercurrent contained within the electronic throng dissipating simultaneously with armpit nectars beneath the neons of many a discotheque.

My very own Smash Hits ‘92 Compact Disc Record served as the vehicle for such existential probing, albeit from beneath a veil of surface imperfections that served to distort its message even further.

Our own early definitions of love are likely to consist of the confected nonsense peddled by studio executives keen to placate the masses and monopolise the share-market, manifesting in the form of inoffensive boy-meets-girl pap, with entertainment vices as the chief syringe thrusting at our collective jugular from the moment we detach from the breasts we will never gain nourishment from again.

It is only too easy to launch thine lobes into this lucrative abyss, in spite of the fact that mum (mom) and dad (dad) speak only in screams these days, have separate rooms and utilise your naïve shell as a conduit with which to communicate with each other in a display of passive-aggression unseen since the halcyon days of… actually, every day in our working lives.

And yet this flagrant saturation gathers apace - your mind now rendered a sieve being bombarded by Polaroids of grinning nuclear-families; John Sands greeting cards italicised to within an inch of decency proclaiming the most unreasonably saccharine prose, not to mention popular radio assaulting your defences with Boy Band filth masquerading as aural good-times (no, not the thing you do with your mouth).

It is, therefore, no wonder that we alight upon our adolescence mired in expectation and longing; an alleged soul-mate but one LOL/"Like"/gym-tense away and as an inevitable as the misery of another day.

Juvenile love, and, more correctly - lust - is the most awkward of all – a cacophony of desperate tongues, quivering hands and breathy platitudes sourced primarily from the most unthanked of role-models and supervisors: Television.

It is upon this tainted throne that we first allow the carcinogenic talons of commitment to inflict the first of many incisions upon our form, believing this to be the resting place of our ambitions until Brianna elopes with the captain of the Football/Mahjong/Croquet team – never to bat an eyelid in our direction again as we are simply “too nice” or something equally disquieting.

The hurt and embarrassment of such a termination can be felt for many moons, especially amidst the inescapable “banter” from supposed chums who are equally unaware that their very own Latitia is on the very cusp of experimenting with her "BFF" Caprice having finally tired of the overwhelming body-odour and violent tongue-bashings they have been victims of.

Perhaps the fortunate do walk among us, assimilating somehow with the most rarefied of creatures – one who can relate and hence one who is relatable.

It is often bellowed that opposites attract, however this is perplexing outside of the realm of quantum-physics and that of but one of many Scandinavian gifts - Lego.

In fact, an alleged trope of monogamous-bliss is that the less one has in common with another, the better; two immovable objects flung against each other violently and left to make good on the initial energy expended, however involuntary.

And yet popular music still speaks to us in tongues, coiled with the promise of easy prey whom prefer to focus only on the fleeting fickleness and not the deep chill of reality.

That love song never spoke of the eternal winter left behind after the initial warmth of unfamiliarity and adventure; the dulcet tones wafting from your FM crevice hiding the truth that dare not speak its name.

That ode to love never verbalised the evenings of piercing silence that followed another tenuous argument, nor the tears shed in private at having wasted not only days or weeks or even months, but rather years on a lost cause; an abandoned lot to call your very own.

“You Are The Wind Beneath My Wings” is of course infinitely more marketable than “You Are the Dull Ache at the Base of My Brain-Stem”, even if the latter would come to define the bulk of your tenure at the prickled wheel of this sinking vessel.

“I Will Aways Love You” will naturally appease the stake-holders to a far greater extent than “Who Are You, and What Have You Done With My Lover?”, even though the latter will more accurately depict the metamorphosis of a treasure to a terror.

Once more the almighty Dollar/Rupee/Kronor and its omnipresent brethren lays the foundation and lulls the unwary into a sense of emotional-cringe, even though the protagonists’ target (or antagonist, ultimately) is but an equally-scarred organism with similar pitfalls and insecurities, and is, in actuality, not the raven-haired, lingerie-clad messiah from the Dokken video upon which to typify your humanity and deal in absolutes unto.

Belief is fuelled in the abovementioned throughout ones’ formative years, and once this is ruthlessly exposed as the turd floating on the surface of this de-chlorinated pool nobody has cared to acknowledge or even sanitise, it is all-too-easy to flounce into the protracted arms of despair.

However, this need not be the atomic mass of the serrated steel currently aerating your veins, nor the fibre-optic cable facilitating your autoerotic-asphyxiation, for there is meaning amidst the illin’.

Great comfort can be had in knowing that one will almost certainly never actually meet their perfect match, nor travel to the Belarusian village they currently inhabit with extensions of their already-extended families, and nor will they ever truly obtain that which will satisfy the darkest of desires.

As with all intangibles, it is the agony of uncertainty and discontent that renders one fresh-of-face and facade and hence brimming with enthusiasm to face the next roasting at the hands of the peculiar sentient-being blackening the doorway and later refusing to change the channel.

It is in this vein, and somewhere abreast the many lights of our collective dialysis-machine that we must face the greatest unspoken truth – love isn’t love at all, but please do stay for the canapés.

Ebony – A Darkness So Complete

2005 marked a year that was not merely another crazed etching on the wall of sickness posing as this pitiful existence, nor can it be hastily dismissed like much of the confetti that serves to this very day as lodging for the maniac now rummaging in your sock-drawer.

Nostalgia cannot possibly mask the ugliness of finding oneself cast in a vile pantomime as a peddler of Western Evils ™ manufactured for substantially less than fuck-all by fellow human beings dealing with issues far more diverse and profound than juvenile slop such as the hurt caused by Shaela’s identical scarf or Zayden’s new spoiler.

Days of discounts passed like so many Phenylalanine-fuelled stools; the stench of an unrequited desire to be accepted mingling with bleached polyesters and synthetic rubbers; the gentle caress of death but a balaclava and glass shard away, and yet still somewhere beyond the already-drawn curtain on this forgotten stage.

“Hollow” is a term bandied about by pubescent Screamo-philes and their illegitimate spawn upon receiving their welfare entitlements; a term so abused and sullied as to become cliché like so much of this bastardised language.

And yet a pervading emptiness can wash over a being with neither favour nor forewarning, culminating in a profound sense of loss and alienation within that invariably cannot be interpreted, much less verbalised to what remains a frothing cesspool of abrasive judgement and loathing.

Without the benefit of hindsight it is simple to mistake good-time friends and passing acquaintances as an effective barometer of your worth as a pre-fossil; the fleeting joy of congregational interaction merely masking the sore absence of a meaningful counterpoint.

Quite how you blessed my attempt at a life remains a mystery to this day, and more importantly serves as an amusing affront to both medicine and morality, not to mention serving as the intricate crushed-velvet of a dinner story to thrill the masses.

What began as a moderate throbbing within my urinary tract was later confirmed as an actual immaculate conception, and with it the opportunity to rear a minion in my own image.

As you gestated inside my urethra, my dreams became flesh and my melancholy but a footnote in the annals of a story untold, yet reinvigorated.
For months I carried you beneath my leathers, proud of you already and eager to greet you with moist kisses and ultimately the placenta you sprang from at your inaugural hazing.

Your birth was as excruciating as it was liberating – my sweaty form left heaving on the bathroom floor amidst a mound of milk-bar porn and novel strains of gonorrhoea; a previously diminutive yet intact penis now forfeit as you tore it asunder with the vigour of a precocious sprite eager to joust with this new-found life.

As I gazed down at the mass of nerves, tendons and sex-jellies that comprised my genitals for so many years – but that which now lay discarded like abattoir off-cuts in this makeshift birth-chamber – I saw you for the first time.

A most unsettling and foreign sensation washed over my now simultaneously maternal and paternal shell; could this be…. love?

The lime of your eyes was as disarming as it was endearing, the sharpness of your teeth already both a threat and a delight, your jet-black pelt shimmering with the juices of an improbable afterbirth highlighting your nubile majesty and instilling a pride previously unfelt since a provincial swimming-carnival victory against invalids.

A connection beyond that of the dial-up was quickly established as your name passed my lips for the very first time – a name so evocative in its creation and elocution that you are still praised for it to this very day – and as I clutched you to my heaving breast for this inaugural occasion I felt your brave heart beating, a heart so pure one cannot help but embrace its rhythmic throng as the tribal-throb du jour.

Well-wishers and do-gooders miraculously recalled your fathers’ existence once more throughout your formative days, and you received these frequent incursions against your innocence with the good grace instilled by a higher-power that remains unwritten and hence uncompromised and disproved, even now.

Male bonding is frequently the butt of many a joke (especially with this added innuendo), however it is fair to state that our rapport was both instant and formidable. The chill of winter evenings dissipated expediently in your company, whilst traipsing through the front door after 9 rounds with despair did not begin or end with a chardonnay-enema, but rather another warm embrace a wife could never provide – even in rare times of contentment.

Left to your own devices you forged a fierce reputation as a scaler of monolithic gardenia and the prime antagonist for many of your brethren. Battles raged long into the evenings until such a time as your insatiable libido had carved its way through the anus of many an assailant and satiety was at hand.

In spite of this exuberance you have been lusted for by many, and continue to be to this very day.

After being left shattered by the self-conducted passing of a young friend, it was you who provided much comfort as the inevitable black descended and fuelled the inevitable onset of blame and despair.

The simple elegance of your company and warmth of persona proved a robust focal-point in this time of great confusion and loathing, and this is something I will be eternally grateful for.

In many ways you have been, and still remain the man I have long aspired to be – handsome, resourceful, cunning, athletic and yet always humble and approachable to an entire spectrum of creatures from lepers to lovers, kiddies to kippers, cads to caddies and everything in-between.

The prospect of consummating with a woman is now as redundant as it is morbidly disgusting, however you have transcended your own genus and have hence evolved into the strong male presence conspicuously absent in this thorned lasso commonly referred to as meaningful existence by escaped lunatics.

It is for this reason that I idolise you and shall continue to do so until this porcine flesh disintegrates to a backdrop of cackling and sighs of relief.

Heroes rarely remain as such, either through tabloid reports of peculiar sexual leanings involving moist cabbage and/or dried crustacea, and the inevitable sausage-hiding skulduggery which always stems from the loneliness of millions, and yet ultimate enslavement unto unscrupulous producers beholden to the asinine taste of the clientele beholden to whichever synapse quivers unto the current bass-line.

Word of your ultimately terminal illness arrived only after several medical mishaps unseen since the glory days of Medieval Malpractice, serialised from never to now on BBCABCNBCHBO, which mercifully provided great relief in the form of fuelling the angst even further.

The delicious combination of words such as “poor prognosis”, “cancer” and the ever-cheeky “end-stage FIV” facilitated a triple-pike into a sea of $2.00 Shiraz; tears manifesting randomly for the first time in years to remind me that I am not as ashen as I once thought.

It is a horrible thing to be helpless, although thankfully the levels of this desperation never manifested in the clasping of hands and closing of eyes in acquiescence to an alleged microbe praised in scriptures devoid of fanciful illustrations that would maximise its appeal and thus marketability to lucrative sponges everywhere.

The intrinsic value of seeking a second-opinion cannot be understated, whether this pertains to the fluorescent rash residing on your niblets, or the purists’ market value of your vintage sport-sock portfolio.

Discussing actual treatment options as opposed to which flavour of euthanasia you are partial to was as refreshing as it was educational; on the rare occasion one has the opportunity to liaise with a human being this must be seized upon like so many disputed territories.

Living “Day-by-Day” is no longer the domain of John Rambo or his countless victims (both eviscerated by gunfire and failing stocks), but rather this is a spike I shall mount with every available orifice and I shall continue to fellate the unwary before the stubble on my liars' chin reveals either my gender or species, undeniably before the food stamps are plucked from my tentacles in the hopes of raising suitable funds for both your fashion tastes and the uppers you require.

Having pawned my crystal-ball for a new set of spinning hubcaps I cannot foretell what the inevitably apocalyptic future holds, but please know this – I love you, I cherish you, and I will do everything possible for you until I am beaten to fluff by creditors and placed in an iron-lung without a lavatory or 5.1 surround.

As Sir Wesley Snipes once remarked before delivering yet another ax-kick to the face of decency and PG-13 syndication, “Always bet on black”.

My Date With Tom….. Hardy

I fret all day about what to wear, which is only exacerbated by my general physical malaise.

Is turquoise still a desirable hue this summer? Do sequins still accentuate my bootleg jeans in a tasteful, yet undeniably suggestive manner? Have my thighs become the unwitting victims of afternoons on the couch with Ellen, Oprah, Maury et al?

These are the questions that haunt me throughout an already fraught day, culminating ultimately in tears cascading down my rouge cheeks, terminating upon my loafers as I rock gently on the latrine. A gentle breeze slithers between the window and its frame, caressing my glistening brow; I know peace.

Stimulants are avoided like the coagulant plague they surely are, lest my bladder becomes a foundry of broken dreams and my pores a gelatinous sieve. Electrolyte-Gasms and Vita-Fests shriek at me from shelves and vending machines as I ghost past; solidarity becomes me in the face of such a treat that is Tom…. Hardy.

Dusk descends on all I know. I bathe slowly, allowing the billowing water to course from my eager lips onto every sinew – a gentle mist hangs in the loft, crowning the desire to be both alluring and yet aloof.

Flattering attire is at a premium, however after much preening and the letting of approximately 43 millilitres of velvet anguish, I decree that a powder-blue skivvy, allied to cream corduroy slacks will be my vehicle; the clean pastels balancing delicately abreast an otherwise formless figure. Italian leather adorns my feet, the soles a bracing force amidst the levity of the situation.

19:32 – the urgency radiates unto me from the fabricated precipice of but one global conglomerates’ trinket. A mere 28 minutes separates me from this ethereal being, this Tom…. Hardy.

I meet my reflection once more, fastidiously searching for any unwieldy blemishes and applying an extra layer of imitation cologne with which to mask both my desperation and insecurity. My hair glistens anew, the pronounced part acting as a conduit between the playfulness of the right and the staid calm of the left.

19:58 – the rapping of knuckles upon my door, a rhythmic pulse.

One more furtive glance into the mirror reveals eyes brimming with anxiety, and yet simultaneously sweltering with the thrill that lies just beyond the keyhole. A swagger materialises from a place unknown, and suddenly he is there.

The pale glow of a distant moon in conjunction with the filament of decades long-gone reveals the muscular presence that has graced many departures from reality; a gentle fragrance speaks to me in tongues previously unheard. The gentle, yet definite timbre of a man enraptures me; it is time.

A hint of light-stubble accentuates what I hope to be the first of many embraces; a kiss most delicious nestles upon my swooning cheek and suddenly I find myself riding shotgun in the cockpit of a cultured Western-European saloon.

Positive tension hangs in the cool night air as we waft towards our destination – a quaint, yet elaborate Somali restaurant on the outskirts of this suburban enclave. Talk of current weather progressively evolves into anecdotes of working life and meal-preferences for the evening, imbued with a sense of subverted longing.

We arrive at our destination already intoxicated by the simple economy of our being; the neon-livery of the facade illuminates the asphalt with a beautiful melancholy, which is at once at odds with the vibe, yet also provides a counterpoint to the flight-of-fancy I am so near to undertaking in the thrall of this Tom…. Hardy.

Refreshments are served, and finally I am able to take stock of this tremendous privilege I have been afforded. I examine the object of my desire: his hair a perfect tapestry of fine-breeding and incessant grooming; his jaw seemingly carved from a hybrid formation of fine-clay and limestone; the fullness of his lips serves as a potent reminder that his flesh transcends that of mere touch and sensation; a quiet menace whispers from his hulking torso, suggesting a lover of both tremendous strength and instinct. I remain fixated by the gunmetal of his eyes as he holds my gaze for what seems like an eternity, my defences now spayed.

Hot meats accompany seasonal vegetables, a plethora of grains are on hand to facilitate eclectic tastes. Another glass of Merlot passes our collective palates as talk shifts to his experiences as a boy; a happy childhood is shared, although flecks of sadness garnish snippets at times. A love of family is expressed with a smile that instantly disarms me, providing a platform for reflection that is met with empathy – a crease of understanding develops upon this most stunning of faces and I have inevitably plunged irretrievably into a love sought for so long, but that which seemed unlikely only hours ago.

A bridge is crossed, emotional shields have been discarded and I now find my right hand warmly enveloped in that of his left and hence time and space have lost all meaning. Our waiter for the evening – a lovely young man shorn of his wife and children for some time – produces a bill which suggests that it is time to depart.

The journey back is sombre – a formality after the raw honesty of the preceding hours, however a comforting solace emanates from my partner and once more my hand rests within his, the other prompting the steering wheel as we traverse the barren streets that earlier boasted the throng of the young and adventurous.

I cannot deny the passion that burns under the numerous folds of my being, his musk spicing that which I fear will remain unrequited. However disappointment becomes elation when we arrive at my abode; my tendons race as this gentleman escorts me to my door. This Tom…. Hardy.

The metallic symphony of my key piercing the lock is met with a look that induces rains over Northern Africa and I invite him inside.

Our lips meet almost instantly as the door clicks behind our raging bodies; the taste of his torrential mouth is a heady mixture of dark fruits and wanton fury. I am swept up in his colossal arms and whisked to the master bedroom.

The forgotten lamp in the corner still burns from 2 days ago, and illuminates the most devilish of bodies as he discards his shirt like an unwanted catalogue. Trousers, socks and underpants follow swiftly and reveal a whole that demands attention.

Words have failed, and lust is all that remains as my garments taste the rug that serves as a canvas for what will surely follow.

We make love.

Our union initially is that of two fierce panthers meeting in a jungle-clearing, sizing each other up and demanding combatant satiety from our most worthy adversary.

The taste of his neck and body overwhelms my senses, pheromones gallop wildly upon this field of carnality with no sign of abetting until one body lays prone and motionless, the collateral sacrifice of a passion so many would ignorantly decry yet welcome as the recipient were it thrust upon them.

Overpowered, I yield to his rippling mass and offer my posterior as fair game should this reach the crescendo it deserves. My mouth has known no rest, but still yearns for the divine smokiness of his rigid flesh.

The pain is sharp and instantaneous, inducing a mixed feeling of delight. Stretched to within an inch of sanity I feel his hot, moist breath tickling my inner-ear as sweat kisses my lower-back. A sauna develops within these four-walls, fuelled by Tom…. Hardy.

A mutual climax builds and materialises with tremendous force, sustained by the realisation that this is the greatest night of my life.

As I drift to sleep encapsulated within his seismic arms later in the evening, I am soothed by the hope that this could be the kaleidoscopic bloom of something beautiful.

The First, Last and Only Word on Breasts – A Tale of Love and Pendulousity (sic)

Breasts – not only the fleshy offshoots of thine being, but also a bolder statement about being not only a beast of the almighty (imagined and/or inscribed), but also a fully-functioning member of this typically perverse and yet ironically jaded society.

My own liaison with a bounty of thunderous breasts – a set to call my very own - began circa 2003 upon banishing any ideals of athleticism and indeed respectability, and thus leaping flange-first into a pit of long-projected loathing.

Little did this malnourished shell know that this would lead to a most peculiar and yet absorbing voyage into what was formerly unknown and even undesired, but that which now seems utterly essential.

To paraphrase one Tyler Durden, “self-improvement is masturbation; now self-destruction….”, and it is precisely at this point at which this humble and as-yet undiagnosed disease wishes to climb aboard with buttocks starboard, and more specifically thrust at 9 o’clock (AEST).

One cannot simply fathom at which point ones’ breasts truly sprout – not even the most neurotic of pubescent girls – however this is to be deemed a privilege, and not the flabby crucifix that so many hollow self-improvement magazines attempt to nail you to: for only $9.95 with a bonus calendar to record wistful scribbles of shit that will never be done nor even acknowledged ever again.

My own breast-ism was rather discharged upon me, albeit from behind a curtain of fried goods and glandular-abnormalities; yet this has been the very epicentre of self-content and the seed of immense pride. Indeed, without fanfare (at least from beyond the reflection) my breasts appeared and thus did the man nobody knew existed, nor asked for.

From the most chilling of winter evenings to the thorned precipice of sorrow, it is without one ounce of shame that I will attest that my milkshakes may indeed not bring all the boys to the yard – but this is not the domain of this flesh.

Indeed a breast is not merely affixed to an otherwise barren chest – but rather encrusted and hence entrusted unto an otherwise unadorned husk.

For real, it is all too easy to view be-pectoraled, slick young men traipsing about with their immaculate posture and willowy self- esteem as beacons to gyrate unto – but is this all you aspire to, young man?

Nothing but absolutely nothing fills an otherwise misguided sweat-shirt like the sculpted mass of joy that so many would quickly shun, but who have never spawned such sweet witchery , much less embraced the jiggling delight contained within. In fact, my very own breasts have brought me great comfort when the threat of weight-loss and scourge of the ignorant have simultaneously drawn near, and hence have jeopardised the very firmament of bespoken breasts and the contentment only they can provide.

I shall share this wisdom with you, breast-prodigy - for whether they are defined by the silken hair that adorns them, or simply the excellence of their perk, be sure to wear thine teats with the pride of a battle-tribe – and the ferocity that defines such things.

Should war, terminal-illness or famine be strewn across my seismic breasts like the crescendo of ill-begotten lust, I shall defy both the ravages of metabolism (lest my breast-matter detach and launch into my quivering aorta, fatally) and absurd wishes of do-gooders in order to retain that which has come to define me – and hopefully scores of other down-trodden men needlessly struggling with that which was gifted to warm by the fires of both the soul and rumpus-room, and that which should be revered in scriptures and enshrined in stone forever more.

Bare thine breasts with pride good man – seek not to suffocate their brilliance with bras nor augmentation, but rather sport them with the flair of the Caribbean.

Belief is nearly the battle in and of itself; may the sun never set upon your breasts, and may the breasts of tomorrow find their genesis in the nubs of today.