Acting is pretending to be something that you are not.

It was flowing out of me, all the toxins of the last six months, manifested in liquid format. Stained underwear and cheeks,Now I am literally blood sweat and tears. We play pass the bucket as the spit slicks back into my face.

This is my justification: i'm just another fucking poet. direct this up your arse. don't tell me where to stand now.

This is my five minute installation, my reflection on problems entered. Body contorted I am seconds from breaking I am seconds from emotional impotence. I am inventing lovers on mattresses in scout halls because god knows nothing if not peaceful sleep.

Snap shot of me holed up in river. Holding this pose because the collective demands it. We are the worst kind of hive mind. Directing is being told what to do. I am searching out the peices of anarchy that still remain in manic laughter that exists after silence falls.

Pass you a peice of my heart printed on paper. It's the only way I can show you who I am when I leave.

Blunt brain in bris vegas

The cafe is erratic, all fast lattes and waitresses with henna hair and tight t shirts. The humidity has dropped into the air, and the ocean is closer than it's been in months. Mangroves are licking the edge of the city. The streets of the CBD are dead.

I am recaffinating after a whirlwind melbourne stopover, imbibing the surroundings, waiting for my soul to catch up. I've left my luggage in a locker at central, prehaps all the different parts of me can be consolidated in that long steel crevice. I'm feeling somewhat anebrieted. Throwing down beer and herbal remedies in unison. Plunging headfirst into the new year. Praying my body can keep up with the next three wereks.

reset

The year began as a slow moving target. My head, a community radio station scrambled with best hits fm. We're squashed into bathtubs, sitting in sludge and water the temperture of vomit. The new year is baked eggs and whiskey, left over beer and noses dragged across CD cases. Surrrounded by dogs and other peoples underwear, retracting into rocking chairs, passing out on concrete and sand.

My new years resolutions are currency conversions slurred in the pool on a Friday afternoon. My new years resolution are drowning in cheap indian food, passed around the circle like a roach, coughed up into the toilet bowl, retrieved on the bike ride home.

more rain

Theres a storm coming in. The stables are ringed with layers of grey clouds and I'm sitting under the awning, smoking the last of the dry tobacco I've scrouged from the sand. This cough is receding and I'm back smoking ciggerettes but still can't bring myself to buy them. I keep telling myself I'm going to quit. That I'm going to get out by thirty five and cheat emphysema and cancer cells. The half breed dingo is prancing around me, searching the ground for scraps of salami. I do a mad dash across the paddocks, avoiding clusters of buffle grass to retrieve my clothes from the line before the deluge sets in.

I'm willing the rain to come down, the past few days have been so sweltering I've retreated to eastside and the comfort of friends with houses and airconditioning and blow up pools. But today I'm back out here on basso island, listening to the low growl of the sky blend with the country rock blaring from the portable jukeboxes of the mob in the creek.

pinks and greys

Drunk on skylines, thristy for country. Windows down, hair blowing along the highway, my fingers surf the horizon. Crusing across rippled red and green. Nails painted pastel pinks and greens. Brushing against the swollen ranges, plunging through the depth of field.

Today we bacame surface tension, strectched delicatley, baiting ripples. Reaching from rock face to rock face and calling the rain. In this time we are still.

I am4wd dreaming. I am river crossing delirium. I am soft hues and arid wetlands. I am back where I began.

grog frenzy

The door to the bottle shop was crowded by 1:30pm. You could feel the tension in the plaza; people sitting at tables, sipping on coke, rocking overloaded trolleys, fidgeting.

I'm one of the door way skulkers. I've got a whole fish in my bag. Two young bogans come to join their mother whose perched near the doorways. 'first time I've seen whitefellas lining up 'ere' she'd remarked as she pulled up. I've seen her round town before-last time she had laryngitis, her voice shrill and rasping about 'that cunt who makes her sick'. I wonder if that cunt is the man who stands in the doorway with her now. He looks like the father of her children, they share the same stumpy neck.

Theres a young couple standing next to her. He looks like a bogan as well, poking her in the belly, asking if she got the pumpkin and the sweet potaoe and peas. She's tierd, eyes rolling as he instructs her to get two bottles of red and a white and a champas will he gets a slab from the back.

It's 2:01. The staff are still methodically unstacking boxes and counting out the till. The young bogan kicks the roller door, eyes flashing as he turns round to smile at the family. His father nods in approval. He kicks it again. The crowd begin to get agitated. The manger opens the roller door. We stream in all grog frenzied. End up bottle necked at the register. I slink away quickely before the riots begin.

exodus

Today we are basting with rasping throats, the landscape is speckeled with heat waves and phlegm. My throat has become an antique landcruiser rattling it's way along dirt roads.
The heat always makes me so damn carniverous. I am camel sausages and slabs of beer. I am practicing reconcilliation on long distance phone calls, reciting landmarks in my career.

Everyone is packing up and driving east, somewhere away from the heat and the flies and the moths and the stones that trap sunshine to emit onto houses at night. Four wheel drives seek out highways to places, mouths frothing like cuppacinnos, chasing those city lights reflected in broken white lines.

And me? For now I am left on the island with my alcoholism and bleeding throat. Talking to the half breed dingo about heat waves and swapping hustling techniques. I am left to negotiate nocturnal bike rides past camp dogs, left to pace the sand and climb the hills. To wait on the outcomes of credit card applications and plan my next move.