Where a Spanish man comes as a cowboy.

The beat was like exploding balloons.

Jumpy little fuckers

Dead goat. Bury it Priest. Nobody must inform the next of kin.

If your day is done than have some cocaine because she doesn't lie.

Delete the disrespect, inspect the intellect.

The post movie high.

Horrible distaste to do nothing.

Use it against them. Ever vigilant. The answer is there. Lollypop.

I am dangerous. And I know it. Which is dangerous.

I am nothing. I am RVRFNX

The face lift. A re-awakening. Don't give it to them easily; trust in the knowledge.

I will assault your senses.
I will assault your mind.
Probably appal human kind.
But don't be kind.
I'm young but I'm fine with the fact that I'm deprived.
I trust only in history.
His story.
Fight me.
Tighten my springs.
I'll find wisdom in the eternal springs.
The ancients to me sing.
Don't trust me?
At least give your children the ears to hear.
Face your fears.
It's written in the years.
And you know it's true.
As evident as a fresh tattoo to a blind man.
Crude and bumpy is the road that leads us.
Crazy/brave that's me digging my grave
alone for now
an elegy to a noun
speaking about me.
And I'm not guilty.
It's we that I speak of freely.
You interested?
Respond to me.

La Phoenix. New life is within.

I love it when you go outside to listen to music and the crickets keep the beat.

Travelling with the night. In my car and my bed. The cool night air and the thoughts in my head.

The thought has changed. Old was once positive, now it is a negative.

Perfume dispenser.

Et Vespa. A logicians dream.

I can stand in every ocean.

No time for small cars. A serious appraisal. Amurrika.

At a time when the hills were flatter.

The boy racers in a one horse town.
The ability to ask questions.
Man.
The pissing.
The drinking.
The music.
The gay.
The rape fog.
The view.
Not in that order.
Alcohol and pizza.
Old Crow.
Paul behind the bar.
Bom funk mcs in the car.
Pat always has the plan.
He's an ideas man.
Not focusing on memory just working on the moment.
Lettuce from out of space.
Down an endless forest path.
The old soldier.
The belligerent safe.
The wallabies.
The fresh smell.
The beach sound.
Nat King Cole.
When I fall in love.
The sandy touch - when I wanted nothing else but to be touched.
In some weird deep sense.
The sea still seems like a place for exploration; it almost killed me.
I love it.
I cannot desecrate this land with butts and what ifs.
When a lunatic lets go.
On a beach that is cold.
Humanely bold.
Lit some fires.
Burst some ideas.
Packed up.
Glass of wine.
Golden elephant.
Beach.
Sunshine.
Take away shop.
Bon Jovi.
Burning our way out of this town.
We rolled into tea cup mountain.
Nice river.
Good chips.
No shirts.
Throwing chips and stones at the gulls.
The teradactyl pelican.
Thai food.
Cold breeze.
Cruising through the night listening to the Offspring.
The toilet stop look out.

Being unnmade. From a grown man to some sperm and to an egg. To chemicals.

You can't spell reporter without poet.

It feels like I have been punched all over. The dirty words: Black town, grating on my happiness. Garish burning. Silent slits seep desire. Flung back. A rubber burnt tire. Air rippling my senses. The radio changing the tempo. A taxi ride.

That long drawl. Suspicious.

Conversations and conversions.

I am a mirror. If you are clever, I will be clever.

Teenage wasteland.
The smells of alcohol and cologne.
Poisoning the perfume.
Sweat and pheromone.
Music and the moan.
Drugs and the unknown.
It's the dance floor.
It's Kings Cross.
It's home.

Part two.

Keeping the music alive lean on that speaker box I move this could die. I know I won't be leaving here tonight.

When you make a girl walk ten metres for a cig.

The trip home with Les. (taxi driver).

I will rock one thousand nations.
And raze hell from this earth.
Truth will be perfected in reasonable pitch.

Braveheart with babies in pouch. The stay at home dad.

X

Play down ceasar.

Like a boss acoustic.

The witness of your life will be manifest in your children.

The jewel in a man's crown is his grand children.

overturning our unconscious assumptions

We define divine providence by flashing lights and clashing ideologies against common methodologies

Etched memories into a sandpaper slate with swift breezes and crisp tides hammering at the thought.

The disenchantment. Fed to us through electronic tubes. Give them everything. I am walking in a straight line. Probably a desperate believer.

Head over heels in love with you and society only reels, only seals the temporal. The mundane job.

Silent prayer and the rolling stones. Did they sing this song? Or whisper my sentiments alone?

The only difference between the 1st century and the 21st is the materials. Vices are still vices and tyrants are still tyrants.

I am a GOOD writer. Little by little.

Your veins will pump battery acid but not because you've been running to freedom.

Deep space, Deep bass. Reality burning at my eyelids.

Deep Faith.

Never under-estimate the Old Irish.

If somebody watched me it would have been a prime time comedy.

I raise that eternal rose to my lips and kiss it sweetly.

Drink myself into oblivion with Nick Cave and the Ship Song.

Stephen Garcia the eternally young.

It's a degree that loads us with dynamite in a world of fuel. Jeremy on the 11th.

I see writers who write for money (when they need no more). Authors who whore themselves out for fame. And I find it kinda funny. I find it kinda lame.

Babble on Babylon

I try not to worry about if I am going to be here for a long time or a short time. What I focus on is who I am around whilst I am here. People like HST and Bob Dylan are constant friends of mine.

There are so many additives in this city water it makes me want to crush my empty glass and fly out the window each time I have a drink of this chemically 'enhanced' liquid.

I was sick of finding the-girl-I-could-never-have so I went looking for decent girls I could always have.

From my hospital window I looked out and saw the homeless man holding his simple psalms on dirty cardboard and then I realised what the words meant.

Cancer patients were his favourite. He liked the androgynous look.

Always needs to shit. Finds out he has colon cancer. The start of the book is a shot of a bald cancer patient in a hospital gown in a hospital bed typing on a computer. (it's the protagonist) and he is narrating saying how funny cancer patients look. From the viewer's perspective, it seems like the narrator is dissing the cancer patient on the bed - they won't know that he is the cancer patient until the end.

The climax is when he meets a girl and has a change of heart. He falls in love with her from the start. He goes to see her and she isn't at the hospital anymore. Her records get mixed up and the doctors tell him 'they passed away'. Before the doctor can say: "he was a..." (thus giving it away, the doctor is talking about a guy but our narrator is looking for a girl) the main character has run out. (In fact, she was transferred to another hospital). So he goes home and tells his friend he is done with the game. His friend urges him to stay but he won't. A few months later (after his life has returned to normality. He's focusing on his job, and what not) he has a routine health check up and via this he finds out he has bowel cancer. He is taken to a hospital on the other side of town because nobody would take him seriously at the normal one (his reputation exceeded him). Low and behold he sees the love of his life at the new hospital. They kick it off. She eventually dies in his arms on one evening and he passes away not too long after. His friend finishes the book and puts it on the balcony - (he used to kill pigeons on the roofs and watch them fall to the ground) a dead pigeon falls and knocks the manuscript off and it falls into the bin below. The homeless man who is digging through the trash finds it, gets it published and makes a lot of money.

(perhaps include funny edits when talking about the homeless man... 'He smells - but i'm sure he couldn't find a proper shower with no money'

The main character (perhaps the narrator will be the homeless man) lived near the hospital. And from his apartment window he could not read what the homeless man wrote on the cardboard. But from his window in the hospital he could.

I joked that I had to get it written before your show ended so I had the chance to make it onto your book club.

They have gotten to Bill Murray. "I just want to say Jay Z down in new york today singing was that song was very emotional" Forced to say that? Hmm

Today means nothing without tomorrow or yesterday. We need all three to live decently.

I find that good people are either too considerate to be illiterate or too illiterate to be inconsiderate.

And each minute is another 60 seconds that you should embrace, love and make the most of.

Aye you.

And as I returned home Muse played.

If someone came up to you and said "I'm a boss I pimp slap hoes and I'm the greatest rapper alive" Most people wouldn't listen to them. But when a person says those things against a backing track - the fucking majority of society jumps on their cock and they fucking swallow it all down.

Hands in the air with drinks whizzing around like bridal bouquets.
Tough menacing guys looming from the corners.
All the girls with drugs and sunnies driven to the elevated dance floor so they can be picked off like sitting ducks.
And myself,
the awkwardly casual loner in the corner
with shoes too long
and not enough money for courage.
The drunk kids wasting their dollars on the scam breathe test.
Naughty girls trying to touch my soul, my shoes.

Elephantine girls caressing the dance floor
with grace, so limber
as if dismembered.

Black guy in a kilt and scene glasses.
Some how making original look unoriginal.
Jesus my eyes are watering.
Perhaps weeping for something that
won't become known for a long time.
The world is round.

Should I venture into the pit of porno, the massive mash of loins?
The way you're making me feel... there is a good chance I could rub up against a girl who's skirt is prone to heading towards the ceiling and before you know it... Is taht a fun game? I'm in jail; statutory rape. This is a harsh world and at any moment a cruel cadaver could castrate your cajones... Don't fuck with destiny and you won't.

My sister said don't sit alone and use your mobile. I say fuck that.

That poor statutory rape. Intimidating all the girls.

The dirty girl and the statutory rape. The young darlings burning her lungs agape.

Je suis le common denominator balancing the scales between genius and 'special'.

I wish I owned a club just so I could sit here acting like a tool being all telepathic and shit.

Non-decent girl showing bra straps equals fuck you times two.

Two reconnaissance men discussing war tactics. She so wants to get noticed.

Jesus fuck gorilla lady. Pump those fists!

25 year old kids with polos around their shoulders.

Divorced from dancing. So fucking tired. Give me novacaine...

Not surprisingly it was a thoroughly sobering experience.

Despite that bitter perception of happiness when ridiculous notions of loneliness and vanity cloud one's visions with steamy smokey situations. The world is waiting just for You...

I have little interest in torturing the women I sexoreize.

The rise and fall of society. A glass half full of distinction.

Liberal. To be free. Free from the bucketfuls of rubbish.

I feel fucking diseased already. I am glad I did not drink from that glass.

And when I am eating my burger... fuck it feels good to know I'll never meet you again.

A ghost among souls.

She looked deep into my eyes and denied me beer. Fuck. I am tired. I did not sleep last night. I am not drunk. Not yet.

Hobknobbing these golden fog logs.

Don't take me as wrong for as right as wrong may be right I won't write wrongs!! Nor leave me left to send these leaves right to where many are left!! I won't take this. It is wrong and I find this to be right!!

Bleeding duck.

RVRFNX - A tale untold.

In for the kill.
Here for the happy meal.
Coke scene.
Grunge. Grime.

Why do I write? I love to write. It's almost as fun as breathing. Oh, also, because of the many thousands behind me.

The two figures stand awkwardly in the way. Not knowing what to do. Obviously dominated from a young age. They lack the ability to make swift decisions. They are perfect partners for a relaxing afternoon tea gathering.

Whatever does not kill me makes me stronger. Thee are some things the heart cannot give up. One is dignity. Two is hope. Three is truth.

That awkward necessity.
That desire driven depravity.
Wallowing in whining winds of virility.
Vagrant vagabonds violating virginity.
Vile violets flap flagrantly in the foul breeze.
Whilst fearsome fiends find a feast free to feed.
Fear not for the far east, hail sends half hooded hounds to howl and high light the low down brow of our enemy.

Parker Posy.

Two extremely different personalities. One that could scale to lofty heights and another that couldn't even get out of bed.

Solitary.
Alone in the zone.
Pretending it's my own.
People watching.
Reality dodging.

We all bully each other.

Delay the dividends its a means without ends this chatter amongst friends.

Toke a bowel in the foggy centre floor.

How can you love a God who gives you hell? You can love him because he also gave you life. Just as your parents gave birth to you; they punish you when you do wrong.

Selling lies. The rock vodka bottle (advertisement).

When I'm typing it sometimes like a musical instrument - it rhymes and sounds beautiful and just feels so natural!

I am scared of these big fluffy people.