Odd.
In case you are wondering this is my weird shit page. It isn't
a story. It's just shit i've cut and pasted from various places and stuck
in no particular order in here. It might give you cause for concern. Hell
it worries me. But some if it is just. Hmmm I don't know. Maybe it is dark
or light or too unusual, but it's out. Hopefully what remains is a well
adjusted and rounded member of society. ?
Point of sale
It's like a ballet, the two of us moving in syncronicity of greed.
Offer, tentative and slow, a sweep of the wrist,
spinning, gay and free, for a price
diisSSoul.connected.
Maybe I've got them fooled,
Maybe I've got the whole world fooled,
they see what they wanna see,
not (me) the world for what it is
there's no one looking over my shoulder,
for there is nothing for you (them)_ too
see.
The mystic is me
the whole (is me)
the new thing is nothing
the old for you (not_) to see
it goes round inside us
through externality (sexual) sumblimity
it's the laughter on the edge
why don't we all fall off it (deep gut)
I must write before time traps me, in its confines, narrow and
infinite, a single flow towards the beginning for the circlular is infinte,
and I am trapped within it
sadness, loss, the empty gut of sighs. it will be our undoing
breathed out in lost waves
one day we will grow wings, we will fly on the divine wind, to
rise above it all.
Wings
I think I'd like to have wings,
It's a spiritual desire,
To be able fly,
the need to be free.
I could fly amongst the lofty clouds,
Dance amonst the flocks of karrawongs,
Skip through the valleys of the pristine wilderness,
Land amongst the high alpine trees.
If I can see all this in my mind,
I must have wings.
The bum in us all.
Kenneth Ulna was a wasted man. Slovenly dressed in faded worn
clothes which defied fashion sense, a weak and unshaven face with eyes
all listless and wan, the terminally downtrodden lost cause. His whole
life had culminated in an ethereal nothingness that none aspire too and
only a few extremely untalented people can really acheive. As such he was
quite repected by his cohorts, few of them quite willing to go the extra
distance to become what society thought they were.
Their cruel and furtive comments had a religious awe about them.
Here was the messiah that carried all of their sins and would absolve them
of their own shortcomings by becoming the yardstick which they could measure
themselves against. Few were found wanting when compared to this waste
of space.
Kenneth had not always been this hopeless. He had once had great
aspirations, but life had dealt him a hard hand. Born to an affluent family,
pampered throughout his youth, he had expected to live in the lap of luxury
for his entire life. Unfortunately life never turns out as planned...
Kennth spent his days wandering the streets, the beaten path that
so many followed, begging for change to get home, for coffee money, for
forgiveness. Preying on societies greatest weakness, the desire of it's
myriad members to be left alone in their numbing coccon of anonymity, he
eked out an existance which kept him happy. Not in the lap of luxury but
the more enfoldting lips of a bottle, he was in bliss, a rapture that obscured
his senses enough for him to ignore the void he had become.
There were times he lamented though. That he had not sold out,
had not bought the whole thing, the nice cars, the beautiful body, the
family, the 2.4 children, the socially acceptable job, the house, the mortgage,
the commitments, the social climbing, monogamy, apliances, all the things
that truly ballanced and happy people possessed. So what if he slelpt in
the gutter and had abusive conversations with himself, he knew who he was
and where he had come from and there was a certainty that he was going
somewhere. He had done his very best to allow the entropy of the universe
to flow through him and in the end he was closer to the eventual goal of
his body than anyone else he knew. The point of life was nihistic, to die.
His parents had killed him in one feircely passionate and intense coupling
9 months prior to his birth and he had spent the rest of his life making
amends for their mistake. His parents were murderers, they were ultimately
to blame for his death. He just courted it closer than was reasonable.
Start
Joshua looked down from the shadows of the night, absently running
a finger along his blade. He paused in his probing, finding a nick in the
smooth steele blade, a frown crossing his face in the darkness.
Darkness was his friend. It cloaked and protected him, allowed
him to hunt his prey. The night was his only companion now, an intangible
and vacuaus ally, but that suited him just fine. People were trouble, no
matter which way you cut it. Attachments were something which he could
not afford. Not in his proffesion.
The minutes passed slowly, but Joshua was patient. Patience was
the key to his proffession after all. Patience and knowing when to act.
A tall figure walked down the uneven cobbles, his footsteps sounding
loud and out of place in the deep quiet of the night. Joahuas eyes narrowed
imperceptibly, the only outward sign that he had even noticed the man.
The waiting was at an end, now it was time to act.
Pulling out a thin cord with a grapple at the end, Joshua swung
it onto an over hang. There was only the slightest noise as the grapple
wound around the protrusion. Tha tall man looked up at the noise, backpeddling
as Joshua swung down to the ground. Looking left and right, the tall man
gripped the hilt of his sword, fearful that there might be more people.
There weren't.
Credibility
Richard stepped from the train, pulling his stetson down to sheild
his eyes from the wind. He hefted his travel bag in his hand. Time to go
visit the house. Fond memories of the past asaulted him as he thought of
the place he had spent much of his youth. Memories of the fantastic adventures
which he and his friends had conconcted together, the imagination of childhood
having felt so real.
He hailed a bus from out front of the station. So much had changed,
but the essence of the area remained even after all the development He
sat moodily contemplating a broken marriage as he waited for the bus to
arrive at the house. He almost missed his stop, stuck as he was in the
dark brooding and wondering "what if?"
Walking slowly to the house, he paused. It had seemed so much
bigger when he was young. Now it was only a shadow of the memory, run down,
a wasted sham. Richard looked to the wood out back. (?)
Coffee
He entered, glanced around the interior then moved around the
bar to check whether if he was the first one here. It was unlikely that
the others had arrived as he was early and it was hard to find a park in
this area. He waved hesitantly to a waiter, pointed at the table nearest
him and indicated that he was going to take it. The waiter nodded an O.K.
Taking the closest seat he sat down and fiddled with the menus,
staring out the window. It took a few moments for him to realise that the
wall nearest was a mirror and that he could conveniently use this to monitor
the street for his expected friends.
He craned his head around to unobtrusively examine the other customers,
check out the talent and try and figure out which were the straight and
gay couples. A waiter came up and asked if he could help. "Cappacino
and a glass of water, please," was the breif reply. He wished that
he knew the waiters at this place as well as Ted and Jill, whom he expected
to be here soon. He just could never seem to remember names and faces that
well.
He then took stock of the table he had selected. Not ideal. Room
for four people, although potential for expansion, with two other small
tables near by. It was in the middle of the room, which he belatedly realised
would not have been the choice of the other two people. A table by the
wall, preferably a secluded alcove where some serious speculation and comments
could be made about the patrons, waiters and passers-by would have been
preferable. He had grabbed one of the better seats which gave him a good
veiw of the Sunday night traffic up and down Fitroy street. A least he
would not get the 'dregs', quick glances at the passing parade. Not much
chance of changing tables though, oh well, stiff shit.
He then proceded to stare vacantly out the window, hoping to catch
a glimpse of a car that he knew, or better still, a person. The waiter
placed a glass of water on the table as he waited.
Then a familiar figure walked past, ciggarette in hand. Ted.
Ted walked up to the door, congratulating himself on finding a
good park, even if he had to pay for it, then darkly remembered the fuckwit
who had stolen the first park he found. He politely waited as a couple
entered before him and were directed to a table, courtesy is important
he remided himself. He scanned the restaurant, not expecting to see Jerry
or Jill as they would probably be late.
He spotted Jerry, gesturing at him from a nearby table. Jesus,
as though I would not see you, he thought but was too tired to express
the senitment and merely nodded in recognition. He sat down, decided that
the table was a fair choice, barely, then got up again to get an ashtray
as Jerry said his hello's and asked how hockey was.
He ashed his ciggarete as he sat, tossed a book on the table,
then casually stated "The table might not be big enough. Karen is
coming and Ike might be coming as well."
Jerry shrugged his shoulders as if too say, 'Oh well we shall
deal with that problem when it arises' then scanned the book and where
it had landed on the table "Be careful there is some spillage on the
table." He picked it up to see if it was wet, then realised what it
was. A book of one liners titled "the Girls Handy Guide Book"
which Ted had been so impressed with he had felt compelled to buy it and
give it to Jill. "Is that Jills?" Jerry asked.
"No I got it for Karen." Karen was a girl that Ted had
liked for some time.
The waiter arrived with the cappicino and took Teds order. Ted
and Jerry exchanged chit chat, filled each other in about the weekends
goings ons and then an itermittent silence started as they strove for conversation,
Ted was tired and hungry, not in the mood for inane banter, Jerry just
stuck for relevant conversation. Then suddenly Jill arrived.
"That's the last time I pay for parking around here. It took
me forever to find a park. Where did you park Ted? I saw where Jerry parked,
lucky park huh?" She nodded to Jerry, then turned to Ted as she seated
herself. "God I'm tired!" She gushed, "I've played hockey
all afternoon. Larry is away for two, perhaps three weeks, so I don't know
when he'll be back, but its great. I've got the house to myself. Tim spat
it again - he'll be living with dad for the rest of the year," she
rolled her eyes to emphasise what she was saying, "mum will still
have him on her weekends though." Jill led such a helter skelter existance,
it was hard for these two to understand all the things that she had to
deal with and had been through, but she tried to enlighten them.
"What is that youv'e got there Ted? Oh that book. It's great
isn't it. I think it is absolutely marvelous. I love this one here."
Jill proceded to flip through the book, quoting various parts.
"I got this copy for Karen." Ted stated.
"Oh she'll love that. It's so clever, don't you think? How
are you Ted? How are you Jerry, your'e awfully quiet tonight."
"Yeah, I guess so. How are you Jill?" Jerry asked, in
a mildly fascitious tone.
"Oh I'm good." She paused gathering her thoughts, wondering
if Jerry was being a smart arse again or if he was just being vague again
... better just ignore him and start proiritising the conversation. Always
deal with the basics first. "This table might not be big enough, Karen
is bringing some freinds. They're going to Hellfire after."
"Is Ike coming?" Jerry enquired.
"No he's busy tonight, he couldn't make it, he's got work
to do." Jill economically replied.
The waiter arrived with Teds order and Jill pondered what she
would have. "Can I have a cappicino please - oh no on second thought,
do you have raspberry lemonade?"
The waiter replied in the affirmative.
"I'll have one of those instead, I need the extra energy,
so I won't have a cappicino O.K.?" She told the waiter. It was always
so important to explain the little details that others might miss, after
all she was tired and these guys were slow, they might not have noticed
the first time she mentioned it when she came in. She noted that she would
also have to leave first to reinforce the tired imppression she was trying
to give them.
Karen arrived shortly after, accompanied by two friends. Greetings
were exchanged along with names. Malinda and Raff. "I've bought your
dresses Jill," Karen stated as she passed a bag to Jill.
"Thanks." Jill breifly replied. "Well lets change
tables if you're waiting for more people to arrive." She took the
brief walk to size up the new arrivals. Karen was wearing bad taste clothes.
If she had wanted to get into that S & M stuff those clothes were already
causing Jill some mild pain just looking at them. The leather jacket was
alright but that blue tie died cling top was disquieting when matched with
those fake mettallic blue nails. I'm not going to Hellfire with these guys,
she reminded herself.
Malinda seemed cool. She was quiet and a bit haughty.
Raff was already in her bad books though. He had this ridiculous
shit eating grin on his face, like he had all the angles figured out already
and was trying to tell the world that he was one step ahead of everyone
else. Probably on drugs - she hoped he was anyway - it would be a waste
to look like that all the time.
Seats were taken, Ted next to Karen ... promising thought Jill
as she sat down, then realised that
Raff was sitting next to her. Fuck! Oh well maybe he isn't that
bad. First impressions can be wrong.
Ted flicked his ciggarette case and - I lost the plot. I'm sorry,
this stuff is best to write when it's fresh in your mind. Well, we'll see
how it turns out. Real life is much more exciting.
Twaddle on corpse
One of the things which I've noticed is that the more I write,
the more I have to tweak the earlier stuff to maintain consistency. This
means that what I submit may be subject to change. If I come back and update
it, I hope you don't mind.
Accompanying bit or writers ramble: Read or destroy at your leisure.
I originally started with the concept in the first two chapters,
but those damn loose ends always beg to be tied up.
Then I could not decide how to end things up. I wanted a full
circle theme and then things just kept going.
It seems that the sixth (unfinished) and higher chapters are tending
more towards the violent action stuff or the perspective stuff (I'm not
sure if it reads well) but usually in a rewrite I add lots of other stuff.
I tend more to run off with the story then return and fill things
in so I never really know how things will end up. The sex scenes are often
an after thought, rather than the goal of the piece and they usually come
in massive lumps, plot permitting.
The trend to get over wordy in editing and making passages incomprehensible
is something I'm trying to avoid but I'm loathe to remove anything I've
written - so editing is not great, but it does prevent word misusage and
allows me to order things in a more comprehensible manner. I try to keep
things unpredictable, but I'm not sure if I am.
.
Girlfriends.
If I claimed understanding, it would be a lie.
We seperated, and I still can't understand it,
Analysis is useless, my mood swings make that clear.
If I knew what to do, it would be great.
Now I'm in a void.
There are no recriminations or wasteful thoughts,
Just bewilderment, I can't put my finger on it.
What we had, what went wrong, how, when.
When did it happen?
We talk and it feels the same,
Except for a thin clear membrane that seperates us.
Breaking this is crossing a line,
Would it be weakness, pitiful and small, immature?
Or would it be strength?
The longer the indecision, the thicker the barrier gets.
Would it really matter, do i want to puncture the bubble,
would that be regressing?
It's true I still feel for us,
I don't know where those feelings end and start.
Are the ragged ends,
the pain and nausea connected to something which should be part
of me?
Or are they phantom feelings of an after birth.
The lifeless placenta?
The decision is something which I did not make so i cannot take
it back.
You don't want to, i think, so that is the crux.
I'll not drag my emotions over razor blades, so I think I'll live
with it
Or maybe I should eat it whole.
go on.
Paranoia
For a moment, reality cracked, its clear pristine edges becoming
sharp jagged blades, fractured splinters dropping away from the smoothly
finished purity of sanity.
These edges spilled over and through him, cutting his awareness
of existence into a dissected and hastily rearranged consciousness, a monstrosity
of form. A frosty, coldly feverish blanket of stars masking the furnace
of his seething emotions.
Paranoia engulfed him, dicing conversations into small, clipped
catches of words, utterances which had two meanings, one blatant, the other
insinuating slowly like tumbled refuse into his mind, creeping maliciously,
perniciously, gripping like a sharp bladed nightmare fowl, dark and oily,
fetid and decaying in gray. Downwards and away, always outside, beyond
friendship, cocooned instead in the rasping and dry grasp of self isolation.
How far from the closeness, the glow of human friendship, endearments,
belonging, the step outside oneself and ones circle of friends.
The grip awaits, ready to suck the unwary, self proud, weak and
foolish.
Where does it fit?
This is like floating on music, but the coriollas effect of my
mind seems to want to tear me away from you, maybe it wi
the whispers behind me, call something, I twist to look, nothing,
they are too quick for me these shadows, phantoms of my mind, vision purges
them from my mind, but slowly they creep back, small crawling rustles,
deep sub sonic growls of anger and hate, sharp pinched cries of warning.
They crawl along my spine these sounds, slowly, inexorably working towards
my neck, over my scalp, leaving prickling aches of....
And the Rest...
Biblical, a savior will come, torn from the cloth of our evil,
darkness purging itself from within, outwards into the light, a boil lancing
itself from inside, the pressure and weight of the darkness flowing into
something which can stand in the light unbrightened but a part of it. The
shadow of salvation. A torn and weeping bundle which will stand upright.
The trials of fire, stone, water and air, to see which begets
darkness. Darkness is the true state of everything at all times. It is
only the interactions of the elements which creates it. It is the end result
of the elements and its beginning. Light is a brief respite, darkness is
always there.
Spectator sport. 21/9/95 11:45 pm
bored as a motherfucker and avoiding my thesis.
the spectator sport
the worn out lies
the tired excuses
the hurtful words
the roaring quiet of my mind
the fact that I could walk away
the knowledge that it is gone
the unsurprised I
the undisapointed I
the predicability of it all
the path it will take
the inward eating spiral
the gaping hole
the end
the blame
the stupidity
Reassurances.
Bleak? Don't take this to heart.
It really is a whimsical world.
There are many layers to everything.
Unhappiness is easy to quanify.
But the moment when you fall in love?
The split second where the clouds part and sun pours over the
wilderness,
The times when you are having fun with your friends,
Or just enjoying watching the world,
The body rush when you are exhilerated by sport,
and when you have pushed past your limits and excelled,
There are many things to hold your head high about.
Do we really notice these moments?
I do
but I don't write about them, I'm too busy enjoying myself
When I write like this I'm coping with bad stuff, or just passing
the time.
Getting inside other peoples heads
But how much have I written? Not much.
And it all starts to sound the same after a while - for all it's
grimness.
Read it again. It's recycled - it's all the same words over and
over.
Well maybe a qick story. If you put up with my self indulgence
you might enjoy it. It ain't TG - so maybe not.
What the...? by Kismet.
I had this hit, some scumbag I had to nail. Before you ask the question-
yes I'm a hitman. Well was. The person in question was a real lowlife.
Drugs, pimping, the rackets... you name it he was into it, past his neck.
I had to kill him. It was my obligation to humanity and my bank account.
So let me set the scene. Imagine black and white. This is the late thirties
before colour. I'm a big guy. Rough as leather and sharp as nails. I'm
wearing a big trench coat. I'm chewing a toothepick. I have style. This
is important. Hitman don't have much to endear them to normal poeple such
as yourselves, so what I do have I'm going to hammer home to you.
Where was I?
Oh yeah, black and white. White incandessant neon. Glassy black bitumen
from rain. Old cars going past on the street. Me chewing ma toothe pick
as I stroll towards the Black Cat. It's a classy joint. I step through
the steam coming out of a vent in the pavement. As I come out the other
side, the doorman sees me. He sees my face. Deeply lined, bitter with determination,
eyes that say I'm here to kill. He looks down and sees I've drawn my guns.
Two little semi automatic beauties.
The doorman ain't paid enough for this shit. He taps his hat and steps
aside, all the way down the street and around the corner. One big long
step. I put my twin girls away. No need to to tip my hand just yet.
I push into the place and look around. The Black Cat is nice. It has
great decor. Modest, simple and understated. I almost feel sorry I have
to cap the owner. Almost.
There are people talking, eating and drinking. My quary isn't here.
I know he's sitting in a private room. Him and two to six of his men. He
knows someone is gunning for him, but only an idiot would try the front
door like me...
It takes a moment for the room to notice me, but notice they do. There's
a small silence, kinda like the calm before the storm. I smirk, a real
small smile at the corners of my mouth. It doesn't even touch my eyes.
This is where things start to get messy and I earn my due.
I walk towards the service area. Some smart joe of a waiter decides
to intervene.
"Excuse me sir, do you have a reservation?"
Witty comebacks just sound contrived so I keep silent. Silence is really
good. Think of all the scary people you know, and guarenteed the quiet
ones are always the most intimidating. Never underestimate the effect of
a long pause or ignoring a question. It places you in a position of power.
Talking just destroy's the effect.
Fixing the waiter with a deathly stare, I shake my head then rabbit
punch him in the solar plexes. He suddenly loses the urge to carry on our
conversation. I walk past him as he struggles to breathe, time becoming
an important factor.
I walk through the service area, past the dish pigs and chefs, pulling
out one gun, holding it high for them all to see. They get the message
and rapidly vacate the kitchen like rats from a sinking ship. I pause and
look around. There's something in the room. I've felt it before. It's more
than anticipation.
The other gun comes out and I wait. Sure enough I'm right. A thug jumps
out from behind a shelf, a shot gun in his hand. I drop to the ground as
he fires. I can feel the waves of sound hammer my head. Fortunately the
guy is a lousy shot. Lieing down I shoot. Through a stainless steel waiters
trolley the bullets tamp out nicely, hitting the guy in the chest.
I should point out a major consideration in a gunfight. Unless you're
a dead to balls accurate shot, shoot outs can get messy. At the moment
my bullets are hitting him, probably mortally, but Mr. Shotgun is still
a long distance from dead.
I roll away and he shoots at where he thinks I am. The waiters trolley
flies across the room, its little wheels screaching like the guy just shot
some yappie lap dog. The hood ain't seeing straight which gives me the
time to make my next shot count. I fire. Dead to balls.
Climbing to my feet I confirm my handiwork. Head shots, forget 'em.
Bullets can ricochet of the skull. Go for the jugular is my advice. Generally
the sudden pressure to the artery knocks a person out. Then they bleed
to death real quick.
I drag the dead shotgun guy so his feet stick out part way into the
corridor, then I grab some ketchup.
Well the element of surprise is gone. I'll just have to use brute force
and cunning. Up till now I've been low key. Time to stop tiptoeing around.
My target lies at the end of a narrow corridor. I walk to the end, dropping
sauce on the ground. It's a shit gimmick, but most people can't smell the
tomato over cordite and they rarely take the time to look.
I step up to the door and stand beside it, knocking once politely. Did
I mention that nobody is polite nowadays? Hmmf.
Instead of opening it, the people decide to shoot it. Hey, I don't care.
It ain't my door.
Whilst I wait for the ruckess to die down, I'm not idle. I press my
legs into the wall on the other side and start shimieing up the wall, kindoff
like a rock climer in a narrow chute. I also shoot out the globes in the
corridor. By the time they've stopped shooting I'm high up in the dark
and I've got both guns out.
I hear talking. Boss man is ordering one of his goons to check the corridor.
A thug pops his head out and looks around. Brave fella. Me, I woulda popped
my guns out and filled the corridor with lead before looking around, but
not this guy.
He sees the ketchup, the dead bodies feet and salvation. Just to be
sure he shoots the dead body. Yep the guy's dead. Smart fellow. This goon
thinks he ain't going to die tonight. I love proving people wrong.
"It's clear, we got him. Boss we have to go. The cops will be here
soon!" he says. Always double check your details. Assumption is the
leading cause of death, not cancer. Trust me I know!
It takes them a moment to get their gear together, then five more goons
come out followed soon after by the boss. They're all armed with either
pistols, rifles or shot guns. I wait a second to make sure that's all.
Then I start firing. The goons get it first.
I'm not particularly neat. I'm not accurate. But hey I don't have to
be. It's like shooting fish in a bowl. Three are down before the remaining
three even know where I am. Another guy is dead before he can get a bead
on me. That leaves two and the boss. I drop to the ground moments before
one guy with a shotgun shoots. He ruins the ceiling but misses me. I land
awkardly and have the presence of mind to shoot at the boss. I hit him
in the leg.
Then I push into the room the hoods just vacated, and not a moment too
soon. The hall where I had lain is now riddled with bullets. Man I wish
I had family in the refitting bussiness. I could get them some great jobs.
"I'm gonna get that prick, you get the boss to safety," I
hear one of the hoods say.
Yeah right.
I stand up, shoot the light and move towards the door, crouching in
the entrance. The goon with a death wish steps into the threshold and starts
blasting away. This is like amateur hour. This guy is happily filling the
room with lead, oblivious to the fact that I'm crouching in front of him
inches away. I shake my head then shoot him. God why are people like that
put on this earth?
Then I shoot my gun around the corner and hear a grunt off pain. See
I told you it pays to shoot first and look second. I look around and see
the last hood face down in the ketchup. I cap him in the head just to be
sure. Just a note. Rules are meant to broken.
Then I step out and make my way into the kitchen. I see the Boss. He's
struggling to get away, but his wound isn't helping.
I shoot him.
Then I make my way carefully out of the restaurant.
As I'm congratulating myself, I get foolish. I'm hit by a big lorry
as I'm crossing the road.
So I died. Stupid huh?